Moving For the Sake of Motion; Spencer/Brendon; NC-17 (1/2)
So, foxxcub ran a secret santa challenge for a few people, and I was fortunate enough to get prettykitty_aya, who is pretty much the sweetest kid around, let's be honest.
This is an utterly ridiculous story, that was an utterly ridiculous plot bunny with sinuous_curve forever ago that I am so completely grateful she let me run with. In that same vein, this story could and would not even have existed in the form it is now without the help of my amazing betas, wordsalone, adellyna, justranda and of course, sinuous_curve.
Shai, darling, I hope you enjoy it! Happy Holidays!
|Moving for the Sake of Motion|Spencer/Brendon|NC-17|11,454 words|
In which Brendon and Spencer are juniors in high school. Ryan, the plucky best friend and Mr. Hall, the history teacher also star.
For two years, Brendon Urie is a zombie.
Spencer is maybe even a little happy about it, initially. He's gone to same school as Brendon since they were in kindergarten, been in the same class a handful of times, and he knows just how much of a spastic handful Brendon can be. He remembers being in the third grade, wishing to be anywhere but the table they'd been sitting at together, embarrassed because Brendon had been vibrating so hard in his seat he fell off, giggling afterwards to the point of almost passing out.
Something happened, though, in the summer between eighth and ninth grade. Brendon's either been abducted by aliens and replaced with a pod person or put on drugs, because he comes clumping through the door on the first day of high school with with rumpled, barely matching clothes and bizarrely glassy eyes.
"It's fucking weird," Ryan says under his breath when they pass Brendon in the hallway, staring into the depths of his locker like he's confused as to what it's for.
Spencer shrugs. Brendon's a drama kid and Spencer's already generating a little attention for himself on the track team. It's not like their paths cross much. Not until Spencer walks into Algebra II, anyway, and finds Brendon assigned to the desk next to his, staring into space with his fucking mouth open a little bit.
"Did you get bitten by the undead?" Spencer asks, raising an eyebrow.
Brendon's chuckle comes thirty seconds after it should and Spencer seriously starts contemplating the validity of shows like Myth Busters. New Mexico is far, but he's pretty positive miles are like inches to people with space ships.
Of course, following the established pattern of Spencer's life, they end up as partners, meaning Spencer spends the first twenty minutes of every fifth period class slowly working at the problems written up on the overhead, trying to talk Brendon through them when he can barely stay awake, much less figure out positive and negative values for x and y.
"It's like someone took a two-by-four to the back of his head," Vicky whispers as she and Spencer walk from math to science, watching Brendon thud back and forth against students going the other way.
Spencer doesn't particularly care, it's just kind of freaky. It makes him vaguely uncomfortable every time they run into each other, literally more often than not.
Ryan says, "It's not really your problem, you freak," and, "I think his parents put him on something. Drugs or whatever to calm him the fuck down, I overheard Pete Wentz talking about it." Ryan blows out a breath, but it only manages to fluff his bangs. "He really fucking needed it, Spence." Spencer nods, slowly. Brendon had been a handful, there's no questioning that. "Don't worry about it," Ryan continues and Spencer doesn't, through most of sophomore year.
Somehow Brendon ends up in remedial everything, which is funny because he'd been in a bunch of the same advanced classes as Spencer freshman year, and they stay on opposite ends of the school. Spencer makes varsity track and Brendon starts showing up at drama sporadically, then stops showing up at all.
Life goes on.
Then, the summer between sophomore and junior year, the aliens come back, probably having gathered all the information they needed on male teenager biped, and swap out pod Brendon for real Brendon.
Spencer shows up bleary-eyed and unimpressed on the first day of school, only a little excited for first period advanced World History class, to Brendon sitting at the only free table in the room, wearing a purple hoodie with music notes on the pocket, a new hair cut that spikes down in front of his ears, and bright red glasses sitting on the end of his nose.
He's bouncing. He's humming. He says, "Hey, SpencerSmith, how was your summer?" and smiles.
Spencer blinks and blinks again. He shifts his school backpack up on his shoulder. "Hey," he says and Brendon laughs.
*
Spencer's been looking forward to getting Mr. Hall as a teacher since he was a freshman, and last year Ryan told him that advanced World History was the best class he'd ever taken.
Considering Ryan hates school, studying, and reading anything older than the two of them put together, Spencer's pretty ready to be impressed.
He's actually kind of excited, to be perfectly honest. Mr. Hall is the one responsible for the quarter-long history projects that always line the main hallway; for thirty percent of the final grade on their report cards, partnered-up students can pick any time period from the earliest recorded bits of history to the year 2000.
He's not a history buff or anything lame like that, but Spencer's been waiting to do this project since Ryan was a freshman. He remembers being shuttled into the high school, so much bigger than the middle school he was used to, parents flanking him on either side, having to go into Ryan's parent-teacher conference because Ryan's own parents hadn't shown up.
The posters had been looming from all sides, splashes of color and information and light, and Spencer had been captivated as his parents had gone inside the classroom Ryan was sitting in front of.
Spencer asked in an awed tone, voice low, trying not to disrupt the meeting inside, whispered the words close to Ryan's ear, lips brushing the skin. "What are those?"
Ryan had responded with equal amounts of reverence and Spencer's been waiting ever since.
Mr. Hall is tall and broad, and Spencer likes that he's not wasting any time, already handing out project guides and notes, class contact information and a syllabus.
"You," he says to the room at large, smiling so that just the edges of his mouth are turned up, mischief glinting from his eyes. "Are going to memorize everything about your partners. You're going to know when they go to sleep at night and what time they get up in the morning, you're going to know their parents' names and their telephone numbers by heart. You're going to be joined at the hip for the next three months," he doesn't bother taking a breath. "Once you get assigned a partner, that partner cannot be changed, barring racial slurs, restraining orders, or a doctor's note." He leans against the edge of his desk, fingers steepled. "You may pick any time period as long as you check with me first, but once it's chosen, that is it. I refuse to believe there isn't at least a twenty-page paper waiting to be written about any and all facets of history." He rifles through some papers on the desk behind him, coming up with a bright blue folder. "Any questions?"
There are a flurry of questions, but Spencer stays quiet, processing. Ryan said that the most important part of the entire thing had been communication between partners (He'd done the French Revolution and focused on Robespierre. He'd gotten paired with Andy Mrotek, the genius in the art department, and not only had their poster been factually correct, it had been gorgeous), so Spencer does a quiet sweep of the room. He knows most of these kids, some better than others, and none of them seem bad, except.
Except for Brendon.
Brendon's sitting right beside him, doodling what looks like a music staff in the margin of his notebook. He's not even taking notes, and Spencer knows without a shadow of a doubt that they'll end up partners. This is his luck after all.
When Mr. Hall finishes answering questions, he slides a list out of the blue folder and starts calling out names with no preamble at all. There doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to the pairings, which gives Spencer a little flare of hope in his stomach.
Brendon's practically vibrating beside him, paying attention now, at least, and he grins when he catches Spencer looking at him. It's a natural reaction to smile back. It's not like Spencer can help himself, especially after two entire years of a Brendon that didn't smile at all, after two years of a Brendon that didn't seem to be breathing half the time.
" -- Urie!" Mr. Hall says, and Spencer blinks. He hadn't realized the list had already been read in its entirety. He kind of hates the fact that it's his first day and he'll have to ask Mr. Hall to give him his partner's name again, but Brendon's smile has gotten even brighter, and he says, "SpencerSmith, I'm so excited, aren't you excited?"
It's Spencer's luck. He tries not to sigh, but doesn't entirely succeed.
It fucking figures.
*
Upperclassmen are allowed to leave campus during lunch, so Spencer makes his way down from fourth period Earth Science on the second floor, to the courtyard. Ryan's sitting on a concrete bench, chewing on the cap of a pen and bouncing his leg.
"Hey." Spencer cuffs him on the back of he head and grins. "Let's go."
"Oh, the excitement of kids getting to leave campus," Ryan snorts, hooking the strap of his book bag over his shoulder and standing.
They head for the student lot and the rusted car they went in on together on when Spencer got his license. It's almost older than they are and even now, they sometimes still argue about what color the paint originally was. The radio only picks up an AM Bible station and some talk radio.
Ryan starts the engine and it sputters reluctantly to life, as though asking it to work is a personal affront. "Where are we going?"
There's a dearth of places to eat in the near vicinity, half of which probably live and die by kids coming in and spending money during lunch. "I don't care. Fast food." Spencer buckles his seat belt and kicks his feet up on the dashboard. Anything is better than the processed, reprocessed, and reprocessed again school food.
McDonald's is five minutes away and they go through the drive through, then pull into the parking lot and eat with their food balanced on their knees.
"How are your classes?" Ryan asks around a mouthful of fries.
Spencer shrugs and swallows the last bite of his burger. "Fine. I mean, it's school, there's only so much you can do. But I like Hall."
Ryan's eyes light up for only the third or fourth time Spencer has ever seen in relation to school. "It's a fucking awesome class. Who'd you get partnered with?"
He's got the look that says he's hovering on the edge of going off an another tangent about how awesome Andy Mrotek is and how much it sucks that he's already graduated and moved onto Berkley, smoking pot and protesting, living the college experience.
"Get this," Spencer says, "Brendon Urie."
"Oh, shit." Ryan winces in sympathy and Spencer shakes his head. "No, it's weird. It's like the pod person got switched back for real Brendon. He's back to being the spazz in middle school who set the lab on fire because he read the directions too fast."
Ryan snorts. "He's still way off in la-la land."
Spencer laughs at that, but personally, if he has to work with Brendon Urie, he'd rather have the version that starts singing songs from Anastasia at the top of his lungs when they agree on the Russian Revolution than the one who stared into space, brow creased at basic math problems.
"Yeah." Spencer glances at his watch and heaves out a sigh. "Fuck, we have eight minutes and thirty-seven seconds. We should head back, because I have no idea where my next class is. Well, actually, I don't even know what my next class is."
Ryan huffs out a breath and forces the engine back to life. "We could always ditch the rest of the day?"
"On the first day of class?" Spencer raises an eyebrow. "My parents would kill me."
He rifles through his back pack as Ryan drives, finding his schedule crumpled in the bottom beneath two new textbooks and his old-as-shit lucky sneakers. It's already smeared, but still readable, and he skims the lines and groans. "Oh, fuck. I forgot."
"Hm?" Ryan glances from the corner of his eye. "What?"
"Sex Ed and Health," Spencer grumbles. "Right after lunch, who the hell's bad idea was that?"
*
Spencer makes it on time, but just barely. The instructor for the class is a Mr. Blackinton that Spencer's almost a hundred positive is new. He's standing in the front of the room in jeans skinnier than Ryan's, a Distillers t-shirt and long brown hair that flops over his collar.
He looks more like a student than a teacher, and Spencer hopes this means he'll understand that teenagers - especially teenagers named Spencer - don't really like the uncomfortable questions about sexual partners (none), amount of experience (three kisses and a horrifically scarring handjob with Ryan when he was fourteen) and the like.
Spencer's pretty sure he's pushing his luck with that. Ryan took this class last year too, even though it's looking to be mish-mash of both upper classes and if he'd waited, they could have taken it together. Spencer's pretty sure Ryan did it on purpose, but he's not going to think about it too much.
Mr. Blackinton's just gotten through introductions and started handing out the barrage of pamphlets and papers Spencer was expecting, when Brendon bursts in.
Spencer's cheeks color as he ducks his head, and he doesn't even know why, probably embarrassment, even though Brendon doesn't seem to be too embarrassed himself.
"Hi, oh my god, sorry I'm late, did you know that there are two C wings in this building?" he asks, collapsing down in the only empty seat in the room (conveniently next to Spencer). Spencer's not sure if Brendon's talking to him, but he nods, because duh.
"C and CE," he says in a low voice when Mr. Blackinton starts up his lecture.
There are slides.
There are pictures of venereal diseases less than twenty feet in front of Spencer's face, and he feels his burger coming back up at the sight of the the various ways people can find to screw up their bodies.
"Safe sex," Mr. Blackinton says, flicking his thumb over his shoulder at a slide completely dedicated to the wonders of condoms. None of them are used or anything, Spencer's not sure he could handle that, but. He hadn't realized how many varieties there were.
"Does that -- " Brendon's leaning over. Brendon's breath is hot against Spencer's ear. Brendon's voice is low and rough and Spencer has to blink to stop that train of thought, because uh. This is Brendon Urie.
"Blueberry Cheesecake flavored lube," Spencer whispers back. "Yeah."
He's not looking at Brendon. He's made a deal with himself. Definitely not looking at Brendon. His life is infinitely easier when he doesn't have to look at Brendon.
"Cool!" Brendon whispers back, only it's a little louder than a whisper and Victoria looks back at them with a smirk on her lips. Spencer is melting into his seat, and he's definitely blushing now, swearing up and down that he's going to ignore Brendon for the rest of the class period when he says, "Hey, do you want to start work on the project today?"
*
Spencer personally thinks it might be jumping the gun just a little bit, getting started on the project before Mr. Hall's even really gone into any depth on the guidelines. All they have is a sheet with the bare bones requirements, a time period, and Mr. Hall's warning that the Russian Revolution is one of the most fascinating periods in history and one of his personal favorites, so they're expected to do an exceptionally good job.
Even so, track practice doesn't pick up for a couple days and it's not like he has anything else to do. Much as he loves running, he's not going to go on any self-inflicted five mile runs at three in the afternoon, not if he can help it. Death by heatstroke is not how he plans on going.
"We can go to my house, if you want," Brendon offers, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "My mom will probably try and feed us."
"I think mine's closer," Spencer replies after a long pause. It's not that he doesn't want to go to Brendon's, crowded with the eighty-seven older siblings he has, it's just that he's never been before and and it's like a thirty minute walk away.
Brendon grins and it's so weird to see his face so animated. "That's totally cool." He's got his backpack at his feet (Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, for the record, and Spencer doesn't know whether to blush or to be jealous) and he throws it over his shoulder. "Lead the way."
They walk in companionable silence and Spencer finds himself humming the theme to the Twilight Zone.
Eventually Brendon plugs one of his headphones in and turns on his iPod, bopping along the music, completely unselfconscious. Spencer shoves his hands in his pockets and keeps his head ducked down, well aware that it would totally, definitely be too much to yank his hood up and hide his face.
Fucking Brendon.
Both his parents are at work and his sisters have after-school stuff, so the house is empty and blessedly cool, quiet except for the whir of the air conditioning and burble of the fish tank in the living room with his dad's prized swimmers. Spencer dumps his bag by the door and toes off his sneakers. "Just drop your shit wherever," he says over his shoulder to Brendon, wandering into the kitchen.
There's a note from his mom, just like most days. Home at six, will bring Chinese. Watch your sisters. Love you, Mom.
"So, comrade." Brendon slides into the kitchen on socked feet and Spencer jumps. "Want to skim what the textbook has to say about the good old revolution? We can do some Googling after we figure out what we want to focus on."
*
They actually study.
Spencer was pretty sure they wouldn't. Spencer was actually pretty sure that by the time they got to his house, Brendon would have either reverted back to his zombified state or some family member would have called, something. Brendon doesn't even bother getting his phone out when they settle back on the couch in Spencer's den. There are print-outs everywhere in sight, along with the R section of the encyclopedia, Through the Eyes of the Ancients, The Discovery Channel Presents: The Russian Revolution (okay, so Spencer's dad is maybe a history buff. It took a while to find it, but Spencer knew they had it somewhere) playing softly on the TV, and the notes they'd both taken during Mr. Hall's lecture.
It's quiet, which should be Spencer's first or second or fifth clue that something weird is going on.
The front door bangs open after an hour, and Spencer's read the same sentence at least six times in a row because Brendon sitting so still is expected, really, but Brendon sitting so still and actually paying attention to something is just wild.
"Spencer!" Jackie's standing in the mouth of the hallway, hands on her hips, brows raised. Spencer doesn't know when she got to be so big, and it still boggles his mind sometimes that she's twelve. Whenever he says so, her very smart-mouthed response is, "Spencer you're only sixteen."
Brendon looks up from the book on his lap, blinking a little, like he's waking up from something, lip bleeding slightly from where he'd been biting on it.
"Hi!" he says, and then he grins, just big enough for Spencer to know, with no question, that pod Brendon has completely vanished. "I'm Brendon."
Jackie actually ducks her head and blushes, mumbling something that vaguely sounds like her name. She runs out of the room to the kitchen, where Spencer can hear Crystal and his mom puttering around.
He's pretty sure he hears the words, "Spencer's friend," and, "Oh my god, super cute," and, "Mom, Mom, can he stay for dinner? Please? Please? Spencer never brings cute friends over!"
He can't hear what his mother says in response, not that he's listening too intently or anything, but a minute later, Crystal is bouncing back towards the den, chattering about the first day of seventh grade and how every teacher she'd had mentioned him and, oh. She makes big eyes and flutters her lashes, once, twice and then again and Spencer sort of wants to die a little.
Spencer stays quiet, just watching her and trying not to laugh (because laughing is a much better alternative to crying, seriously) until she coughs pointedly and says, "Spencer, aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?" She flutters her lashes again, leaving Spencer to wonder if she's been replaced with a forty-five year old cougar in the ten hours since he last saw her.
"Uh," Spencer says, and he can feel the daggers she's shooting at him. "Crys, this is Brendon. Brendon, my twelve-going-on-forty-five-year-old sister, Crystal." She shrieks something that sounds vaguely like, "I hate you, Spencer Smith!" and goes running out of the den.
Spencer tries valiantly not to laugh again, but he's pretty sure he's failing miserably.
It's a small consolation that Brendon's giggling too, shoulders shaking, glasses hanging precariously close to the tip of his nose.
"I didn't realize that twelve-year-olds had sex appeal," he says, eyes wide and still a little traumatized around the corners.
"I guess this means you aren't staying over for dinner." Spencer's joking, he's totally joking, although it's not like they don't know how to pull an extra plate from out of the hutch, not like they don't do it all the time for Ryan. Brendon's face has gotten a little tighter, and he nods, shrugging his shoulders apologetically.
"It's Friday," he says, voice a little low. He's not looking at Spencer, instead focused intently on his hands. Spencer is reminded uncomfortably of the past two years and about how much he vastly prefers this Brendon to that one.
"Okay."
Brendon shrugs again, blush spreading across his cheeks. "My family, like. Has this thing. This family thing. We stay in on Friday nights and like." He waves his hand around, and then realizes he's waving his hand around and stops. "Bond."
Spencer shrugs too. He is totally not bothered by this development. "Oh," he says, trying to show just how not bothered he is. "That's cool."
Brendon grins at him through his glasses, and settles back against the arm of the couch. "I can probably stay another half hour, if." He shrugs, the eightieth one in the past five minutes. "If you wanted to keep going."
Spencer surprises himself with how quickly he says yes.
*
"I can't work on the project after school today," Spencer says as soon as Brendon slides into his seat on Monday. "I have track practice."
He still gets a little thrill at that, however dumb it sounds. Ever since he signed up for track in sixth grade, on a whim more than anything else, because Ryan was always staying after school to do music stuff, it's been his hobby and his release and it makes him kind of stupidly happy to be back on the oval.
Brendon pushes his glasses up on his nose and grins, running a hand through rumpled hair. "That actually works out really well, SpencerSmith, because the first drama club meeting of the year is after school and I can't work on it then either."
They make murmured plans to meet at Spencer's house at five or so as Mr. Hall comes in with coffee in one hand and a stack of papers in the other.
"Pop quiz," he announces and the class breaks out in a chorus of groans, in stereo. It's a great class, but only if you're willing to work. "If you're going to whine, you can work with your project partners."
Surprisingly enough, they manage to work through the fifteen questions on the first chapter within twenty minutes. Brendon has a memory for facts that Spencer never would have given him credit for, and he apparently actually studies during study hall. "How'd you do?" Mr. Hall asks as he picks up their quiz.
Brendon preens. "We totally rocked it. We, Mr. Hall, are a dream team."
Spencer doesn't know why that makes him smirk, but it does and he spends the rest of the day in a good mood that's only partly due to the fact that he has the first track practice of the year coming in a rapidly decreasing number of minutes. Last period is almost torture, even though he managed to snag a spot in Mrs. Ivarsson's Rock Theory and History class.
The bell rings and he takes off for the locker rooms; he's dressed and jogging toward the field in ten minutes where Gabe Saporta, long distance runner and team captain, is already warming up.
"Hey, Smith," he greets, arching his back as he rolls his arms in circles. "How was your summer? You stay in shape?"
Spencer hits the grass and straightens his legs out, reaching for his toes. "Of course I did, Gabe. Did you?"
Gabe laughs, loud and almost braying. "You fucking know it. We got cheated out of state last year, fucking Hurley and his trick knee, hell if I'm letting it go this year too because I was watching daytime soaps."
It's possible that Gabe is a little bit of an ass. He's also more dedicated to the team than anyone else and has yet to win a championship, despite the school having one of the best teams in the state, so Spencer can forgive him for that. Plus, he's shattered a good portion of the school's track and field records by significant amounts and Spencer is nothing if not practical.
The rest of the team comes trailing out in the next couple minutes and Gabe takes mercy on them. "Today is the first, last, and only easy day you're getting. Run a dozen laps and we'll call it a day."
Spencer ends up in step with a sophomore named Alex 'Call me Marshall because if you don't everyone will just get confused, seriously, it's okay, my parents call me Marshall too' Marshall. He's quiet, but quick, and brought their relay teams to the next level as a freshman.
"You gonna make it?" Spencer asks three laps in. Marshall rolls his eyes. "My family has a thing for summer barbecues, Jesus."
"No pain, no gain, no shiny trophies!" Gabe yells, breezing past them, hot on the heels of his girlfriend, the lovely and insanely talented sprinter and javelin thrower Victoria, who's laughing at something Alex 'Sure, Suarez is fine' Suarez is saying.
Marshall huffs. "When he kills us all, let's see how many trophies he gets."
Practice wraps up before four and Spencer hits the showers, relishing the distant ache in his muscles. He's missed running with other people who aren't Crys, people who won't whine because it's too hot or complain because it's too early and moan because they forgot their water bottle and they're going to keel over and die of thirst if they don't stop for coffee at Starbucks.
He pulls on sweats and a t-shirt, shoves his feet into flip-flops and yells goodbyes to his teammates as he shuffles out of the locker room and back out into the sunlight.
"Hey, SpencerSmith, why are you so wet?"
Of course. Brendon's sitting on the fence that runs along the school's front with a group of kids in weird clothes, with weird hair, holding scripts that he distantly recognizes as the drama club. There's Mikey Way with his flat-ironed bangs and black glasses and Alex DeLeon who gets called Singer for no reason Spencer has ever been able to figure out.
Spencer blushes, because nothing with Brendon makes logical sense anymore. "I was in the showers. Track practice."
"Right, you totally run." Brendon grins and grins, jumps down. "It works out, though. Shall we go be studious?"
He sweeps his arm out and bows and his friends chuckle. Spencer swallows and hikes his backpack up. "Yeah, okay."
*
It's Spencer's day to have the car, which is both thrilling and slightly terrifying. He's had his permit since the day he turned fifteen-and-a-half and he took a crash course in the required class over the summer (four hours a day trapped in a stuffy little room with forty-three other teenagers with nothing better to do for six weeks was quite possibly the worst experience of his entire life), and so if driving the car without Ryan is slightly on the illegal side, well.
There is a reason Spencer drives like a grandma and never, ever runs red lights.
"Your chariot?" Brendon asks once they get to the parking lot. Ryan's left the keys behind the front driver's side tire as always, and Spencer shrugs as he unlocks the door.
"It gets me places," he says, fully aware that he's blushing and feeling like an idiot, because he's blushing around Brendon Urie.
The system only works because his parents both work until seven or later and on a good day, Crystal and Jackie are out until at least five.
The house is empty, thankfully, and they set up in the den again. Brendon's humming something under his breath that sounds a little like "A Whole New World" and Spencer finds himself humming too. Not on purpose, just, because Brendon is, and it's not like Spencer doesn't know it. He has two twelve-year-old sisters. Of course he fucking knows Aladdin.
"Hey!" Brendon says when he hears, and Spencer blushes again. It's too bad that they're a) they're in the house, so Spencer can't blame the flush on his cheeks on the sunlight and b) sitting six inches away from each other, so that if Brendon chooses to look (and Spencer has a feeling he's looking), he can see. "Hey," Brendon says again, softer this time, scooting closer.
"Hey," Brendon says again, and he's chewing on his bottom lip like he's contemplating something. Spencer really doesn't know what Brendon Urie could be contemplating. Maybe how he could eat twelve candy bars without anyone noticing, or like, dance and sing really loud.
Something.
Spencer drops his pen.
"I dropped my pen," he says a little inanely, and they blink at each other while he bends to get it.
"Okay,"
Spencer slides off the couch a little awkwardly and the bitch of it is, now he can't find his pen. It's not a big deal, he still has about thirty in his backpack, but.
"Do you need some help?" Help is the last thing Spencer needs. What Spencer needs is for Brendon to go back to his side of the couch and make notes in Spencer's Encyclopedia Britannica and keep humming "A Whole New World" under his breath again.
That is what Spencer needs Brendon to do.
That is not what Brendon does.
Brendon climbs down off the couch, Brendon gets in Spencer's space, not even on purpose, not even that close, but there, and Spencer just.
Lets him
"Spence?"
It's very possible that Spencer can't breathe.
"Yeah?" He swallows, gulps, really, and it's probably loud enough for Brendon to hear it so that Brendon can hear it. His palms are sweating, and the thing is? Spencer, even at sixteen, Spencer would like to think of himself as a smart guy. That he knows what's going to happen before it does.
Brendon kisses him.
That is totally not what Spencer had been expecting.
*
For the record, Spencer has no issue with the whole liking guys thing.
He did, of course, back in the day when it seemed like everyone else was stealing their older brother's Playboys and ripping out the centerfolds to tape them up in their lockers and Spencer was left scratching his head and wondering what happened to the good old days of cooties. He tried looking at pinups, he did. He didn't get it.
But that was when he was eleven, twelve, a little bit into thirteen. There was the figuring it out period, followed by the angsting and telling his parents, convinced he was going to kicked out of the house and end up homeless.
Of course they hadn't kicked him out and it all worked out and it had sucked, but it had turned okay and Spencer has learned to cope with it and the odd burst of misplaced guilt that pops up every now and then.
The panic settling in his chest, warring with want, isn't because of the boy, it's because of the Brendon.
He ends up on his back along the couch, leather soft against the backs of his arms and his bare feet and that in and of itself isn't strange in the slightest. The couch is really comfortable and Spencer spends a lot of time vegging out and napping, whatever, but he also has Brendon Urie laid out on top of him, elbows braced on either side of his head.
Spencer's three kisses worth of experience has doubled, tripled, quadrupled and Brendon's mouth is spit slicked and swollen for how long they've been at it.
A very, very distant part of Spencer thinks his parents are going to come home eventually and it's going to be so monumentally awkward if they walk in on this. They won't freak out (probably, hopefully, maybe) but it would still be embarrassing and he should stop, push Brendon off and get him out the door.
He doesn't and he won't, but he should.
Brendon tastes like Jolly Ranchers and mint gum, and the strip of skin between his shirt and pants is softer than Spencer would have expected beneath his fingers. He sighs in the back of his throat when Spencer pushes his tongue into his mouth, exhales sharp when Spencer catches his bottom lip between his teeth.
"Jesus," Brendon exhales, the word caught on a sigh of air so that Spencer's not even sure he heard it.
"C - " he stutters, blush exploding across his cheeks, down the back of his neck. "Call me Spencer," he says irreverently and Brendon huffs out a breathless chuckle, biting down hard enough on the swell of his bottom lip to make the flesh go white.
Whether he's conscious of it or not, Brendon's pulsing his hips down in time with the thudding beat of Spencer's heart, sped-up and dizzy-fast, and Spencer's not sex starved or anything (Ryan would probably argue the fact, but Ryan also lost his virginity the summer after eighth grade to Hayley Williams for Christ's sake, so he can shut the fuck up) but he's only a man and he can't not react to that.
"Brendon," Spencer says, shifting his hips from side to side, which honestly only makes it worse, but it's like his muscles and bones aren't paying attention anymore, too distracted by the shivers snapping along his nerves.
"Oh." Brendon's eyes go wide, in shockwantfearlust and his bites down hard on the corner of his mouth, where the flesh is already a little bit tattered from that bad habit. "Can I?"
It takes Brendon popping open the fly on Spencer's pants and tucking the tips of his fingers into the elastic waistband of his boxers for Spencer to understand the question.
It's not like Spencer can say no.
He jerks his head in a nod and makes a noise in the back of his throat in the affirmative and the rest of Brendon's hand vanishes into his boxers. Brendon's settled across his thighs, knees planted on either side, and he's so fucking focused, it should be funny, but it's not. His fingers close around Spencer, callused from the guitar, probably (Spencer's mind unhelpfully supplies the image of him sitting, playing an acoustic with his eyes closed, in the throes of musical ecstasy).
Spencer is a healthy, red blooded male, he jerks off plenty.
Despite that, it only takes a few strokes of Brendon's long fingers around his dick to have him throwing his forearm across his mouth to bite down to keep from crying out as he comes.
"Oh my God," Brendon says and when it eases his hand out, his fingers are sticky, which shouldn't make Spencer's mind dizzy with unfocused want.
"Brendon," Spencer manages to spit out and it feels like his tongue is too thick because it's Brendon Urie for fuck's sake and this doesn't compute or fit or make any kind of sense. Brendon was a pod person and even if he's not one anymore he's still weird and a drama kid and Spencer doesn't really deal with those kinds of people.
"I just. I have to." Brendon crawls off and sprints toward the bathroom.
Spencer shouldn't want to follow him, but he does.
onward!
This is an utterly ridiculous story, that was an utterly ridiculous plot bunny with sinuous_curve forever ago that I am so completely grateful she let me run with. In that same vein, this story could and would not even have existed in the form it is now without the help of my amazing betas, wordsalone, adellyna, justranda and of course, sinuous_curve.
Shai, darling, I hope you enjoy it! Happy Holidays!
|Moving for the Sake of Motion|Spencer/Brendon|NC-17|11,454 words|
In which Brendon and Spencer are juniors in high school. Ryan, the plucky best friend and Mr. Hall, the history teacher also star.
For two years, Brendon Urie is a zombie.
Spencer is maybe even a little happy about it, initially. He's gone to same school as Brendon since they were in kindergarten, been in the same class a handful of times, and he knows just how much of a spastic handful Brendon can be. He remembers being in the third grade, wishing to be anywhere but the table they'd been sitting at together, embarrassed because Brendon had been vibrating so hard in his seat he fell off, giggling afterwards to the point of almost passing out.
Something happened, though, in the summer between eighth and ninth grade. Brendon's either been abducted by aliens and replaced with a pod person or put on drugs, because he comes clumping through the door on the first day of high school with with rumpled, barely matching clothes and bizarrely glassy eyes.
"It's fucking weird," Ryan says under his breath when they pass Brendon in the hallway, staring into the depths of his locker like he's confused as to what it's for.
Spencer shrugs. Brendon's a drama kid and Spencer's already generating a little attention for himself on the track team. It's not like their paths cross much. Not until Spencer walks into Algebra II, anyway, and finds Brendon assigned to the desk next to his, staring into space with his fucking mouth open a little bit.
"Did you get bitten by the undead?" Spencer asks, raising an eyebrow.
Brendon's chuckle comes thirty seconds after it should and Spencer seriously starts contemplating the validity of shows like Myth Busters. New Mexico is far, but he's pretty positive miles are like inches to people with space ships.
Of course, following the established pattern of Spencer's life, they end up as partners, meaning Spencer spends the first twenty minutes of every fifth period class slowly working at the problems written up on the overhead, trying to talk Brendon through them when he can barely stay awake, much less figure out positive and negative values for x and y.
"It's like someone took a two-by-four to the back of his head," Vicky whispers as she and Spencer walk from math to science, watching Brendon thud back and forth against students going the other way.
Spencer doesn't particularly care, it's just kind of freaky. It makes him vaguely uncomfortable every time they run into each other, literally more often than not.
Ryan says, "It's not really your problem, you freak," and, "I think his parents put him on something. Drugs or whatever to calm him the fuck down, I overheard Pete Wentz talking about it." Ryan blows out a breath, but it only manages to fluff his bangs. "He really fucking needed it, Spence." Spencer nods, slowly. Brendon had been a handful, there's no questioning that. "Don't worry about it," Ryan continues and Spencer doesn't, through most of sophomore year.
Somehow Brendon ends up in remedial everything, which is funny because he'd been in a bunch of the same advanced classes as Spencer freshman year, and they stay on opposite ends of the school. Spencer makes varsity track and Brendon starts showing up at drama sporadically, then stops showing up at all.
Life goes on.
Then, the summer between sophomore and junior year, the aliens come back, probably having gathered all the information they needed on male teenager biped, and swap out pod Brendon for real Brendon.
Spencer shows up bleary-eyed and unimpressed on the first day of school, only a little excited for first period advanced World History class, to Brendon sitting at the only free table in the room, wearing a purple hoodie with music notes on the pocket, a new hair cut that spikes down in front of his ears, and bright red glasses sitting on the end of his nose.
He's bouncing. He's humming. He says, "Hey, SpencerSmith, how was your summer?" and smiles.
Spencer blinks and blinks again. He shifts his school backpack up on his shoulder. "Hey," he says and Brendon laughs.
*
Spencer's been looking forward to getting Mr. Hall as a teacher since he was a freshman, and last year Ryan told him that advanced World History was the best class he'd ever taken.
Considering Ryan hates school, studying, and reading anything older than the two of them put together, Spencer's pretty ready to be impressed.
He's actually kind of excited, to be perfectly honest. Mr. Hall is the one responsible for the quarter-long history projects that always line the main hallway; for thirty percent of the final grade on their report cards, partnered-up students can pick any time period from the earliest recorded bits of history to the year 2000.
He's not a history buff or anything lame like that, but Spencer's been waiting to do this project since Ryan was a freshman. He remembers being shuttled into the high school, so much bigger than the middle school he was used to, parents flanking him on either side, having to go into Ryan's parent-teacher conference because Ryan's own parents hadn't shown up.
The posters had been looming from all sides, splashes of color and information and light, and Spencer had been captivated as his parents had gone inside the classroom Ryan was sitting in front of.
Spencer asked in an awed tone, voice low, trying not to disrupt the meeting inside, whispered the words close to Ryan's ear, lips brushing the skin. "What are those?"
Ryan had responded with equal amounts of reverence and Spencer's been waiting ever since.
Mr. Hall is tall and broad, and Spencer likes that he's not wasting any time, already handing out project guides and notes, class contact information and a syllabus.
"You," he says to the room at large, smiling so that just the edges of his mouth are turned up, mischief glinting from his eyes. "Are going to memorize everything about your partners. You're going to know when they go to sleep at night and what time they get up in the morning, you're going to know their parents' names and their telephone numbers by heart. You're going to be joined at the hip for the next three months," he doesn't bother taking a breath. "Once you get assigned a partner, that partner cannot be changed, barring racial slurs, restraining orders, or a doctor's note." He leans against the edge of his desk, fingers steepled. "You may pick any time period as long as you check with me first, but once it's chosen, that is it. I refuse to believe there isn't at least a twenty-page paper waiting to be written about any and all facets of history." He rifles through some papers on the desk behind him, coming up with a bright blue folder. "Any questions?"
There are a flurry of questions, but Spencer stays quiet, processing. Ryan said that the most important part of the entire thing had been communication between partners (He'd done the French Revolution and focused on Robespierre. He'd gotten paired with Andy Mrotek, the genius in the art department, and not only had their poster been factually correct, it had been gorgeous), so Spencer does a quiet sweep of the room. He knows most of these kids, some better than others, and none of them seem bad, except.
Except for Brendon.
Brendon's sitting right beside him, doodling what looks like a music staff in the margin of his notebook. He's not even taking notes, and Spencer knows without a shadow of a doubt that they'll end up partners. This is his luck after all.
When Mr. Hall finishes answering questions, he slides a list out of the blue folder and starts calling out names with no preamble at all. There doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to the pairings, which gives Spencer a little flare of hope in his stomach.
Brendon's practically vibrating beside him, paying attention now, at least, and he grins when he catches Spencer looking at him. It's a natural reaction to smile back. It's not like Spencer can help himself, especially after two entire years of a Brendon that didn't smile at all, after two years of a Brendon that didn't seem to be breathing half the time.
" -- Urie!" Mr. Hall says, and Spencer blinks. He hadn't realized the list had already been read in its entirety. He kind of hates the fact that it's his first day and he'll have to ask Mr. Hall to give him his partner's name again, but Brendon's smile has gotten even brighter, and he says, "SpencerSmith, I'm so excited, aren't you excited?"
It's Spencer's luck. He tries not to sigh, but doesn't entirely succeed.
It fucking figures.
*
Upperclassmen are allowed to leave campus during lunch, so Spencer makes his way down from fourth period Earth Science on the second floor, to the courtyard. Ryan's sitting on a concrete bench, chewing on the cap of a pen and bouncing his leg.
"Hey." Spencer cuffs him on the back of he head and grins. "Let's go."
"Oh, the excitement of kids getting to leave campus," Ryan snorts, hooking the strap of his book bag over his shoulder and standing.
They head for the student lot and the rusted car they went in on together on when Spencer got his license. It's almost older than they are and even now, they sometimes still argue about what color the paint originally was. The radio only picks up an AM Bible station and some talk radio.
Ryan starts the engine and it sputters reluctantly to life, as though asking it to work is a personal affront. "Where are we going?"
There's a dearth of places to eat in the near vicinity, half of which probably live and die by kids coming in and spending money during lunch. "I don't care. Fast food." Spencer buckles his seat belt and kicks his feet up on the dashboard. Anything is better than the processed, reprocessed, and reprocessed again school food.
McDonald's is five minutes away and they go through the drive through, then pull into the parking lot and eat with their food balanced on their knees.
"How are your classes?" Ryan asks around a mouthful of fries.
Spencer shrugs and swallows the last bite of his burger. "Fine. I mean, it's school, there's only so much you can do. But I like Hall."
Ryan's eyes light up for only the third or fourth time Spencer has ever seen in relation to school. "It's a fucking awesome class. Who'd you get partnered with?"
He's got the look that says he's hovering on the edge of going off an another tangent about how awesome Andy Mrotek is and how much it sucks that he's already graduated and moved onto Berkley, smoking pot and protesting, living the college experience.
"Get this," Spencer says, "Brendon Urie."
"Oh, shit." Ryan winces in sympathy and Spencer shakes his head. "No, it's weird. It's like the pod person got switched back for real Brendon. He's back to being the spazz in middle school who set the lab on fire because he read the directions too fast."
Ryan snorts. "He's still way off in la-la land."
Spencer laughs at that, but personally, if he has to work with Brendon Urie, he'd rather have the version that starts singing songs from Anastasia at the top of his lungs when they agree on the Russian Revolution than the one who stared into space, brow creased at basic math problems.
"Yeah." Spencer glances at his watch and heaves out a sigh. "Fuck, we have eight minutes and thirty-seven seconds. We should head back, because I have no idea where my next class is. Well, actually, I don't even know what my next class is."
Ryan huffs out a breath and forces the engine back to life. "We could always ditch the rest of the day?"
"On the first day of class?" Spencer raises an eyebrow. "My parents would kill me."
He rifles through his back pack as Ryan drives, finding his schedule crumpled in the bottom beneath two new textbooks and his old-as-shit lucky sneakers. It's already smeared, but still readable, and he skims the lines and groans. "Oh, fuck. I forgot."
"Hm?" Ryan glances from the corner of his eye. "What?"
"Sex Ed and Health," Spencer grumbles. "Right after lunch, who the hell's bad idea was that?"
*
Spencer makes it on time, but just barely. The instructor for the class is a Mr. Blackinton that Spencer's almost a hundred positive is new. He's standing in the front of the room in jeans skinnier than Ryan's, a Distillers t-shirt and long brown hair that flops over his collar.
He looks more like a student than a teacher, and Spencer hopes this means he'll understand that teenagers - especially teenagers named Spencer - don't really like the uncomfortable questions about sexual partners (none), amount of experience (three kisses and a horrifically scarring handjob with Ryan when he was fourteen) and the like.
Spencer's pretty sure he's pushing his luck with that. Ryan took this class last year too, even though it's looking to be mish-mash of both upper classes and if he'd waited, they could have taken it together. Spencer's pretty sure Ryan did it on purpose, but he's not going to think about it too much.
Mr. Blackinton's just gotten through introductions and started handing out the barrage of pamphlets and papers Spencer was expecting, when Brendon bursts in.
Spencer's cheeks color as he ducks his head, and he doesn't even know why, probably embarrassment, even though Brendon doesn't seem to be too embarrassed himself.
"Hi, oh my god, sorry I'm late, did you know that there are two C wings in this building?" he asks, collapsing down in the only empty seat in the room (conveniently next to Spencer). Spencer's not sure if Brendon's talking to him, but he nods, because duh.
"C and CE," he says in a low voice when Mr. Blackinton starts up his lecture.
There are slides.
There are pictures of venereal diseases less than twenty feet in front of Spencer's face, and he feels his burger coming back up at the sight of the the various ways people can find to screw up their bodies.
"Safe sex," Mr. Blackinton says, flicking his thumb over his shoulder at a slide completely dedicated to the wonders of condoms. None of them are used or anything, Spencer's not sure he could handle that, but. He hadn't realized how many varieties there were.
"Does that -- " Brendon's leaning over. Brendon's breath is hot against Spencer's ear. Brendon's voice is low and rough and Spencer has to blink to stop that train of thought, because uh. This is Brendon Urie.
"Blueberry Cheesecake flavored lube," Spencer whispers back. "Yeah."
He's not looking at Brendon. He's made a deal with himself. Definitely not looking at Brendon. His life is infinitely easier when he doesn't have to look at Brendon.
"Cool!" Brendon whispers back, only it's a little louder than a whisper and Victoria looks back at them with a smirk on her lips. Spencer is melting into his seat, and he's definitely blushing now, swearing up and down that he's going to ignore Brendon for the rest of the class period when he says, "Hey, do you want to start work on the project today?"
*
Spencer personally thinks it might be jumping the gun just a little bit, getting started on the project before Mr. Hall's even really gone into any depth on the guidelines. All they have is a sheet with the bare bones requirements, a time period, and Mr. Hall's warning that the Russian Revolution is one of the most fascinating periods in history and one of his personal favorites, so they're expected to do an exceptionally good job.
Even so, track practice doesn't pick up for a couple days and it's not like he has anything else to do. Much as he loves running, he's not going to go on any self-inflicted five mile runs at three in the afternoon, not if he can help it. Death by heatstroke is not how he plans on going.
"We can go to my house, if you want," Brendon offers, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "My mom will probably try and feed us."
"I think mine's closer," Spencer replies after a long pause. It's not that he doesn't want to go to Brendon's, crowded with the eighty-seven older siblings he has, it's just that he's never been before and and it's like a thirty minute walk away.
Brendon grins and it's so weird to see his face so animated. "That's totally cool." He's got his backpack at his feet (Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, for the record, and Spencer doesn't know whether to blush or to be jealous) and he throws it over his shoulder. "Lead the way."
They walk in companionable silence and Spencer finds himself humming the theme to the Twilight Zone.
Eventually Brendon plugs one of his headphones in and turns on his iPod, bopping along the music, completely unselfconscious. Spencer shoves his hands in his pockets and keeps his head ducked down, well aware that it would totally, definitely be too much to yank his hood up and hide his face.
Fucking Brendon.
Both his parents are at work and his sisters have after-school stuff, so the house is empty and blessedly cool, quiet except for the whir of the air conditioning and burble of the fish tank in the living room with his dad's prized swimmers. Spencer dumps his bag by the door and toes off his sneakers. "Just drop your shit wherever," he says over his shoulder to Brendon, wandering into the kitchen.
There's a note from his mom, just like most days. Home at six, will bring Chinese. Watch your sisters. Love you, Mom.
"So, comrade." Brendon slides into the kitchen on socked feet and Spencer jumps. "Want to skim what the textbook has to say about the good old revolution? We can do some Googling after we figure out what we want to focus on."
*
They actually study.
Spencer was pretty sure they wouldn't. Spencer was actually pretty sure that by the time they got to his house, Brendon would have either reverted back to his zombified state or some family member would have called, something. Brendon doesn't even bother getting his phone out when they settle back on the couch in Spencer's den. There are print-outs everywhere in sight, along with the R section of the encyclopedia, Through the Eyes of the Ancients, The Discovery Channel Presents: The Russian Revolution (okay, so Spencer's dad is maybe a history buff. It took a while to find it, but Spencer knew they had it somewhere) playing softly on the TV, and the notes they'd both taken during Mr. Hall's lecture.
It's quiet, which should be Spencer's first or second or fifth clue that something weird is going on.
The front door bangs open after an hour, and Spencer's read the same sentence at least six times in a row because Brendon sitting so still is expected, really, but Brendon sitting so still and actually paying attention to something is just wild.
"Spencer!" Jackie's standing in the mouth of the hallway, hands on her hips, brows raised. Spencer doesn't know when she got to be so big, and it still boggles his mind sometimes that she's twelve. Whenever he says so, her very smart-mouthed response is, "Spencer you're only sixteen."
Brendon looks up from the book on his lap, blinking a little, like he's waking up from something, lip bleeding slightly from where he'd been biting on it.
"Hi!" he says, and then he grins, just big enough for Spencer to know, with no question, that pod Brendon has completely vanished. "I'm Brendon."
Jackie actually ducks her head and blushes, mumbling something that vaguely sounds like her name. She runs out of the room to the kitchen, where Spencer can hear Crystal and his mom puttering around.
He's pretty sure he hears the words, "Spencer's friend," and, "Oh my god, super cute," and, "Mom, Mom, can he stay for dinner? Please? Please? Spencer never brings cute friends over!"
He can't hear what his mother says in response, not that he's listening too intently or anything, but a minute later, Crystal is bouncing back towards the den, chattering about the first day of seventh grade and how every teacher she'd had mentioned him and, oh. She makes big eyes and flutters her lashes, once, twice and then again and Spencer sort of wants to die a little.
Spencer stays quiet, just watching her and trying not to laugh (because laughing is a much better alternative to crying, seriously) until she coughs pointedly and says, "Spencer, aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?" She flutters her lashes again, leaving Spencer to wonder if she's been replaced with a forty-five year old cougar in the ten hours since he last saw her.
"Uh," Spencer says, and he can feel the daggers she's shooting at him. "Crys, this is Brendon. Brendon, my twelve-going-on-forty-five-year-old sister, Crystal." She shrieks something that sounds vaguely like, "I hate you, Spencer Smith!" and goes running out of the den.
Spencer tries valiantly not to laugh again, but he's pretty sure he's failing miserably.
It's a small consolation that Brendon's giggling too, shoulders shaking, glasses hanging precariously close to the tip of his nose.
"I didn't realize that twelve-year-olds had sex appeal," he says, eyes wide and still a little traumatized around the corners.
"I guess this means you aren't staying over for dinner." Spencer's joking, he's totally joking, although it's not like they don't know how to pull an extra plate from out of the hutch, not like they don't do it all the time for Ryan. Brendon's face has gotten a little tighter, and he nods, shrugging his shoulders apologetically.
"It's Friday," he says, voice a little low. He's not looking at Spencer, instead focused intently on his hands. Spencer is reminded uncomfortably of the past two years and about how much he vastly prefers this Brendon to that one.
"Okay."
Brendon shrugs again, blush spreading across his cheeks. "My family, like. Has this thing. This family thing. We stay in on Friday nights and like." He waves his hand around, and then realizes he's waving his hand around and stops. "Bond."
Spencer shrugs too. He is totally not bothered by this development. "Oh," he says, trying to show just how not bothered he is. "That's cool."
Brendon grins at him through his glasses, and settles back against the arm of the couch. "I can probably stay another half hour, if." He shrugs, the eightieth one in the past five minutes. "If you wanted to keep going."
Spencer surprises himself with how quickly he says yes.
*
"I can't work on the project after school today," Spencer says as soon as Brendon slides into his seat on Monday. "I have track practice."
He still gets a little thrill at that, however dumb it sounds. Ever since he signed up for track in sixth grade, on a whim more than anything else, because Ryan was always staying after school to do music stuff, it's been his hobby and his release and it makes him kind of stupidly happy to be back on the oval.
Brendon pushes his glasses up on his nose and grins, running a hand through rumpled hair. "That actually works out really well, SpencerSmith, because the first drama club meeting of the year is after school and I can't work on it then either."
They make murmured plans to meet at Spencer's house at five or so as Mr. Hall comes in with coffee in one hand and a stack of papers in the other.
"Pop quiz," he announces and the class breaks out in a chorus of groans, in stereo. It's a great class, but only if you're willing to work. "If you're going to whine, you can work with your project partners."
Surprisingly enough, they manage to work through the fifteen questions on the first chapter within twenty minutes. Brendon has a memory for facts that Spencer never would have given him credit for, and he apparently actually studies during study hall. "How'd you do?" Mr. Hall asks as he picks up their quiz.
Brendon preens. "We totally rocked it. We, Mr. Hall, are a dream team."
Spencer doesn't know why that makes him smirk, but it does and he spends the rest of the day in a good mood that's only partly due to the fact that he has the first track practice of the year coming in a rapidly decreasing number of minutes. Last period is almost torture, even though he managed to snag a spot in Mrs. Ivarsson's Rock Theory and History class.
The bell rings and he takes off for the locker rooms; he's dressed and jogging toward the field in ten minutes where Gabe Saporta, long distance runner and team captain, is already warming up.
"Hey, Smith," he greets, arching his back as he rolls his arms in circles. "How was your summer? You stay in shape?"
Spencer hits the grass and straightens his legs out, reaching for his toes. "Of course I did, Gabe. Did you?"
Gabe laughs, loud and almost braying. "You fucking know it. We got cheated out of state last year, fucking Hurley and his trick knee, hell if I'm letting it go this year too because I was watching daytime soaps."
It's possible that Gabe is a little bit of an ass. He's also more dedicated to the team than anyone else and has yet to win a championship, despite the school having one of the best teams in the state, so Spencer can forgive him for that. Plus, he's shattered a good portion of the school's track and field records by significant amounts and Spencer is nothing if not practical.
The rest of the team comes trailing out in the next couple minutes and Gabe takes mercy on them. "Today is the first, last, and only easy day you're getting. Run a dozen laps and we'll call it a day."
Spencer ends up in step with a sophomore named Alex 'Call me Marshall because if you don't everyone will just get confused, seriously, it's okay, my parents call me Marshall too' Marshall. He's quiet, but quick, and brought their relay teams to the next level as a freshman.
"You gonna make it?" Spencer asks three laps in. Marshall rolls his eyes. "My family has a thing for summer barbecues, Jesus."
"No pain, no gain, no shiny trophies!" Gabe yells, breezing past them, hot on the heels of his girlfriend, the lovely and insanely talented sprinter and javelin thrower Victoria, who's laughing at something Alex 'Sure, Suarez is fine' Suarez is saying.
Marshall huffs. "When he kills us all, let's see how many trophies he gets."
Practice wraps up before four and Spencer hits the showers, relishing the distant ache in his muscles. He's missed running with other people who aren't Crys, people who won't whine because it's too hot or complain because it's too early and moan because they forgot their water bottle and they're going to keel over and die of thirst if they don't stop for coffee at Starbucks.
He pulls on sweats and a t-shirt, shoves his feet into flip-flops and yells goodbyes to his teammates as he shuffles out of the locker room and back out into the sunlight.
"Hey, SpencerSmith, why are you so wet?"
Of course. Brendon's sitting on the fence that runs along the school's front with a group of kids in weird clothes, with weird hair, holding scripts that he distantly recognizes as the drama club. There's Mikey Way with his flat-ironed bangs and black glasses and Alex DeLeon who gets called Singer for no reason Spencer has ever been able to figure out.
Spencer blushes, because nothing with Brendon makes logical sense anymore. "I was in the showers. Track practice."
"Right, you totally run." Brendon grins and grins, jumps down. "It works out, though. Shall we go be studious?"
He sweeps his arm out and bows and his friends chuckle. Spencer swallows and hikes his backpack up. "Yeah, okay."
*
It's Spencer's day to have the car, which is both thrilling and slightly terrifying. He's had his permit since the day he turned fifteen-and-a-half and he took a crash course in the required class over the summer (four hours a day trapped in a stuffy little room with forty-three other teenagers with nothing better to do for six weeks was quite possibly the worst experience of his entire life), and so if driving the car without Ryan is slightly on the illegal side, well.
There is a reason Spencer drives like a grandma and never, ever runs red lights.
"Your chariot?" Brendon asks once they get to the parking lot. Ryan's left the keys behind the front driver's side tire as always, and Spencer shrugs as he unlocks the door.
"It gets me places," he says, fully aware that he's blushing and feeling like an idiot, because he's blushing around Brendon Urie.
The system only works because his parents both work until seven or later and on a good day, Crystal and Jackie are out until at least five.
The house is empty, thankfully, and they set up in the den again. Brendon's humming something under his breath that sounds a little like "A Whole New World" and Spencer finds himself humming too. Not on purpose, just, because Brendon is, and it's not like Spencer doesn't know it. He has two twelve-year-old sisters. Of course he fucking knows Aladdin.
"Hey!" Brendon says when he hears, and Spencer blushes again. It's too bad that they're a) they're in the house, so Spencer can't blame the flush on his cheeks on the sunlight and b) sitting six inches away from each other, so that if Brendon chooses to look (and Spencer has a feeling he's looking), he can see. "Hey," Brendon says again, softer this time, scooting closer.
"Hey," Brendon says again, and he's chewing on his bottom lip like he's contemplating something. Spencer really doesn't know what Brendon Urie could be contemplating. Maybe how he could eat twelve candy bars without anyone noticing, or like, dance and sing really loud.
Something.
Spencer drops his pen.
"I dropped my pen," he says a little inanely, and they blink at each other while he bends to get it.
"Okay,"
Spencer slides off the couch a little awkwardly and the bitch of it is, now he can't find his pen. It's not a big deal, he still has about thirty in his backpack, but.
"Do you need some help?" Help is the last thing Spencer needs. What Spencer needs is for Brendon to go back to his side of the couch and make notes in Spencer's Encyclopedia Britannica and keep humming "A Whole New World" under his breath again.
That is what Spencer needs Brendon to do.
That is not what Brendon does.
Brendon climbs down off the couch, Brendon gets in Spencer's space, not even on purpose, not even that close, but there, and Spencer just.
Lets him
"Spence?"
It's very possible that Spencer can't breathe.
"Yeah?" He swallows, gulps, really, and it's probably loud enough for Brendon to hear it so that Brendon can hear it. His palms are sweating, and the thing is? Spencer, even at sixteen, Spencer would like to think of himself as a smart guy. That he knows what's going to happen before it does.
Brendon kisses him.
That is totally not what Spencer had been expecting.
*
For the record, Spencer has no issue with the whole liking guys thing.
He did, of course, back in the day when it seemed like everyone else was stealing their older brother's Playboys and ripping out the centerfolds to tape them up in their lockers and Spencer was left scratching his head and wondering what happened to the good old days of cooties. He tried looking at pinups, he did. He didn't get it.
But that was when he was eleven, twelve, a little bit into thirteen. There was the figuring it out period, followed by the angsting and telling his parents, convinced he was going to kicked out of the house and end up homeless.
Of course they hadn't kicked him out and it all worked out and it had sucked, but it had turned okay and Spencer has learned to cope with it and the odd burst of misplaced guilt that pops up every now and then.
The panic settling in his chest, warring with want, isn't because of the boy, it's because of the Brendon.
He ends up on his back along the couch, leather soft against the backs of his arms and his bare feet and that in and of itself isn't strange in the slightest. The couch is really comfortable and Spencer spends a lot of time vegging out and napping, whatever, but he also has Brendon Urie laid out on top of him, elbows braced on either side of his head.
Spencer's three kisses worth of experience has doubled, tripled, quadrupled and Brendon's mouth is spit slicked and swollen for how long they've been at it.
A very, very distant part of Spencer thinks his parents are going to come home eventually and it's going to be so monumentally awkward if they walk in on this. They won't freak out (probably, hopefully, maybe) but it would still be embarrassing and he should stop, push Brendon off and get him out the door.
He doesn't and he won't, but he should.
Brendon tastes like Jolly Ranchers and mint gum, and the strip of skin between his shirt and pants is softer than Spencer would have expected beneath his fingers. He sighs in the back of his throat when Spencer pushes his tongue into his mouth, exhales sharp when Spencer catches his bottom lip between his teeth.
"Jesus," Brendon exhales, the word caught on a sigh of air so that Spencer's not even sure he heard it.
"C - " he stutters, blush exploding across his cheeks, down the back of his neck. "Call me Spencer," he says irreverently and Brendon huffs out a breathless chuckle, biting down hard enough on the swell of his bottom lip to make the flesh go white.
Whether he's conscious of it or not, Brendon's pulsing his hips down in time with the thudding beat of Spencer's heart, sped-up and dizzy-fast, and Spencer's not sex starved or anything (Ryan would probably argue the fact, but Ryan also lost his virginity the summer after eighth grade to Hayley Williams for Christ's sake, so he can shut the fuck up) but he's only a man and he can't not react to that.
"Brendon," Spencer says, shifting his hips from side to side, which honestly only makes it worse, but it's like his muscles and bones aren't paying attention anymore, too distracted by the shivers snapping along his nerves.
"Oh." Brendon's eyes go wide, in shockwantfearlust and his bites down hard on the corner of his mouth, where the flesh is already a little bit tattered from that bad habit. "Can I?"
It takes Brendon popping open the fly on Spencer's pants and tucking the tips of his fingers into the elastic waistband of his boxers for Spencer to understand the question.
It's not like Spencer can say no.
He jerks his head in a nod and makes a noise in the back of his throat in the affirmative and the rest of Brendon's hand vanishes into his boxers. Brendon's settled across his thighs, knees planted on either side, and he's so fucking focused, it should be funny, but it's not. His fingers close around Spencer, callused from the guitar, probably (Spencer's mind unhelpfully supplies the image of him sitting, playing an acoustic with his eyes closed, in the throes of musical ecstasy).
Spencer is a healthy, red blooded male, he jerks off plenty.
Despite that, it only takes a few strokes of Brendon's long fingers around his dick to have him throwing his forearm across his mouth to bite down to keep from crying out as he comes.
"Oh my God," Brendon says and when it eases his hand out, his fingers are sticky, which shouldn't make Spencer's mind dizzy with unfocused want.
"Brendon," Spencer manages to spit out and it feels like his tongue is too thick because it's Brendon Urie for fuck's sake and this doesn't compute or fit or make any kind of sense. Brendon was a pod person and even if he's not one anymore he's still weird and a drama kid and Spencer doesn't really deal with those kinds of people.
"I just. I have to." Brendon crawls off and sprints toward the bathroom.
Spencer shouldn't want to follow him, but he does.
onward!