Fic: A Most Brilliant Dance, Chapter 1

[ex_zarah5186]

Full Headers [ here].

Ryan/Spencer, Brendon/Jon
PG-13
~77’000 words

Written by softlyforgotten and zarah5.

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A Most Brilliant Dance

Chapter 1

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Red Right Ankle - The Decemberists

The light in the fields is almost blue this early, the air cold and clean, and Spencer’s pants are soaked up to his thighs. His socks are wet, too, and he thinks absently that he might need to mend the soles of his boots for the umpteenth time. In any case, it’s foolish to be out this early, with the long grass still damp and gleaming with dew, and there’s no doubt he’s going to get scolded when he gets back.

He turns back towards the house but stays still for a moment, leaning on the wooden fence. The sun is rising behind him, warm on his back, and the calls of the morning birds are just brightening into a less tentative song. Back at Longbourn, people will be getting up, the cook preparing breakfast, and Spencer can already hear the bustle of it, the morning clatter of the twins clamoring to be allowed to go into town and Brendon playing a march on the pianoforte, just loud enough to wake up their father.

Here, in the fields, it is still relatively quiet. Spencer turns his face up to the grey sky and watches the last threads of night being chased away. He holds still for a moment, lets the moment linger, and then laughs at himself and turns back towards home, where the day is waiting.

*

Longbourn is even busier than usual that morning. Spencer can see the bustle of the servants from the moment he enters the gate, and a new load of washing has already been put on the line - Spencer squints at it suspiciously, because it seems to include a lot of their finest clothes. The clamor from inside drifts out; Spencer can hear his mother talking very loudly in the slightly squeaky, breathless voice she gets when she’s very excited, and Marianne singing. Someone is playing piano, but the rhythm is shot to hell so Spencer thinks it’s Anne rather than Brendon, who has all of her adopted brother’s enthusiasm but none of his skill.

The twins spot him crossing the courtyard and whirl out towards him, faces bright and shrieking over the top of each other to be heard, with the result that Spencer can’t distinguish a single word from the high-pitched squealing. He blinks at them, counts to five (in the space of which Elinor accidentally hits herself in the forehead with one flailing arm, and Marianne jumps up and down, tugging at Spencer’s shirt) and then shouts, “Hey!”

The girls fall into disgruntled silence, glaring at him, and Spencer looks up to see Brendon grinning in the doorway.

“Hard to tell they’re sixteen some days,” Spencer informs Brendon, but Brendon’s already skipping down the stairs to him, hair a tousled mess, the top five of his shirt buttons undone.

Brendon grabs Spencer’s arms, whirls him around easily and declares, “Spence, we’re going to a ball!”

Spencer drags his arms out of Brendon’s hold and folds them across his chest. Brendon loves balls, but they go to them quite frequently and it doesn’t usually provoke this kind of reaction from the family. He takes in the twins’ bright-eyed delight and flushed cheeks and looks at where Brendon was hopping from foot to foot and grinning. Inside, Spencer hears his mother shout, “Thank the Lord, we’re saved!”

“Oh, God,” Spencer says, suddenly understanding. “Who else is going to this ball?”

Brendon beams.

*

Upon entering the house, Spencer begins to realize that perhaps he is the last person in the neighborhood to know about the letting of Netherfield Park. Gossip spreads quickly in Hertfordshire and the three new residents of Netherfield are a hot topic. It is soon common knowledge that the strangers will present themselves at the ball in three days time, and the town practically buzzes with excitement. Not only, Spencer is informed by about four different people at once, will the old, empty house finally be filled by people (which will mean parties, and balls, and long nights out) but the people who are filling it are very wealthy men. A Mr Walker has his name on the lease, Spencer’s mother tells him excitedly, while the twins giggle and plait flowers in each other’s hair, fighting over which of them Mr Walker will find more handsome. Mr Walker, Spencer’s mother says, earns a most agreeable amount, exceeded only by his friend who is accompanying him. Mr Ross, the rumors say, is on ten thousand a year and owns half of Derbyshire.

“And they are both young,” Mrs Smith crows triumphantly at the end of her spiel, “and handsome!”

That she is eager to marry her children off is no question, Spencer thinks dryly. She has never made any secret of what a hardship it is to have to provide for all these youngsters in her old age (even though she doesn’t do much providing for anyone). Spencer loves his mother, and he understands that she doesn’t mean anything truly vindictive about it, but he still hates when she goes into her woe-is-me routine. Inevitably, Brendon hears part of it and goes quiet and guilty, staring at the floor and shuffling sadly around the house. Brendon’s fake pout when he doesn’t get something his own way is one of the most irritating things in the world, and Spencer has been known to sit on Brendon’s head to make him stop, but when Brendon’s genuinely sad Spencer gets the urge to punch things.

That day, though, Brendon stays as cheerful as ever, bouncing around the house and suggesting outfits for the girls, promising to take them shopping for ribbons the very next day and even lend them a pound each for the special occasion. “I’d say half the population of Hertfordshire will be in love with you by the time we’re through,” Brendon tells them, grinning. “Misters Ross and Walker won’t know what’s hit them.”

He looks up at Spencer and winks and Spencer bites his lip to hold back his smile. Later, they go out for a ride on their favourite horses up to the lake, and Spencer asks, “So will you be competing with the twins for the visitors’ affections?”

Brendon laughs. “No, I don’t think I’m really the type of guy they’d want to marry,” he says, and Spencer makes a face, leans across and ruffles his hair. Brendon laughs again, soft and easy, says, “Oh, what a very manly way of cheering me up, Smith, thanks for that.”

“Anytime,” Spencer says, and Brendon hums a small, contended tune. Spencer looks out across the lake and wishes, with a fierce burst of longing that surprises him, that somehow he and Brendon could get out of this tiny, small-minded town with their gossip and their old fashions. It’s not as if he doesn’t love his family, just that he hates the kind of single-minded fervor that descends upon all the families the moment single, wealthy men ride into town.

“To be honest,” Brendon says eventually, “I’m more looking forward to the idea of some company than marriage prospects.”

“I’m not enough for you?” Spencer asks.

“Yes, well, you’re a terrible bore,” Brendon says smoothly. “Plus once I succeed in my plan to murder you and take your place as heir of the Smith Clan, I’ll need a new best friend, you know.”

Spencer laughs. “It would be nice,” he says eventually, “to have some new friends.”

Brendon nods. “Yes.”

They ride back slowly, neither of them particularly eager to get swept back into the mad rush that Longbourn is in (and will continue to be until the ball itself, three days from now). The grass is green on either side of the path and when Spencer looks over his shoulder he can see the sun dancing on the water of the lake. He admits, grudgingly, that maybe home isn’t so bad a place after all.

*

It rains throughout the morning of the day of the ball, and Spencer’s mother frets so much that their carriage will look unseemly coming through the mud that eventually Spencer leaves Brendon to deal with calming her down and steals away up to the library. He finds a book and gets so involved in it that he hardly notices the time passing, until finally Marianne is sent up to fetch him to get ready.

Brendon is already dressed in their room, adjusting his collar with steadily more impatient movements, and Spencer steps across and straightens it neatly for him. Brendon offers him a dazzling smile and asks, “You excited?”

“Not really,” Spencer admits, but he lets Brendon pick out his nicest shirt and styles his hair in the fashionable way. He sort of wishes he hadn’t shaved his beard, because even though he’s not that concerned about impressing the newcomers he does think he looked pretty smart with it. He tells Brendon this and Brendon groans, throwing his head back and wondering aloud whether Spencer will ever get over his loss.

Downstairs, Mrs Smith is fretting again, and Spencer sacrifices half an hour to sit and assure her that yes, he and Brendon will be perfectly well behaved and no, he won’t sneak off like last time and yes, the girls look lovely and also they’re sixteen, no one expects them to be incredibly mature. After a while his dad comes down though, and Spencer takes the opportunity to sidle out and find Brendon again.

It seems sort of anti-climatic, all of them trooping out into the carriage when it’s time to leave. Spencer’s collar is itching his throat and his shirt is uncomfortable, stiff and starched, the cheap cotton abrasive against his skin. Brendon presses their elbows together for a moment though, and smiles at him, and when they get out the air is cool and fresh against his face. Spencer figures it won’t be too bad.

*

The hall is filled with nearly twice as many people as there usually are, and by the third dance Spencer is out of breath and sweating, and Brendon’s face is slowly going bright red with the exertion. Spencer catches Brendon’s eyes and tilts his head back and they both excuse themselves from their partners and slip out to the less crowded edges.

“It’s so full, gosh,” Brendon breathes, staring around the hall in fascination.

“Are you surprised?” Spencer asks and Brendon grins and shakes his head.

They head towards a servant pouring wine and take a glass each, sit down on one of the low wooden benches and drink. Spencer tilts his head towards Brendon automatically, even though they don’t really talk; it’s barely possible to hear each other over the hubbub of the crowd. Spencer can guess what at least half of them are talking about.

Brendon obviously knows, too; he looks at Spencer, eyes dancing. “They’re late,” he says.

“Fashionably so, I imagine,” Spencer agrees, and Brendon nods, mouth twisted to the side in the way it does when he’s trying very hard not to laugh.

“Probably they’ll be incredibly ugly,” Brendon tells him.

“Reports say they’re handsome,” Spencer counters.

“I love most of the people who live here a lot,” Brendon says dryly, “but I think that with all the wealth these two gentlemen have they could be hunchbacks and no one would care.”

Spencer nods. “Decrepit,” he adds. “With warts, and pot bellies, and seven rings to each finger picked out by their dear mamas.”

“Or maybe,” Brendon suggests, “when everyone said ‘young men’, they meant really young. A pair of seven year olds that mother will try and maneuver us into marrying.”

Spencer smirks and they start trying to outdo each other from there, coming up with wilder and wilder ideas, suppressing bursts of laughter so as not to make anyone look twice at them. Spencer’s mother will have a fit if she knows they haven’t been presenting themselves as utter gentlemen.

The door to the hall swings open once more and the clatter of feet slows to a halt, the music dying away. Spencer thinks it’s painfully obvious what an uncultured country town they are, to be so stunned into silence, and then he looks up and thinks, well, they’re not hunchbacks.

It is, perhaps, a testimony to Fortuna’s flightiness that these two young men should be endowed with both wealth and the looks to match: both dark-haired, one with dark-brown eyes, the other one’s of a strange amber shade; both their faces remarkably handsome; both clad impeccably, tailor-made clothes showing off their figures to full advantage. At least the one on the right, not quite as tall as his slender companion, seems to be aware of his extraordinary luck, an easy smile lighting his face as he glances around the room with interest. His companion is quite a different matter.

Spencer nudges Brendon and leans closer, lowering his voice even as conversations and music surge up around them once more. “Seven year olds or not, the left one doesn’t seem to have been paying attention when his mother taught him about appropriate behavior upon entering a room filled with strangers. Scowling darkly at every person in his vicinity certainly isn’t what I’d call appropriate.”

Brendon laughs brightly. “Maybe he’s just uncomfortable,” he suggests.

“Maybe he’s not used to the country life and thinks himself better than anyone else here,” Spencer says. He looks up just in time to find the slender man’s eyes resting on his face for a moment so brief he thinks he might have imagined it.

“Or maybe his friend made him part with a particularly good glass of wine to come here. It would explain why they’re this late.” Brendon sips at his own glass and grimaces at the sour aftertaste. “We both know he’s not likely to find an adequate replacement here.”

Brendon has a point there; Spencer has to give him that much.

*

It’s considerably cooler outside. The air is humid with recent rain, the scent of wet grass easily noticeable as soon as Spencer steps up to the balustrade of the terrace. Brendon is still inside, engaged in another dance, but Spencer supposes he’ll follow soon enough. With another glance back at the brightly lit interior, the faces of the dancers gleaming as much as the chandeliers above their heads, Spencer descends the stairs down into the garden.

He promised not to sneak off, and he’s keeping that promise. He’s merely taking a break, is all.

There’s a bench tucked in against the wall, offering a perfect view of a small fountain surrounded by low hedges. Spencer opens the first two buttons of his too-tight dress shirt and sits down, smiling a little to himself. The garden is not as impressive the one at Netherfield Park, Spencer has to admit, but it’s by no means reason enough for anyone to look down upon the town for holding a ball in a location such as this.

“Spencer?” Brendon’s voice calls softly from above.

Spencer tips his head back to find Brendon leaning over the balustrade, silhouetted against the dark sky. His white shirt provides quite the contrast to the expanse of blue-tinted black. “Down here,” Spencer replies, and Brendon glances down quickly, his smile a flash of brightness.

“Didn’t mother make you promise not to sneak off this time?” he asks, talking even as he descends the stairs two at a time.

“I’m not sneaking off,” Spencer says, his tone dignified. “I just needed some fresh air. The air inside could be cut with a knife, I’m quite sure.”

“Spence. You always claim you need fresh air when you’re inside for longer than a few minutes at a time.” Brendon sinks onto the bench next to him, exhaling in a rush. He’s quiet for a moment, and when he speaks again, a smile shines through his voice. “You missed the great introduction round, by the way. It was quite a display.”

Spencer raises a brow, the gesture lost to the darkness. The next torchlight flickers near the fountain, shadows dancing around it to a faint breeze. “Do tell.”

“I’m sure you won’t be surprised to hear that Sir Beckett had already presented himself at Netherfield yesterday, so he had the pleasure of introducing them today.” Brendon laughs lightly, and Spencer chuckles. Sir William Beckett, while only a few years older than they are, spends part of his time in London, and he tends to miss the brilliance and flourish of the city when in Hertfordshire.

“Have you been introduced, then?” Spencer asks, and he feels only a minor hint of guilt at having missed the event. His mother will have something to say about it later on, he’s sure.

“Yes. In fact, Mr Walker danced his first dance with me.” Brendon sounds both sheepish and faintly pleased with himself.

“I hope Mr Walker isn’t our scowling friend in the pinstriped pants,” Spencer says.

“No, that would be Mr Ross.” Brendon shakes his head, his hair brushing over the collar of his shirt. He’ll need to get a cut soon, Spencer thinks. “He hasn’t been dancing with anyone, as far as I know.”

“I could say I’m surprised, but it would be a lie.” Spencer leans back against the wall. He hopes it won’t leave stains on his shirt, but can’t quite bring himself to really care. “So I take it that Mr Walker isn’t any less pleasant to talk to than he is on the eyes?”

“He’s… quite engaging, yes.” It’s too dark to judge whether the color of Brendon’s cheeks is slightly darker than usual. Spencer knows him well enough to make an educated guess, though.

“Engaging,” he repeats, smirking.

“We only exchanged a few words,” Brendon says quickly, tone a little embarrassed. “And I’m quite sure that despite what everyone thinks, he didn’t come to Hertfordshire to find himself a bride. Or a husband, for that matter. Besides, given his position, he’s probably not even free to choose their gender as he pleases. He’s expected to produce an heir, after all, so he’ll hardly-”

“Oh, please,” Spencer cuts into the flow of Brendon’s words. It’s impolite, he knows, but Brendon tends to lose himself in his own words sometimes, and it’s better to stop him before he gets too far into it. “Adoption is deemed a last resort only by very few families these days, you know?” Spencer is about to add something when the sound of voices from the terrace above interrupts him. He looks up, feeling Brendon do the same.

Mr Walker is outlined against the sky, reclining sideways against the balustrade. Next to him, Mr Ross is gazing out at the garden, holding himself very straight.

“Seriously, Ryan,” Walker says, his tone fond with an edge of exasperation. “Would it hurt you to look as if you’re enjoying yourself at least a little bit?”

Ross lifts his shoulders and shifts his stance. “I’m not the one moving to this place,” he says, “so I’m not the one who has to impress these people. Besides, it rather seems to me as if they’re falling all over themselves to impress us. It wouldn’t do to make it too easy on them, would it?”

“As my best friend, I expect you to be around these people quite a lot, too.” Walker’s grin is visible even from where Spencer and Brendon are encased in shadows. “Besides, I think you’re being rather harsh on them, aren’t you? I wonder why that is.”

“Maybe because you dragged me here by threatening my life?” Ross suggests dryly.

“That’s a shameless exaggeration,” Walker says, and the smile is obvious in his voice. “Also, if I remember correctly, you promised to attend and join me for at least some of the dances.”

“What’s the point in dancing with strangers I’d rather not converse with? I doubt they’ll have anything of importance to say.”

“You’re just saying that to weasel your way out of it. I’m not fooled.” Walker laughs, and it’s a nice laugh, genuine and relaxed. Spencer glances over to find Brendon’s head tilted to the side, listening intently. Not that they should be. Listening, that is. It would be awkward if one of the men above happened to glance down and catch them at it, though Spencer is fairly certain that the bench is well hidden by both the night and its closeness to the wall.

“There is no one here that I’d even want to dance with,” Ross says, his voice low and bored.

“I’ll dance with you,” Walker says. “And once you’ve taken that first step, it won’t be hard to continue, just wait.”

“I’m not holding my breath,” Ross warns.

Walker laughs. “You’re impossible,” he says, but it sounds amused rather than irritated. There might be something like an answering smile curling Ross’s lips, but it’s hard to tell in the darkness. The pair fall silent for a moment and Spencer looks at Brendon again; Brendon meets his eyes and grins, pressing a finger to his lips in a silent warning. Spencer rolls his eyes, and turns back at the sound of Ross’s voice again.

The man is talking in a low drawl, though, and Spencer doesn’t catch what he’s saying. Walker nods and they turn around and go back inside. Spencer looks at Brendon for a moment, both of them silent, and then the corner of Spencer’s mouth twitches.

“Well,” he says. “What a snob.” Brendon bursts into shocked, delighted laughter and they spend about ten minutes saying “I doubt they’ll have anything of importance to say” in rude voices before Brendon finally stands up and drags Spencer back in.

*

Brendon barely gets ten steps in the door before he’s whisked away to dance, and Spencer wavers for a moment, knocked off-balance by Brendon’s sudden disappearance. He scans the room for his family and starts to make his way towards his father, but not before he notices that while Walker is dancing, face bright and smiling with one of the Simpson girls, Ross is standing in the corner of the room. He looks bored, Spencer thinks, and also kind of condescending, and Spencer rolls his eyes.

His mother snags his arm before he can reach his father, and declares, “My dear, I have never had such a time in my life! What wonderful music it is tonight, and doesn’t everyone look beautiful! Mr Walker danced with Brendon twice.”

Spencer laughs, thinks that it’s probably a little sad how the connection makes sense for him, too, and he kisses his mother’s cheek before moving on. His father flags him down from a more sedate part of the room.

“You aren’t avoiding Mother, are you?” Spencer asks, and Mr Smith laughs.

“I find her enthusiasm a little tiring some days,” the man admits readily, and Spencer grins. “And how do you find our new company tonight, Spencer?”

“I haven’t met them yet,” Spencer says truthfully.

“Well, here’s your chance,” Mr Smith says, and Spencer looks up to see Walker and Ross talking together, heads bent close, heading in their direction. The dance must have ended when Spencer wasn’t paying attention, he thinks absently, and then Brendon stumbles into his elbow, grinning and flushed. Mr Smith laughs and walks away, presumably to deal with his wife, who is getting increasingly louder in her gossiping.

“That was fun,” he says. “Come on, dance the next with me, Spence. It’s my favourite.”

“Damn,” a low, pleasant voice says. “I was hoping to claim that pleasure for myself.”

Spencer blinks and looks up to meet Walker’s smiling eyes; he glances over just in time to see Brendon go a most gratifying shade of red. “You can steal him, if you’d like,” Spencer says. “I’ve had my fair share of dances with him over the years.”

“Kind of you,” Walker says and bows a little. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced. I’m Jon Walker.”

“Spencer Smith,” Spencer says, and inclines his head back at him.

Walker smiles and says, “Well, Mr Urie? May I?”

“This is my favourite dance,” Brendon says, grinning. “Are you going to ruin it for me?”

“I’ll do my best not to,” Walker replies earnestly, eyes shining. “Although, I daresay you could dance with an ape and make them look good.”

“You’re a flatterer, Mr Walker,” Brendon says sternly. “I’ll not put up with it.”

Spencer rather suspects Brendon will, though, judging by the bright-eyed, happy look Brendon gives Walker when the latter offers him his arm. They walk onto the floor and Spencer grins a little after them, ducking his head - Brendon is sort of unbearably adorable when he has a crush, and Walker seems rather nice.

He jumps a little when he turns to see Ross standing near him, seemingly at a loss. He’s been abandoned too, Spencer thinks, smiling, and for a moment he looks at Ross and realizes how young the man is, not much older than himself. He also looks strangely unsure and kind of lonely.

Spencer feels a pang of pity and catches Ross’s eyes, smiles at him. “Would you care to dance, Mr Ross?” he asks.

Ross looks back at him, dark eyes unreadable. “Not in the slightest,” he says, and turns and walks away, leaving Spencer gaping after him.

*

Spencer tugs his collar loose while Brendon shrugs out of his shirt and throws it carelessly against their dresser, yawning. “God,” Brendon says, rumpling his hand through his hair and making his shadow, thrown on the wall by the candlelight, look strange at the top. “I’m exhausted.”

“You should be,” Spencer says dryly, pulling on a nightshirt. “Did you sit out on any dances?”

Brendon grins at him. “I’ll dance with anyone,” he says. “I don’t care if they tread on my toes, unlike some.”

“I’ve told Marianne, when she manages not to wobble, then I’ll dance with her. Anyway,” Spencer adds slyly, “You weren’t really dancing with just anyone, were you? I counted at least five with Mr Walker.”

Brendon ducks his head and turns pink. “He’s very nice,” he mumbles, and Spencer laughs, delighted, crawls into bed. Brendon washes his face in a basin and then crawls in after him; they’ve shared a bed since they were tiny, since Brendon’s parents died and Spencer’s family took him in, and they’re not exactly a rich family, so they haven’t bothered to demand separate rooms since they’ve grown older.

Brendon lies quiet for a while and then finally says in a small, timid voice, “He is really nice. Jon.”

“Jon?” Spencer repeats, incredulous, and Brendon giggles a little nervously into his pillow.

“He said Mr Walker makes him feel old, and like his father, and that I should call him Jon. And then I said well, you should call me Brendon, and he said something - something very courtly and noble, but I can’t quite remember what it was, and then we danced for the third - no, fourth - no, no, third time, and he said-”

“Okay,” Spencer says hastily. “I get it. Jon Walker is perhaps the best and most amiable man you have ever had the fortune to meet, and certainly you would be pining over him with a broken heart right this instant if it wasn’t for the fact that he could hardly take his eyes away from you all night-”

“Spencer,” Brendon says, and grins lopsidedly at him. “We’ve only just met. Anyway, his choice in friends seems dubious at best. I can’t believe Ross said that to you!”

“A proud, boring snob,” Spencer declares, “with a stick up his ass,” and Brendon dissolves into laughter again.

Spencer raises himself on one elbow and blows out the candle, and they exchange sleepy goodnights. Brendon falls asleep quickly, curled in on himself with the pillow half-wrapped around his head, but Spencer lies awake for a long time. It’s nice to see Brendon happy, Spencer thinks - Brendon is almost always happy, but tonight he’s practically radiant, and Walker did seem like a gentlemanly, kind sort.

Spencer tries not to but ends up thinking of Walker’s friend anyway, and the dismissive, cold look in his eyes when he had even bothered to look at Spencer. He can’t help but think that he might be feeling a lot more friendly towards Walker if it wasn’t for his unfortunate choice of a best friend, and his last, sleepy thoughts are that he hopes they won’t see too much of each other during Ross’s stay. Spencer might be happy to see Brendon happy, but he’s not sure he can put up with another stab to his pride.

He laughs softly at his own vanity, and then rolls over and goes to sleep, Brendon snoring softly next to him.

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>> Chapter 2