This Is What Makes Us Live.
This Is What Makes Us Live.
Panic! At the Disco, genfic. PG. 950-ish words.
Spencer thinks now would be a good time to say something about Brendon’s-mothers-ass, but right now, he’s comfortable. Jon is half asleep on the floor, right at his feet, and feels warm against his shins. He’s cuddled into the leather chair, his laptop balanced nicely on two thighs, and he’s warm in only the way early morning, molded leather, Jon-at-your-feet, and laptop exhaust can make you.
*
Time, time goes fast, and really, Spencer doesn’t even remember half of what goes on everyday anymore.
Actually, he remembers stupid, silly things. He remembers watching Brendon, from behind his laptop, burst out laughing on the bus. His head tipped back and his throat vibrated. No, really, Spencer could see it.
He also remembers the way Jon had begged, begged to go to the next Burger King they saw, how his eyes sparkled and danced, changing their depth in the light. Then he remembers Jon choking on his soda - diet - at something Brendon says that Spencer doesn’t really remember. (Because, really, Spencer thinks, no one could ever remember everything Brendon says.) And then the way Jon grumbled for 60 more miles about never going to fast-food restaurants again until he fell asleep refreshing the inbox on his sidekick.
And Spencer, yeah, he thinks he‘s pretty much the luckiest guy alive.
“Hey,” Ryan says every morning by way of greeting, it‘s probably one of the only conversations they will directly share that day. ‘Hey.’ ‘Morning.’ But, Spencer doesn‘t mind, he likes it. Maybe it means less to try and fit into his memory, maybe it’s just because it’s Ryan. That is how it goes every morning, whether over coffee and cereal on the bus, to-go cups in a van, or hash browns and oatmeal in a hotel buffet.
(Spencer can’t stand the oatmeal in hotels, really. In makes him homesick for the smell of hot, fresh, homemade, cinnamon-covered oatmeal with a mothers smile and pink, fluffy bathrobe behind it.)
Brendon doesn’t really say anything in the morning, which is nice for a change. In the morning, if he has something to say, he’ll whisper it in your ear, breath hot and nose almost buried in your hair. He’ll bounce on his heels while he does this, too.
Nothing, Spencer thinks, could ever stop that boy. Not even a speeding bullet.
Maybe, maybe, Spencer thinks as an afterthought, Ryan could.
Jon, he goes for the physical approach, he tussles just brushed hair. (Not Ryan’s, though, because of the one time he dared to do it, and Ryan didn’t talk to anyone for at least 131 miles. Not that Spencer keeps count, or anything. When you know Ryan, though, it’s basically a rule. You don’t touch his hair, his face, or anything silk if you haven’t just washed your hands.)
“Tushy,” Brendon comments randomly on the bus. Or, not so randomly, because lately he’s been picking out words as his word-of-the-day. It passes time, he says.
It already goes by so fast, but Brendon, he’s always going, going, going. Faster, faster, faster. (Spencer thinks something dirty here, but decides not to voice it.)
It’s 9:34 in the morning, and they are only 43 miles into their journey. It’s too early for a word-of-the-day.
“Ryan has a nice tushy.” The words rolled of Brendon’s tongue slightly slurred, and somewhere from the other side of the couch Ryan says something muffled by the blankets on top of him, half-asleep.
Spencer thinks now would be a good time to say something about Brendon’s-mothers-ass, but right now, he’s comfortable. Jon is half asleep on the floor, right at his feet, and feels warm against his shins. He’s cuddled into the leather chair, his laptop balanced nicely on two thighs, and he’s warm in only the way early morning, molded leather, Jon-at-your-feet, and laptop exhaust can make you.
“Spencer didn’t have that nice of a tushy, but he’s working on it, and even if it reverts back to ugly, Jon will still love it,” Brendon comes out with, almost 14 minutes later.
Spencer thinks he might have fallen asleep a little, and also thinks that Brendon may be becoming mildly retarded from lack of… something. Sleep, stimulation, girls, guys, hey.
A muffled laugh comes from somewhere under the blankets by Brendon, and Spencer, he thinks back to an old fantasy he had when he was 16, where Ryan was a vampire and never slept. And then Jon is leaving to go threaten Brendon and Spencer really, really misses the warmth.
Hey, what’s so wrong with him having a nice tushy.
Tushy?
Spencer goes and joins Jon in the ‘threatening’ after this thought, except 3 minutes, (and about 15 seconds later, but Spencer isn’t really noticing,) there is a boy pile of three awkward almost-men trying to tickle and hit, and knee. Then they are all falling on top of the skinny lump that protests with squeaks that Brendon will later call ‘adorable’ in a conversation Spencer really doesn’t think he should be hearing, but makes him happy and warm and proud anyways.
“I hate you all,” Ryan says that night. Sore from the morning, and the shows, and whatever he does that makes him so irritable at night.
Spencer, he thinks, that’s how it always is, and in the morning he’ll wake up to fingers in his hair, a ‘Hey,’ and some hot breath that will make his spine tingle. Except, tomorrow morning, maybe the ‘hey’ and the hot breath will come together, and maybe the fingers in his hair will stay there as their owner laughs and makes a stupid joke.
Maybe, just maybe, Spencer will have a new milestone memory. Either way, he thinks, this Smith is one lucky, lucky, person.
Panic! At the Disco, genfic. PG. 950-ish words.
Spencer thinks now would be a good time to say something about Brendon’s-mothers-ass, but right now, he’s comfortable. Jon is half asleep on the floor, right at his feet, and feels warm against his shins. He’s cuddled into the leather chair, his laptop balanced nicely on two thighs, and he’s warm in only the way early morning, molded leather, Jon-at-your-feet, and laptop exhaust can make you.
*
Time, time goes fast, and really, Spencer doesn’t even remember half of what goes on everyday anymore.
Actually, he remembers stupid, silly things. He remembers watching Brendon, from behind his laptop, burst out laughing on the bus. His head tipped back and his throat vibrated. No, really, Spencer could see it.
He also remembers the way Jon had begged, begged to go to the next Burger King they saw, how his eyes sparkled and danced, changing their depth in the light. Then he remembers Jon choking on his soda - diet - at something Brendon says that Spencer doesn’t really remember. (Because, really, Spencer thinks, no one could ever remember everything Brendon says.) And then the way Jon grumbled for 60 more miles about never going to fast-food restaurants again until he fell asleep refreshing the inbox on his sidekick.
And Spencer, yeah, he thinks he‘s pretty much the luckiest guy alive.
“Hey,” Ryan says every morning by way of greeting, it‘s probably one of the only conversations they will directly share that day. ‘Hey.’ ‘Morning.’ But, Spencer doesn‘t mind, he likes it. Maybe it means less to try and fit into his memory, maybe it’s just because it’s Ryan. That is how it goes every morning, whether over coffee and cereal on the bus, to-go cups in a van, or hash browns and oatmeal in a hotel buffet.
(Spencer can’t stand the oatmeal in hotels, really. In makes him homesick for the smell of hot, fresh, homemade, cinnamon-covered oatmeal with a mothers smile and pink, fluffy bathrobe behind it.)
Brendon doesn’t really say anything in the morning, which is nice for a change. In the morning, if he has something to say, he’ll whisper it in your ear, breath hot and nose almost buried in your hair. He’ll bounce on his heels while he does this, too.
Nothing, Spencer thinks, could ever stop that boy. Not even a speeding bullet.
Maybe, maybe, Spencer thinks as an afterthought, Ryan could.
Jon, he goes for the physical approach, he tussles just brushed hair. (Not Ryan’s, though, because of the one time he dared to do it, and Ryan didn’t talk to anyone for at least 131 miles. Not that Spencer keeps count, or anything. When you know Ryan, though, it’s basically a rule. You don’t touch his hair, his face, or anything silk if you haven’t just washed your hands.)
“Tushy,” Brendon comments randomly on the bus. Or, not so randomly, because lately he’s been picking out words as his word-of-the-day. It passes time, he says.
It already goes by so fast, but Brendon, he’s always going, going, going. Faster, faster, faster. (Spencer thinks something dirty here, but decides not to voice it.)
It’s 9:34 in the morning, and they are only 43 miles into their journey. It’s too early for a word-of-the-day.
“Ryan has a nice tushy.” The words rolled of Brendon’s tongue slightly slurred, and somewhere from the other side of the couch Ryan says something muffled by the blankets on top of him, half-asleep.
Spencer thinks now would be a good time to say something about Brendon’s-mothers-ass, but right now, he’s comfortable. Jon is half asleep on the floor, right at his feet, and feels warm against his shins. He’s cuddled into the leather chair, his laptop balanced nicely on two thighs, and he’s warm in only the way early morning, molded leather, Jon-at-your-feet, and laptop exhaust can make you.
“Spencer didn’t have that nice of a tushy, but he’s working on it, and even if it reverts back to ugly, Jon will still love it,” Brendon comes out with, almost 14 minutes later.
Spencer thinks he might have fallen asleep a little, and also thinks that Brendon may be becoming mildly retarded from lack of… something. Sleep, stimulation, girls, guys, hey.
A muffled laugh comes from somewhere under the blankets by Brendon, and Spencer, he thinks back to an old fantasy he had when he was 16, where Ryan was a vampire and never slept. And then Jon is leaving to go threaten Brendon and Spencer really, really misses the warmth.
Hey, what’s so wrong with him having a nice tushy.
Tushy?
Spencer goes and joins Jon in the ‘threatening’ after this thought, except 3 minutes, (and about 15 seconds later, but Spencer isn’t really noticing,) there is a boy pile of three awkward almost-men trying to tickle and hit, and knee. Then they are all falling on top of the skinny lump that protests with squeaks that Brendon will later call ‘adorable’ in a conversation Spencer really doesn’t think he should be hearing, but makes him happy and warm and proud anyways.
“I hate you all,” Ryan says that night. Sore from the morning, and the shows, and whatever he does that makes him so irritable at night.
Spencer, he thinks, that’s how it always is, and in the morning he’ll wake up to fingers in his hair, a ‘Hey,’ and some hot breath that will make his spine tingle. Except, tomorrow morning, maybe the ‘hey’ and the hot breath will come together, and maybe the fingers in his hair will stay there as their owner laughs and makes a stupid joke.
Maybe, just maybe, Spencer will have a new milestone memory. Either way, he thinks, this Smith is one lucky, lucky, person.