fic: So We'll Stop Pretending (Ryan/Spencer, 1/1)
So somewhere along the line - possibly after reading acroamatica’s Ryan/William story - I decided that yes, Ryan was a pretty pretty princess, who probably wears ladies’ clothes on occasion. (See also: every “Ryan Ross, pre-op transsexual” joke EVER. Not the same thing, but in the same general vein.)
Aaaaaaaaaaaand then this happened. Contains baby!Ryan/Spencer, crossdressing, and handjobs. And possibly GSF BUT SSSSSH, IT’S A SECRET.
So We’ll Stop Pretending
by Gale
SUMMARY: "I'm not buying you panties," Spencer muttered. He didn't meet Ryan's eyes. "That's -- dude, no, I can't play that off. No." Or: Ryan Ross, Pretty Pretty Princess.
i.
It started because he was left alone with his mom a lot as a kid, but not for the reasons most people would assume.
Ryan's always been independent, even when he was little, and when he was a kid there were more than a few days he would have killed to have ten minutes to himself, without his sisters underfoot. The next best thing to being alone was being in the attic.
And in the attic, there were boxes.
Not a lot of boxes -- his parents weren't pack rats or anything -- but a few, even a couple from his grandparents and great-grandparents. Most of them were official documents, like wills or deeds, but there were some letters up there, and a couple pieces of clothing. He'd really liked the top hat, but he didn't quite have the head for it, so he'd set it aside and started in on the shoes and the big, heavy coats.
And at the bottom of the box, there was a long velvet box. It looked a lot like a slightly longer version of some of his dad's box sets, for the Rolling Stones or whoever.
Ryan had stared at it for a long moment, then picked it up.
The box was velvet, just like it looked, and red; and it felt nice in his arms, in a way he already knew he couldn't ever explain to his parents. Ryan stared at it, and cradled it, then blew off some of the dust that had managed to make its way down through the other things in the box.
He'd stared at it for an even longer time before he opened it.
There was tissue paper on top; Ryan had to move it aside before he could really see it. Inside was a long nightgown, cream-colored and edged with lace. It had very thin straps instead of sleeves, and it was made of a material that little Ryan couldn't identify. Older Ryan, looking back on it, knew it was silk.
He'd stayed up there, box balanced on his outstretched legs, and cradled it in his hands 'til his mom called him to dinner.
*
That was how he spent his summer, that year: avoiding his dad and climbing up into the attic on hot afternoons, trying not to make a sound as he took the box and the nightgown out and just stared at them -- well, not *just* stared. Sometimes he took the gown out and held it, making sure his hands were clean first. He even smelled it once or twice, but it just smelled like old things and lavender. The lavender was pretty, but it reminded him a little of his grandmother.
After a while, after he'd started taking it out more and more often, Ryan noticed that it stopped smelling old and musty and started smelling...like nothing, really, which was kind of an improvement.
He really didn't see anything strange about it. The nightgown was pretty, and he'd always liked pretty things; his dad said so often enough, usually with a look on his face that Ryan didn't understand, but that didn't mean it wasn't true. He'd never played dress up with his mom's clothes or tried on her makeup, the way his sisters sometimes did, but he'd look at his mom on the rare nights she and his dad went out and stare at her: her lipstick, her mascara, her eyeliner and -shadow if she was wearing any. He always thought she was pretty, but she looked really pretty when she wore makeup.
He wondered, sometimes, if his mom had stuff like this, pretty slippery things she kept in soft boxes for special occasions. Hidden at the back of her closet, maybe, instead of the attic, behind where his parents kept the suitcases; or in her top dresser drawer, next to her socks.
He never went looking, though. That'd just be too weird.
ii.
Ryan wouldn't have figured it out at all if it wasn't for Terry Mazur and making out in the back of the stage during lunch.
It didn't seem to matter to Terry that there were other kids in the cafeteria, like, twenty feet away -- or less, because it wasn't like they were the only ones making out on the stage -- or that they'd get detention for two weeks at the very least if any of the teachers or security officers found them, especially since Ryan wasn't wearing his shirt and Terry's bra was only staying on because of the angle. It mattered to Ryan, a little, but he had an almost-naked girl straddling him, so not really.
His mouth was on Terry's neck, planting soft little kisses while he tried to ease his hand down the back of her skirt (with no successes so far, and damn Terry could slap), when he felt something soft against his back. Ryan took a hand off Terry's ass and reached up and around -- ow -- and pulled whatever it was out from under them.
It was an old-fashioned nightgown, like the kind you saw on the cover of cheap romance novels.
Ryan stared at it for a second. For longer than a second, actually, until Terry bit his lower lip and hissed, "Ross, what the fuck?" Then he dropped it and went back to making out with her until the bell rang for fifth period, and they had to get dressed in about ninety seconds.
And somehow, in all the commotion, Ryan managed to get the nightgown into his backpack. He didn't think about it too hard.
*
Ryan wasn't surprised to find that his dad wasn't home when he got there -- he usually wasn't -- but there was a note from his mom saying she'd taken his little sisters to the mall to go shopping for new school clothes, and if he wanted she could maybe take him this weekend. Ryan translated that to mean "I'll give you some money so when you and Spencer go to the mall you can get a couple pairs of jeans and some shirts", and went up to his room.
He did his math homework, his science homework, and was two paragraphs into a five-paragraph history essay before he couldn't stand it anymore and put the book down. He dug around in his backpack and took out the nightgown.
It was filmy and pale blue, like something someone's grandmother would have -- like his grandmother would have. It wasn't quite as silky as the one in the attic, but it still felt nice under his fingers. The sleeves were edged in lace, and there was a series of little raised roses along the front. Pretty enough, he supposed, and held it out in front of himself as he turned to look in the mirror.
"I'm *pretty*," Ryan said out loud, voice going high and feminine. He snickered and did a little twirl. He really wasn't -- his face was too masculine, and he had an Adam's apple. His hips didn't curve or anything. But it's what someone might say, maybe, to themselves, wearing something like this. Back in the 1920s, maybe.
Ryan looked at himself in the mirror for a second, then put the nightgown down and took his shirt off, slipped the gown over his shoulders. He hesitated, then thought "what the hell" and took off his jeans and boxers, too.
He straightened up and looked at himself again.
Actually wearing a girl's nightgown was...weird. Not bad, just weird. And maybe it had some kind of magical powers or something, because somehow it molded to Ryan's shoulders and made him look pretty. He still had his Adam's apple, obviously, but his hips looked slinky and his face looked less masculine and more -- androgynous, kind of. He still didn't have an ass -- craning his head around proved *that* -- but his collarbone looked soft, and so did his arms.
"I'm pretty," he said again, but this time in his normal tone of voice. And he sounded baffled. Which made sense, because that's what he was.
Ryan looked at himself for a long moment. He fingercombed his hair and made it stand up. Maybe he could run to his parents' room and rifle through his mom's makeup; she had to have some lipstick that was light enough, maybe a very light pink or a peach, then go back to his own room for eyeliner--
"Ryan!" Spencer called, voice right outside the door.
Ryan jerked his head to look, horrified. Oh, God, no, please don't come in--
--but apparently God wasn't listening today, because there was Spencer, opening the door to Ryan's room, taking his hat off to scratch his head. "Ryan! Dude, you won't believe what--"
Spencer stopped.
Ryan felt himself flush. He crossed his arms over his chest. "Yeah?" he said, trying to sound annoyed.
Spencer gaped at him.
"What?" Ryan demanded. "It's for a thing we're doing in drama class, Spence. Don't be so stupid."
"I'm not stupid," Spencer blurted out. "I've seen your schedule, dick. You don't take drama."
Stupid Spencer, having his schedule memorized. "Spencer--"
"It's fine," Spencer said, holding up a hand. "It's. You're still my friend, Ry, okay?"
"What the hell?" Ryan snapped. "I don't, like, like this. God, stop being weird." He ducked behind the bed and put on his boxers, then took the nightgown off and tossed it towards the other end of the room.
"I'm not being weird," Spencer said. He was starting to look extremely cranky.
"Whatever." Ryan put his t-shirt and jeans back on. "You want to go see what we have to eat?"
Spencer looked at him for a long time.
"Yeah," he finally said, shaking his head. "Yeah, okay."
iii.
The best thing about Spencer spending the night, other than his parents and siblings being away -- which was almost as good as, because his sisters tended to run in and bug them all night, and at least one of them had a crush on Spencer, which was just weird -- was that it was just him and his best friend. The only thing better was the weekends when Ryan spent the night at Spencer's house, because his mom usually drove him, so he could bring his guitar. They'd jam in the garage 'til Spencer's mom called them in for dinner or bed, almost like they were a real band.
This, though. This was a little weird, though.
There was a paper bag sitting on Ryan's bed: a little paper bag, like the kind you got at family-owned bookstores when you got more than one thing. It even had handles. There was tissue paper on top, covering whatever was inside.
Ryan looked at Spencer.
"Go on," Spencer said. His expression was unreadable. "Open it."
Ryan kept looking at him for a minute, then reached in. He moved the tissue paper aside and pulled out--
--what looked a lot like a silky red camisole top and a matching pair of boy-cut shorts. Probably because that was what it was.
Ryan stared at Spencer, completely bewildered.
"I'm not buying you panties," Spencer muttered. He didn't meet Ryan's eyes. "That's -- dude, no, I can't play that off. No." He scooted back against the headboard, kicking his Vans off and letting them drop next to the bed. "But I figured I could get away with going to the mall and getting something sort of. I mean. It's a little more butch."
Ryan kept staring.
Spencer took his hat off and ran his hands through his hair. "Fuck," he muttered. "Ryan, say something. Please. So I don't think I totally fucked up by doing thi--"
"Do you." Ryan cleared his throat. "Do you want me to try it on?"
Spencer jerked his head up to look at him. His eyes were huge.
"I don't--" Spencer blinked. "If you want to," he said. "I got them for you, Ry. I didn't get them for you to wear for *me*."
That made the back of Ryan's neck go hot. He put everything carefully back into the bag and covered it with the tissue paper again, put it by his backpack. "Come on," he said. "You want to get some pizza?"
Something in Spencer's face relaxed, a little. "No pepperoni," he said, bumping Ryan's shoulder as he leaned over and reached for the phone.
"No shit no pepperoni," Ryan said, "sausage and extra cheese." He was already fishing out his wallet to chip in a few bucks.
And for a little while, he put it out of his mind.
*
They were halfway through Hellraiser IV when Ryan felt the urge in the back of his head.
"Seriously," he said, "these are horrible, Spence." And they were. The first one was good, and this one was actually okay if you tried to tell yourself it wasn't actually based on a Clive Barker story, but two was kind of crappy and three sucked so hard he was surprised the Sci-Fi Channel didn't come to Spencer's house and personally hand them each twenty bucks. He really, really wasn't looking forward to the last four, but a sixteen-hour Pinhead marathon was a sixteen-hour Pinhead marathon.
Also, at a certain point, you got too far into the stupid thing to turn it off, which explained how they'd spent an entire Saturday night in the sixth grade watching all the Critters movies. Seriously. Critters.
"I know," Spence said, "but we can't just turn them off now." He looked alternately horrified, disgusted, and compelled. Ryan could relate.
"Whatever." Ryan climbed to his feet. "I'm gonna go to the bathroom. You want anything from the kitchen?" Spencer shook his head. "'kay."
Ryan ducked into the bathroom and peed, washed his hands. Maybe, he thought, he'd grab a Coke or something; sitting through sixteen hours of Pinhead was thirsty work, and--
--and the bag was still sitting on the kitchen table.
Ryan stood, absently rubbing his wet hands on the legs of his jeans, and stared. Then he walked over and looked inside again.
The bag itself really wasn't fancy, just regular brown paper, not pink-and-white striped from Victoria's Secret; and the actual clothes didn't smell floral, or like apples or peaches. It was just -- it was like getting a t-shirt from Hot Topic or something, except instead of a shirt it was a pair of shorts and a top. A silky, red camisole top.
Ryan swallowed, then wiped his hands on his jeans again and reached inside.
His stomach cramped as soon as his fingers touched fabric, but not in a bad way; more like "oh, there you are." Like it was trying to remind him of something.
Remind you you're fucking weird, the voice in his head said, sounding -- Ryan realized, startled -- nothing like his father. Some of his cousins, maybe, but not his dad. So that was sort of...not as horrible. Men like t-shirts and sweatpants and jeans. If anyone finds out, you're dead.
But, said the other voice in his head -- and this one was coming from a lot further down, near the base of his spine, or his head -- Spencer knows. He knows, and he's okay with it.
And that was the whole point, wasn't it?
Ryan bit his lip, then grabbed the bag before he could change his mind and headed back towards the bathroom.
*
"Hey," Ryan said, stopping behind Spencer. He hoped he sounded all right.
"Hey," Spencer said. "What's wrong, man? You were gone for, like, a really long--" He propped himself up on his elbow and looked at Ryan.
And stared.
Ryan scratched the back of his neck and tried not to fidget too much. The top fit, even though the tiny little straps kept wanting to slip down his shoulders; he didn't know how girls dealt with bras all day without getting frustrated after about ten minutes and killing someone. The shorts fit even better, tight at the waist without being *too* tight, and loose enough everywhere else that it was doing really great/horrible things to his dick.
"You." Spencer stared for another couple of seconds, then swallowed hard. "You look. It looks good on you," he said quietly. "They had it in black, too, but--"
"No, the red's good," Ryan said quickly. "I like the red." He sat down next to Spencer on the floor, automatically curling in on himself. The shorts were tiny, yeah, and they left his legs *freezing*. "Can I have--"
"Oh." Spencer blinked, then scooted closer and threw the blanket over Ryan's legs. "Here."
"Thanks." Ryan curled in next to him, and tried to pick up the plot thread.
It was harder than he thought. The movie was okay, but it still jumped timelines all over the place, and he'd missed, like, twenty minutes, maybe half an hour getting changed. And it didn't help that the denim of Spencer's jeans felt weird against his bare legs, rough and grainy and sort of nice. Ryan shifted and told himself it didn't matter, it was just weird physical stuff, he'd get over it.
Two commercial breaks later, he'd realized that yeah, he wasn't getting over it, so much.
"Hey," Spencer said, poking him in the arm. "You okay? You keep wiggling, man."
"Sorry," Ryan muttered. "I'm just -- I'm not used to, like, wearing it, you know?"
Spencer frowned. "You don't have to wear it for me," he said. "You don't have to try and impress me, Ry."
"I'm not trying to impress you," Ryan said honestly. "I just -- I thought I'd give it a shot, you know? For real, not just messing around with something I found with the rest of the stuff from the drama department." He shrugged and shifted again. "It's okay. I mean, it's gonna take a while to get used to it, but. Yeah."
"Natural," Spencer said quietly.
Ryan looked at him. After a long moment, he nodded. "Yeah," he said, just as quietly. "I guess."
"Yeah," Spencer said, still quiet, and scooted a little closer.
"I don't want to be weird, though," Ryan said quickly. "And I don't -- Spence, you can't tell anyone."
"What?" Spencer looked horrified. "Oh my God, like I'd even. Dude, I should punch you right in the face, I swear to God."
"Okay!" Ryan said. "Okay, sorry, I just. This is weird, okay?" He shrugged and pulled the blanket tighter over his legs.
"I'm not going to treat you any different," Spencer said. His eyebrows were almost up into his hairline. "Unless you tend to keep acting like the real Ryan's in a pod somewhere, 'cause then I might."
"I won't," Ryan promised, and shivered again.
Spencer looked at him. "You all right?"
"It's fucking cold," Ryan muttered. "Shut up and hold still." He pressed closer to Spencer.
Spencer reached out and hauled Ryan closer, didn't blink when Ryan snuggled his face into his t-shirt. Ryan had been doing stuff like that for years without even thinking; by now, it didn't really register unless Ryan wasn't doing it.
Actually, now that he was here, snuggled tight against Spencer and trying in vain to pay attention to which century the movie was currently set in, it didn't seem that weird. His clothes, maybe, but the rest of it was the same as normal. There was pizza in the kitchen, they were going to go over to Spencer's house and play tomorrow, Spencer was kind of kissing his neck--
Okay, wait, no, one of those was new.
Ryan froze. "Um," he said carefully. "Spencer?"
Spencer froze, too, but his voice sounded normal. "Yeah?"
"Did you -- are you kissing me?"
Spencer was quiet for a long time.
"Yeah," he finally said. "Yeah, I guess I am. Sort of." He didn't pull back, but he didn't try to do anything else, either. "Is...is that okay?"
And God, the way he sounded, like Ryan was going to get pissed and never talk to him or something, maybe even start yelling--
"It's okay," Ryan said, too softly for anyone else to hear. Even Spencer. "It's okay," he said again, raising his voice a little. He tilted his head up.
Spencer was looking at him, expression unreadable. But then, Spencer was like that; Ryan had known him since they were kids, and sometimes Spencer was a mystery even to him.
"It's okay," Ryan said, like he was just figuring things out, and kissed Spencer's mouth.
*
Twenty minutes later, they'd turned the sound on the TV way down and moved to the sofa. One of the straps on Ryan's top kept slipping down no matter how many times he tugged it back up, not that Spencer really noticed; he was too busy kissing Ryan every ten seconds and touching his legs. It was a little weird, but mostly it made Ryan's dick twitch.
"This is so weird," he muttered.
Spencer pulled back and looked at him. "Which part, you wearing girls' clothes or us making out?"
Ryan blinked. "Um. Both, I guess." He paused, then rested his hand on the waist of Spencer's jeans. "But. Um. Natural, I guess?"
"Naturally weird?"
"Yeah." He tightened his grip, absently fiddled with the button-fly.
"Naturally weird," Spencer said. "I like that." He kissed Ryan again.
Ryan made a little noise and kissed him back. Spencer had a really, really nice mouth. How had he not known that? He'd known Spencer since they were babies, practically, and he'd never had any idea Spencer's mouth was warm and kind of pillow-y. He was the worst friend ever.
"You would," Ryan said, and made a noise when the strap slipped down again. "Goddammit." He started to tug it up again.
"Hey," Spencer said softly, "don't, we can--" and he reached out and palmed Ryan's dick through the shorts.
Ryan yelped; he couldn't help it. It wasn't -- Spencer was touching his dick, and he was wearing tiny, silky shorts, and both of them at once made his knees and stomach feel funny. Spencer, with really good hands, and this look on his face like he was scared and turned on and they were fighting for control, and in that moment Ryan knew exactly how he felt.
"Let me," he said blindly, and unzipped Spencer's jeans enough to get his hand inside.
Surprise number two for the day: Spencer had an awesome dick. It wasn't big enough that it was intimidating or anything, but it wasn't, like, microscopic. Normal. Nothing Ryan hadn't seen before, though not for a while; it was easier to explain being naked when you were kids, and Spencer had kind of a problem being naked around people now. Ryan was pretty sure it was because Spencer was a little bit chubby, but not in a bad way. And he wasn't even, like, big, but he had a full face and he usually looked like he wanted to slap someone.
--none of which, Ryan reminded himself, had a lot to do with why Spencer probably wouldn't let him take his jeans off and actually *do* anything. Maybe next time.
Next time, he thought, a little gleefully, and sighed when Spencer stroked him again.
"You feel so good," Spencer said. His voice was soft and kind of scratchy, which was maybe the sexiest thing Ryan had ever heard. "I'm -- is this okay? Am I not--"
"No!" Ryan said quickly, speeding up his own hand. "No, it's -- am *I* doing okay?"
"You're doing," Spencer started, and closed his eyes. Ryan frowned and started to say something, but wetness jetted onto his hand, and holy crap Spencer had just come on him. Spencer, his best friend, had come on him.
Ryan whimpered and started bouncing against Spencer's hand. Maybe this was what Spencer did to himself, at home, in his room; maybe when he slept over, even, when Ryan was asleep. Maybe he used this same grip on himself and stroked just right, wondering if this is how Ryan would like it if he ever did it, sweatpants bunched around his ankles, dick hard and maybe leaking a little, biting those soft lips to keep from making noise. Maybe he did other stuff, too, like Ryan sometimes did; maybe he took pictures of himself and wondered if anyone would ever think he was pretty, maybe he curled against Ryan for something other than warmth, maybe--
"Fuck!" Ryan yelled, kind of high-pitched, and bucked hard against Spencer's hand, coming harder than he had in *months*. Not ever -- the best time ever had involved a wet dream and Nick Carter -- but this was still. Wow.
When Ryan opened his eyes again, Spencer was staring at him. He looked worried.
"We don't have to do this again," Spencer said quietly. "We don't -- if it's going to be weird, or creepy, or if you're never gonna talk to me again--"
"That's," Ryan said, shaking his head. "What are you, *high*?" He kissed Spencer's mouth again, then pulled back. "Hey, do you think Pete Wentz would like me like this?"
Spencer glared. "Uh, *I* might have a problem with that."
"I know, I know." Ryan grinned and squeezed Spencer's hand. "Dude, c'mon, like that's ever going to be a thing that happens. That's like me wondering if Mark Hoppus would think I looked pretty."
Spencer pulled Ryan close. "I promise," he said solemnly, "if we ever meet Pete Wentz, you have my permission, if we are boyfriends or whatever, to see if he thinks you're pretty and possibly to have sex with him."
Ryan snorted. "Yeah, right."
iv.
When Ryan came back to the bus, there was a paper bag sitting on his bunk; a little paper bag, like the kind you got at family-owned bookstores when you got more than one thing. It even had handles. There was tissue paper on top, covering whatever was inside.
There were two other bags next to it.
Ryan looked around, but didn't see anyone. He peered inside.
The first one had a silky camisole top in it and matching boy-shorts, this time in black. The second had a matching pair of stockings; the third, a garter belt. The third bag also had a tiny portable makeup kit inside, in the colors he liked.
"Brendon wanted to get you red," Spencer said behind him. Ryan turned. "I didn't have the heart to tell him you already had red."
"You didn't feel like being a bitch, you mean," Ryan said, smiling a little.
"Not today," Spencer agreed. He kissed Ryan's cheek and took a deep breath. "Um. The stockings are from Bren, and the garter belt--"
"I know," Ryan said softly. "I mean, not who got what, but." He kissed Spencer and bit his top lip, the way he'd never had the nerve to do back in Vegas.
Spencer's smile was shy. No one who wasn't one of them might believe it, that Spencer was capable of being shy; but that was their loss, not his. "Come back to the lounge when you're ready?" he said softly. "We. They want to see how pretty you look?"
Ryan smiled and kissed him again. "I might need help with something."
"You keep saying that," Spencer muttered, grinning, and reached out to unbutton Ryan's jeans.
Aaaaaaaaaaaand then this happened. Contains baby!Ryan/Spencer, crossdressing, and handjobs. And possibly GSF BUT SSSSSH, IT’S A SECRET.
So We’ll Stop Pretending
by Gale
SUMMARY: "I'm not buying you panties," Spencer muttered. He didn't meet Ryan's eyes. "That's -- dude, no, I can't play that off. No." Or: Ryan Ross, Pretty Pretty Princess.
i.
It started because he was left alone with his mom a lot as a kid, but not for the reasons most people would assume.
Ryan's always been independent, even when he was little, and when he was a kid there were more than a few days he would have killed to have ten minutes to himself, without his sisters underfoot. The next best thing to being alone was being in the attic.
And in the attic, there were boxes.
Not a lot of boxes -- his parents weren't pack rats or anything -- but a few, even a couple from his grandparents and great-grandparents. Most of them were official documents, like wills or deeds, but there were some letters up there, and a couple pieces of clothing. He'd really liked the top hat, but he didn't quite have the head for it, so he'd set it aside and started in on the shoes and the big, heavy coats.
And at the bottom of the box, there was a long velvet box. It looked a lot like a slightly longer version of some of his dad's box sets, for the Rolling Stones or whoever.
Ryan had stared at it for a long moment, then picked it up.
The box was velvet, just like it looked, and red; and it felt nice in his arms, in a way he already knew he couldn't ever explain to his parents. Ryan stared at it, and cradled it, then blew off some of the dust that had managed to make its way down through the other things in the box.
He'd stared at it for an even longer time before he opened it.
There was tissue paper on top; Ryan had to move it aside before he could really see it. Inside was a long nightgown, cream-colored and edged with lace. It had very thin straps instead of sleeves, and it was made of a material that little Ryan couldn't identify. Older Ryan, looking back on it, knew it was silk.
He'd stayed up there, box balanced on his outstretched legs, and cradled it in his hands 'til his mom called him to dinner.
*
That was how he spent his summer, that year: avoiding his dad and climbing up into the attic on hot afternoons, trying not to make a sound as he took the box and the nightgown out and just stared at them -- well, not *just* stared. Sometimes he took the gown out and held it, making sure his hands were clean first. He even smelled it once or twice, but it just smelled like old things and lavender. The lavender was pretty, but it reminded him a little of his grandmother.
After a while, after he'd started taking it out more and more often, Ryan noticed that it stopped smelling old and musty and started smelling...like nothing, really, which was kind of an improvement.
He really didn't see anything strange about it. The nightgown was pretty, and he'd always liked pretty things; his dad said so often enough, usually with a look on his face that Ryan didn't understand, but that didn't mean it wasn't true. He'd never played dress up with his mom's clothes or tried on her makeup, the way his sisters sometimes did, but he'd look at his mom on the rare nights she and his dad went out and stare at her: her lipstick, her mascara, her eyeliner and -shadow if she was wearing any. He always thought she was pretty, but she looked really pretty when she wore makeup.
He wondered, sometimes, if his mom had stuff like this, pretty slippery things she kept in soft boxes for special occasions. Hidden at the back of her closet, maybe, instead of the attic, behind where his parents kept the suitcases; or in her top dresser drawer, next to her socks.
He never went looking, though. That'd just be too weird.
ii.
Ryan wouldn't have figured it out at all if it wasn't for Terry Mazur and making out in the back of the stage during lunch.
It didn't seem to matter to Terry that there were other kids in the cafeteria, like, twenty feet away -- or less, because it wasn't like they were the only ones making out on the stage -- or that they'd get detention for two weeks at the very least if any of the teachers or security officers found them, especially since Ryan wasn't wearing his shirt and Terry's bra was only staying on because of the angle. It mattered to Ryan, a little, but he had an almost-naked girl straddling him, so not really.
His mouth was on Terry's neck, planting soft little kisses while he tried to ease his hand down the back of her skirt (with no successes so far, and damn Terry could slap), when he felt something soft against his back. Ryan took a hand off Terry's ass and reached up and around -- ow -- and pulled whatever it was out from under them.
It was an old-fashioned nightgown, like the kind you saw on the cover of cheap romance novels.
Ryan stared at it for a second. For longer than a second, actually, until Terry bit his lower lip and hissed, "Ross, what the fuck?" Then he dropped it and went back to making out with her until the bell rang for fifth period, and they had to get dressed in about ninety seconds.
And somehow, in all the commotion, Ryan managed to get the nightgown into his backpack. He didn't think about it too hard.
*
Ryan wasn't surprised to find that his dad wasn't home when he got there -- he usually wasn't -- but there was a note from his mom saying she'd taken his little sisters to the mall to go shopping for new school clothes, and if he wanted she could maybe take him this weekend. Ryan translated that to mean "I'll give you some money so when you and Spencer go to the mall you can get a couple pairs of jeans and some shirts", and went up to his room.
He did his math homework, his science homework, and was two paragraphs into a five-paragraph history essay before he couldn't stand it anymore and put the book down. He dug around in his backpack and took out the nightgown.
It was filmy and pale blue, like something someone's grandmother would have -- like his grandmother would have. It wasn't quite as silky as the one in the attic, but it still felt nice under his fingers. The sleeves were edged in lace, and there was a series of little raised roses along the front. Pretty enough, he supposed, and held it out in front of himself as he turned to look in the mirror.
"I'm *pretty*," Ryan said out loud, voice going high and feminine. He snickered and did a little twirl. He really wasn't -- his face was too masculine, and he had an Adam's apple. His hips didn't curve or anything. But it's what someone might say, maybe, to themselves, wearing something like this. Back in the 1920s, maybe.
Ryan looked at himself in the mirror for a second, then put the nightgown down and took his shirt off, slipped the gown over his shoulders. He hesitated, then thought "what the hell" and took off his jeans and boxers, too.
He straightened up and looked at himself again.
Actually wearing a girl's nightgown was...weird. Not bad, just weird. And maybe it had some kind of magical powers or something, because somehow it molded to Ryan's shoulders and made him look pretty. He still had his Adam's apple, obviously, but his hips looked slinky and his face looked less masculine and more -- androgynous, kind of. He still didn't have an ass -- craning his head around proved *that* -- but his collarbone looked soft, and so did his arms.
"I'm pretty," he said again, but this time in his normal tone of voice. And he sounded baffled. Which made sense, because that's what he was.
Ryan looked at himself for a long moment. He fingercombed his hair and made it stand up. Maybe he could run to his parents' room and rifle through his mom's makeup; she had to have some lipstick that was light enough, maybe a very light pink or a peach, then go back to his own room for eyeliner--
"Ryan!" Spencer called, voice right outside the door.
Ryan jerked his head to look, horrified. Oh, God, no, please don't come in--
--but apparently God wasn't listening today, because there was Spencer, opening the door to Ryan's room, taking his hat off to scratch his head. "Ryan! Dude, you won't believe what--"
Spencer stopped.
Ryan felt himself flush. He crossed his arms over his chest. "Yeah?" he said, trying to sound annoyed.
Spencer gaped at him.
"What?" Ryan demanded. "It's for a thing we're doing in drama class, Spence. Don't be so stupid."
"I'm not stupid," Spencer blurted out. "I've seen your schedule, dick. You don't take drama."
Stupid Spencer, having his schedule memorized. "Spencer--"
"It's fine," Spencer said, holding up a hand. "It's. You're still my friend, Ry, okay?"
"What the hell?" Ryan snapped. "I don't, like, like this. God, stop being weird." He ducked behind the bed and put on his boxers, then took the nightgown off and tossed it towards the other end of the room.
"I'm not being weird," Spencer said. He was starting to look extremely cranky.
"Whatever." Ryan put his t-shirt and jeans back on. "You want to go see what we have to eat?"
Spencer looked at him for a long time.
"Yeah," he finally said, shaking his head. "Yeah, okay."
iii.
The best thing about Spencer spending the night, other than his parents and siblings being away -- which was almost as good as, because his sisters tended to run in and bug them all night, and at least one of them had a crush on Spencer, which was just weird -- was that it was just him and his best friend. The only thing better was the weekends when Ryan spent the night at Spencer's house, because his mom usually drove him, so he could bring his guitar. They'd jam in the garage 'til Spencer's mom called them in for dinner or bed, almost like they were a real band.
This, though. This was a little weird, though.
There was a paper bag sitting on Ryan's bed: a little paper bag, like the kind you got at family-owned bookstores when you got more than one thing. It even had handles. There was tissue paper on top, covering whatever was inside.
Ryan looked at Spencer.
"Go on," Spencer said. His expression was unreadable. "Open it."
Ryan kept looking at him for a minute, then reached in. He moved the tissue paper aside and pulled out--
--what looked a lot like a silky red camisole top and a matching pair of boy-cut shorts. Probably because that was what it was.
Ryan stared at Spencer, completely bewildered.
"I'm not buying you panties," Spencer muttered. He didn't meet Ryan's eyes. "That's -- dude, no, I can't play that off. No." He scooted back against the headboard, kicking his Vans off and letting them drop next to the bed. "But I figured I could get away with going to the mall and getting something sort of. I mean. It's a little more butch."
Ryan kept staring.
Spencer took his hat off and ran his hands through his hair. "Fuck," he muttered. "Ryan, say something. Please. So I don't think I totally fucked up by doing thi--"
"Do you." Ryan cleared his throat. "Do you want me to try it on?"
Spencer jerked his head up to look at him. His eyes were huge.
"I don't--" Spencer blinked. "If you want to," he said. "I got them for you, Ry. I didn't get them for you to wear for *me*."
That made the back of Ryan's neck go hot. He put everything carefully back into the bag and covered it with the tissue paper again, put it by his backpack. "Come on," he said. "You want to get some pizza?"
Something in Spencer's face relaxed, a little. "No pepperoni," he said, bumping Ryan's shoulder as he leaned over and reached for the phone.
"No shit no pepperoni," Ryan said, "sausage and extra cheese." He was already fishing out his wallet to chip in a few bucks.
And for a little while, he put it out of his mind.
*
They were halfway through Hellraiser IV when Ryan felt the urge in the back of his head.
"Seriously," he said, "these are horrible, Spence." And they were. The first one was good, and this one was actually okay if you tried to tell yourself it wasn't actually based on a Clive Barker story, but two was kind of crappy and three sucked so hard he was surprised the Sci-Fi Channel didn't come to Spencer's house and personally hand them each twenty bucks. He really, really wasn't looking forward to the last four, but a sixteen-hour Pinhead marathon was a sixteen-hour Pinhead marathon.
Also, at a certain point, you got too far into the stupid thing to turn it off, which explained how they'd spent an entire Saturday night in the sixth grade watching all the Critters movies. Seriously. Critters.
"I know," Spence said, "but we can't just turn them off now." He looked alternately horrified, disgusted, and compelled. Ryan could relate.
"Whatever." Ryan climbed to his feet. "I'm gonna go to the bathroom. You want anything from the kitchen?" Spencer shook his head. "'kay."
Ryan ducked into the bathroom and peed, washed his hands. Maybe, he thought, he'd grab a Coke or something; sitting through sixteen hours of Pinhead was thirsty work, and--
--and the bag was still sitting on the kitchen table.
Ryan stood, absently rubbing his wet hands on the legs of his jeans, and stared. Then he walked over and looked inside again.
The bag itself really wasn't fancy, just regular brown paper, not pink-and-white striped from Victoria's Secret; and the actual clothes didn't smell floral, or like apples or peaches. It was just -- it was like getting a t-shirt from Hot Topic or something, except instead of a shirt it was a pair of shorts and a top. A silky, red camisole top.
Ryan swallowed, then wiped his hands on his jeans again and reached inside.
His stomach cramped as soon as his fingers touched fabric, but not in a bad way; more like "oh, there you are." Like it was trying to remind him of something.
Remind you you're fucking weird, the voice in his head said, sounding -- Ryan realized, startled -- nothing like his father. Some of his cousins, maybe, but not his dad. So that was sort of...not as horrible. Men like t-shirts and sweatpants and jeans. If anyone finds out, you're dead.
But, said the other voice in his head -- and this one was coming from a lot further down, near the base of his spine, or his head -- Spencer knows. He knows, and he's okay with it.
And that was the whole point, wasn't it?
Ryan bit his lip, then grabbed the bag before he could change his mind and headed back towards the bathroom.
*
"Hey," Ryan said, stopping behind Spencer. He hoped he sounded all right.
"Hey," Spencer said. "What's wrong, man? You were gone for, like, a really long--" He propped himself up on his elbow and looked at Ryan.
And stared.
Ryan scratched the back of his neck and tried not to fidget too much. The top fit, even though the tiny little straps kept wanting to slip down his shoulders; he didn't know how girls dealt with bras all day without getting frustrated after about ten minutes and killing someone. The shorts fit even better, tight at the waist without being *too* tight, and loose enough everywhere else that it was doing really great/horrible things to his dick.
"You." Spencer stared for another couple of seconds, then swallowed hard. "You look. It looks good on you," he said quietly. "They had it in black, too, but--"
"No, the red's good," Ryan said quickly. "I like the red." He sat down next to Spencer on the floor, automatically curling in on himself. The shorts were tiny, yeah, and they left his legs *freezing*. "Can I have--"
"Oh." Spencer blinked, then scooted closer and threw the blanket over Ryan's legs. "Here."
"Thanks." Ryan curled in next to him, and tried to pick up the plot thread.
It was harder than he thought. The movie was okay, but it still jumped timelines all over the place, and he'd missed, like, twenty minutes, maybe half an hour getting changed. And it didn't help that the denim of Spencer's jeans felt weird against his bare legs, rough and grainy and sort of nice. Ryan shifted and told himself it didn't matter, it was just weird physical stuff, he'd get over it.
Two commercial breaks later, he'd realized that yeah, he wasn't getting over it, so much.
"Hey," Spencer said, poking him in the arm. "You okay? You keep wiggling, man."
"Sorry," Ryan muttered. "I'm just -- I'm not used to, like, wearing it, you know?"
Spencer frowned. "You don't have to wear it for me," he said. "You don't have to try and impress me, Ry."
"I'm not trying to impress you," Ryan said honestly. "I just -- I thought I'd give it a shot, you know? For real, not just messing around with something I found with the rest of the stuff from the drama department." He shrugged and shifted again. "It's okay. I mean, it's gonna take a while to get used to it, but. Yeah."
"Natural," Spencer said quietly.
Ryan looked at him. After a long moment, he nodded. "Yeah," he said, just as quietly. "I guess."
"Yeah," Spencer said, still quiet, and scooted a little closer.
"I don't want to be weird, though," Ryan said quickly. "And I don't -- Spence, you can't tell anyone."
"What?" Spencer looked horrified. "Oh my God, like I'd even. Dude, I should punch you right in the face, I swear to God."
"Okay!" Ryan said. "Okay, sorry, I just. This is weird, okay?" He shrugged and pulled the blanket tighter over his legs.
"I'm not going to treat you any different," Spencer said. His eyebrows were almost up into his hairline. "Unless you tend to keep acting like the real Ryan's in a pod somewhere, 'cause then I might."
"I won't," Ryan promised, and shivered again.
Spencer looked at him. "You all right?"
"It's fucking cold," Ryan muttered. "Shut up and hold still." He pressed closer to Spencer.
Spencer reached out and hauled Ryan closer, didn't blink when Ryan snuggled his face into his t-shirt. Ryan had been doing stuff like that for years without even thinking; by now, it didn't really register unless Ryan wasn't doing it.
Actually, now that he was here, snuggled tight against Spencer and trying in vain to pay attention to which century the movie was currently set in, it didn't seem that weird. His clothes, maybe, but the rest of it was the same as normal. There was pizza in the kitchen, they were going to go over to Spencer's house and play tomorrow, Spencer was kind of kissing his neck--
Okay, wait, no, one of those was new.
Ryan froze. "Um," he said carefully. "Spencer?"
Spencer froze, too, but his voice sounded normal. "Yeah?"
"Did you -- are you kissing me?"
Spencer was quiet for a long time.
"Yeah," he finally said. "Yeah, I guess I am. Sort of." He didn't pull back, but he didn't try to do anything else, either. "Is...is that okay?"
And God, the way he sounded, like Ryan was going to get pissed and never talk to him or something, maybe even start yelling--
"It's okay," Ryan said, too softly for anyone else to hear. Even Spencer. "It's okay," he said again, raising his voice a little. He tilted his head up.
Spencer was looking at him, expression unreadable. But then, Spencer was like that; Ryan had known him since they were kids, and sometimes Spencer was a mystery even to him.
"It's okay," Ryan said, like he was just figuring things out, and kissed Spencer's mouth.
*
Twenty minutes later, they'd turned the sound on the TV way down and moved to the sofa. One of the straps on Ryan's top kept slipping down no matter how many times he tugged it back up, not that Spencer really noticed; he was too busy kissing Ryan every ten seconds and touching his legs. It was a little weird, but mostly it made Ryan's dick twitch.
"This is so weird," he muttered.
Spencer pulled back and looked at him. "Which part, you wearing girls' clothes or us making out?"
Ryan blinked. "Um. Both, I guess." He paused, then rested his hand on the waist of Spencer's jeans. "But. Um. Natural, I guess?"
"Naturally weird?"
"Yeah." He tightened his grip, absently fiddled with the button-fly.
"Naturally weird," Spencer said. "I like that." He kissed Ryan again.
Ryan made a little noise and kissed him back. Spencer had a really, really nice mouth. How had he not known that? He'd known Spencer since they were babies, practically, and he'd never had any idea Spencer's mouth was warm and kind of pillow-y. He was the worst friend ever.
"You would," Ryan said, and made a noise when the strap slipped down again. "Goddammit." He started to tug it up again.
"Hey," Spencer said softly, "don't, we can--" and he reached out and palmed Ryan's dick through the shorts.
Ryan yelped; he couldn't help it. It wasn't -- Spencer was touching his dick, and he was wearing tiny, silky shorts, and both of them at once made his knees and stomach feel funny. Spencer, with really good hands, and this look on his face like he was scared and turned on and they were fighting for control, and in that moment Ryan knew exactly how he felt.
"Let me," he said blindly, and unzipped Spencer's jeans enough to get his hand inside.
Surprise number two for the day: Spencer had an awesome dick. It wasn't big enough that it was intimidating or anything, but it wasn't, like, microscopic. Normal. Nothing Ryan hadn't seen before, though not for a while; it was easier to explain being naked when you were kids, and Spencer had kind of a problem being naked around people now. Ryan was pretty sure it was because Spencer was a little bit chubby, but not in a bad way. And he wasn't even, like, big, but he had a full face and he usually looked like he wanted to slap someone.
--none of which, Ryan reminded himself, had a lot to do with why Spencer probably wouldn't let him take his jeans off and actually *do* anything. Maybe next time.
Next time, he thought, a little gleefully, and sighed when Spencer stroked him again.
"You feel so good," Spencer said. His voice was soft and kind of scratchy, which was maybe the sexiest thing Ryan had ever heard. "I'm -- is this okay? Am I not--"
"No!" Ryan said quickly, speeding up his own hand. "No, it's -- am *I* doing okay?"
"You're doing," Spencer started, and closed his eyes. Ryan frowned and started to say something, but wetness jetted onto his hand, and holy crap Spencer had just come on him. Spencer, his best friend, had come on him.
Ryan whimpered and started bouncing against Spencer's hand. Maybe this was what Spencer did to himself, at home, in his room; maybe when he slept over, even, when Ryan was asleep. Maybe he used this same grip on himself and stroked just right, wondering if this is how Ryan would like it if he ever did it, sweatpants bunched around his ankles, dick hard and maybe leaking a little, biting those soft lips to keep from making noise. Maybe he did other stuff, too, like Ryan sometimes did; maybe he took pictures of himself and wondered if anyone would ever think he was pretty, maybe he curled against Ryan for something other than warmth, maybe--
"Fuck!" Ryan yelled, kind of high-pitched, and bucked hard against Spencer's hand, coming harder than he had in *months*. Not ever -- the best time ever had involved a wet dream and Nick Carter -- but this was still. Wow.
When Ryan opened his eyes again, Spencer was staring at him. He looked worried.
"We don't have to do this again," Spencer said quietly. "We don't -- if it's going to be weird, or creepy, or if you're never gonna talk to me again--"
"That's," Ryan said, shaking his head. "What are you, *high*?" He kissed Spencer's mouth again, then pulled back. "Hey, do you think Pete Wentz would like me like this?"
Spencer glared. "Uh, *I* might have a problem with that."
"I know, I know." Ryan grinned and squeezed Spencer's hand. "Dude, c'mon, like that's ever going to be a thing that happens. That's like me wondering if Mark Hoppus would think I looked pretty."
Spencer pulled Ryan close. "I promise," he said solemnly, "if we ever meet Pete Wentz, you have my permission, if we are boyfriends or whatever, to see if he thinks you're pretty and possibly to have sex with him."
Ryan snorted. "Yeah, right."
iv.
When Ryan came back to the bus, there was a paper bag sitting on his bunk; a little paper bag, like the kind you got at family-owned bookstores when you got more than one thing. It even had handles. There was tissue paper on top, covering whatever was inside.
There were two other bags next to it.
Ryan looked around, but didn't see anyone. He peered inside.
The first one had a silky camisole top in it and matching boy-shorts, this time in black. The second had a matching pair of stockings; the third, a garter belt. The third bag also had a tiny portable makeup kit inside, in the colors he liked.
"Brendon wanted to get you red," Spencer said behind him. Ryan turned. "I didn't have the heart to tell him you already had red."
"You didn't feel like being a bitch, you mean," Ryan said, smiling a little.
"Not today," Spencer agreed. He kissed Ryan's cheek and took a deep breath. "Um. The stockings are from Bren, and the garter belt--"
"I know," Ryan said softly. "I mean, not who got what, but." He kissed Spencer and bit his top lip, the way he'd never had the nerve to do back in Vegas.
Spencer's smile was shy. No one who wasn't one of them might believe it, that Spencer was capable of being shy; but that was their loss, not his. "Come back to the lounge when you're ready?" he said softly. "We. They want to see how pretty you look?"
Ryan smiled and kissed him again. "I might need help with something."
"You keep saying that," Spencer muttered, grinning, and reached out to unbutton Ryan's jeans.