Crossover Fic: Spoiled (Spencer/Patrick)
Fandom: Fall Out Boy and Panic! at the Disco
Size: 3400 words
Pairing: Spencer/Patrick
Note: For _safi in damnyouwentz's "These Teen Hearts" challenge.
Summary: Stop thinking.
"Hey, I hope you don't--" Spencer says, turning around when the door opens, then stops.
"Hey, Spencer," Patrick says, very definitely not Pete, though answering Pete's door at one in the afternoon. "Welcome to Pete's humble abode."
"Oh," Spencer says. "Hi." He somehow hadn't pictured this, that Pete wouldn't be alone. His tired brain isn't quite up to the challenge.
Patrick opens the door wide, and Spencer rolls his suitcase through carefully, following Patrick through the entry hall and into the living room. It's very beige, like Pete's first LA humble abode, albeit slightly less humble. Something smells funny.
"Are you...burning something?" Spencer says carefully. The flight messed up his sinuses, but he doesn't think he's imagining it.
Patrick's eyes widen and he spins around, saying over his shoulder as he vanishes into the kitchen, "Just make yourself at home. Pete will--shit!--Pete'll be back soon. Or in a day. Or whatever."
Patrick, Spencer thinks blearily, has a nice carrying voice. When he makes his gradual meandering way into the kitchen, having left his luggage next to a bare wall in the living room, Patrick is peering mournfully at a blackened grilled cheese sandwich. Spencer discreetly covers his nose with his hand against the smell. "What did you do?" he asks, leaning his hip against the refrigerator.
Patrick sighs. "Tofu cheese. It doesn't." He pokes at the charcoal with a butter knife. "Burn well. Maybe I can scrape it off..."
"Dude," Spencer says. "That's not food anymore."
"You haven't lived in this swinging bachelor pad long enough," Patrick mutters. "Anything can be food."
"Uh huh," Spencer says. He just got off a transatlantic and then transcontinental flight, tickets bought at the counter in Heathrow on the tail end of a cold fury that lasted him through a final night of fighting, packing his shit into a suitcase, and leaving. He'd texted Pete in La Guardia on his way to another flight. This whole conversation is maybe a little surreal.
"Sorry," Patrick says. "You probably want, like, a place to sleep, right? I'm such--sorry. I'm not too good at the host thing. Okay."
He leads Spencer up a flight of stairs and down a hallway, and Patrick counts off as they go, "Pete, Andy, me, bathroom, Joe, weird closet that we haven't figured out yet, Bonnie; none of these are occupied right now, but soon; okay, here," and pushes a door open. "Home sweet temporary bed, all yours."
The room is basically just that, a bed, an empty closet, and a window looking out at green foliage and then the neighbor's house, and Spencer takes two steps and collapses on the bare mattress while Patrick is still scavenging to a litany of, "Sheets, sheets, okay, blanket? Pillow, pillowcase? Oh."
"This is great," Spencer yawns, rolling over on his back. Flat, flat, beautiful flat bed. Spencer's eyelids feel weighted over his eyes. Weighted with care, he thinks with jet-lagged delirium, and almost laughs. He's not a poet. Ryan would write that into one of their songs and Brendon would sing it beautifully. Spencer just plays the fucking drums.
Patrick, his arms full of linens, looks down, eyes skipping from Spencer's shoulders to stomach where Spencer's shirt has ridden up. "I'll just, okay," he says, setting his pile of bedding down near Spencer's knee, and backs out of the room with a whispered, "Sleep well," and Spencer is not tearing up when the door closes, it's just his eyes are still irritated from flying. He's fine. Patrick is being nice, and that is nice, Spencer thinks, before falling into sleep like tumbling off a drum riser.
He wakes up after the sun has set, feeling only half-human, and emerges blinking into the lit hallway, trying not to bump into the wall. He has no idea what time it is. He left his phone in his luggage downstairs. The rest of the house is silent around him, and he wonders for one disconnected second if everyone else in the world vanished while he was sleeping, and whether it would be a bad thing if they had.
As he nears Patrick's door, though, he hears Patrick talking to someone. The phone, Spencer thinks, because he doesn't hear a second voice.
"Yeah," Patrick says, and laughs quietly. The sound is warm in Spencer's ears. "Yeah, dude. It's fine. I think he's still sleeping." Another long pause, and it's kind of weird, Spencer thinks. That he's standing just outside Patrick's door, tracing the doorframe with one hand and not looking in. "Hey," Patrick says suddenly, and Spencer startles. "Hey, how'd it go, there?" Another long silence, and Patrick's voice is affectionate when he says "Whatever, you know they love you. Oh, fuck you."
Yeah. Really weird. Kind of stalker-ish, if Spencer wants to look at it that way. He's not that fucked up. "Hey," Spencer says, leaning around the doorjamb and knocking against the wall.
Patrick looks up, phone held to one ear, and waves, then points at the phone.
Yeah, Spencer thinks, trying not to roll his eyes. The phone, he's not blind.
"Hey, he's up, so," Patrick says, and lifts his chin to say, "Pete says hi, Spencer."
"Oh," Spencer says. "Yeah. Tell him thanks. For letting me. You know."
"He says you're an asshole for not being around to greet your guest, Peter Wentz," Patrick says, and Spencer makes an unintelligible noise in the back of his throat. "Oh, whatever," Patrick says, and looks up to grin at Spencer. "Talk to you later, man," and snaps the phone closed.
"So, no Pete," Spencer says casually.
"Meeting with the suits," Patrick says. "With The Man. Or. Mens."
"Oh," Spencer says, looking at his bare feet. He never really pictured Pete as doing actual work, which was stupid in retrospect. He's beginning to wonder if he should have gone somewhere else, but Ryan would have asked too many of the bad questions. Jon is busy vacationing in fucking Africa, or something, on a sixty-day trip around the world. Spencer left behind a postcard from a tiny village in Zimbabwe stuck up on the fridge in what had been his and Brendon's shared kitchen in London. He doesn't really feel like trying to explain things to any of his other friends. Besides, Spencer thinks. Where the fuck else do you go when you royally fuck up your personal life and professional life in one fell swoop?
"You want some food?" Patrick asks, and Spencer looks up. Patrick's face doesn't look anything other than openly friendly.
"Not like the tofu cheese sandwich," Spencer says.
"It was totally fine once I scraped the bad stuff off," Patrick says, levering to his feet. "But, nah, we can call out. I know a couple places."
They end up back in the kitchen peering over take-out menus, and Spencer kind of hates the way he's trained now, how it's automatic to lean in against Patrick with his hand low on Patrick's spine like he would have and did a thousand times with Brendon.
That's how he ends up with his hand pressing into Patrick's back, feeling hard muscle for one instant underneath a thin layer of padding, so different from Brendon's skin and bones. Spencer flushes, awkwardly moving his hand up to Patrick's shoulder. It had only been a year. Just a year, to mess up his instincts so badly.
Patrick, though, is maybe used to a lot worse than Spencer's accidental personal-space intrusion, because he just points at a vegetarian curry and says, "I think I'll have that. What do you want?"
Or maybe Patrick's just professionally unflappable, Spencer thinks as he makes his choice and lets Patrick order. Patrick is like the anti-Brendon.
Spencer could do with some of that.
Spencer calls home after the dinner that he and Patrick eat crouched around Pete's odd, ovoid coffee table, bumping elbows and spilling rice on the lacquered wood. "I hate this fucking thing," Patrick had said. "I keep hoping if I eat on it enough I'll damage it and Pete will throw it out."
"Have you tried a flambe course?" Spencer had asked, deadpan.
"I don't think that comes in vegan," Patrick had said. "Besides, I don't want to burn his house down."
It's only eight o'clock, though it feels later. Spencer is back in his white box room, staring up at the ceiling. He tells his mom that he's back in LA, then tells his dad, and then tells his mom again, before his parents get off on a tangent about when his dad last cleaned the gutters. Spencer just listens and watches his breath. Brendon had gotten into meditation eight months ago and made Spencer do it with him once a week. Spencer had never been so fucking bored in his life, though he used to open his eyes halfway through just to watch the novelty of Brendon staying so goddamned still for so long. A fucking miracle, Spencer used to think, looking at Brendon sitting cross-legged on his fancy cushion, back straight, face peaceful and quiet.
Spencer's mouth tugs down at the corners, and his breath hitches, messing up his count. He coughs and says, "How are the grandparents?"
His mom says, "Oh, they're fine, you know they'd love to see you if you end up in the area."
"Yeah," Spencer says. "I don't really, uh, know my schedule yet, but. LA's closer than London."
"Yes, thank goodness," his mom says. "I don't know why you had to live all the way out there for so long."
"Because," Spencer says automatically, and there is a long pause before his dad says, "Well, we love you, son. Maybe we'll get to see you one of these days," and then they are gone, and Spencer is thumbing through his address book, but he doesn't have anyone else he wants to talk to. Not really. Spencer turns off his phone.
The room's walls are closing in around him, so he goes back to Patrick's room, where Patrick is sitting on the bed, leaning against the wall and reading a book, huge noise-canceling headphones covering his ears.
Spencer flops down on the floor. Patrick looks away from his book, and again, Spencer didn't think he was missing the way Patrick's almost but not quite checking him out. Hey, Spencer thinks. Hey, nice. Patrick is nice.
"We should go shopping tomorrow," Spencer says.
"What?" Patrick says, pushing off his headphones.
"Shopping," Spencer repeats. "Tomorrow." He makes a little driving motion with his hands.
Patrick coughs. "Yeah. We could do that. Or you could do that and I could stay home and not do that."
"I need some new..." Spencer stops to think. "Everything. I need new everything."
"Oh, come on," Patrick says. "You brought a whole suitcase. It can't all be dirty. Besides. Pete has a washing machine."
"I don't want to wear any of that stuff," Spencer says, rolling up onto his knees and crawling over to brace his hands on Patrick's legs and lean into Patrick's lap. "Please?" he says. "Come with me?" He's about ten seconds from batting his eyes. He doesn't know what he's doing, because he's never been that dude, but here he is. It's kind of ridiculous, and he can't quite make himself stop. Patrick looks surprised, maybe even on his way toward shocked, and his thighs are warm under Spencer's hands. Spencer runs his fingers along the rough weave of Patrick's jeans.
"Spencer," Patrick says, laughing nervously, hands coming up to fend Spencer off.
"It'll be fun," Spencer insists.
"It so won't," Patrick says.
"You can get some fresh air," Spencer says.
"And ruin my lily-white complexion?" Patrick asks. "I don't like natural light. I hear it's bad for you."
"I'll totally give you a blowjob if you go," Spencer says, and Patrick blushes from the tips of his ears down his face on his cheeks and along his neck.
"Go shopping with Pete," Patrick says. "He'd. Take you up on both of those offers."
"Pete's not here," Spencer says, but collapses back to the floor. "You're here."
"Uh huh," Patrick says dryly. "As flattering as that is." He goes back to his book, and Spencer actually falls asleep on the floor, waking up when Patrick shakes his shoulder gently.
"Time for bed, jet-lag boy," Patrick says, and Spencer stumbles up off the floor. Patrick changed into his pajamas at some point while Spencer was resting his eyes, and is now wearing a thin, ragged t-shirt with holes along the collar, and a pair of ancient-looking cotton basketball shorts. He's not wearing a hat or his glasses, and it's like Patrick with the curtain down, softer and less guarded, receding hairline and all.
"I'd do it, you know," Spencer mutters, before almost walking into the doorframe.
"Go to bed, Spencer," Patrick says, and Spencer goes.
Spencer is unsuccessful the next morning in talking Patrick into going shopping with him. Pete still isn't back. Spencer doesn't know how Patrick doesn't go crazy, rattling around this huge house by himself. The rooms almost echo. Spencer hasn't spent this much time around this few people in four years. He doesn't really remember how to do it, and he keeps washing up on the floor of Patrick's room, playing with Patrick's yo-yo and flipping through Patrick's DVD collection. He doesn't turn on his phone. Patrick offers to let him use the laptop to check his email, and Spencer says, "Nah. I'm on vacation."
"Revolutionary," Patrick says.
Spencer snorts. "Yeah, fucking genius." He remembers, you're so fucking smart, shouted at him from across the room, followed by, figure it out.
"Yeah, I'm going to--" Spencer says, standing up.
Patrick cocks his head and looks at Spencer for a long moment before saying, patiently, "You're going to?"
"When does Pete get home?" Spencer asks, biting at a ragged nail.
"Uh." Patrick's eyes unfocus. "I don't--tomorrow, maybe?"
"Right," Spencer says, feeling flushed and hot. He turns in a circle, first toward the door, but he can't quite face the rest of the house and its silence and the walls that only throw back shards of the last three months that he wishes he could forget.
He doesn't know how to live his life, whenever he pictures it. He doesn't know how.
"We could watch that," Patrick says, nodding at the copy of Rocky Horror Picture Show Spencer is still clutching in one hand. "If you want."
"I. Yeah," Spencer says. He wants to make a snide remark, feels like he should, because Rocky Horror, how campy is that, but actually, all he feels is grateful.
They settle in the living room with all the blinds drawn. The movie starts to play. Spencer turns and looks and Patrick is saying, "Dammit, Janet," softly, eyes focused on the screen.
Spencer looks back at the TV, where Brad and Janet are running through the rain, but he can't seem to shut off his brain. Stop thinking, Spencer thinks. He can't, though. The way Brendon had looked, shamefaced but angry, such a cliche when Spencer had walked through the door, and stop thinking.
Spencer jerks his eyes away from the screen. Patrick's face is shadowed in the blue light from the TV, fingers tapping absently against the arm of the couch.
"We probably watched this a thousand times on the bus," Patrick says, turning his head, and Spencer kisses him fast, angling to avoid the brim of his hat. Patrick stiffens, hands coming up to grip Spencer's shoulders.
"Come on," Spencer whispers. "Come on," and stops himself from adding a please at the end. He kisses Patrick again, opening his mouth, sliding over so that their knees bump.
"What," Patrick says. "I thought--"
"Come on," Spencer says, and Patrick kisses him back, hands moving to curve around Spencer's neck and arm.
He takes Patrick by the hand, pulling him up and into Spencer's room, leaving the movie running. They are actually going to do this, Spencer is actually going to do this. He leaves the light on. The walls are white, white, as they undress each other, and Patrick is pale and soft underneath his clothes. Spencer likes it, likes seeing it, runs his hands over Patrick's solid, round shoulders that are so different than what he's used to, so different, and Patrick's arms come down and around Spencer's waist. His hand palms Spencer's stomach and wraps around Spencer's dick with a confidence that leaves Spencer gasping into Patrick's mouth from sensation. Spencer hasn't had any hands other than Brendon's on him for over a year. Patrick strokes twice, and it's too much, too fast.
"Fuck," Spencer says, twisting away.
"Sorry," Patrick says. "Was that bad?"
"No," Spencer says. "No." He slides to his knees, pushing on Patrick's thighs until Patrick takes the hint and sits on the bed, and Spencer strokes his hands up and down Patrick's thighs the way Brendon had liked and that Patrick seems to appreciate too if the soft groan he gets is any indication. It's not Brendon, though, not Brendon, and Patrick is already half-hard for him, so considerate. "You want?" he asks, looking up.
Patrick's eyes are half-closed, looking down at him, the pupils dilated already, and Patrick leans back, saying, "Jesus Christ, yes."
Spencer is objectively good at this; he'd spent a good two years prior to Brendon practicing, but he'd forgotten what it was like with a new person, and Patrick's first aborted thrust almost makes him choke.
"Sorry, sorry," Patrick gasps, hands gripping and releasing on the sheets. Spencer hums and follows Patrick's involuntary upward twitch. Patrick smells different, moves differently, and Spencer has no fucking idea what he's doing, this all feels unreal in a sharp-edged way. Patrick's back arches up, thighs flexing smoothly under Spencer's fingers, and he bends over, hands trembling over Spencer's head. Patrick makes a lot of noise, higher than Spencer's used to, a little breathy. Spencer tilts his head, runs his fingers over the crease of Patrick's hips, and Patrick says, "Fuck, I'm going to," and comes.
Patrick turns his head when Spencer slides onto the bed. "Hey," he says, sounding hazy.
"Hey," Spencer says, and lets Patrick push him onto his back and kiss him. He wants to stop thinking. Patrick's hand closes around Spencer's cock, and he arches upward, encouraging. "Fuck," Spencer chokes, "fuck, fuck," as Patrick strokes over him. The overhead light blinds his eyes and Patrick kisses the side of his neck. He says, "Harder, fuck, harder," and covers his face with his arm when he comes.
"When did you guys break up?" Patrick asks.
Spencer rolls onto his side. Patrick is staring up at the ceiling, arm bent behind his head. "I." Spencer doesn't actually know Patrick well enough to know if he's happy or pissed off. Spencer sighs. "You want officially or unofficially?"
"Wow," Patrick says. "So. I'm like. Your rebound guy." He stares at the ceiling for a second longer before turning his head to look at Spencer, and smiles a little ruefully. His eyes are very blue, and Spencer can't hold them for long.
"You're not really--" Spencer starts, and Patrick waves him off.
"It's okay," Patrick says. "Really."
Spencer stares at the bedsheet, eyes tracing the fold as it curves down over Patrick's stomach.
"I mean, you know, better than my hand," Patrick's voice says. The sheet moves, and Patrick is leaning over Spencer, kissing him softly and close-mouthed on the lips before pulling away.
It is so nice, Patrick is so fucking nice, even about this, and Spencer feels his face start to crumple like he did something wrong, even though he didn't.
"Sorry," Spencer says, closing his eyes. "Sorry. I'm--Sorry."
The mattress bends and flexes, and when Spencer opens his eyes, Patrick is getting dressed, quickly and efficiently.
"I'm," Spencer says. "Patrick. I'm sorry."
Patrick's back tenses, and he pulls his shirt over his head quickly. "It's fine," he says. "Just. Maybe let's not do this again."
"Yeah," Spencer sighs.
Patrick stops at the door, one hand at the knob. He turns around. "Pete's coming home today. Don't. Um. Don't tell him, okay? He's not--I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell him."
"Yeah, I wouldn't--" Spencer says, and the door opens and closes, and he is left alone in the white room with the green window. The sheet is damp, and Spencer closes his eyes and tries not to think.
[END]
Grateful thanks to callsigns and circuity for their rapid, insightful betas. Thank you also to canadiankracka and darkseaglass for their time and attention--hopefully canadiankracka will speak to me again one of these days.
Size: 3400 words
Pairing: Spencer/Patrick
Note: For _safi in damnyouwentz's "These Teen Hearts" challenge.
Summary: Stop thinking.
"Hey, I hope you don't--" Spencer says, turning around when the door opens, then stops.
"Hey, Spencer," Patrick says, very definitely not Pete, though answering Pete's door at one in the afternoon. "Welcome to Pete's humble abode."
"Oh," Spencer says. "Hi." He somehow hadn't pictured this, that Pete wouldn't be alone. His tired brain isn't quite up to the challenge.
Patrick opens the door wide, and Spencer rolls his suitcase through carefully, following Patrick through the entry hall and into the living room. It's very beige, like Pete's first LA humble abode, albeit slightly less humble. Something smells funny.
"Are you...burning something?" Spencer says carefully. The flight messed up his sinuses, but he doesn't think he's imagining it.
Patrick's eyes widen and he spins around, saying over his shoulder as he vanishes into the kitchen, "Just make yourself at home. Pete will--shit!--Pete'll be back soon. Or in a day. Or whatever."
Patrick, Spencer thinks blearily, has a nice carrying voice. When he makes his gradual meandering way into the kitchen, having left his luggage next to a bare wall in the living room, Patrick is peering mournfully at a blackened grilled cheese sandwich. Spencer discreetly covers his nose with his hand against the smell. "What did you do?" he asks, leaning his hip against the refrigerator.
Patrick sighs. "Tofu cheese. It doesn't." He pokes at the charcoal with a butter knife. "Burn well. Maybe I can scrape it off..."
"Dude," Spencer says. "That's not food anymore."
"You haven't lived in this swinging bachelor pad long enough," Patrick mutters. "Anything can be food."
"Uh huh," Spencer says. He just got off a transatlantic and then transcontinental flight, tickets bought at the counter in Heathrow on the tail end of a cold fury that lasted him through a final night of fighting, packing his shit into a suitcase, and leaving. He'd texted Pete in La Guardia on his way to another flight. This whole conversation is maybe a little surreal.
"Sorry," Patrick says. "You probably want, like, a place to sleep, right? I'm such--sorry. I'm not too good at the host thing. Okay."
He leads Spencer up a flight of stairs and down a hallway, and Patrick counts off as they go, "Pete, Andy, me, bathroom, Joe, weird closet that we haven't figured out yet, Bonnie; none of these are occupied right now, but soon; okay, here," and pushes a door open. "Home sweet temporary bed, all yours."
The room is basically just that, a bed, an empty closet, and a window looking out at green foliage and then the neighbor's house, and Spencer takes two steps and collapses on the bare mattress while Patrick is still scavenging to a litany of, "Sheets, sheets, okay, blanket? Pillow, pillowcase? Oh."
"This is great," Spencer yawns, rolling over on his back. Flat, flat, beautiful flat bed. Spencer's eyelids feel weighted over his eyes. Weighted with care, he thinks with jet-lagged delirium, and almost laughs. He's not a poet. Ryan would write that into one of their songs and Brendon would sing it beautifully. Spencer just plays the fucking drums.
Patrick, his arms full of linens, looks down, eyes skipping from Spencer's shoulders to stomach where Spencer's shirt has ridden up. "I'll just, okay," he says, setting his pile of bedding down near Spencer's knee, and backs out of the room with a whispered, "Sleep well," and Spencer is not tearing up when the door closes, it's just his eyes are still irritated from flying. He's fine. Patrick is being nice, and that is nice, Spencer thinks, before falling into sleep like tumbling off a drum riser.
He wakes up after the sun has set, feeling only half-human, and emerges blinking into the lit hallway, trying not to bump into the wall. He has no idea what time it is. He left his phone in his luggage downstairs. The rest of the house is silent around him, and he wonders for one disconnected second if everyone else in the world vanished while he was sleeping, and whether it would be a bad thing if they had.
As he nears Patrick's door, though, he hears Patrick talking to someone. The phone, Spencer thinks, because he doesn't hear a second voice.
"Yeah," Patrick says, and laughs quietly. The sound is warm in Spencer's ears. "Yeah, dude. It's fine. I think he's still sleeping." Another long pause, and it's kind of weird, Spencer thinks. That he's standing just outside Patrick's door, tracing the doorframe with one hand and not looking in. "Hey," Patrick says suddenly, and Spencer startles. "Hey, how'd it go, there?" Another long silence, and Patrick's voice is affectionate when he says "Whatever, you know they love you. Oh, fuck you."
Yeah. Really weird. Kind of stalker-ish, if Spencer wants to look at it that way. He's not that fucked up. "Hey," Spencer says, leaning around the doorjamb and knocking against the wall.
Patrick looks up, phone held to one ear, and waves, then points at the phone.
Yeah, Spencer thinks, trying not to roll his eyes. The phone, he's not blind.
"Hey, he's up, so," Patrick says, and lifts his chin to say, "Pete says hi, Spencer."
"Oh," Spencer says. "Yeah. Tell him thanks. For letting me. You know."
"He says you're an asshole for not being around to greet your guest, Peter Wentz," Patrick says, and Spencer makes an unintelligible noise in the back of his throat. "Oh, whatever," Patrick says, and looks up to grin at Spencer. "Talk to you later, man," and snaps the phone closed.
"So, no Pete," Spencer says casually.
"Meeting with the suits," Patrick says. "With The Man. Or. Mens."
"Oh," Spencer says, looking at his bare feet. He never really pictured Pete as doing actual work, which was stupid in retrospect. He's beginning to wonder if he should have gone somewhere else, but Ryan would have asked too many of the bad questions. Jon is busy vacationing in fucking Africa, or something, on a sixty-day trip around the world. Spencer left behind a postcard from a tiny village in Zimbabwe stuck up on the fridge in what had been his and Brendon's shared kitchen in London. He doesn't really feel like trying to explain things to any of his other friends. Besides, Spencer thinks. Where the fuck else do you go when you royally fuck up your personal life and professional life in one fell swoop?
"You want some food?" Patrick asks, and Spencer looks up. Patrick's face doesn't look anything other than openly friendly.
"Not like the tofu cheese sandwich," Spencer says.
"It was totally fine once I scraped the bad stuff off," Patrick says, levering to his feet. "But, nah, we can call out. I know a couple places."
They end up back in the kitchen peering over take-out menus, and Spencer kind of hates the way he's trained now, how it's automatic to lean in against Patrick with his hand low on Patrick's spine like he would have and did a thousand times with Brendon.
That's how he ends up with his hand pressing into Patrick's back, feeling hard muscle for one instant underneath a thin layer of padding, so different from Brendon's skin and bones. Spencer flushes, awkwardly moving his hand up to Patrick's shoulder. It had only been a year. Just a year, to mess up his instincts so badly.
Patrick, though, is maybe used to a lot worse than Spencer's accidental personal-space intrusion, because he just points at a vegetarian curry and says, "I think I'll have that. What do you want?"
Or maybe Patrick's just professionally unflappable, Spencer thinks as he makes his choice and lets Patrick order. Patrick is like the anti-Brendon.
Spencer could do with some of that.
Spencer calls home after the dinner that he and Patrick eat crouched around Pete's odd, ovoid coffee table, bumping elbows and spilling rice on the lacquered wood. "I hate this fucking thing," Patrick had said. "I keep hoping if I eat on it enough I'll damage it and Pete will throw it out."
"Have you tried a flambe course?" Spencer had asked, deadpan.
"I don't think that comes in vegan," Patrick had said. "Besides, I don't want to burn his house down."
It's only eight o'clock, though it feels later. Spencer is back in his white box room, staring up at the ceiling. He tells his mom that he's back in LA, then tells his dad, and then tells his mom again, before his parents get off on a tangent about when his dad last cleaned the gutters. Spencer just listens and watches his breath. Brendon had gotten into meditation eight months ago and made Spencer do it with him once a week. Spencer had never been so fucking bored in his life, though he used to open his eyes halfway through just to watch the novelty of Brendon staying so goddamned still for so long. A fucking miracle, Spencer used to think, looking at Brendon sitting cross-legged on his fancy cushion, back straight, face peaceful and quiet.
Spencer's mouth tugs down at the corners, and his breath hitches, messing up his count. He coughs and says, "How are the grandparents?"
His mom says, "Oh, they're fine, you know they'd love to see you if you end up in the area."
"Yeah," Spencer says. "I don't really, uh, know my schedule yet, but. LA's closer than London."
"Yes, thank goodness," his mom says. "I don't know why you had to live all the way out there for so long."
"Because," Spencer says automatically, and there is a long pause before his dad says, "Well, we love you, son. Maybe we'll get to see you one of these days," and then they are gone, and Spencer is thumbing through his address book, but he doesn't have anyone else he wants to talk to. Not really. Spencer turns off his phone.
The room's walls are closing in around him, so he goes back to Patrick's room, where Patrick is sitting on the bed, leaning against the wall and reading a book, huge noise-canceling headphones covering his ears.
Spencer flops down on the floor. Patrick looks away from his book, and again, Spencer didn't think he was missing the way Patrick's almost but not quite checking him out. Hey, Spencer thinks. Hey, nice. Patrick is nice.
"We should go shopping tomorrow," Spencer says.
"What?" Patrick says, pushing off his headphones.
"Shopping," Spencer repeats. "Tomorrow." He makes a little driving motion with his hands.
Patrick coughs. "Yeah. We could do that. Or you could do that and I could stay home and not do that."
"I need some new..." Spencer stops to think. "Everything. I need new everything."
"Oh, come on," Patrick says. "You brought a whole suitcase. It can't all be dirty. Besides. Pete has a washing machine."
"I don't want to wear any of that stuff," Spencer says, rolling up onto his knees and crawling over to brace his hands on Patrick's legs and lean into Patrick's lap. "Please?" he says. "Come with me?" He's about ten seconds from batting his eyes. He doesn't know what he's doing, because he's never been that dude, but here he is. It's kind of ridiculous, and he can't quite make himself stop. Patrick looks surprised, maybe even on his way toward shocked, and his thighs are warm under Spencer's hands. Spencer runs his fingers along the rough weave of Patrick's jeans.
"Spencer," Patrick says, laughing nervously, hands coming up to fend Spencer off.
"It'll be fun," Spencer insists.
"It so won't," Patrick says.
"You can get some fresh air," Spencer says.
"And ruin my lily-white complexion?" Patrick asks. "I don't like natural light. I hear it's bad for you."
"I'll totally give you a blowjob if you go," Spencer says, and Patrick blushes from the tips of his ears down his face on his cheeks and along his neck.
"Go shopping with Pete," Patrick says. "He'd. Take you up on both of those offers."
"Pete's not here," Spencer says, but collapses back to the floor. "You're here."
"Uh huh," Patrick says dryly. "As flattering as that is." He goes back to his book, and Spencer actually falls asleep on the floor, waking up when Patrick shakes his shoulder gently.
"Time for bed, jet-lag boy," Patrick says, and Spencer stumbles up off the floor. Patrick changed into his pajamas at some point while Spencer was resting his eyes, and is now wearing a thin, ragged t-shirt with holes along the collar, and a pair of ancient-looking cotton basketball shorts. He's not wearing a hat or his glasses, and it's like Patrick with the curtain down, softer and less guarded, receding hairline and all.
"I'd do it, you know," Spencer mutters, before almost walking into the doorframe.
"Go to bed, Spencer," Patrick says, and Spencer goes.
Spencer is unsuccessful the next morning in talking Patrick into going shopping with him. Pete still isn't back. Spencer doesn't know how Patrick doesn't go crazy, rattling around this huge house by himself. The rooms almost echo. Spencer hasn't spent this much time around this few people in four years. He doesn't really remember how to do it, and he keeps washing up on the floor of Patrick's room, playing with Patrick's yo-yo and flipping through Patrick's DVD collection. He doesn't turn on his phone. Patrick offers to let him use the laptop to check his email, and Spencer says, "Nah. I'm on vacation."
"Revolutionary," Patrick says.
Spencer snorts. "Yeah, fucking genius." He remembers, you're so fucking smart, shouted at him from across the room, followed by, figure it out.
"Yeah, I'm going to--" Spencer says, standing up.
Patrick cocks his head and looks at Spencer for a long moment before saying, patiently, "You're going to?"
"When does Pete get home?" Spencer asks, biting at a ragged nail.
"Uh." Patrick's eyes unfocus. "I don't--tomorrow, maybe?"
"Right," Spencer says, feeling flushed and hot. He turns in a circle, first toward the door, but he can't quite face the rest of the house and its silence and the walls that only throw back shards of the last three months that he wishes he could forget.
He doesn't know how to live his life, whenever he pictures it. He doesn't know how.
"We could watch that," Patrick says, nodding at the copy of Rocky Horror Picture Show Spencer is still clutching in one hand. "If you want."
"I. Yeah," Spencer says. He wants to make a snide remark, feels like he should, because Rocky Horror, how campy is that, but actually, all he feels is grateful.
They settle in the living room with all the blinds drawn. The movie starts to play. Spencer turns and looks and Patrick is saying, "Dammit, Janet," softly, eyes focused on the screen.
Spencer looks back at the TV, where Brad and Janet are running through the rain, but he can't seem to shut off his brain. Stop thinking, Spencer thinks. He can't, though. The way Brendon had looked, shamefaced but angry, such a cliche when Spencer had walked through the door, and stop thinking.
Spencer jerks his eyes away from the screen. Patrick's face is shadowed in the blue light from the TV, fingers tapping absently against the arm of the couch.
"We probably watched this a thousand times on the bus," Patrick says, turning his head, and Spencer kisses him fast, angling to avoid the brim of his hat. Patrick stiffens, hands coming up to grip Spencer's shoulders.
"Come on," Spencer whispers. "Come on," and stops himself from adding a please at the end. He kisses Patrick again, opening his mouth, sliding over so that their knees bump.
"What," Patrick says. "I thought--"
"Come on," Spencer says, and Patrick kisses him back, hands moving to curve around Spencer's neck and arm.
He takes Patrick by the hand, pulling him up and into Spencer's room, leaving the movie running. They are actually going to do this, Spencer is actually going to do this. He leaves the light on. The walls are white, white, as they undress each other, and Patrick is pale and soft underneath his clothes. Spencer likes it, likes seeing it, runs his hands over Patrick's solid, round shoulders that are so different than what he's used to, so different, and Patrick's arms come down and around Spencer's waist. His hand palms Spencer's stomach and wraps around Spencer's dick with a confidence that leaves Spencer gasping into Patrick's mouth from sensation. Spencer hasn't had any hands other than Brendon's on him for over a year. Patrick strokes twice, and it's too much, too fast.
"Fuck," Spencer says, twisting away.
"Sorry," Patrick says. "Was that bad?"
"No," Spencer says. "No." He slides to his knees, pushing on Patrick's thighs until Patrick takes the hint and sits on the bed, and Spencer strokes his hands up and down Patrick's thighs the way Brendon had liked and that Patrick seems to appreciate too if the soft groan he gets is any indication. It's not Brendon, though, not Brendon, and Patrick is already half-hard for him, so considerate. "You want?" he asks, looking up.
Patrick's eyes are half-closed, looking down at him, the pupils dilated already, and Patrick leans back, saying, "Jesus Christ, yes."
Spencer is objectively good at this; he'd spent a good two years prior to Brendon practicing, but he'd forgotten what it was like with a new person, and Patrick's first aborted thrust almost makes him choke.
"Sorry, sorry," Patrick gasps, hands gripping and releasing on the sheets. Spencer hums and follows Patrick's involuntary upward twitch. Patrick smells different, moves differently, and Spencer has no fucking idea what he's doing, this all feels unreal in a sharp-edged way. Patrick's back arches up, thighs flexing smoothly under Spencer's fingers, and he bends over, hands trembling over Spencer's head. Patrick makes a lot of noise, higher than Spencer's used to, a little breathy. Spencer tilts his head, runs his fingers over the crease of Patrick's hips, and Patrick says, "Fuck, I'm going to," and comes.
Patrick turns his head when Spencer slides onto the bed. "Hey," he says, sounding hazy.
"Hey," Spencer says, and lets Patrick push him onto his back and kiss him. He wants to stop thinking. Patrick's hand closes around Spencer's cock, and he arches upward, encouraging. "Fuck," Spencer chokes, "fuck, fuck," as Patrick strokes over him. The overhead light blinds his eyes and Patrick kisses the side of his neck. He says, "Harder, fuck, harder," and covers his face with his arm when he comes.
"When did you guys break up?" Patrick asks.
Spencer rolls onto his side. Patrick is staring up at the ceiling, arm bent behind his head. "I." Spencer doesn't actually know Patrick well enough to know if he's happy or pissed off. Spencer sighs. "You want officially or unofficially?"
"Wow," Patrick says. "So. I'm like. Your rebound guy." He stares at the ceiling for a second longer before turning his head to look at Spencer, and smiles a little ruefully. His eyes are very blue, and Spencer can't hold them for long.
"You're not really--" Spencer starts, and Patrick waves him off.
"It's okay," Patrick says. "Really."
Spencer stares at the bedsheet, eyes tracing the fold as it curves down over Patrick's stomach.
"I mean, you know, better than my hand," Patrick's voice says. The sheet moves, and Patrick is leaning over Spencer, kissing him softly and close-mouthed on the lips before pulling away.
It is so nice, Patrick is so fucking nice, even about this, and Spencer feels his face start to crumple like he did something wrong, even though he didn't.
"Sorry," Spencer says, closing his eyes. "Sorry. I'm--Sorry."
The mattress bends and flexes, and when Spencer opens his eyes, Patrick is getting dressed, quickly and efficiently.
"I'm," Spencer says. "Patrick. I'm sorry."
Patrick's back tenses, and he pulls his shirt over his head quickly. "It's fine," he says. "Just. Maybe let's not do this again."
"Yeah," Spencer sighs.
Patrick stops at the door, one hand at the knob. He turns around. "Pete's coming home today. Don't. Um. Don't tell him, okay? He's not--I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell him."
"Yeah, I wouldn't--" Spencer says, and the door opens and closes, and he is left alone in the white room with the green window. The sheet is damp, and Spencer closes his eyes and tries not to think.
[END]
Grateful thanks to callsigns and circuity for their rapid, insightful betas. Thank you also to canadiankracka and darkseaglass for their time and attention--hopefully canadiankracka will speak to me again one of these days.