{ almostblue }

almostblue — Mon, 28 Jul 2014 01:14:47 GMT

(Let's be real it's not K-Pop without some motherf***ing glitter amirite)

What's a WIP Amnesty Meme?

A WIP (or Work-In-Progress) Amnesty meme (or post) is designed as a place for authors to publicly post their half-finished works that they know they probably won't finish. Sometimes we all get buried under a pile of wips, and it becomes overwhelming. Dumping everything into a WIP amnesty post can help clear the air and remove a lot self-inflected stress from the writing process, while also letting readers enjoy what you've come up with so far.

So these will never be finished?

That's up to the author. Maybe they'll post a fic they've been stuck on, and you'll come up with the perfect ending! Maybe you can ask nicely, and they'll tell you what happens next in the comments. This isn't anything official; just be careful of the fact that many Big Bang fests/other exchange fests don't allow stories that have been posted anywhere else, and WIP Amnesty posts do count for that.

Is this only for one band/fandom?

Nope! Anything K-Pop goes.

What are the rules?

1. Reply to this post with your subject line formatted like this:

[Fandom] [Pairing] [Rating] [Warnings] [Kinks]

(ex: EXO, Xiuhan, NC-17, no warnings, bdsm)

You must warn for the following things: Rape, Dubious Consent, Underage, Graphic Violence, Character Death . All other warnings, etc are up to your discretion, but PLEASE remember to be respectful of your fellow fans and try to let them know what's in your WIP.

2. Post your WIP into the body of your comment. Use as many comments as you need, and reply to each previous one so they're threaded.

3. If your WIP is too long and/or you don't want to stick it in the comments, feel free to make a post on tumblr or livejournal or dreamwidth or wherever, really, and leave a link here. PLEASE FORMAT THE SUBJECT LINE THE SAME WAY AS ABOVE. Seriously. Being triggered sucks. Let's not do that, yeah? Okay. Cool.

4. Don't start fandom wank or be an asshole! I'm going to moderate the comments, since anonymous posting will be turned on for those who don't have LJ, and I will delete anything rude or inappropriate.

5. Read posts! Enjoy the stories other people have written! Talk to each other! Have a good time!

파이팅!!!

ps and if I forgot your fandom in my random selection of gifs from tumblr feel free to leave more in the comments :D? :D?

almostblue — Thu, 26 Jun 2014 04:25:46 GMT

If you're looking for any past or future fics, all of them are now archived at AO3:

http://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionalaspect (Bandom)

http://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionalaspect/pseuds/almostblue (K-Pop)

Please enjoy! ♥

almostblue — Mon, 27 Jun 2011 08:37:18 GMT

Title: Where We Land
Authors: almostblue and harborshore
Band(s): The Like, Panic! At the Disco, The Young Veins
Pairing(s): Brendon/Z, Ryan/Spencer/Tennessee, Annie/Laena
Word Count: 55,306
Rating/Warnings: NC-17. One scene contains violent imagery and references to the threat of attempted non-con. Some scenes also contain homophobic language and sexualized insults directed at women. There is no actual dub-con or non-con in this fic.

Summary: Ryan and Z are the resident outcasts of their small Midwestern town, best friends who are fiercely protective of themselves and each other. As junior year starts, Z's trying to get her (struggling) band off the ground, and Ryan mostly just wants to be left alone--but everything changes when Brendon Urie transfers to their school. He falls hard and fast for Z once he sees her on stage, ignoring the complications and bringing along his new friends Spencer and Tennessee for the ride. Now both Ryan and Z are faced with figuring out what (and who) they really want, and how far they're willing to step out of their comfort zone to get it.

General Author's Notes: We would like to thank our amazing betas, roga and torakowalski for the hours and hours of work they put into helping us whip this into shape, and also the bandombigbang mods for being amazing and understanding when we ran into RL difficulties along the way. Thanks also to our mixers oh_whoa_oh and takes_serenity and our artist redorchids for our fantastic extras--please take the time to show them some love. Finally,redbrickrose provided some greatly appreciated feedback at just the right time. We love you guys!

Author's Notes from almostblue: Thanks on my end go to egelantier, for never giving up hope that we'd actually finish this; to everyone who told us we were crazy for writing this story, and then proceeded to support and cheer us on anyway; and to harborshore, the most wonderful, talented, and hard-working cowriter I could ever have hoped for. You are an inspiration and a treasure, and I loved every second of writing this story with you ♥

Author's Notes from harborshore: I'd like to echo almostblue and thank everyone who cheered us on in writing this, because we had many moments of, "when will this END" and "holy shit, what are we doing?" and the support was invaluable and wonderful. Also, I want to thank almostblue: writing this story, this thing that started as 17K of accidental commentfic and turned into a whole world, has been incredible and lovely and I couldn't have had anyone better working with me. Your talent, your drive, the way you fell in love with these characters just as much as I did, the way we kept thinking along the same lines--you are a joy, dearest. ♥

1 2 3 4 5 6

Bonus Tracks/Enhanced Content:

Fanart:

Brendon and Z by redorchids

Fanmix(es):

Fanmix by oh_whoa_oh

Fanmix by takes_serenity

UPDATE: This story was podficced for Bandom Big Bang 2012 by misprintify, who did an amazing job! Click here to get the podfic, as well as some more extras for this story :DDDDDD

envyxmalice also made us some fantastic artwork! Click here to see it :DDDD

almostblue — Mon, 27 Jun 2011 08:30:08 GMT

Master Post

"So um, there's this guy," Z says, and Ryan groans into his milk carton.

"I haven't even said anything yet," Z frowns. "I don't even—I don't even know him, really. I just—"

"Wait," Ryan says. "Wait, I know how this one goes." He pulls his hat down over his eyes, and throws his shoulders back, pursing his lips. "He's tall and dark, right? Devastatingly handsome? Rides a motorcycle? Long, flowing hair and deep-soulful eyes?"

"Alex never rode a motorcycle, you know that," Z says. She takes a bite of her sandwich. "I should never have introduced the two of you."

"He wasn't that bad," Ryan admits, letting his shoulders fall back into position. He actually sort of liked Alex Greenwald. More than he liked some of Z's other boyfriends, anyway.

"I wish he hadn't moved freshman year," Z says, sighing. "It was good, you know? The three of us hanging out. I had fun."

"Yeah, I know you had fun," Ryan says, and picks at his salad. He imitates Z's voice, which isn't actually that much higher than his own. "Oh, Ryan, he writes songs. On his guitar. As though you're not twenty times better at it than he is," Ryan continues, dropping back into his normal voice.

"You're sweet," Z says, and ruffles Ryan's hair. "A liar, but you're sweet."

"Hmm," Ryan says, and pushes his hat back into position. "So a new one, huh? I thought you'd sworn off men."

"You know what," Z says. She's peering across the cafeteria with a concerned expression. "Just—just forget I said anything, okay?"

"Okay," Ryan says. He follows Z's line of sight, and grins a little when he sees what she's looking at. The new kid—his name is Brandon, or Bruce, or something—is apologizing profusely to a tall, lanky girl. Her boyfriend, whose name Ryan thinks might be Spencer, is helping what's-his-name clean up the remains of his lunch tray.

Ryan turns to Z and says, "Do you think we should clap? That was an impressive display of grace."

"Don't you dare," Z says. She looks conflicted, as though she's amused but also is holding herself back from saying what she's really thinking. "Brendon's new, Ryan. That's so mean."

"That's half the fun," Ryan says, but he refrains from applause. "That guy is such a klutz," he says, instead. "That's like the second time in a week I've watched him drop something."

"As though you don't walk into walls on a regular basis."

Ryan crosses his arms. "At least I do it with style."

Z rolls her eyes.

—

Elizabeth Berg—Z, to her friends—has been Ryan's best friend since he was six years old. She's funny, and devious, and has an impeccable sense of style, and that is the only reason Ryan isn't currently mocking her mercilessly.

Actually, that's not true. The only thing holding Ryan back is chemistry class: having to keep track of explosive substances can put a damper on anyone's rapier wit, even one as superior as Ryan's. Not that he's going to be deterred for long though, because Z is being absolutely—

"Are you staring at the new kid?" Ryan hisses, and Z's eyes flick over to his a little guiltily. She shakes her head, and focuses on lighting their Bunsen burner. Fine, if she's going to be like that, he's going to have to move on to more pointed needling.

"Z, he's a walking disaster," Ryan stage whispers, eying the back of Brandon-or-Bruce-or-whatever's dark head. He's fiddling with his burner, a confused expression on his face. "He's going to light us all on fire."

"Ryan!" Z says, and drags his cuff away from the flame. Ryan blinks in surprise, and shakes his arm a little. "You're going to light us all on fire," Z says. "I told you. I do all the dangerous parts in this class. You take the notes. We have a system, Ryan. Don't fuck it up."

"I'm not," Ryan protests, and goes back to scribbling notes in his lab notebook. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches as the new kid fails, for the sixth time, to light his burner. He looks down and frowns at it, as though it's failing to work on purpose just to spite him.

"I, um," the new kid says, raising his hand and wincing. "Mr. Torres? I can't quite get it to—"

"Brendon, look, like this," the girl from lunch says, leaning over from her lab station. Ryan blinks. He's not sure, but it sounds like she has an English accent. He wonders how he's never noticed that about her before, but the truth is, Ryan and Z don't really talk to anyone else except for Z's bandmates.

Brendon, that's right, that's what his name is, gets his Bunsen burner lit, with the help of the tall girl with the long blonde hair. She waves the teacher over, and after a quick conference, tugs her lab partner over to Brendon's table. As a mid-year transfer, he'd been all alone at his station.

Z rolls up the sleeves of her lab jacket, pulling her bangles off and setting them aside. "Is Lucite flammable?" she wonders out loud, and then shakes her head. "Anyway. Ryan, you ready? I'm going to add the first reagent. Write down the color, and how long it takes to change."

"Yes, ma'am," Ryan says. "Did you also want a pony?"

"Stop being a dick," Z says. "You're extra bitchy today, you know that right?"

Ryan looks at her for a long moment, and then relents. "Rough night," he mutters, and Z's eyes soften.

"You know you can stay with me," Z says. "I told you, anytime."

"It's fine," Ryan says. He shakes himself a little, and then takes his hat off and places it carefully on the desk, away from the flame. Mr. Torres either didn't care that he was wearing it , or had chosen not to comment; Ryan likes his hat, though, and Z has a point about safety. "Ready when you are."

—

Z drops Ryan off after Chemistry, walking him to his last-period English class. Ryan managed not to light either of them, his hat, or the desk on fire, so Z's calling the lab a success.

"I'll miss you terribly," Z says, batting her eyelashes at him as Ryan slows down in front of the classroom door. "One whole hour, how will I ever survive?" Ryan leans over and flicks her on the nose.

"Ow," Z mumbles, rubbing at her face, "Dammit, you know I hate it when you do that."

"Exactly," Ryan says.

She flicks him off as she heads inside, mouthing, "Later," at him when he waves.

Ms. Calloway's Trigonometry class isn't bad, but it's certainly not Z's favorite thing in the world. It's stuck in one of the old, dusty classrooms near the back of the school, and Ms. Calloway never opens the windows and Z barely knows anyone. She usually tries to get there early, so she can steal one of the desks in the back of the room and tuck herself into the corner.

The...currently occupied back corner.

"Hi?" Brendon says hesitantly and Z absolutely doesn't react. Or blush. Or anything. She can keep her cool.

"Brendon, right?" Z says, thunking her purse down on the desk next to him.

"Oh, I—yeah," Brendon says, grinning at her. "How did you know?"

"Lucky guess," Z says. "Listen. You seem like a nice guy, but I just feel like I should warn you—"

"Warn me?"

"Mmmhmm," Z says. She tilts her head a little, and bats her eyelashes at him, just once. "You're sitting in my chair. So, you know."

"Oh, oh shit," Brendon says, his eyes widening. "I didn't—I'm so sorry. They just transferred me into this class, something about the other one being the wrong class for the transfer credit, I didn't realize—"

Z rolls her eyes, pushing Brendon's hand away from where he's hurriedly gathering his things. "Sit." Z says firmly. "It's fine, for now. Just, you know. Maybe not tomorrow, okay?"

"Sure, of course," Brendon says. "I'm really sorry."

"Mmm," Z says. She pulls her notebook out of her purse, rummaging in the bottom for a pen. Her compact mirror falls out as she's rustling around, and when she picks it up she snaps it open, giving herself a critical look. When no one's looking, she winks at herself and then sticks her tongue out.

"I totally do that," Brendon says softly, as Ms. Calloway's asking everyone to pull out their homework. He's smiling a little.

"Do what?" Z says, playing dumb.

"Make faces at myself," Brendon whispers back. He's tapping the base of his palm on the table, a quick, uncertain beat. "Did you know if you hold your breath long enough, you can make your cheeks inflate? Like, really."

"Wait, what?" Z whispers, grinning. She and Ryan have an ongoing contest to see who can take the most horribly unattractive phone picture; that sounds like a winning strategy.

"Totally," Brendon says, "You just hold your breath, right, for like a minute, and then you—"

"Young man, are you supposed to be in this class?" Ms. Calloway says, confused. Z and Brendon whip their heads up; she's standing next to their desks, pen in hand to check off their homework.

"Oh, sorry, sorry," Brendon mumbles. "I have a slip—I'm a transfer—" He digs around in his backpack until he comes up with a crumpled piece of paper, which he smooths out on the desk and then hands to her.

Ms. Calloway examines the slip, and then tucks it into the top folder in her hand with a sigh. "I'll have to talk to the head of the department," she says, giving both of them a tired look. "Normally we wouldn't be able to transfer your grades over, but. I guess for now—Ms. Berg, would you mind letting Mr. Urie use your notes and textbook? We'll have to order some extras."

Z blinks. "I, um. Sure, I guess?"

"Good," Ms. Calloway, sounding like it's anything but. "Now. The homework assignment?"

"Oh," Z says, flipping her binder open. "Right here. Yeah."

"Thank you," Ms. Calloway nods at Z's homework, checking something off in her gradebook, and moves down the row.

"Is she always like that?" Brendon whispers, looking over his shoulder to make sure Ms. Calloway is out of range. "She's kind of... cranky."

"Pretty much," Z says, pushing her textbook between them so Brendon can see. "Shh, I think she's starting the new chapter."

"Right," Brendon says. "Totally shushing."

—

The thing about Trigonometry class is that Z actually has to pay attention in order to avoid failing. She's okay at math (better than Ryan, though not by much), but it definitely doesn't come naturally to her.

Z sighs and kicks Brendon under the table.

"Ow," Brendon says. "What was that for?"

"Stop jiggling your leg," Z whispers. "You're making the table shake."

"Sorry," Brendon says. He stops for a moment, and Z tries to concentrate on following the proof that Ms. Calloway is outlining on the board. Then he starts up again with the opposite leg. Z huffs her bangs out of her eyes, and then very carefully presses the heel of her shoe into Brendon's left foot.

"Can I ask you something?" Brendon says softly.

"Sure," Z says. "Unless you're about to ask me to take my foot away."

"That would be nice," Brendon says.

"Tough luck," Z says.

"No, seriously," Brendon says, after a moment where Z can feel his muscles straining to move. "I actually had a question, sorry—"

Z looks pleadingly at the ceiling, and then gives up on paying attention. If she's really desperate, maybe she can ask Ryan for his notes. Maybe. (Probably not; Ryan's notes from Mr. Durkheim's section are usually a mess, because Mr. Durkheim can't explain linearly and Ryan can't take legible notes.) "Okay," Z says, bending her head closer. "What's the question?"

"They said they're having a talent show," Brendon says quietly. "Like, this weekend or something. Is that like—is that cool here?"

"Uh," Z says. "What?"

"At my old school," Brendon says, by way of explanation. "Some places, you know, it's not a big deal? People go, and whatever. And then some schools, like my old one, it's like, the kiss of death. I figured, you're cool, you could probably fill me in."

Z blinks, and decides to ignore the fact that Brendon just called her cool. He's new around here. It doesn't really count. "Oh," Z says. "Oh, no, I mean—yeah. It's not a big deal. People definitely go. My band's playing."

"You have a band?" Brendon breathes, his eyes lighting up.

"Ms. Berg," Ms. Calloway says firmly. "Less chatter, please."

"Sorry," Z says. She turns back to her notes, only to watch as Brendon carefully pencils a note onto the top corner of her paper.

what kind of music?

Z thinks about it for a moment, and then writes, all-girl band. retro. good stuff.

what do you play?

singer. lead guitar. Z glances over at Brendon, who is attempting to catch up with the example on the board. She bites her lip and then adds, lyrics.

do you have a myspace?

Z snorts. She pencils back in, wouldn't you like to know?

oh, come on.

come to the talent show, if you really want to hear us.

i do, Brendon writes. He looks at Z for a minute, and then writes, one more question?

okay

what's your name?

Z grins to herself, just a little.

Elizabeth, she writes back, not even caring about how messy her notes are going to look. Call me Z.

—

Z is actually scared shitless about the talent show.

It's not like they haven't played live before, but they're missing a drummer now and this isn't, this isn't the open mic nights where people don't care if there's a nasty rumor going around about you from last weekend, and where the fact that you don't have any fucking friends outside your band and your goofball of a best friend won't actually make people condemn your music before you start to sing.

It's possible the aforementioned nervousness is the reason she snaps at Annie. She feels bad immediately when Annie blinks at her, looking a little hurt and a lot confused. Z really has to learn to remember that not everyone can distinguish between her being nervous and her being legitimately angry.

"Shit, sorry," Z says, reaching out and touching Annie's shoulder. "I'm just, you know."

"I do know," Annie says. "It's not as if I don't go to our school." She's picking at the hem of her dress. Z sighs.

"No, true. I just, the songs." It's the thought of playing them in public when she's scared of what the students watching them will read into the lyrics (who knows what the fuckheads in her grade will think about "Release Me"). And there's also the risk of teachers. Teachers trying to interpret creative works of students are always—Z's gotten sent to the counselor more than once by concerned English teachers, as has Ryan, and it always sucks.

Mostly it's the other students, though.

Laena hums behind them and plucks at her bass. It's a shitty one; her electric's okay, it's newer, but they're saving up to get her an acoustic one that doesn't need to be retuned after an hour's use.

"We're all nervous," she says mildly. "But at least we can run through the songs again."

"Okay, yeah." Z shakes her head and picks up her guitar. They usually warm up with some acoustic stuff; Z knows they should be more conscientious about actual warmups (especially her, what with having to sing), but they're just so boring. She can sing scales, sure, but when she's in their practice room she'd much rather sing for real, sing and dance around with the guitar and—well. Warmups are boring. Basically.

She counts them in, Annie turning on the drum machine in her keyboard (which fucking kills Z every time, okay, because drums on a keyboard are not the same), and then they're off.

It's an okay practice, all things considered. The drum machine keeps fucking them over though; it's not just how tinny it sounds, it's that there's no stretch in the songs this way, no way to push and pull. In the middle of "Wishing He Was Dead" she has to turn around to prevent herself from yelling into the microphone in sheer irritation when it just does. Not. Work.

"We need a drummer," Laena says tiredly, after the last note dies away.

Abruptly, it's like the air goes out of Z's lungs. "We do," she agrees. "Fuck, guys, what if it'll all fall flat without one?"

"We've done it before," Annie reminds them both. Z thinks—a little meanly—that Annie's more used to the drum machine than they are because she's a keyboardist. Maybe she doesn't even mind how it sounds. Except she knows that's ridiculous, fuck. Fuck.

"Well, we don't have a drummer," she says, "so it doesn't really matter that it fucking blows to be playing without one."

"We could try holding auditions again?" Laena says halfheartedly, but both Annie and Z shake their heads at her.

"Remember last time?" Annie's frowning when she says it, looking down at her keyboard. Laena looks confused.

"The fucking wrestling team showed up," Z bites off, and of course Laena knows this story, they've told her before. They'd spent three hours cleaning up after.

Laena shakes her head. "Let's do the song one more time, then," she says, and Z counts them in.

It's marginally better this time. Marginally.

—

Afterwards, Z manages to not run through all their respective fuck-ups in great detail out loud and offers to make smoothies instead, an offer Laena vetoes because Z is actually a disaster in the kitchen.

"How about you let the professionals handle this one, huh?" she says, but the way she grins while saying it makes it not sting at all. Z likes Laena, she thinks. She hasn't known her for that long, she doesn't go to Z and Ryan's school, but the past month and a half of getting used to each others' style has been like coming home. She owes Annie big time for finding her, Z knows that.

Annie, oh man. She grabs her smoothie and plops down on the couch with none of the easy grace she has behind the piano—she's pretty tall, right, and it's like she hasn't grown into it yet or something. She jokes about it: "Annie Monroe, tripping over her own feet again, courtesy of the dark curse in locker room 39," but Z knows she's a bit embarrassed by her height, and by how clumsy she became when she started growing.

Speaking of clumsy. "Hey, how's your knee?" The other day, Annie tripped on her way home from school while on the phone with Z, and hung up after saying something about Starbucks and Laena, so Z cleverly deduced that Annie was close to Laena's work and would go there to get patched up.

Annie shrugs. "It's fine, nothing a band-aid didn't take care of. Laena had Smurf band-aids and gave me some so I didn't have to bleed through my jeans."

"Smurfs?" Z snickers a little, but Annie beams and pulls up her pants leg. Sure enough, there are Smurfs on her band-aid.

"I like them," Laena says, a little defensively.

"I do too," Annie says. "It'll heal much faster, I'm sure of it. Power of Blue and everything."

Gosh, they're adorable. Z's band, seriously. She doesn't really know how to interact with them when they're not talking about music, but at least they're nice. They're also really good, thank fuck, or she would be bailing on this talent show idiocy so hard.

—

She remembers why she wanted to do the talent show (to show them) when she rounds a corner after Trigonometry the next day; she'd stayed late talking to Brendon and is consequently rushing to make her last class on time. It means she's missed her customary rendez-vous with Ryan at the bottom of the East staircase, and when she gets there, he's backed into the railing by that asshole who wrecked their practice room, fuck, she's forgotten his name but it's not like he matters, what he's saying to Ryan matters, him and his little cohorts, goddammit, this is why they never go anywhere alone if they can help it—

Without even thinking about it, she slams through them and ends up at Ryan's side, chin up and fists clenched.

"Fuck off," Steve, that's his name, "Steve," she says pleasantly. "Fuck off, and take your inbred loser asshole friends with you."

The moron grins. "Aww, his girlfriend is defending him, how sweet." There are a couple of catcalls from one or two of the other assholes. Faggot, queers, slut, nothing they haven't heard before.

Ryan shifts next to her. "You really ought to pick your slurs," he drawls. "If I'm a faggot, she can't be my girlfriend, can she?"

Steve has to think really hard about that one, but one of his friends come to his rescue. "Oh, but she's such a slut, she'd sleep with anything, even with you—" and Z has to hit him for that one, but he dodges and she misses, and then there's a familiar voice cutting through the crowd, thank fuck, shit.

"Gentlemen, why don't you break it up? I'm sure you're late for—whatever it is you're taking these days, I can't say I really care—and you ought to get to it, don't you?" Mr. Cleary, their ancient Physics teacher is picking his way through the crowd, followed by the Girl Most Likely To Be This Year's Valedictorian, but Z can't remember her name. She nods at them both as she passes, and Mr. Cleary thanks her for letting him know about the disturbance, and Z's just—she's just done. She can't depend on fucking Good Samaritan Valedictorians to save her. To keep Ryan safe.

"Come on," she tells Ryan. "We have class." Shoulder to shoulder, they walk through the halls. Like they always do. They're safer together, after all. And she's going to do the fucking talent show because, because—not that it'll make them understand, but because she wants to be all that she is, just for a little while, where they can see it and they can hate her for it because they're never going to be that good.

Of course, this means the songs have to be perfect by then.

—

It's Friday afternoon and Z is perhaps a little stressed out, Ryan thinks. Perhaps. Just maybe.

"Ryan Ross," Z hisses, hoisting her guitar case over her shoulder, "I swear to god, if you drop that—"

"It's fine," Ryan mutters, tightening his arms around the amp. He loves Z, he really does, and he understands why she's so obsessive about her equipment, but the fact remains that Ryan has carried it for her at every single show and only dropped it, like, twice. He's practically blameless.

"Give that to Annie," Z says, frowning. "You can carry my mic stand." Ryan rolls his eyes and heads inside, grimacing a little as he misjudges the size of the doorframe and bangs his elbow. "Ow," Ryan says, slightly petulant. "That hurt." The hallway doesn't respond.

The school has its own sound system and speakers, but Z's picky about her set-up, and Ryan doesn't blame her. He shimmies through the double-doors of the theater backwards, and then lugs the amp to the bottom of the stage. Z's already double-checking wires and testing her pedals. They're going on first, so their equipment can be cleared before the drama kids in the second act need the full run of the stage.

"Shit," Z mutters, twisting a knob on her pedal with a frown. "Shit, I don't have time for this—"

"Z. Z," Ryan says, patiently, and continues to repeat himself until she looks up. "Elizabeth."

"What?" Z snaps. Underneath the irritability, Ryan can see how scared she is.

"I'm only going to say this once," Ryan says. He's standing on the lip in the orchestra pit, and Z's kneeling, so they're exactly eye-to-eye. "You're going to be awesome, stop freaking out, let Laena worry about the pedals, and go drink some water."

"I—what?" Z says, her face softening.

"Also, you forgot your purse in the car," Ryan says.

"Wow, I was just starting to like you," Z mutters, but she's smiling a little. "Go get it, dipshit. Get out of here before you break something."

"I have the same guitar pedal," Ryan points out, but he pockets the keys Z tosses to him and heads back out to the car to move it to the front parking lot.

There's already a fair amount of people milling around the front of the building, parents and kids and even a few people from the local paper. Ryan pulls into a spot way down at the end, grabs Z's purse, and ducks his head as he walks quickly to the door. He really doesn't feel like talking to anyone. His strategy is totally working, until he hears footsteps behind him and a hand on his arm.

"Um, hey," a voice says, nervously, and Ryan spins around. It's that weird kid Brendon again, the one Z had told him not to make fun of, the one she'd stared at in Chemistry because—whatever. Ryan stares at Brendon for a moment, trying to figure out how to respond, and then he gives up, going for his default of hauteur and says, "Do I know you?"

"Uh, not really," Brendon says. He's bouncing a little on the soles of his sneakers. His t-shirt is a faded yellow; it says Lake Missamee Bible Day Camp across the front.

Ryan raises an eyebrow. "Okay," he says. "Uh. In that case—" He starts turning away. Seriously, why is this kid even talking to him?

"Wait," Brendon says. "Wait, okay, you're friends with Z, right?"

Oh. That's why. "Maybe," Ryan says, noncommittal.

"I just," Brendon says. "Tell her I said good luck, okay? It's—my name's Brendon. Tell her Brendon said to break a leg."

"Right," Ryan says. He's not sure what to do with someone who seems so earnest; he's trying to figure out whether Brendon has an ulterior motive, but he really does just sound like he wants to wish Z good luck. Which, wait. Clearly the two of them have talked, and why hasn't Z told Ryan about that? Huh.

"Thanks," Brendon says, and shoves his hands in his pockets. Ryan nods, still trying to figure out when Brendon and Z got acquainted, and turns to head back inside. They're starting to set up the ticket booth, so Ryan waits until Ms. Calloway's back is turned and then sneaks through the doors. He's totally with the band, okay.

He finds Z and Laena and Annie in the wings, sitting on a dusty box of god-knows-what. Z's drinking from a bottle of water and tapping her heels impatiently.

"Finally," Z says, and holds out a hand for her purse.

"Sorry," Ryan says. "I got held up by your fan club."

"I just, I just want to get this over with," Z says, rubbing distractedly at her temple. "God, I hope we stay on tempo, we—wait, what?"

"Some kid named Brendon," Ryan says, sitting down cross-legged on the floor. "You know, the weird one that I'm not allowed to make fun of? He told me to tell you good luck." He's watching Z carefully for a reaction—ha. Her eyes totally widen a bit and she's smiling.

Laena snorts. "Yeah, okay," she says. "Z, I think what he means is 'Hi, let's have sex.'"

"That is not what he means," Z says. She's blushing, just a little. Ryan ruthlessly clamps down on his internal snickering, because he's a good friend and won't mock his best friend right before she goes on stage. "Brendon's just nice."

... maybe he'll do some mocking. Come on, how could you not respond to that?

"Yeah, he probably doesn't want to sleep with you," Ryan agrees casually. "His t-shirt said something about bible camp. Oh, hey," Ryan says, poking Z in the knee and giving Z an earnest, wide-eyed look. "Maybe you guys can hold hands and talk about Jesus!"

Z gives him a dark look. "You're not as funny as you think you are," she says.

"No, I definitely am," Ryan says. There's a commotion somewhere behind him, and then the voice of the stage manager informing everyone that the show is starting in twenty. Ryan stands up, brushing himself off. He bends over and kisses Z on the cheek, and Z leans into him for a moment. Her false eyelashes brush his cheekbones. "So awesome," Ryan says, quieter, and Z smiles at him. Then she sticks her tongue out. "Get out," she says, making a shooing motion. "Performers only, you freeloader."

"See if I help you load up," Ryan says. He catches a few of the stagehands staring at them, but he shrugs it off. Everyone thinks he and Z are dating, and at one point, Ryan knows there was a rumor that they were actually brother and sister caught in an incestuous love affair. It would probably be easier if they were dating, to be honest. It's hard to explain their relationship to other people, so most of the time they don't even try.

Ryan sneaks into the crowd and finds a seat by the left side of the stage, close to the front but not so close he'll end up deaf. He waits as the MC introduces the show from the orchestra pit; he can see Z and Laena and Annie up there, shadowed and standing very still. There's a tense moment where the stagehand doesn't get the spotlight quite right, but then all of a sudden the stage lights up all at once and Z's strumming the intro to "He's Not a Boy" and Ryan can feel a grin break out on his face. There's an excited murmur from the crowd when they break into the chorus, and Z's smiling coyly and shaking her hips, and it's just. It's awesome. Ryan suppresses the completely uncharacteristic urge to cheer.

"Release Me" is a little shakier; the drum machine's a little off, and so are Annie's handclaps. The crowd falters for a moment, and then the song ends with a screech of feedback. People are turning to each other and whispering and Ryan shakes his head in frustration. Z's just too damn cool for Summerlin; they'll never understand.

They get the feedback under control and Z shrugs, leaning into the microphone. "Hey," she says, her throaty voice ringing out in the quiet. "Thanks guys. We're The Like, and this last one's called 'Wishing You Were Dead.'" Ryan snorts. Subtle, Z.

They get a reasonable amount of applause after they've finished. Laena and Annie lean into their microphones and thank the organizers for letting them play; the curtains sweep closed.

Ryan settles back into his chair to suffer through the rest of the acts.

—

After the show is over, Ryan's standing in the hallway, winding the cable as slowly as he possibly can. It's not that he enjoys eavesdropping, which—okay, that's a lie, Ryan totally enjoys eavesdropping. The point is, this is priceless and Ryan needs an excuse to continue watching Brendon-the-Jesus-Kid flail all over Z's every move.

"Seriously," Brendon says, leaning over to where Z is carefully packing her guitar away in its case. "That was—holy shit, Z. Do you guys have any more songs? You were amazing."

"Yes," Z says, and pretends to take extra care removing her guitar strap and winding it up before tucking it in the case. "A few more, yeah."

"Do you guys have a demo?" Brendon presses, "You should—I'm telling you, you could be famous! I mean—I thought it would be good, you know, I'm not trying to say that I didn't think that—"

"Right," Z says. Brendon's talking a mile a minute. She looks like she's trying desperately to keep a straight face.

"—but seriously, your lyrics, and that bass line on the third one, and your voice—did you take voice lessons? You did, right?" Ryan snickers to himself. He looks around, and then drops the cable. It tangles when it hits the floor. "Ooops," Ryan says, over-loud. "Oh well."

"I didn't—no," Z says. She clicks the locks on her guitar case, and then stands it up against the wall. There's people milling around in the corridor, even though it's been marked as "backstage." "I just, uh, sing." She's looking at Brendon with a confused expression. "Do you think I should?"

"No," Brendon says. "I mean—yes, everyone can use some help with technique, but I don't even think you need it, you were perfect the whole time up there—"

"Brendon?" someone says, right next to Ryan's ear. He jumps, and turns to face them. It's the tall girl, and her boyfriend, the one with the strange name and possibly an English accent.

Brendon ignores her, still chattering away at Z, who moves to grab her guitar and a mic stand, and Brendon leans over and picks up the amp, like he's going to follow her out to the car. Ryan holds his breath. There is no way Z's going to let him do that. Is she? Behind them Ryan sees Laena and Annie, heads close together, hands touching slightly.

"Uh, Brendon?" the guy next to Ryan says uselessly.

"Oh, hey guys," Brendon says, turning to give them a quick flash of a smile and then turning back to Z just as quickly. "Anyway—I'm telling you, it's like a suspended G chord, I really think—"

"Oh my god," Ryan says, without considering who is listening. Z's walking off, smiling to herself, and Brendon's following her, carrying the amp. Ryan can't believe it. Z doesn't let anyone but Laena or him (and only very grudgingly, with him) touch her equipment. "She's never—this is bizarre."

The girl standing next to Ryan leans in, giving him a conspiratorial look. "I suspect we've been abandoned," she says. She looks like she's trying not to laugh. "Shall we follow them out?"

"I—okay," Ryan says, blinking a little. He pauses, because they seem so familiar; he can't remember that last time someone at school just came up to him and started a conversation. He knows he's seen them around, but this girl is treating him like they've been friends for years. "Have we met?"

"I'm Tennessee," the girl says. Her eyes crinkle when she smiles. "And this is Spencer, we're in your Chemistry class and you're Ryan Ross, and hurry, we're missing the show." She takes off down the hallway, and Spencer turns to Ryan and shrugs. "When the lady commands..." he says, smiling a little at Ryan.

"Right," Ryan says uselessly. He's never seen Spencer up close before. He has really pretty eyes. And a nice smile, and—

And a really pretty girlfriend, hello.

Ryan shakes his head. "We should," he says, and starts walking, cable still clutched in his hand. Spencer nods, shoving his hands into his pockets and falling into step besides Ryan.

"So," Spencer says, when they're almost to the door that leads out. "That was really good. Z's band, I mean."

"Of course they were," Ryan says automatically. "What, you thought they would suck?"

"Uh," Spencer says. "No? I just meant, it wasn't just good for a high school talent show. They've got some serious talent going on there. They should start putting together a demo."

Ryan nods, his ruffled feathers slightly soothed. "They should," Ryan says. "They want to. But they need to find a drummer."

"Really?" Spencer says, pushing open the door. "Because—"

"Gentlemen," Tennessee says, poking her head through the opening. "Follow me. No loud noises or sudden movements, please."

Ryan raises an eyebrow. "What, are we stalking the wild Brendon in his natural habitat?"

"Exactly," Tennessee says, and grabs Ryan's hand, pulling him through the opening. Ryan swallows. Tennessee's nails, he notices, are short and carefully trimmed. She has long fingers, smudged with dirt. Ryan wonders how that happened.

They end up behind the dumpsters. Ryan winces a little as he kneels down. He really likes these pants, and god knows what's back here. "This is stupid," Ryan whispers. "There's no way she didn't see us. Z is never going to let me live this down."

"Actually, no." Tennessee says. "This is quite fascinating. Look at that body language." She's peering around the side of the dumpster to where Brendon and Z are standing next to Z's car.

"Let me see," Ryan says, immediately. Tennessee nods, and pulls him in. She smells really good, and Ryan breathes in deep before he realizes that's kind of creepy.

"Wow," Ryan says, eventually, after watching Brendon and Z for a minute or two. "Wow."

"That's some pretty epic hip-tilting," Spencer agrees. "I'm pretty sure he just drew a heart in the dirt with his toe. By accident."

"It's a very malformed heart, but I think you're right," Tennessee says, grinning. "Aren't they adorable?"

"Like a pair of kittens," Ryan says. After considering them for a little bit, seeing all the things Z is biting back in the set of her shoulders and the way she's smiling every time Ryan catches a look at her face, he adds, "Who obviously can't communicate very well. They look like they should be holding hands and having smoothies and yet they're probably still talking about that suspended G chord."

"Oh dear," Tennessee murmurs.

"Brendon's been talking about how Z is out of his league for days," Spencer says morosely.

Ryan chews on his lip a little bit. "Maybe," he says. After all, Z is. He might be nice and all, and Z might be currently smiling at him, but still. Definitely way below her usual standards. He doesn't know how to explain how fucking bizarre this is.

Tennessee elbows Spencer in the side. "Did you see that?" she says. "Brendon just—"

Spencer groans. "He's practically glowing, Jesus. This is going to—"

"Backfire?" Ryan says, before he can think better of it. Both of them turn to look at him. He shrugs. "What?" Ryan says. "We were all thinking it."

"I was hoping it wouldn't," Tennessee says, softly. "He's really into her."

"Hmm," Ryan says. He squints at the scene in front of them again. Communication-impaired kittens, Ryan thinks, watching Brendon shove his hands in his pockets and grin widely at Z, still talking a mile a minute. Z has that smile on her face, the one where she's trying really hard not to bust out with a huge, dorky laugh. "It might work," he says reluctantly. It's been a long time since he's seen Z look like that. It doesn't mean he's not going to mock her relentlessly once they get in the car, but it can't hurt to give her new paramour's friends some ammunition. Ammunition of looove, Ryan thinks, smirking, and then shakes his head. "She's—he's not her usual type at all, but yeah."

"Hm," Tennessee says, looking interested. "Then I'm certain something can be done. But now I think it is time to go home, right, Spencer?"

Spencer checks his phone. "Ah, shit, yes." With that, they both walk out from behind the dumpster, Tennessee turning to smile at Ryan over her shoulder. Ryan stares after them for a moment, wondering if he's just screwed up royally. Did he tell them too much? Will they hurt Z with what he gave them? Ryan hates not knowing the consequences of his actions. Spencer winks at Ryan as they herd Brendon away, but Ryan still waits until they're out of view before sauntering out.

"What's the verdict?" he says.

"What?" Z says. She's watching Brendon walk off with Spencer and Tennessee.

"Your fan club from Bible Camp," Ryan says. "Did he like the show?"

"Oh—yes, yes he did," she says, smiling a little. "Brendon's nice."

"Mmmm," Ryan says. "Totally nice."

They get into Z's car, Z slapping him away when he tries to load the amp into the trunk. When they've sat down, Ryan turns to her. "By the way, this is me not mentioning the fact that you let him carry your shit." He pauses. "Nah, scratch that. Elizabeth Berg, since when do you let boys carry your equipment? Boys that aren't me, I mean, and yeah, I did notice the way you didn't yell at him at all, I feel so loved—"

"Shut up," she says, starting her car.

"I mean, is it just that you've never met anyone manly enough to trust before? Because sure, I can see it, those red glasses and those hips—"

Z rummages around in the back seat and ends up with a paper bag and an empty soda can. She pauses, considering, and then throws both of them at Ryan's head.

"Ow," Ryan mutters, slapping her on the shoulder. "That hurt, fucker."

"It was just a taste," Z says, turning to look over her shoulder as she pulls out of their parking space. "Just a taste of the world of pain you're in for, if you don't learn your lesson and shut up." She tries to inject some steel into her tone, but she just ends up sounding breathless.

"It's been twelve years," Ryan says, reaching down to rescue the abused soda can from Z's front seat. He tosses it in the back and then looks over at Z. "I haven't learned yet."

"I know," Z murmurs, shaking her head. She looks like she's trying hard not to laugh. "God help me, Ryan Ross, I know."

—

"He's really nice," Spencer says thoughtfully, staring out through the windshield into the empty parking lot where they pulled in after dropping Brendon off. "They're both really nice. I don't get it."

"People are stupid," Tennessee says firmly. Her lips are pressed together in a thin line. "You know that."

"Yeah," Spencer says, shaking his head slightly to clear it. He knows it as well as anyone else, but it just seems—sad, somehow. He knows Ryan and Z stay out of everyone's way for a reason. It's still kind of astonishing that Ryan had spoken to them at all, but Spencer's pretty sure Tennessee had just shocked him into submission. She does that to people.

"We should talk about this later," Tennessee says thoughtfully. "Because. Well. I feel I should point out that we don't have curfew tonight because of the show, and, I don't know if you noticed, but I'm wearing a skirt."

"Huh?" Spencer says, turning to face her.

"A skirt," Tennessee says, biting her lip and smiling a little and oh, Spencer knows that smile. "I'm wearing one."

"That you are," Spencer says, feeling himself start to smile back. "It's a nice skirt."

"I thought so," Tennessee says, climbing carefully over the center console and settling herself on Spencer's lap. "I'm also not wearing any underwear."

"Oh," Spencer says faintly, sliding his hand up her thigh. "Wow. Okay. Yes. Yes you aren't."

Tennessee hums happily into his mouth when he moves his hand higher. He can't help but think of her sitting next to him at the show, not letting on for a second that she wasn't wearing anything under her skirt; fuck, he could have slid his hand up her leg then, when the lights were turned down for the first act, and maybe she would have parted her legs a little and he could have touched—

He bites down on her lip at that, because shit, shit. She grins like she knows what he's thinking. She needs to stop that. She also really needs to stop using his thing for public sex against him.

"You really need to stop using my thing for, um, you know, against me," he mumbles, kissing along the line of her jaw.

"Oh, your thing for public sex?" she says airily, spreading her legs a little more. Fuck, she's wet.

"Shouldn't that be 'our thing'?" he asks, skirting his thumb over her clit and shivering when she moans.

"I don't, I'm not certain that is entirely fair," she says breathlessly, squirming into his hands. "I have a thing for you and I'm fond of this car, but I wouldn't, ah, I wouldn't say I have a thing for public sex, not precisely."

He means to respond to that, but she picks that moment to squirm around some more, get his pants open, and then put her hands on him, and there just aren't any words that can—"Tenn," he says, hips jerking. "Fuck, I—"

"That was the general idea, yes," and she sounds even more breathless now. Oh. Oh.

"You want me to, oh, fuck."

"I do, as a matter of fact," she says, which, she's seriously too coherent right now. He'd try to change that but he can't really think because, shit, the way she's touching him.

His breath catches when she adds a twist and Spencer honestly thinks he could probably come in about 1.5 seconds without much of an effort, so he manages to get his free hand up to halt hers. "I can't, I'm going to, I'll come if you, pretty much if you do anything, at this point."

"Sorry," she says, not sounding sorry at all, but she does move her hands, so she must be serious about wanting, like.

"What even am I going to do with you," he says, which makes no sense, but she seems to get it because she smiles softly and he can take advantage of her slowing down to lean in and mouth at her cloth-covered breast.

"Ah," she says, a hand coming up to clench in his hair, "Ah, oh, yes, keep doing that—"

He grins internally and scrapes his teeth over her nipple.

"Shit, Spencer," she says, pulling harder at his hair, and he has to take a moment to breathe because that, yes. Fuck.

"We should," he says, "if you're, we should, because I can't—" He manages to slip two fingers back, just to see, and she opens like, like, fuck, they really have to do this now or he's not going to be able to hold on at all. He probably won't anyway, but wow.

She's nodding even before he finishes speaking. "Yes, yes we should, yes."

Dealing with the condom is as hilarious as always—Tennessee overbalances at one point and hits her elbow on the window of the car, and Spencer can't move much to help because then he'll knock her into the steering wheel. At one point they're giggling pretty hard, mouths close together, but then, when they've figured it out and she's sliding down on him—

"I can't, Tenn, fuck," he says, whispers really, and he has to strain to keep his eyes open because he wants to keep watching her like this, arching into his hands.

"I know," she says, bending down to kiss him and shuddering when he moves, "I know, Spencer, I know."

"Love you," he murmurs into her mouth.

"I know that as well," she manages, and then she's tightening around him, pressing his hand tighter against her clit, and he comes when she does, tumbling over the edge and buring his face in her hair.

They're fairly quiet, after. He's stroking her hair and thinking about how he sort of never wants to let her go when she twists around and looks at him. "Let's go into town on Saturday," she says. "I want to see if that book I ordered came in."

"The new edition of The Drummer's Bible?" Spencer wants to look at that as well, but—"Can we go look at shoes, too?"

She snickers. "Yes, Spencer Smith, we can go and look at shoes."

—

Saturday dawns bright and too fucking early for Z's taste. She opens her eyes and then rolls over, smooshing her face into her pillow. She checks her cell phone—9:36 am, sweet—and is thinking pleased, glorious thoughts about going back to sleep when Ryan opens her door.

"Fuck off," Z says, as soon as she's identified his long silhouette. She pulls the covers up over her head, and for a moment, her world is blessedly warm and dark and quiet. Then Ryan sits on her and ruins everything.

"Get up," Ryan says, poking and wigging his fingers under the covers until Z has to tug them away so she can breathe through the giggles. "We're going shopping. You said so."

"I said maybe," Z complains, trying to kick her knees up and shake Ryan off. He may be skinny, but he's also persistent, and capable of clinging doggedly when he doesn't want to be moved. "Any plans made on a Saturday that involve the word 'maybe' never happens before noon."

"I took Dad's car," Ryan says, holding up his hand so Z can see the keys swinging from his forefinger. "Come on. Let's go to the diner and have Roberta make us breakfast."

"Ungffh," Z says, still cranky. Her stomach growls. "Wait, did you say breakfast?"

"Fake bacon," Ryan says, backing away slowly as Z sits up. He's grinning at her widely and drawing a finger down his cheek, which must mean her eye makeup is all smudged again. Z really needs to remember to take that shit off before she goes to sleep. "Lots of fake bacon and pancakes and hot coffee. Also, you look like an evil panda."

"Do not," Z says, yawning. "Raccoon, maybe."

"Evil raccoon," Ryan says. "Actually, yeah. Raccoons are totally evil."

"I don't understand you," Z says, pushing the covers back and sliding her legs out. She's just wearing an old t-shirt and underwear, but—well, it's Ryan. She knows he doesn't care.

"I don't understand evil raccoons," Ryan says. "Seriously, hurry up, I'm starving. Get dressed."

"Yeah, yeah," Z mutters, scrabbling around on her floor for something that looks interesting. It's a red kind of day, she thinks, glancing out the window. Red and maybe blue, and—oh, hey, there are those light-blue platforms.

"No platforms," Ryan says, without looking up. He's texting someone on his phone, which is weird enough that Z pauses for a moment. "We're going to be walking all day. No platforms."

"I always wear platforms," Z says, frowning at the pair in her hand. "Where have you been for the last six years? I'm good at walking in them. Style is everything, Ryan."

"I'm not saying don't wear them ever," Ryan says, flipping his phone shut and tucking it into his pocket. "I just think—no, see, those shoes totally go better." He pokes a pair out of an enormous pile with his toe.

"Hmmm," Z says, peering down at her t-strap mary janes. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Ryan says. "Plus, you clomp in those other ones. It interferes with my shopping zen."

"Ooooh," Z says, enlightened. That makes sense. The Shopping Zen is not to be fucked with. "Why didn't you tell me? I totally get that."

Ryan shrugs, looking away. "You ready? I'm starving."

--

"Come on, Z," Ryan says. "let's go." Z fingers the soft wool of the hat she's holding one more time, and then places it regretfully back on the shelf. Ryan's whining again, so it must mean it's time for lunch. It never fails—Ryan's metabolism runs like clockwork, and he has to eat every three hours or he gets cranky. It would be sweet, if it wasn't so damn annoying. Z's still pretty full from breakfast, but Ryan has hollow legs. "Technically we do have all day," Z says airily, trying to get a rise out of him.

"You know what I mean," Ryan says, glaring at her. He's rapidly progressed to sulking; if Z didn't know just how bad it can get, she'd consider dragging this out a little longer. She might be a bad person for it, but making Ryan Ross lose his trademark cool will never not be funny.

"Fine, fine, let's go eat," she says, paying for the scarf she found that will work perfectly with the new dress Laena bought the other day. Ryan needles them about their tendency to coordinate their outfits a little, but Z stopped listening to Ryan's style advice years ago, even before he decided paisley was the new black, which, no. Black is always the new black, and Ryan's wrong about their stage clothes. It works for them, makes them look aloof and effortlessly cool, especially now that Annie's learned not to trip over every wire up there.

They decide on The Green Cauldron. On their way down Main Street, Ryan stumbles, which sometimes happens, but he also blushes, which he almost never does.

"You okay?" she asks with some consternation, and he just shakes his head and keeps walking. Z cranes her neck around to look and see what could have caused the reaction, but all she sees is some guy kissing his girlfriend, and she doesn't think that's what Ryan could have been looking at. It's not like they're being gropey or anything, it barely qualifies as a PDA. Maybe Ryan got a look at his own feet, that would explain the tripping. Z actually thinks his new shoes are awesome, but the color combination could be startling if one had forgotten one was wearing them, maybe.

When they get to the cafe, they're about thirty seconds too late to get the tiny table in the corner where they usually sit, so they end up at a bigger one, Ryan fending off a couple of potential sharers with a glare.

Z's happy to give him that job, he always manages to keep people away from their space, which is why she's so surprised when he looks up at the next two people coming over and says, "Sure, yeah."

It's the couple from the street, and she raises an eyebrow at Ryan who determinedly ignores her.

"Z, this is Tennessee and Spencer," he says, and he's smiling, what the fuck. Who are these people? They do look sort of familiar.

"They're in Chemistry with us," Ryan says, and oh, right, these are the people who prevented Brendon from setting fire to his workstation, and who left with him yesterday. They don't look too horrible, Z supposes. She likes the dress Tennessee is wearing, even if that is a deeply unfortunate name. Who names their child after a state? She makes a mental note to ask Ryan later if he knows why Tennessee's parents are horrible people.

"Hey," Spencer says, and while she's not sure about that shirt, he does have a nice smile.

"Hi," she says, and sneaks another glance at Ryan. He's fiddling with his napkin and his ears are a little red. Seriously, what is this? Does he not like them? But then he wouldn't have asked them to sit down, would never. So he must—-oh. She supposes it's possible he likes Tennessee, even if tall and gangly is a departure from his usual type. Or maybe it's Spencer? Either way, this is sort of awkward and possibly really hilarious.

"So, what have you two been up to today?" Ryan says, and blushes again when Z starts grinning.

"Besides kissing on Main Street, he means," she says, smiling to make sure there's no sting in the words. Spencer still looks a bit taken aback, but Tennessee snickers.

"It's all Spencer's fault, I promise," she tells Z, who laughs, delighted.

"Always blame the boyfriend, that's my motto," she says.

Tennessee nods. "It's actually true in this case," she says. "I mean, I admit to being fond of kissing, but usually I like to do it where people can't see us. It just has more potential to be interesting that way!"

"Tenn," Spencer says, in the most scandalized tones Z has heard since Ryan realized she was wearing a romper, and both she and Tennessee look at him. Oh, oh wow, he's really blushing, that's totally adorable.

"What?" Tennessee says. Z knows that innocent tone, it's totally a pretense.

Spencer hesitates, clearly fumbling for the right thing to say here. He looks at Ryan with some sort of helpless entreaty in his eyes; Z could have told him that would be fruitless, Ryan's currently way too discombobulated to be of any help to anyone. Why is he, though? Normally nothing fazes him, not even having an unfortunate crush. This is all very fascinating.

Spencer finally settles on, "Um, I just, like, that stuff is private."

"Considering you're the one who likes to kiss in public, you have no room to be scandalized," Tennessee says sternly, and then she turns to Z. "Hey, you were fantastic, absolutely fantastic, you and your band, we both loved it."

"Yes! Yes we did," Spencer says, clearly relieved to have something else to discuss. "The songs were really great."

"Z writes the songs," Ryan pipes up. Ugh. He always does that.

"Thanks," she says, not knowing where to look. She hates compliments.

"I know you don't like compliments," Ryan says. Best friends are so inconvenient.

"They're fine, I just never know what to say," she mutters, resolving to make Ryan read his poetry out loud somewhere where people can hear him soon and then he'll see how he likes it, won't he.

Spencer grins suddenly, with something like mischief in his eyes. "So did our friend, actually, Brendon. He thought you were great too."

Tennessee starts laughing. "Oh lord, yes he did, he really did."

"You're Brendon's friends?" she asks, and they both nod.

In unison. Couples.

"He's new, right?" she says, and ignores Ryan's pointed look. He's been blushing and quiet for at least ten minutes, he doesn't get to judge. "How's he doing here?"

"He's good," Spencer says. Tennessee is fiddling with her napkin. Z's willing to bet that any good in Brendon's life right now is mostly coming from these two. Not because she thinks they're saints or anything, she just knows their school. She wonders why Brendon transferred.

"Tell him—tell him people suck sometimes," she says, speeding up like she does when she's nervous.

"We will," Tennessee says. "I know what you mean."

"Our fucking school," Spencer says, eyes darkening. "I don't even know what to do."

You show them, she thinks, you show them and then they can't do anything to you that sticks. Ryan touches her arm, and she bumps her elbow against his, their I'm-here-you're-here signal.

"It's good he found you," she says firmly, and hopes they're as nice as Ryan seems to think they are.

"It is," Tennessee agrees, and that's that, it seems. Everyone's done with their respective meals, and they all get up to leave at the same time, leading to some confusion when Ryan is trying to round the table and walks into Spencer. Ryan flails, almost falling over, but Spencer grabs him by the arms and holds him up.

"Thanks," mumbles Ryan, and walks out of the cafe.

Helplessly, Z shrugs at Spencer and Tennessee and hurries to catch up.

"See you at school!" she calls over her shoulder, and sees them both nod.

"Ryan, seriously, what even was that?" she says, getting close to him, but he just shakes his head and keeps walking.

Part Two

almostblue — Mon, 27 Jun 2011 08:29:00 GMT

Master Post

Ryan isn't entirely sure how it happens. All he knows is that he zones out after class the next day and nods when Spencer murmurs, "We should get on this, yeah?" This referring to the painfully awkward conversation about nothing happening next to Z's locker, Brendon biting his lip and nodding while Z tucks her hair behind her ear and smiles at her shoes. And yet Ryan knows nothing will come of it, because it's the fourth such conversation they've seen this week. Ergo, getting Brendon and Z together might take actual superpowers, and Ryan really ought to stay far away from it all. Impossible feats are a drag, after all.

So why did he just agree to help? Who the fuck knows.

And then Tennessee follows it up with, "Do you want to meet up for coffee and plot?" all the while waggling her eyebrows and looking—not mysterious, but at least mystifying, and he obviously has to say yes to that too. Really, this is not a good precedent to set. Being easy isn't something he likes to be known for, though it has happened before—like that week in tenth grade when rumor had it he sucked off the entire football team for a bottle of vodka, that was fun—so, yeah, unpleasant associations, and he ought to be watching what he agrees to.

Next, because his day just wasn't going swimmingly enough, Ryan now has to explain to Z why he's going somewhere without her after school.

"But—" Her arms are crossed and she's approaching a pout. Never a good sign. She's about to try to guilt him into something. He knows, because he taught her that pout; she taught him the slow-somewhat-shy-gaze. The point being, he is wise to her tricks.

"Z, I just need to do something. Alone."

She huffs. "I don't see what you have to do that I can't come with you, and you know it's better if we stay together—"

"Not out of school," he points out, "and I, I don't know, what if I'm having sex?" Nice, Ryan. Credible.

Now she's laughing, at least. "Right, like I wouldn't already know about that."

"I could have kept it a secret?" he tries.

"Ross, the only time you managed to keep a boyfriend OR a girlfriend secret from me for more than ten minutes was when I had the flu and you didn't see me for ten days. Now spill."

It's clear she won't give up. Time for desperate measures. "What if it's a surprise? For my best friend?" It's technically true, which is good, because she'd be able to tell if he was lying outright.

She raises her eyebrows. "For me? A surprise? Oh, you are such a good boy."

He's not sure how he'll explain it when the surprise turns out to be a new boyfriend, but he thinks she'll probably forgive him.

—

Spencer is going to kill Brendon. He really is. Because he won't stop talking. Gym is bad enough as it is without needing to listen to Brendon listing The Virtues of Z Berg, starting at A for Amazing and rhapsodizing his way through the alphabet. Really, they have to resolve the shit out of this situation so Z and Brendon can date each other; maybe then this endless mooning will stop.

"Helpless, I tell you, helpless. Her voice. And Spencer, did I tell you she writes her own songs?"

Spencer sighs. "Once or twice, yes."

"And they're so good, right, they're all retro, and her lyrics are so sharp, they're so much better than mine, seriously—shit, Spencer, did you see that? She totally just winked at me!"

Spencer doesn't even know what to say at this point. Ryan claims Z is in fact interested, so there's that, but he's also pretty sure Z wasn't looking at Brendon just then, seeing as how she was hanging upside down from the rings at the time.

But there's no point in saying that, so Spencer just sighs (again) and hopes Brendon's natural agility will keep him out of trouble, since he's definitely not focusing on what he's supposed to be doing, which is walking the balance beam. Spencer wishes Tennessee was in this class with them, but she has gym in fifth period instead.

And then Brendon falls off. At first Spencer thinks he's fine, and Brendon seems to think so too because he starts to get up, but then he crumples, his ankle folding.

"Shit," he says.

He tries again and does get up that time, but it's obvious that something is wrong. He's wincing in pain, and he can't put any weight on his ankle and then he folds again, sitting down on the floor. Spencer manages to get them both on their feet, one arm around Brendon's shoulders, just as the bell rings. He's not sure what to do, because he's supposed to be meeting Ryan after school, but he can't tell Brendon that. He doesn't want to stand Ryan up, but they're meeting at a coffee shop across town and Tennessee doesn't have a car. But someone has to get Brendon to the nurse's office; he can definitely move his ankle, so they know it's not broken, but it's a pretty bad sprain. Spencer looks for their teacher, but she's still not back from dealing with the two students who got in a fight.

Just then, Z walks towards them, heading towards the changing rooms and laughing with Annie about something. She catches Spencer's eye and nods a little stiffly, and then her eyes widen when she sees Brendon.

"Oh shit," she says, coming to an abrupt halt. Annie doesn't see her stopping, and bangs into her with a yelp. "Oh, shit, what happened, are you okay?" Annie's holding her head and looking at Z bemusedly; Spencer doesn't blame her, because Z is very obviously not concerned with her bandmate's welfare at all.

"Hi Z," Brendon says, trying to smile and managing a grimace. "Uh, yeah, I'm—"

"No, he's not," Spencer says, just as the lightbulb goes off in his head. "He needs to go to the nurse's office. Z, you have a car, right? You can drive him home after?"

"I—yes?" Z says. "What?''

"Great," Spencer says, tugging her over and starting to arrange Brendon's arm around her shoulders. "I have to go. Like, right now."

"Spencer," Brendon hisses, his eyes widening. "Spencer, what are you doing?"

"Trust me," Spencer says. Z falls over a little bit when Brendon first puts all of his weight on her, but then she straightens up properly and soon she's got Brendon standing almost upright. Spencer knows she'll be fine; Z's much stronger than she looks, if her ability to effortlessly lug around amps in high heels is anything to go by.

Spencer's very carefully not thinking too hard about why he's so concerned that he might stand Ryan up. He's—well. Spencer's trying not to go there, because he has a girlfriend, and he loves his girlfriend, because Tenn is awesome and amazing, but—there's just. There's something about Ryan, something about his wrists and his awkward laughter, and the way his smile kind of slides onto his face and his eyes light up when someone says something smart or when Z shows up.

Okay so maybe Spencer's thinking about it anyway, but whatever. He's not going there.

"Hey, I'll call you later," Spencer says to Brendon, and then takes off at a dead run towards the locker rooms. If he hurries, he'll be able to change, meet Tenn, and still make it across town in time to see Ryan.

—

Tennessee's waiting for Spencer when he gets to the car, leaning back against it and looking... Spencer has to smile when he sees her, like he always does.

"Hey," he says, stealing a kiss.

She smiles against his mouth. "You're late, Smith. What's up with that?"

Fuck, Spencer's so stupid about her. He makes fun of Brendon for listing Z Berg's virtues, right, but he knows he could make up lists of all the reasons Tennessee is the best, the most wonderful, and he'd start with the way she laughs at herself when she uses an American slang expression and then keep going for a really long time.

He shakes his head and says, "Brendon hurt himself in gym," which he knows'll be enough of an explanation.

She frowns, looking worried. "He's okay though, right?"

"Yeah," Spencer says, then amends, "Well, he's definitely sprained his ankle or something, but I sent him to the nurse with Z, so he should be alright. Mostly."

She still looks concerned, but she snickers when he gets to the part about Z. "Oh lord," she says. "He's going to kill you."

"Yes," Spencer says. "Yes he is, but maybe he'll get somewhere. I don't know. I figure we can tell Ryan we've made some progress?"

Her cheeks go a little pink, but she nods. "We'll go and visit him later though, won't we? And bring him some of your atrocious American snack food."

"Obviously. And I think you mean our awesome snack food." Spencer pauses, biting his lip. "I would have taken him to the nurse myself, just, you know. Ryan."

"Yes," she says, as if she can fill in the rest of the sentence about how Spencer didn't want to be late to meet Ryan in particular. Spencer lets out a breath.

To compose himself, he sends off a text to Brendon. u ok?

He puts his phone back in his pocket and discovers Tenn has stolen his keys.

"I'm driving," she says, and grins at him.

"Stealing my car, are you?"

"And you, Spencer Smith. It wouldn't be worth the trouble without you in it."

—

Waiting outside the nurse's office while Brendon gets his ankle examined, it occurs to Z to consider the situation she's in. She's still wearing her gym clothes, and she's pretty sure there's a hole in her t-shirt, and she's meant to be taking Brendon home after this, and—it's a bad high school movie, is what this is. And this particular kind of scene always ends in horrible embarrassing times for everyone. She sighs and chews on her thumbnail.

Eventually Brendon is let back out, ankle bandaged up and sneaker off.

Easing him down on the chair next to Z, the nurse asks, "You his friend?"

Z hesitates for a second, then sees Brendon sort of shrink into himself and says, "Yes, yes I am. Can I take him home?"

"He has to stay off the ankle for the next two weeks, so yes, I'd suggest you take him home. He'll have to come in tomorrow before classes begin to get the crutches, four of the cheerleaders got hurt trying out a new routine so I only have very big ones on hand at the moment, but I'm getting new ones in the morning." The school has an elite cheerleading team, which, Z tended to dismiss cheerleading a lot before watching them, but holy shit, it looks dangerous when it's done well.

Brendon rolls his eyes when the nurse finishes explaining about the crutches and mutters, "Yeah, I get it, I'm short for a guy."

Z stifles a giggle. "It's okay," she says, "I'm pretty sturdy, he can lean on me." The nurse eyes Z sceptically but helps Brendon up again and lets Z take his weight.

Z doesn't quite realize what it means to have Brendon leaning on her until he is—he's warm and kind of sweaty, and his arm around her neck makes her shiver a bit. Brendon's skin is really soft.

She takes a deep breath and smiles at Brendon, whose face is right next to hers now, which, okay, and says, "So, think you can make it to the car?"

"Yeah," he says, "yeah, as long as I don't bang my foot into anything or something, I should be fine, it doesn't hurt much when I don't—fuck." That last comes out when they accidentally stagger into a water cooler she hadn't seen, and Brendon looks white around the lips for a second before asserting that no, he's totally okay.

"Sorry!" Z says, feeling terrible.

"I'm pretty sure it was my fault, dude," Brendon says. "It's not like I'm used to distributing my weight like this."

She grins. "True. Okay, come on, we can do this."

Getting to the car is actually not too bad, as soon as Z figures out how to hold herself so she can support him and simultaneously walk forward and not fall over. She grins for a second, thinking about the time she picked up a speaker and walked right past this guy who thought hitting on her via solicitously offering to "carry her shit" was a good plan. Thanks but no thanks, college douchebag frat boy. She smirks and looks to the side to find Brendon looking at her.

"What are you thinking about?" he says. "You're grinning like, I don't know."

"Oh, just some asshat who didn't think I could carry my shit. It was pretty glorious—I picked up a speaker and walked right past him. In heels."

Brendon snorts. "Awesome. Yeah, the way you're lugging me around is pretty badass."

"Please, you hardly weigh anything," Z says, and demonstrates this by opening her car door with one hand and helping him inside.

"I see how that works," he says, looking impressed.

Z resists the urge to preen a little; it's not like her strength is usually her most admired physical feature. "Where am I going?" she says instead.

"My aunt lives about six blocks that way," Brendon says, and Z doesn't ask why he's living with his aunt, even though she's still really curious about why he transferred to their school. It's not like it's the best choice for, well, any reason.

They fight over the radio, but Z eventually forfeits because she's driving and she knows how to be safe, thank you very much. While she is momentarily apprehensive about ceding control over something as important as driving music, she soon realizes Brendon has—damn, boy has really fucking good taste, actually. Nice. She nods at him in approval, and he breaks into one of those positively blinding smiles. She smiles back, biting her lip, because she's coming to realize that Brendon smiling, well. She likes it, and that's all she's going to say about that.

She pulls in where he directs her to, and raises an eyebrow at him in disbelief when he tries to get her to just drop him off on the curb.

"You do realize you have a sprained ankle and no crutches, right?"

"That's okay," Brendon says earnestly, "I can hop on one leg, I'm really good at it." And he attempts to demonstrate, but he nearly falls over and his whole face turns gray.

"Hang on," she says, and gets out of her car. "Let's do what we did before, it worked better than this." So she gets his arm back around her neck and supports him with an arm around his ribcage. "Now lean, idiot."

Brendon laughs a little, but he does lean, and he keeps leaning while they stop to let him unlock the front door. He's really skinny, she thinks as they maneuver through the doorway. He's really skinny, like he moves so much the weight just flows off. In fact—

"Hop on," she says as they reach the stairs, and he looks at her in disbelief.

"Seriously, I get that you're badass, but there's no way you can carry me. No way."

"Hop on," she repeats.

He shakes his head. "If I fall to my death I'm taking you with me, okay?"

"Fine by me," she says. She knows she won't drop him.

Getting him onto her back is a little difficult—he can't actually hop right now, so they have to get him up two steps and then turn around and walk up together. She braces herself on the banister and starts to walk upwards. Sure, it's not the easiest thing she's done, but he's good at hanging on tight, knees and arms locked and his face turned into her neck, which, um.

"This is going awesomely," he says, and Z shivers when his mouth moves so close to her skin.

"I told you," she replies belatedly, and winces at the way her voice shakes, just a little.

"Well, pardon me for not wanting to add 'falling down the stairs' to the list of most cliched deaths ever," he says, and it's not that funny, it's not, but Z can't stop laughing, which does nearly cause them both to fall. At the last second, a heroic effort by both of them (Z leaningleaningleaning and Brendon grabbing the banister and holding on) saves them from a death by broken neck.

"We rock at this," Brendon finally says when they stagger to the top, still laughing, still intact.

Z's a little too preoccupied by him sliding down her back to stand on his own again to answer, but she finally says, "We really kind of do."

After that, getting him to his room is easy, and Z doesn't stop to think at all until she's helping him lie down, turning around to grab him a non-sweaty t-shirt to change into from his open closet and turns back to see Brendon leaning against his pillows. His eyes are so fucking dark, and suddenly she can't breathe.

"I, I have to go," she blurts, and throws the shirt at Brendon who catches it, looking bewildered.

She runs down the stairs and doesn't stop to think until she's three blocks away and pulling over, knocking her head against the steering wheel. Fuck, fuck.

—

Ryan's coffee is getting cold.

Terrible fucking idea, Ryan thinks to himself. Seriously, what the hell were you thinking? Except Ryan knows what he was thinking, and it was that maybe, just maybe, Spencer and Tennessee weren't assholes like everyone else in this damn town. He can't believe he actually fell for this. He should know better by now.

He's standing up and shouldering his backpack, frustration and anger twisting in his stomach, when he hears the jingle of the door opening. He ignores it for a second, until he hears the sound of sudden, hurried footsteps behind him, rushing over to the corner he's been hiding out in.

"I am so sorry," Tennessee says breathlessly, throwing herself down in the chair opposite him. "Brendon sprained his ankle in gym class, and then Spencer sort of shoved him at Z and made her take him to the nurse's office, and then we couldn't find parking, and—you don't have to go anywhere right now, do you? We're not too late?"

Ryan blinks at her.

"...no," Ryan says slowly, sitting back down again. "I just thought. Uh." Ryan shakes his head. "You know what, never mind. It's not important."

"What's not important?" Spencer says, walking over to their table with three mugs and a cupcake held precariously in his hands, the fingers of one hand hooked into the handles so they won't fall, the other holding the extremely large cupcake. "Here," Spencer says, setting them down on the table and then holding the first mug out to Ryan. Ryan stares at it for a moment, uncomprehending. "Cappuccino," Spencer says, handing the second mug and the cupcake to Tennessee and then sitting down. "On us. Seriously, we didn't mean to keep you waiting for so long. Did Tenn tell you what happened?"

"Yeah," Ryan says, cautiously. He looks over at his cold cup of coffee, and then pushes it aside in favor of the cappuccino, because he might be a misanthrope but he's not actually stupid and if people are going to buy him good coffee, he's going to drink it. "Brendon... sprained something?"

"Sprained the fuck out of his ankle," Spencer says, rolling his eyes. "I was getting another lecture on the beauties and virtues of Z Berg and he wasn't actually paying attention to the outside world while delivering his soliloquy, so now he's on crutches."

"That's...special," Ryan manages.

"Extremely special," Tennessee agrees, with a small smile. "That's Brendon for you. Special guy."

"Sure," Ryan says. "So...wait, where does Z come in? Besides being the focus of his undying love, I mean. You said something about Spencer shoving him at Z?"

"Spencer had a brilliant idea," Tennessee says. "Z was walking by when it happened, and giving Brendon and Z time to bond just seemed like a good idea, with the plan and all. Also, Spencer was already late. So they're...bonding," she finishes, waving her hand vaguely.

Ryan squints at them. "Do you guys always talk for each other?" he blurts out, before he can stop himself. "Because it's a little weird." He's instantly mortified, because fuck, he doesn't know them at all, but Spencer just barks out a laugh.

"Tennessee has a lot of feelings," Spencer says, turning his head so he can smile at her. "I like it when she narrates. It usually comes out a lot more entertaining than whatever I was actually thinking at the time."

"Hush," Tennessee says, rolling her eyes and punching him on the shoulder. Ryan swallows. Spencer and Tennessee are...not what he was expecting. Granted, he wasn't really sure what he was expecting in the first place after they essentially dragged him out behind a dumpster to spy on his best friend, but whatever it was, it wasn't...this.

"Anyway," Tennessee says. "We're sorry we're late, and we do have to go soon, but we had an idea." She looks over at Spencer, biting her lip for a moment, and then she looks back at Ryan.

"We were thinking," Spencer fills in, when it looks like Tennessee isn't going to come right out and say it. "There's this concert. I don't know what you guys—um. The band is awesome, but they're not super well-known, and it seems like—something Z might like," he says awkwardly. "And she met us the other day—sort of, at least—and we were thinking maybe Brendon could ask her if she wants to come along." Ryan has an instant, knee-jerk reaction of no, fuck you, don't take her away from me but he pushes it down. They're plotting, after all, and Ryan can't shake the feeling that Brendon might be good for Z, that she should at least take the chance and find out, but he also knows that she's never going to do it without some pushing on his end.

"Good idea," Ryan says. "You should do that."

"You think so?" Tennessee says. "You think she'll come with us?"

"I'll convince her," Ryan says shortly. He doesn't think about how, if this works, he's going to end up spending all of his Friday nights alone again, like the last time Z got a boyfriend. He doesn't blame her for it, because he's done it too, but the timing kind of sucks right now. "Anyway, she'll be more likely to go if it's a double date. She'll be less freaked out about it."

"Double date?" Spencer says, frowning. "No, you should come too. It's not a date, it's just—an outing. With friends."

"I'm not crashing your date," Ryan says, rolling his eyes. "No thanks. It's fine, I'll convince her to go."

"No, honestly, you should come," Tennessee says, leaning across the table. "Please? I mean—you can bring someone too, you know. If you'd like?"

"I usually bring Z," Ryan mutters. He doesn't quite want to admit how much his love life is sort of a barren wasteland at the moment, because he has a reputation to maintain. But really, there's—well. No one he can have, anyway. Ryan's not thinking about it.

"So come with us," Tennessee says. "You can hang out with us while they're off staring longingly at one another."

"I'm not going to be the fifth wheel," Ryan says.

"You won't be," Spencer says, suddenly. "We promise."

Tennessee glances over at him, and Ryan is willing to bet that her raised eyebrow means she too has noticed the faint blush on Spencer's cheeks. She wisely says nothing, except, "Yes. Ryan, see? You won't be a fifth wheel. Come with us."

Ryan stares at them for a long moment, considering. He bites his lip, chewing on the corner, and then he lets himself nod once, small and careful.

"Right," Tennessee says. "That's a plan, then. Now, I'm going to go and purchase another one of those cupcakes, because Spencer thinks he's stealthy when he's stealing my food but he's really not, on the account of there being less of the cupcake left to eat. Ryan, do you want anything?"

He shakes his head, but Spencer looks at him consideringly and says, "You should get him a cookie, Tenn."

"I was intending to," she says indignantly. "I still can't believe he was here for half an hour and not having cookies, it's a travesty."

"Not everyone subscribes to the theory that the cookies of The Green Cauldron could bring about world peace," Spencer says. He's smiling at Ryan, wide and amused, and Ryan feels his breath catch in his throat for a moment before he nods again. Because Spencer's smile is just—fuck, Ryan thinks. Spencer's smile is dangerous. They're both dangerous, in a good way, in a way that Ryan's trying desperately to ignore.

He's going to have to be more careful from now on.

—

After about three songs, Ryan is forced to admit that The Pipettes are maybe really great, despite his initial misgivings. He says as much to Z, who smiles smugly (they've had arguments about retro bands before, long and involved arguments) before forgetting herself and moving in place, dancing by herself the way she always swears people look like dorks when they do. She keeps bumping Ryan's elbow, but he doesn't mind, even if it's all sweaty and close and Ryan's shirt is starting to stick to his back. He grins at Z when she points out the girl with the beehive hairdo, because of course Z would notice that and love it.

"Do you think—" she starts.

Ryan shakes his head. "I don't think pink hair is you," he says firmly, then grins. "Purple, on the other hand—"

Z punches him in the shoulder, because they both remember the great disaster that was Z's first experiment with hair dye. She's gotten better at it, her current blond not natural but looking fucking fabulous, but her first attempt had resulted in blotchy magenta stains everywhere, including Z's back and Ryan's hands when he had to try and help her scrub it off.

Then Brendon taps Z on the shoulder. Ryan was keeping an eye on him and waiting to see what he would do when standing next to Z for an extended amount of time. So far, the results have been disappointing. Brendon just looked, unnoticed by Z because she so sucks at noticing things like that. Shoulder-tapping is promising, though.

Ryan can't hear it over the music, but by Z's reaction—biting her lip and a small smile—he's betting she just got asked to dance. Ryan flicks his eyes down, and notices she's already taken Brendon's hand, probably without even noticing she was doing it. Seriously, how is she so gone on this guy?

Z lets herself be led away and Ryan hides his smile in the Shirley Temple that Tennessee had insisted on buying all of them (everyone except Spencer, who had argued firmly and successfully for club soda). But the drink is sweet on Ryan's tongue, and it's a bittersweet moment, because, okay. He knows he's a little possessive of Z. Usually it's not a big deal, Z will date some tall dark handsome thing and Ryan will be entirely unimpressed and kind of a dick, and eventually that boy will fade away when Z gets bored, and Ryan's okay with it, he really is, because Z is his, his partner in crime. He went along with the plotting because he does want her to be happy, but until this moment, he'd never honestly thought it would become anything but a short fling. Possibly. Assuming they both got hit over the head enough with how into each other they are.

But as he's sitting there watching Brendon and Z, he's sort of. Maybe he's rethinking his stance a little, because Z can dance, and he's never met anyone who can keep up with her, but Brendon can, even with his bum leg. He's slightly awkward but it's obvious from watching them that it's just due to his ankle, that when Z turns and spins and Brendon is right there to guide her back in that they just fit. And Z's smile is wide and delighted when she forgets to be mysterious, and Brendon's hands are careful on her waist.

He swallows, poking at the ice at the bottom of his glass with the straw. He's glad the club is dark, he really is, because he doesn't want Z to look over and notice; he thinks she would probably misinterpret the look on his face (even though she normally never does), or rather, she wouldn't understand where the loneliness was coming from.

Tennessee comes over and leads him to stand by the wall with her and Spencer. She spins a little, on her toes, so that Ryan's forced to lean up against the wall between them. And Ryan's uncomfortable with it for a moment—it's not his place—but then Tennessee leans behind him and whispers something to Spencer, and he can feel her warm breath in his ear, and suddenly he's uncomfortable for an entirely different reason. Tennessee's hair is in her face, caught on her eyelashes in the heat of the crowd, and Spencer leans over to brush it out of the way—

And then he drops his arm and it rests on Ryan's shoulders for a bit and Ryan thinks, oh.

It's completely friendly, a normal gesture of affection between friends, except for how it doesn't feel like that at all.

Spencer moves his arm away a few beats after it starts to get awkward, right after Ryan's suddenly conscious of how he can feel the warm heat of Spencer's skin through his T-shirt, even in the heat of the club. He doesn't know what it means, and he tries to focus on watching Brendon and Z, but his throat is suddenly so dry. He can't seriously be thinking about this, he can't. It's the first time in ages he's made new friends, and they're actually kind of awesome; fuck, he seriously can't be ruining it for himself by crushing on both halves of a couple. How is he such an idiot?

He wants to drag Z away from Brendon and have her pet his hair for a bit, because he feels so stupid right now and she's the only one who ever comes close to fixing that shit, but he can't, not when she looks this happy.

And it gets even harder, because they're so careful to include him all night, keeping him participating in their conversation while Brendon and Z claim a table and are talking intently to each other, Brendon gesturing wildly and Z laughing. This time Z's the one being a klutz, though, knocking over a glass of water and splashing both of them.

She's mortified, but Brendon laughs and says, "If you only knew how many times I've done that," and helps pat her dry in what Ryan is shocked to realize is actually a rather gentlemanly fashion.

The latter makes Spencer giggle and hide his face in Ryan's shoulder, mumbling, "I can't take it, they're too much, Ryan, tell me when they're done?" Ryan pats his head awkwardly and tries to smile non-awkwardly at Tennessee who is also giggling and so beautiful when she does; god, how's he supposed to deal with this?

Tennessee pokes him in the shoulder when she's gotten her giggling under control. "Dance with us, Ryan Ross, dance with us and leave the lovelorn idiots to their own devices for a bit."

Ryan protests that he doesn't dance, but Spencer won't hear it.

"Dude, I don't dance either, or I used to never do it, but Tenn makes me, right? And it's fun, come on Ryan, you can't stand at the back and look cool all night."

Tennessee nods in agreement. "It's true, I do make him. Twist his arm and everything. Don't make me twist your arm, Ross, I'm much stronger than I look."

And Ryan has to laugh at that, has to say yes, has to follow them out under the lights. He doesn't tell them, but it's one of the best nights he's ever had. It's not like he doesn't fucking love going out with Z, hanging at the back and feeling like they own the whole room, secretly, but when Tennessee spins him, grinning brightly, he laughs again and lets himself be spun.

Even if he has to spend so much of the night pointedly not looking at where Spencer's shirt's going dark with sweat or where the straps of Tennessee's dress are slipping off her shoulders, it's still a fucking good time.

Even if he can't really stop looking, no matter how much he tries.

—

Z takes Brendon home after, since Spencer pointed out that really, Z lives much closer to Brendon than Spencer does, and Ryan and Tennessee are practically next-door neighbors. Brendon might be blushing as he gets in the car, but none of them comments on it.

"Gosh, they're so adorable," Tennessee says as they watch Z pull out from the parking lot.

"No kidding," Ryan says, shaking his head a little. "When do you think they'll catch a clue?"

"God," Spencer says. "God, I don't know. We might be looking at weeks."

"Or months," Ryan says darkly, knowing just how oblivious Z can be when the thing she thinks she doesn't deserve is right in front of her.

"We'll just have to keep plotting," Tennessee says brightly, and Ryan may or may not be really happy to hear that. Maybe.

They drop him off at home, after, Spencer ceding his keys to Tennessee with a laugh and Ryan guiding them to his house from the backseat.

—

"Brendon. Brendon." Spencer is torn between laughter and sighing.

Brendon looks up at him, sort of dreamily. "Hmm?"

"Your elbow is in your salad," Tennessee informs him gravely, and then neither she nor Spencer can keep from laughing anymore.

Brendon goes a little red and removes said elbow from his poor limp lettuce, which definitely didn't benefit from that treatment and now looks even limper.

Spencer's still laughing when Tennessee asks Brendon, "So, you had fun last night, right?"

Brendon sort of sighs and nods. "I mean, like, I still can't believe it happened, you know?"

Spencer and Tennessee look at each other. If anything more than the dancing happened, well, then Tennessee owes Spencer money.

"I mean, we danced. I never thought that would, like, she'd ever do that."

Okay, so Spencer owes Tennessee ten dollars. He was sure Brendon and Z would at least kiss after the show, but Tennessee said it'd never happen that fast, and apparently she was right. Dammit.

—

Ryan sets his lunch tray down, and then cranes his neck to peer really obviously at Brendon's table, all the way across the cafeteria. Z tugs him down with a mortified expression.

"Ryan," she hisses. "Ryan, what do you think you're doing?"

"Brendon looks pretty dreamy today, don't you think?" Ryan says, and Z smacks him on the arm.

"Shut. Up." Z says, and stares down at her macaroni and cheese with a murderous expression. "We're not talking about this, you asshole."

"Oh, I think we are," Ryan says, poking her with his fork until she breaks and starts laughing. "Z, Z, Z. Spilling water on your date, really?"

"He wasn't my date," she says quickly, turning a bit pink.

"Oh, but he wanted to be," Ryan says slyly, and earns a napkin pelted at his head.

"No he didn't," she says, and Ryan sighs inwardly. Seriously. "He's like that with everyone, all happy and sweet and—" She breaks off and swallows.

"Right," Ryan says drily. "Right, he dances with everyone, spinning them around and smiles and smiles and smiles, Z Berg, I didn't know you'd gone blind."

"Whatever," she says, muttering something about him being better than she deserves anyway, even if he did like her, which he doesn't. Ryan is about to refute that round of bullshit when she looks at him, considering. Her smile turns sharp, and Ryan winces inwardly. He's been lucky to avoid this conversation thus far; the look on Z's face suggests that that luck is rapidly running out.

"Speaking of dancing," Z says casually, popping open the tab on her Diet Coke. "Spencer and Tennessee seem to be quite the life of the party."

Ryan shrugs, mock-casual. "They're nice enough."

"Oh, but I don't think they're just nice," Z presses. "Ryan. Ryan, they got you to dance. What is going on with you and them?"

"Nothing!" Ryan blurts out. "I—Nothing, Z."

"Does this have something to do with me and Brendon?" Z says, giving him a suspicious look. "What are you plotting? You're plotting, I know you are."

"I - yeah," Ryan fumbles. "I mean, no. We're not plotting, Z, you wound me." He doesn't think about how maybe he's taking the easy way out, about how it's almost better that Z gets pissy and accuses him of engineering her love life than presses him further about his feelings for Spencer and Tenn.

"Ryan. Seriously, Ryan. The last time you lied this badly was, like, seventh grade, when you didn't want to tell me about your crush on Kevin."

"Fine, maybe we're plotting a little," he says. "Do you really mind?"

Z's face darkens. "Do I mind? Do I mind that—yes, I mind, I don't even know if he—"

—

"I don't even know if she likes me at all," Brendon says desultorily, poking at his food. "I mean, she's really nice, right? So maybe she's just being, you know, nice."

Spencer looks at Tennessee helplessly and tries to figure out how to tell Brendon that he's pretty sure Z has never been that nice to someone not Ryan before, without sounding like he thinks she's a bitch. She's not, she's just—from what he's gotten from Ryan and from what he's seen of their school over the last two years, Spencer's pretty sure Z and Ryan are fiercely protective of each other for a reason. After they went to the cafe together, Tennessee said, sounding a little sad, "It's like he was surprised we were being kind." Spencer thinks about small towns and how they treat unusual people, and winces.

He settles on, "No, Brendon, it really did seem like she was happy to be with you specifically."

Brendon looks up. "You really think so?"

"Yes, we do," Tennessee says, reaching out and poking him in the shoulder. "Chin up, munchkin, I think the lady likes you."

Brendon sticks out his tongue at her and then grins. "Do you think I should write her a song? Should I?"

"Um," Spencer says, thinking about Brendon's usual level of lyrical subtlety.

"Yes," Tennessee says firmly, and Spencer looks at her in alarm.

She rolls her eyes at him. "If love is not enough," she murmurs, and Spencer remembers, yes, there was that one. Right.

"Well then," he says. "Write a song and win fair lady's heart."

Brendon's smile grows brighter, and Spencer's mouth twitches. "I reserve the right to make fun of you for it, though."

"Unfair, Spencer, unfair!" Tennessee says. "I want to, I'm much wittier than you are."

Brendon sighs dramatically. "You can BOTH make fun of me if you want. I guess."

—

Spencer doesn't regret encouraging Brendon, but he is starting to doubt that they'll ever get to a point where Brendon writes something he isn't terrified to share in public. Brendon is fine performing when he's being funny or playing a role, but this is apparently the scariest task he's ever undertaken. He has a song now, probably, but he's refusing to play it for them, so he's just sitting on the floor of the practice room with his guitar on his lap and staring at a lyrics sheet on the ground.

Spencer looks at Tennessee, willing her to say something. She looks at him a little helplessly and shrugs. Argh.

But maybe there's something he can do. Spencer throws Tennessee her sticks, one at a time, and nods at the snare drum next to her.

"You want to—"

"Uh-huh," she says, nodding.

Out of the corner of his eye, Spencer sees Brendon lifting his head and looking over at them. Score.

"Can we just do some fills?" he asks, deliberately not acknowledging Brendon's sudden interest.

"Yes," Tennessee says, and the way her eyes are glittering tells Spencer she's caught on. Excellent.

Sure enough, after about three minutes of the two of them going back and forth, challenging each other to more and more complicated beats, Brendon's putting down his guitar, grabbing Spencer's extra sticks and joining them. Another twenty minutes later and he's both sweaty and breathing hard, and he looks much, much happier.

"Don't think I don't know what you just did," he says, but he looks all surprised and pleased, like he's actually not that used to someone going out of their way to cheer him up.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Spencer says. Brendon turns to Tennessee.

"I plead the fifth," she says immediately, and Spencer has to lean over and kiss her because he not-so-secretly loves it when she adopand thatts American slang expressions.

"Ugh, stop," Brendon says, but he's laughing. "If you can keep from being disgustingly cute for a minute, I'll play you that fucking song, I know it's what you were angling for all along."

"Again, I don't know what you're talking about," Spencer says, grinning. "But sure, play us your song."

When Brendon finishes, it's all very quiet for a second, and then Tennessee pushes herself off the ground and kisses the top of Brendon's head, because: "Well done, short stuff. Well done."

"Really?" he says, and Spencer aches a little for how bare his emotions are in that moment.

"Really," Tennessee says firmly, and Spencer nods.

"Definitely," he confirms. Brendon grins, looking down at his hands.

Maybe, Spencer thinks. Maybe.

—

Ryan knows he's an elitist, but Open Mic night at the Green Cauldron really is a form of cruel and unusual punishment. The problem is that Z knows this all too well, which makes convincing her to actually show up a bit of a challenge.

"Ryan," Z says, putting the finishing touches on her eyeliner, "This had better be fucking good. I have newly washed sheets on my bed, an entire bag of cookies, and a brand-new episode of RuPaul's Drag Race to watch."

"It will be there when you get back," Ryan says, twisting Z's handmade blanket between his fingers. He pulls his hand away when she turns around, because her grandmother made it for her and he's lucky she even lets him sit on it. "I'm telling you. Comedy gold, Z. Last month, there were no less than three poems about Edward and Jacob."

Z pauses, liquid eyeliner in hand. She meets Ryan's eyes through the mirror and says, "Really?"

"My favorite was the one for Bella Swan," Ryan says loftily. "This dude called her the love of his life, the moon to his sun, the—what was it, beach to his shore, which doesn't make any sense. But who am I to argue with artistic genius? It was all very touching, anyway."

Z snickers, but she's also eying the bag of cookies on her dresser. They're oatmeal raisin, which is her favorite kind, and Ryan knows he's going to have to go in for the kill if he wants her to actually leave the house tonight. That's okay though: Ryan has a secret weapon.

"I might, um, read something," Ryan says, trying to look uncertain while also silently congratulating himself for being a devious motherfucker. "I haven't decided yet."

Z looks at him and sighs. "Well, I suppose I'll have to come then, if you're going to do that." Ryan allows himself a silent mental fist-pump. He does have a poem with him, but he'd rather not actually read it. He's pretty sure Brendon will be on before him and then hopefully Z will forget all about what Ryan may or may not have promised to do.

They get there and instead of grabbing a table at the back, Ryan looks for Spencer's wave and pulls Z with him through the crowd to squeeze in at their table, which is right in front of the stage. Ryan hopes Brendon has something to deliver here, because it's going to be really awkward if he doesn't.

"You made it," Spencer says in an undertone.

Ryan grins at him, which makes Z look at him suspiciously. She does that every time he smiles at Tennessee or Spencer, which, he's well aware he doesn't usually smile at people he hasn't known for that long. Not like that, anyway.

"Of course he made it," Tennessee says loftily. "As if Ryan could stay away from us." And there's something in her voice; no, Ryan's reading too much into it. But he likes the way her eyes look when she smiles like that, like he's in on the joke.

Brendon hasn't said anything yet; Ryan supposes he's nervous. Z knocks her shoulder into him carefully.

"Hey," she mumbles, and Brendon smiles into his mug of—Ryan really hopes that isn't coffee, he's seen Brendon on caffeine before.

"Hey," Brendon says, fingers clenching around his mug for a second.

That's all they have time for before the performances kick off. There are three predictably abysmal poetry readings, and Ryan suspects they were put on first just so the crowd would thin out a little bit (there isn't any elbow room in here at all; Ryan is afraid to lean back lest he knock over four lattes and a boy on very precarious high heels).

Then it's Brendon's turn. Z blinks in surprise when he goes on and looks a lot more intent all of a sudden, and Ryan just about bites back a joke, because god, how many times has she talked about seeing Brendon on stage, right? Right. She rolls her eyes at him as if she can hear what he's not saying. Which. She probably can.

Spencer looks horrified as soon as Brendon strikes the first chord, like he knows what's coming, and hisses "That's not—what is he, Brendon, what is he doing?" Tennessee's mouth is twitching. For good reason, too, because seriously, what is Brendon singing? Ryan is just about ready to call this an unqualified disaster when Z cracks up, giggling uncontrollably, which makes the whole table lose it, and when Ryan looks up on stage, he can see Brendon grinning between lines, like he meant for that to happen. Who likes it when their crush laughs at them? Ryan doesn't get it.

After that, though, Brendon takes a deep breath before announcing the next song, and he says, "This one, um, IwroteitforZBerg."

Ryan's watching Z, and he sees her eyes go dark, and he smirks into his coffee. There. Now if Brendon's song is only—

And then Brendon starts singing, and yeah, it is.

Z stiffens next to him. Ryan can feel her fumbling for his hand under the table, and he links their fingers, squeezing hard. Her back is absolutely straight, and she's staring at the stage with wide, disbelieving eyes. Ryan isn't even sure she's breathing.

"Told you," Ryan says quietly, and Z shakes her head. She swallows once, hard, as Brendon goes into the bridge. It's a sweet song, with a lilting melody. The words don't really matter, something about always and you and being caught, but it isn't important—Ryan knows enough to know this much. What matters is the way Brendon's looking at her, his face honest and open.

Ryan looks over just in time to see Z blink twice, hard, and then she's dropping his hand and grabbing her purse and running out the door.

"Ryan," Spencer hisses, reaching over and shaking his shoulder. "Ryan, what the hell? You said she'd love it, you said—"

"She did," Ryan protests. "No, she did, Z's like that, I think she was crying, and she never lets anyone see her when she's—"

"Oh my lord," Tennessee says, her face falling. "She was crying?"

"No, that's good," Ryan says. "It's good, really, it just means that she—"

"This was an awful idea," Spencer says. He shakes his head in despair. "Shit, Brendon looks he's like about to cry."

Ryan looks up. Brendon finishing his song, but he's no longer smiling. He's staring down at the floor, only raising his head when he has to sing the rest of the verse.

"I'll fix this," Ryan says, suddenly. "I can fix this. Look, just stay here, I'll go get her, she's probably out in the parking lot—"

"You better," Tennessee says, firmly. Brendon hits the final chord on his song, and the crowd breaks into applause. She stands up and claps, loudly, and then mutters, "Outside, now, while he's distracted."

Ryan slips out as Brendon's picking up his guitar, hurrying out the front door. Z's not outside, and Ryan has a moment of panic before he realizes she must be in the parking lot. He turns the corner and walks slowly, sticking his hands in his pockets.

"Z," he calls out, softly, and then he hears a tiny sob from over near the dumpsters.

"Z, hey," Ryan says gently, and Z flutters a hand at him, a tiny motion that means go away. Ryan's used to ignoring it, because one of the reasons they work so well together is that neither of them has ever listened to each other when it really matters.

Ryan sits down next to her on the concrete. Her legs are kicked out at awkward angles, as though she'd just collapsed on the ground. Her shoulders are shaking.

"No, hey," Ryan murmurs, brushing at the mascara trails on her face a little awkwardly. "Hey, it's okay, it's okay."

"I'm sorry," Z chokes out, "I'm sorry, Ryan, he's going to hate me, I ruined it, I ruined everything—"

"You didn't," Ryan presses. "He'll understand, Z, I know he will—"

"Yeah, I will," Brendon says quietly from behind them. He's got his hands in his pockets, his guitar case slung over one shoulder. He's not looking at either of them. He takes a deep breath, like he's looking for courage, and then he says haltingly, "I didn't mean—I wasn't trying to embarrass you. Or. Or make you upset. I just—You're really special, Z."

Z's eyes are large and dark, even with the ruined makeup. She takes a shuddering breath, and in that time Brendon continues talking.

"I thought that maybe—I mean, okay. You're way too cool for me, and I know it, right? Like. Seriously, you're gorgeous and talented and funny, and everyone thinks so, and I'm just some dumb loser with a guitar. I get it."

"Brendon," Ryan says, softly, because he can't just sit here and listen to Brendon beat himself up like this. Maybe Ryan's been guilty of it too, of making Brendon feel like he's not good enough.

Z shushes him, placing one hand over Ryan's mouth. "Ryan, let him finish," she says, and schools her features into something more like her usual nonchalance. Her eyes, though—Ryan can see the infinite kindness there, the gentle way she's looking at Brendon. He hopes Brendon can see it. God, Ryan really hopes they're not going to fuck this up.

"I'm pretty much done," Brendon says, and laughs, tuneless and awkward. "I'll—I'll leave you alone, after this. If you want. I just figured I should say something, and I was too much of a coward to say it in words." He turns to walk away, and then Z's stumbling up, tripping over her heels as she runs after him.

"Brendon," she says, catching his hand, making him turn around and look at her. "I—there's something you should know."

"You just want to be friends?" Brendon says, and smiles humorlessly. "Yeah, I got that part."

"No," Z says, wiping at her face. "No, that's not it, at all. I just—I don't cry in front of people. I can't. I don't want them to see me like that."

"Great," Brendon says. "So I made you cry, and—Fuck, Z. I'm sorry."

"Stop saying that," Z says. "Brendon, stop. Look, I just—those were good tears, okay? Good tears." She stops for a moment, and bites her lip, and then looks up at him. From ten feet away, Ryan holds his breath. He knows he should leave, but he can't seem to make his legs move.

"No one's ever written a song for me," she says quietly. "Not even Ryan."

"Oh," Brendon says. He fiddles with the strap of his guitar, and then looks back up at her. "So you—"

"Yeah," Z says helplessly. "Yes, Brendon, to everything. Everything you said in that song. Yes to all of it, okay?"

"Okay," Brendon says. There's a tiny smile breaking out onto his face, and that's when Z leans up on her toes and kisses him. Ryan wants to clap, or cheer, or something, but instead he just smiles to himself. Z pulls away after a few moments, blushing, and then Brendon's wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her in and kissing her so hard that her back bows a little.

"Yes?" Brendon breathes out, against her lips.

Z laughs into his mouth. "Yes," she says, and kisses him back. "All of it, Brendon. Please."

Ryan stands up, and brushes the dirt off his pants. He quietly makes his way to the fire door, pulling it open carefully. Brendon and Z are silhouetted against the streetlight.

He pulls the fire door open and makes his way through the crowd back to his table. Tennessee's playing with her hair, slumped down on one elbow. Spencer's rubbing her back and looking murderous.

"Uh, hi," Ryan says, and they both whip their heads around.

"So?" Spencer says, and glares at Ryan a little.

"They're making out in the parking lot," Ryan says, a smug smile starting to make its way onto his face. "I told you."

Tennessee's eyes widen. "Really?" she says. "Honestly? You're not making fun?"

"I am one-hundred percent not making fun," Ryan says. "We should probably get them home before they ruin each other's virtue."

"Brendon doesn't have a lot of virtue," Spencer says, and snickers. "Or, well. He's got a lot of virtues, but I don't think he would be complaining. Ryan Ross, you're a miracle worker."

"I try," Ryan says, and fishes out an ice cube from his drink to crunch on. "I really do."

Tennessee pokes Spencer in the shoulder. "I think I'm due some credit too, aren't I? The song was my idea, after all."

Spencer grins at her. "Yeah, but I pretty much think everything you do is miraculous."

Tennessee looks torn between being charmed and laughing at Spencer, and Ryan groans.

"Man, I am trapped in sappy couple-land."

"Our apologies!" Tennessee says immediately. "Let's go rescue them from themselves."

They don't, not right away, because the next performer has taken the stage. While Ryan's not against being rude, he wouldn't ever walk out on Greta Salpeter if you paid him to, she's that goddamn good.

Part One | Part Three

almostblue — Mon, 27 Jun 2011 08:27:14 GMT

Master Post

The gravel in the parking lot is a little hard to stand on in heels, but Z's ignoring that in favor of focusing on the way Brendon's moving his fingers on her lower back, in little circles that make her shiver.

"Hey," she murmurs.

Brendon kisses at her chin and smiles at her when she looks, the way he always smiled at her, all along. "Hey," he parrots.

"I can't believe--" She doesn't know what to say, so she kisses him instead, trying to tell him that she's stupidly happy right now, stupidly.

"We could sit down?" Brendon asks, and pulls her over to her car when she nods. They both sit on the hood, dangling their feet. Z sneaks her hand into Brendon's, and he squeezes it, looking down at their linked fingers.

"When did you, you know," he says after a little while.

She grins. "Pretty much when you walked into gym and scrambled all the way up the rope, only to trip over your own feet when you were trying to explain to Mr Fox why you shouldn't be on the school gymnastics team."

"Oh god," Brendon says. "Oh god, oh god. You know the reason I fell over is that you were standing there, right?"

"Really?" She's only laughing a little bit.

"Well, in my defense you were wearing shorts, Z Berg, it's more than any man can be expected to take."

"...tell me that isn't when you fell for me." She's joking, but she kind of means it. She's done with the whole thing where guys love her look, right, but don't like it when she's better than them at guitar or opens her mouth and says things that aren't flirtatious--but Brendon's shaking his head.

"No, no, that was when you, you know, the Talent Show. I already thought you were awesome and gorgeous and stuff, but Z, seriously, I don't know how anyone could watch you sing and not, like." He reaches out with his free hand and tucks her hair behind her ear. She turns her face into it, kissing his palm, and he breathes out a little shakily. She's about to pull him closer and kiss him again, but of course that's when her ever-so-awesome best friend clears his throat behind them. Z loves Ryan, but his timing is so unfortunate, she can't even.

"Ryan Ross," she says, holding on to Brendon's hand when he tries to let go. "Ryan Ross, what do I have to give you to go away again?"

"Eh," he says, "I'm not that easily bought."

"Lies," she mutters at Brendon. "All lies." Brendon is laughing, and god, Z loves it when he laughs.

Then Tennessee says, "I'm afraid you'd have to buy us all off, Z Berg, and that would be rather hard on your wallet, wouldn't it?"

Brendon rolls his eyes. "You are putty in my hands, beanstalk, don't even lie," he says, and Z mouths beanstalk at him, because what?

Brendon gestures above his head, and oh, of course, her height.

"Seriously, though," Spencer says, "I'm pretty sure we have to get home."

"I will get you for this, Spencer Smith," Brendon says, but he slides down off of Z's car, pulling her down with him.

He looks at her, shy again, and she just wants to kiss him and kiss him. Some of that must show in her eyes, because Brendon breathes in shakily and says, "So, um, what are you--" He pauses, biting his lip. "Can we--um." They all look at him expectantly but he doesn't manage to finish the sentence.

"I think he means do you want to go out Friday," Spencer translates helpfully, and Z distracts Brendon from glaring at Spencer by kissing him and saying, "Yes, yes I would."

—

The next day, Z just keeps thinking about it. About him. It's ridiculous. Like, she's trying to outline her World Literature paper when she blinks and then she's thinking about Brendon's dark eyes and the way he smiled and the way he sang, shit. And then she worries about saying the wrong thing when she sees him next or forgetting to look for him at school or being too obvious about him at school or a hundred other things that she somehow needs to think about now.

But then there's band practice and they're working on a song, a new one that Laena brought them and Z actually has to pay attention and she can, here. It's not hard to focus, because she's singing with Laena and it just, it works. Fuck, they sound good.

Z turns around when it's Laena's verse and she sees Annie look at Laena like—like Laena was looking at Annie before, in fact.

"Holy shit," Z says, tripping over her guitar chord.

Laena breaks off to look at her wonderingly. Which, that's fair, Z doesn't normally trip in the middle of a song. If she's not in any way drunk, that is. But she's pretty sure she just figured out something important.

"Are you two—you totally are!" Annie turns bright red and Laena looks a little worried. Z's not sure why, because, "You guys," she says, smiling. "You're—wait, why didn't you tell me?"

Annie ducks her head, laughing a little.

"It hasn't been very long," Laena says. "Only since right before the talent show."

"Like, an hour before," Annie clarifies.

Oh. Oh. "That's why you were so distracted when you finally got there!" Z says, things sliding into place in her head. "And here I just thought we were all equally nervous..." It must be okay to mock them a little, right? Sometimes Z has a hard time telling with people.

But she must have gotten it right, because Laena finally relaxes a bit, looking over at Annie with something soft in her eyes. "No, I was definitely nervous about the show, I was just also nervous about finally having kissed the girl I'd liked for ages—" Her smile widens slightly when Annie blushes. "Yeah, it was a little hard to think for a while there."

All together now, Z thinks. d'awww.

Except Z's finding it difficult to be sarcastic today, so she opts for sincere instead. "This is so awesome," she says. She's a little bewildered that they hadn't told her before, but when she starts to say so she remembers how long it took her to tell Annie about Alex. Ryan's always the only one who knows everything, and she doesn't hang out with her band outside of practice all that much—but maybe, maybe she can start working on that.

"I, um. Speaking of the talent show?"

They both nod. "Uh-huh," Laena says.

"Remember the guy I was talking to after?"

"Yes?" Annie says, starting to look very interested.

"Wait, the one in the Bible Camp shirt?" Laena is grinning.

Z rolls her eyes. "Yes, yes. He wears that as, like, a statement. It's ironic. Or sarcastic, I'm not sure which."

"He does, does he?" Laena says slyly, and okay, apparently it is fine to make fun of them and they're okay doing it back, check. That makes things easier. Z knows she can be too sharp, sometimes, too cutting, and it's backfired on her before.

"Yes, well, anyway, we're goingonadateonFriday," Z says quickly, but is sort of glad to see how happy Annie looks when she finishes the sentence.

"Z, that's great! He seems really nice."

"He is," she says without thinking, cheeks going a little warm when she realizes how dazed she's sounding. She shakes her head to clear it and decides that offense is the best defense. "You guys should tell me more about, like—" she waves a hand at them, "this."

Laena snickers and puts her bass down. "You're just trying to change the subject."

"Well, sure," Z says, grinning right back, on much firmer ground now, "but your secret relationship has been going on much longer than I've been planning to go out on a date with Brendon, so I feel as though it is only fair if you start."

"Only fair, huh," Laena says, looking at Annie and smiling. Annie smiles right back, and watching them, Z feels so content. And somehow her normal ugh-cute-coupledom nausea is staying far away.

—

Brendon is nervous. Brendon is so nervous he's bouncing up and down, and Spencer's trying hard not to smack him and tell him to sit his ass down and let Tennessee and Spencer figure out his outfit. Which they could, if Brendon would just shut up for a second.

"But seriously, guys, seriously, like, what should I wear? I don't know what we're doing yet, or if she's wearing heels, or, you know, a dress or not—"

Tennessee falls backwards onto Brendon's bed. "Lord help me," she says to the ceiling, "Lord help me, I cannot take all the talking."

"Look," Spencer says, "she liked you even after you sang a song about fast-forwarding to blowjobs, Brendon, and sure, some of that may have been that you followed it up with a seriously kickass love song, but still. Fast-forwarding to blowjobs. I don't think it matters whether you wear a purple or a pink hoodie."

"But—" Brendon's chewing on his lower lip.

Tennessee groans. "No buts! No buts, stop it." She sits up again. "Short stuff, you are adorable and the lady obviously thinks so too; just put some clothes on and go, you know, date."

Spencer nods, but Brendon still looks doubtful.

"I just keep thinking, he says. "I just keep thinking that this has to be a mistake, right? Because no one else ever—I don't understand what she's doing. With me. I don't understand it."

And Spencer almost rolls his eyes, because seriously, this again? But he can tell just how serious Brendon is, and he closes his eyes for a second. People suck.

"People are awful," Tennessee says, and really, Spencer should be used to her reading his mind by now. "People are absolutely awful, Brendon Urie, and I'm so dreadfully sorry about that. But Z Berg likes you, she thinks you're wonderful, she—help me out, Spencer."

"She sees you," Spencer says, and he doesn't have to think about this part very hard. "She sees you, and even more importantly, she sees the way you see her. You're new to this school, you haven't been here—no one has ever looked at her like you do before." Spencer is carefully not thinking too hard about the way Z and Ryan distance themselves so carefully, like if they open up, they'll get hurt. They may look cooler-than-thou, but they're outside of the hierarchy. People don't talk to them, they talk about them (and not always nicely). And sure, Spencer's seen Z around town or at school with one or two guys, but he's never seen Z look like she did in the parking lot last night, and they've been in the same school for years now.

Spencer kind of wants to see Ryan smile like that too. He might be trying very hard not to think about it, but he knows he wants that.

Brendon shakes his head at Spencer, but he's finally smiling.

"There, see?" Tennessee says, and walks over to Brendon's closet. "Here, wear these. They highlight, uh, your best feature." She turns around and throws a pair of jeans at Brendon, who goes bright red. Spencer raises his eyebrows at his girlfriend.

She holds out her hands guilelessly. "What? I'm not blind, Spencer."

Which, okay, Spencer can get behind that. He tilts his head and looks at Brendon, who promptly goes even more red and throws the jeans at Tennessee and the nearest sneaker at Spencer.

"Not helpful, you guys. Not helpful."

Spencer grins. "Yeah, but it's a nice ass—et, isn't it?"

"Sure is, absolutely," Tennessee says, nodding.

"Oh my god," says Brendon. "Both of you, out! I'm going to get dressed and there will be no commentary, is that clear?" They laugh at him until he chases them out of the room.

—

"This is stupid," Z says finally, staring at the pile of dresses on her bed. "This is, seriously, I can't even. Ryan, what the hell was I thinking?"

"I don't know," Ryan says, plucking at Z's favorite guitar. He's trying to tune it, but it's not quite working. She makes a mental note to replace her E string. "What were you thinking when you guys made out in the parking lot?"

"Blow me," Z says, without venom. She bites her lip and stares at the pile on her bed. The dresses are taunting her. "Seriously, what the fuck, I own six million dresses. How can none of them look good on me right now?"

"They all look good," Ryan says, shrugging a little. "Just pick one, Z. You know he's going to fall all over himself when he sees you."

"But—shit, what if he doesn't," Z says, holding up a bright blue minidress and giving it a critical look. "What if he sees me and goes 'Wow, what a weirdo?' and turns around and leaves me there?"

"Then you get back in your car and come find me," Ryan says reasonably. "And then we can sit around and make those stupid fake margaritas you love, and figure out the best way to hide the body."

"You suck at being supportive," Z says, dropping the blue dress on the bed and pulling on a black skirt. It's short and pleated and sits at her natural waist, and it's one of Z's favorites. "Fuck. Are thigh-highs too much?"

Ryan hmmms noncommittally.

"Thigh-highs, yes or no," Z says, struggling to keep her patience. She suspects Ryan is being obnoxious on purpose—it wouldn't be the first time—but she'd really thought he'd liked Brendon. He'd set up that whole thing, after all, but maybe that had just been Spencer and Tennessee's influence. Maybe this whole thing is a huge mistake.

Ryan finally looks up, setting the guitar down on his lap. "Yes to thigh-highs, but not the yellow ones," he says, after a moment. "White ones. And something, uh—stripey, maybe, for the top. You should wear my beret."

"Thank you," Z says, letting out a breath she didn't realize she had been holding. "Finally, some goddamn advice from the peanut gallery."

Ryan rolls his eyes. "I told you," he says. "He's going to have a spontaneous orgasm when you show up anyway. It doesn't matter, Z. He's head over lame-ass-sneakers for you."

"You should talk," Z says, shrugging into a striped, boat-neck t-shirt. "You have a crush on a girl named after a state."

"No I don't," Ryan says quickly. "I—no."

"Uh-huh," Z says. "Fine. You have a crush on a guy named after an—an. Um. English poet."

"That's...not really an insult," Ryan points out, after a beat of silence. "Also, no."

"I don't believe you," Z says.

"That's nice," Ryan says. Z tilts her head, to see if she can catch Ryan's expression out of the corner of her eye, but he's looking down at her guitar as though it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen.

Fine, then. If he's not going to talk about it, he's not going to talk about it. Z doesn't believe him for a second, but she has far more important things to do right now. Like freak out over this completely absurd and ill-advised date that she's been looking forward to all week, with that unsettling mixture of anticipation and nerves sitting heavy in her stomach.

Z shakes her head, and gives herself an appraising look in the mirror. Still small and scrawny; still too many freckles on her nose, and an odd-shaped chin. Whatever Brendon sees in her, Z's not seeing it right now. She swallows and opens up her makeup case, pulling her eyeliner from the top compartment. She knows it's kind of dumb, but the makeup always makes her feel braver.

"So what are you going to do tonight?" Z says, carefully starting to line one eye with the tiny liquid brush. "Since we can't stick to our usual Friday night schedule of bad movies and takeout."

Ryan's silent for a beat too long, enough to make Z suspicious. She arches an eyebrow at him in the mirror.

"Oh," Ryan says airily. "You know. I thought I'd just go downtown, maybe. Bring a book."

Z turns around, trying not to grin. She's supposed to get mad, she knows, but mostly all she can feel is relief. "Ryan Ross," she says severely. "You are not going to crash my date. I know what you're planning, and the answer is no."

"I was planning something?" Ryan says, giving her an innocent, wide-eyed look. "Me? Never."

"Don't you dare," Z says, and turns back to the mirror. "We are going out to dinner, okay? Brendon. And I. Just us. And I swear to god, if I see you there, I'm smacking you across the face."

"Well, I'm going to that indie bookstore on 7th and Regent," Ryan says. "With my book. And myself. It's not my fault it's across the street from the sushi place."

Z frowns. "I didn't even tell you we were going to the sushi place," she says. "Shit, you're so creepy. Why are we friends?"

"Impeccable music taste," Ryan says, starting to loosen the tuning keys on the head of Z's guitar. "Fake margaritas. Zombie movies."

"Right, right." Z says. "But seriously, if you stalk us, I'm going to kill you. And how did you know we were going for sushi?"

"It wouldn't be stalking," Ryan promises, a grin starting to sneak onto his face. He's not so subtly ignoring Z's second question, which means there's only one place he could have gotten that information from. Z wonders if Ryan knows how incredibly obvious he is. "It only counts as stalking if you don't know me."

"All this time," Z says sadly, to the mirror. "I thought he was such a nice young man."

—

Z picks Brendon up from his house, and she's only about ten minutes late. Which is definitely a first for her. Her inner Ryan has been cackling all the way from her house to Brendon's; actual Ryan has been sending her a mocking (and weirdly punctuated) text every five minutes or so since she dropped him off at the bookstore because the asshole hadn't even brought his car over, like he was counting on her.

Brendon's sitting on the porch steps, and she grins when she sees the way he's fidgeting. Fuck her life, she finds him way too endearing. Even when he writes songs about oral sex.

Okay, she should probably not be thinking about oral sex right now.

Brendon comes bounding down the steps before Z can get out, and he's in the seat next to her almost before she can blink.

"Hey," she says, smiling helplessly.

"Hey," he says, then bites his lip, takes a deep breath and leans in, kissing her carefully. He tugs at her beret when they break apart. "I like this, did you steal it from Ross?"

"Maybe," Z says, then shakes her head. "Actually, it was his idea. Apparently my outfit required a beret, I don't even know how his mind works sometimes. I'm only friends with him out of the goodness of my heart, you know how it is."

"I think it looks great," Brendon says, but he's not really looking at her beret, and Z thinks it's possible he actually wants to say "You look great," but is chickening out a little. That's okay, Z can be brave. It's a lot easier to return a compliment than to acknowledge it might be true.

"You look good," she says, reaching out to smooth a hand over his shoulder. He does, he's wearing a thin blue t-shirt and jeans, and Z's just a little smitten; she can admit it to herself if not out loud.

Brendon shrugs, going a little red, clearly just as uncomfortable with compliments as she is. "So, sushi? Prepare to be dazzled with my chopstick skills, Z Berg, I promise they are something to be seen."

She laughs. "Only if you promise to admire mine in return." She's not exaggerating her prowess; when the new sushi restaurant opened downtown, she and Ryan challenged each other to master the art of eating with Japanese chopsticks and Z had totally won (perhaps through rather intent study of a few Youtube tutorials, but she's not telling).

Unfortunately, it appears both her and Brendon bragged too soon. Z can't seem to make them work right to save her life, and the second time Brendon drops his chopsticks, he somehow also knocks over his plate of soy mixed with wasabi and ends up with an extremely awkward stain on his thigh. He starts snickering almost immediately, and Z laughs so hard she snorts rice up her nose and has to spend some quality time coughing into a napkin.

"We're so suave," she says when she finally feels like she can talk again. God, her makeup has to be smeared all to hell.

"The suavest," Brendon agrees, and dabs ineffectually at his crotch.

"Want me to help you with that?" she says innocently, and cracks up again when he blushes.

"Evil, Z Berg," he says, leaning over the table to poke her in the nose. "Evil and fiendish."

She leans in to meet him and kisses him quickly, mostly because she can't help it but a little bit because she wants to make sure he knows she doesn't mean the teasing.

"Let's try this again," Brendon says, sitting back down.

Z nods. "Want to order a new plate?"

"You mean have I been traumatized enough by this one?" Brendon eyes the plate on the table, then picks up a piece with his fingers, popping it in his mouth. "Nah, I'll live. It's eat-or-be-eaten, apparently."

"Yes," Z agrees. "The squid slices might rise up and eat your face if you don't finish them off first."

—

"You," a voice says, soft and very close to Ryan's ear, "are quite creepy, you know that?"

Ryan whips his head around, startled, and then he's face-to-face with Tennessee Thomas.

"Uh," Ryan says, pulling back a little. Any closer, and they'd be kissing, but Tennessee doesn't seem concerned.

"Shut up," Ryan says lamely, after a moment. "So are you. Don't tell me you're here by accident."

"Of course not," Tennessee says, scoffing, and sitting down across from him with her coffee mug. The bookstore doesn't believe in non-recyclable packaging; the coffee bar in the back serves their drinks in scavenged mugs, and Tennessee's is bright green and has an ugly kitten on it.

"We're here for the exact same reason as you are. Obviously. How's the stalking business tonight?"

"Boring," Ryan says, shrugging a little and placing a receipt in his book to mark the spot. Z and Brendon are silhouetted against the darkened interior of the restaurant; the windows are tinted, but it's easy enough to see them. Ryan would bet a lot of money Z sat there on purpose, so he could see them from the bookstore, which is either very sweet or deeply weird. "I think Brendon dropped something. They stood up at one point and kind of waved their hands around and then Z started dabbing at him with a napkin."

"What, did Brendon spontaneously orgasm again? I hate it when that happens," Spencer says dryly, coming up behind Ryan's shoulder. Ryan startles again. What is it with these two and sneaking up on people?

"You hate it when that happens," Tennessee says, sipping her drink and staring out across the street into the sushi place. "Does that happen to you a lot?"

"Only around you," Spencer mumbles, blushing. Ryan snorts, and then takes a sip of his coffee to cover up the undignified noise he just made.

"Or Ryan," Tennessee murmurs into her coffee, almost too quiet to hear.

Ryan chokes on his coffee.

"Ignore her," Spencer says, pulling up a chair and leaning in, patting Ryan on the back as he coughs and sputters. "She's a terrible flirt. I'm sorry."

"It's fine," Ryan manages to gasp out, once his throat is clear. He coughs again, and then looks up at both of them. "It's fine," Ryan says, deciding that the casual approach is always better, even if it's a little harder to pull off when one has nearly choked to death. "Z's my best friend, remember? Sex jokes are fine. You just—surprised me."

"We're friends now," Tennessee says seriously, tilting her head a little to watch as Brendon and Z lean in towards each other. "I've decided. It's communal stalking and sex jokes from here on out."

"Good to know," Ryan says dryly. "Thanks for the warning."

"You're welcome," Tennessee says solemnly.

—

"So what do you want to do now?" Z says, shrugging her coat on as she stands up.

"I actually have to get home," Brendon says, looking slightly embarrassed. "It's—it's really dumb. My aunt has her bridge club coming over tomorrow, and I said I would help clean the house this week, and I sort of. Haven't. There was some other stuff going on?" He peers at Z and she has to look down, hiding her smile. "So anyway, I have about four hours of chores to catch up on before tomorrow morning."

"Too bad," Z says mildly, tucking her hand in his as they walk out the front door. "We'll have to disappoint our stalking club, then."

"Stalking club?" Brendon says, and Z grins, pointing across the busy street. Ryan and Spencer and Tennessee are silhouetted in the window, entirely ignoring her and Brendon. Spencer's waving his arms around a bit, Ryan's nodding seriously and Tennessee is shaking her head. "Why am I not surprised," Brendon says, grinning ruefully. "Although it looks like they've found something to focus on other than us, doesn't it?"

"Apparently," Z says, going up on her tip-toes to try and get a closer look. "Are they arguing? I hope everything's okay."

"I will bet you a lot of money that Spencer just found an ally in Ryan for his opinions about the musical genius of Moulin Rouge," Brendon says. "It's an ongoing battle. Tennessee thinks it's all hackneyed crap and doesn't see the point. They were talking about it at lunch today."

"Ryan loves Moulin Rouge," Z says. "Like. I'm pretty sure he knows all the words."

"So does Spencer," Brendon says.

"Suddenly the world seems such a perfect place," Z murmurs, because she's seen it enough times with Ryan to know all the words. It's not her favorite, but she can appreciate the glitz and the glamor and the tragedy. Hackneyed crap is definitely a little bit harsh.

"Suddenly it moves with such a perfect grace," Brendon says, grinning. Z blinks in surprise. She would not have pegged Brendon for a Moulin Rouge fan, except—well, actually. Maybe that makes a lot of sense. "Anyway. I was going to say, I need to go home tonight, but are you, uh. Are you busy tomorrow? I was thinking maybe we could work on some music or something. If you're up for it," Brendon says, looking away and blushing. "I know we're not quite on the same level, but I—"

"Oh my god, stop that," Z says, rolling her eyes. "I've seen you play, Brendon. You're good. You're way better than me at acoustic stuff. None of this fake modesty."

"It's not fake modesty, it's 100% real insecurity," Brendon cracks, but Z knows he's being serious.

"You're allowed to come over tomorrow only if you agree to stop putting yourself down," Z says firmly, pulling her keys out to unlock her car. "I wouldn't be saying yes if I didn't think you were awesome. I don't let just anyone hear my terrible, barely-formed demos," Z says, smiling to blunt the words.

"It's a deal," Brendon says. "Tomorrow it is."

—

Brendon shows up with a sheaf of music, a guitar, and a notebook that she's not allowed to look through because, he says, "Your lyrics are too good, I'd be embarrassed." He doesn't say it like he minds or like he wants her to cajole him into showing them to her with heaps of flattery or something; he says it like he's honestly happy that she's decent at the writing thing and ugh, Z is so smitten.

They opt for the living room because of the piano; Z was thinking her room (no ulterior motives! really), but when Brendon sees the piano, his eyes go a little soft.

"My aunt doesn't have one," he murmurs, and Z doesn't ask why he's living with his aunt. Instead, she walks over to the couch and picks up the acoustic she left in the living room last night, and motions him over to sit down. She strums a few chords, but she's having trouble looking away from him and actually focusing on the music.

"Your posture is all weird," she blurts, looking up at Brendon, and then wants to hide, because seriously, what?

His eyebrows go up. "What do you mean?"

"You just," she bites her lip. "Your back is so straight, it's not the way you usually sit."

He laughs a little self-deprecatingly. "Blame Mrs. Edelman, my piano teacher. She was a former concert pianist. She used to tell me I shouldn't even try to follow in her footsteps because that was the road to perfectionism and self-flagellation and no one wants that life, let alone a nice boy like me, but that I should keep playing. And playing. And she sat like a—I don't know, something really straight."

"Uh, a ruler?"

Brendon goes a bit red. "Right, yeah, a ruler."

Z grins at him. "I hear they're straight, rulers."

"It's a lie," Brendon says. "It's a lie so they can be all, uh, bent in secret."

"I won't ask if you don't tell," Z promises solemnly.

Brendon leans down awkwardly and kisses her on the lips, so lightly she can hardly feel it.

"No, come here," she says, and she is not breathless, she's totally not, and grabs his shirt and pulls.

This does not go spectacularly well.

"Ow," says Brendon plaintively once they've sorted themselves out.

"Where does it hurt?" Z says, and Brendon licks his lower lip.

"Here," he says, indicating his shoulder. His eyes are dark. Z doesn't think it's because of the pain.

She leans over and touches her mouth to his shoulder. He's warm through his t-shirt.

"Where else?" she says, and her voice has gone low and a tiny bit scratchy. For a second, she wishes she could figure out how to imitate that and finally sing "Fever" the way it deserves to be sung, but she forgets about it pretty fast, because Brendon is so close to her now. Maybe she should have worn something with sleeves; all that warmth near the bare skin on her arms feels like the worst kind of tease.

Brendon's blushing. Z ruthlessly clamps down on the part of her that thinks it's adorable.

"Here," he says, and touches his mouth.

She leans in and kisses him, really kisses him, and she shivers when his hands slide up her back, repaying in kind and upping the ante by slipping her fingers underneath the hem of his shirt. She wants, oh, she wants so much.

They roll over again, and it's totally uncomfortable but Z doesn't care much, because Brendon is slowly and carefully mimicking her, one hand coming down and up to flatten against her lower back. She does care when her dad comes home and calls from other end of the house, and they spring apart guiltily. Her dad doesn't come into the living room though, and Z takes a deep breath and doesn't look at Brendon.

"Want to go upstairs? I, um, there's no piano, but we could, I have guitars? Another guitar. And I think Laena left her acoustic here."

"Guitars," Brendon says, and he's still staring at her mouth. Z bites her lip and his ears go a little red (god help her, it is totally adorable). He shakes his head. "Upstairs, right."

Once they're in her room things go all awkward again. Brendon's standing over by the door while she sits on the bed and tries to figure out a way to say, "Hey, get over here," without actually saying that. She's never been with anyone who didn't start out by taking the initiative, and now she's wondering how they dared, because this is hard. Finally she just holds out her hand a little plaintively, and Brendon breathes in sharply and comes over to her, sliding his hand onto hers and twining their fingers together.

She looks up at him through her eyelashes. "Kiss me again," she says, sort of decisively, or trying for it anyway, and Brendon bends down and does as he's told. Fuck, but it's good, his mouth is so soft and hesitant and he follows her lead so well it makes her shiver. Pulling on his hand gets her a Brendon on her lap, which should be more backwards than it is; it's just good, because she can hug him close and he's tiny enough that it works and—

"Shit," he says against her mouth, "shit, this is—"

"What?" she whispers.

He shakes his head and nudges his nose along her jaw, mouthing at the skin of her neck. Z shudders and puts a hand on his neck, trying to hint without telling him that it'd be really nice if he kept doing that. Even if Ryan will give her shit about hickeys, whatever, she can totally wear a scarf. Brendon obliges, and Z knows her breathing's going all raggedy. She's wet, she thinks, and she tries to remember the last time she wanted someone this much before they'd even taken their clothes off.

Suddenly, Brendon makes a noise against her skin and Z realises that her hands have slipped down to curve around his hips, fingers touching where his shirt is riding up.

"Can I take your shirt off?" she says breathlessly, surprising herself.

Brendon pulls away and meets her eyes. Fuck, his lips are all red; Z touches them without even thinking, and feels a tug of arousal when Brendon kisses at her fingers.

"Yeah," Brendon says then, and she blinks before realizing what he means. It takes both of them to get the t-shirt off and Z is giggling, but she stops when it hits the floor and there's all that skin in front of her, shit.

"You too," he says against her mouth, and she grins. She's insecure about a great many things but the bra she is wearing, it's a good one.

They pull her tank top off, fingers tangling together, and it's, oh, his eyes go even darker when he sees her, but he doesn't touch, he just looks.

"Come on," she says breathlessly, and takes one of his hands, putting it on her breast. His mouth opens but he still doesn't say anything, he just traces the edge of her bra and holy shit, Z can't breathe. "Brendon," she says, "Brendon, come on," and gets a hand into his hair to kiss him again. His hands are so careful on her skin, it's almost like he's afraid to touch her, which doesn't make any sense, because fuck, his hands. She never wants him to stop touching her.

She's also having trouble doing anything but touching him; her hands keep traveling the length of his back, cupping his shoulders, sliding down his arms and back again and up into his hair. Brendon arches into her fingers and it's hard to even think when he does that, because he just, the way he moves.

"You, you're—" she says against his mouth and he shakes his head.

"You," he says, "fuck, Z." She squeezes at his hips and pulls him down against her. They both moan at that; Z briefly considers stopping and getting more naked because she wants, okay, she wants, but she can't even, she can't let go.

Brendon's phone rings. Z expects him to ignore it, but he squirms around (which, fuck, unfair, and she tells him so) and digs it out of his pocket.

"Fuck, it's my reminder alarm," he says, sounding like the end of the world is nigh. She digs her nails in a little and his eyelids flutter shut.

"Is it important?" she says, and she should sound more arch, she thinks, more arch and inviting or something that would make her more convincing and make him more likely to stay, but all she sounds is a little desperate.

"I have work," he says, and fuck. Fuck her life, seriously.

"Okay." She kisses him one more time and manages to let go of him. He groans and kisses her again and doesn't actually move. "I'm not actually going to push you off," she says. "You have to go to work, but, but I can't make you."

He shakes his head. "God, I don't want to go," he says, his hands moving up to touch her face and tilt her chin up. "I don't want, leaving is the last thing I want."

"You and me both," she manages, and hides her face in his shoulder when she blushes. She never blushes, what is this?

"Okay," he says, touching at her hair. "Okay, like. I have to go, but." He breathes out shakily.

Z bites down on the "Call me?" that wants to come out. She's not sure whether she wants him to call because she just wants or if, well. No, she totally knows. "You should go so you're not late. Do, do you want me to drive you? I have to go to rehearsal anyway," she says, realizing how much time has actually passed when she sees her clock purse on the floor.

He kisses her again on the stairs and she pushes him up against the door in the garage and sucks a mark into his neck because, well. She traces it with a fingernail and shivers a little at how dark his eyes go.

For the record, she's never driven this badly in her life, missing two stop signs and running a red light because she forgets to look at the road every two minutes with Brendon in her car, but she gets them both there in one piece.

—

"What?" Z says, because Annie and Laena are staring at her and she doesn't know what's going on. Laena's mouth is twitching a little. Z's not sure why they all stopped in the middle of the song. She thought it had been going well that time.

"Z—" Annie starts.

Laena grins. "Z, is there something you want to tell us?"

"No?" Z says, wincing at how much it sounds like a question. It's pretty hard to focus today, she's, uh. A little distracted. Earlier, they had to start "Fair Game" over three times in a row.

"Z, you sang 'don't even try to run away/why would you want to'".

Ooops. "Just trying something out?" she says, trying for flippant. "I don't think it works."

"Uh, no," Laena says, and really, Z is very glad that Laena got over whatever it was that had her so hesitant about offering up opinions before, but right now she wouldn't mind the old Laena, just so she could maintain control over the rehearsal.

"Maybe we should take five," Annie says, and yes, that's a good plan. Five minutes should help make her more focused. Except then she sits down and it's kind of like she can still feel the phantom weight of Brendon in her lap, and fuck. Fuck. She leans her forehead against her knees and closes her eyes for a second.

Her phone beeps. The message is from Brendon. im dying, it says. Z chokes out a laugh, she can't help it.

Right on the heels of that one comes a second message: cant beleive i sent that. Fuck her life, she's not even annoyed at his terrible spelling or even his lack of capital letters. Me too, with the dying, she sends back, and smiles at her phone.

—

It doesn't seem like Z even cares that she has a phone today, Ryan thinks. He's been texting Z because he can't remember how to solve this damn trigonometry problem and he knows she takes better notes than he does, but this is just hopeless.

Ryan's not actually annoyed because Z's not answering his texts. Sometimes that happens; he knows she's theoretically at band practice, and she normally never touches her phone when she's rehearsing. But, like, band practice started an hour ago, and she hasn't picked up or texted all morning, and. He knows she planned on spending that time with Brendon. Who apparently warranted enough attention that she hasn't been answering his texts.

Ryan sighs, snapping his phone shut again for the eight time and setting it down on the fake-wood table. The Green Cauldron is always packed on Saturday afternoons; if he were smart, he would have gone to the library to study, but the wrestling team tends to hang out in the school parking lot on the weekends. Also, he's tired of being yelled at for sneaking in food and coffee in his backpack. Some people seem to think that studying can be accomplished without espresso and apples, but Ryan's never been able to get anything done like that.

Not that he's being all that productive now. He pushes the papers around on the tiny circular table he'd managed to grab and sighs. He hasn't even looked at his English assignments yet, and after he gets done with this stupid practice test he has to write a three-page essay on the Napoleonic Wars for AP European History. It feels like there's no end to it all.

He would just say fuck it, but he knows a scholarship is his only way out of this hellhole.

He drains the last of his second shot of espresso, setting it down firmly. He tells himself it doesn't matter that Z is disgustingly adorable with her new boyfriend. It doesn't matter that this is how it's going to be from now on. Ryan is truly, honestly thrilled for them, in that place deep down in his heart where he feels actual emotions. Z and Brendon together are like this weird tsunami of adorable; they can't seem to stop grinning at each other, and the force of it tends to rub off on people like Ryan when he's spending time with them.

But they're not here right now, so it doesn't matter. Ryan isn't being accidentally stockholmed into being happy, so he has time to remember how he's fucking lonely and he still hates this town and he's never, ever going to get as lucky as Z and Brendon. He's not kidding himself that they're going to last forever, but it still seems like it would be really fucking nice to have someone.

"Napoleon getting you down?" a voice says, very close to his ear. Ryan jumps, whipping his head around to see Spencer Smith leaning over him, holding a large coffee. "That guy was a bastard," Spencer says, grinning slightly at him. "He's making everyone's life miserable this weekend."

"Right," Ryan says, faintly. "Um. What?"

"Tennessee's in the other section of AP Euro History," Spencer says, his smiling turning rueful. "She's slogging away at it as we speak, and I'm stuck here buying coffee and trying to entertain myself."

"Sucks to be her," Ryan says, without thinking. He pauses. "And me," he adds, after a moment. Spencer's still standing over him, and Ryan has to crane his neck slightly to keep him in view. He's dressed down, even more so than he usually is; messy hair, an old hoodie, worn jeans and sneakers. Ryan swallows, and tries not to think about all the ways Spencer could have gotten so rumpled. He's been enforcing a strict policy of not even thinking about Spencer and Tenn that way, because there's being a glutton for punishment and then there's actually driving yourself insane.

Spencer nods sympathetically. "I should probably let you get back to work," Spencer says, looking down at his shoes. There's a rip in the toe of his left Converse. "I just wanted to say hi, I guess."

"Hi," Ryan says, smiling before he can talk himself out of it.

"Hi," Spencer says, grinning back.

The moment stretches out. Ryan's stomach is stupid and messy. Everything about this is messy.

Damn, Spencer has really adorable freckles.

"Fuck it," Ryan says, shaking his head and looking back and forth between Spencer and the table full of homework he should be doing. Not a big deal, he tells himself. This is what friends do. Or people who want to be friends. They hang out. Ryan doesn't think about how he hasn't made new friends in approximately forever.

"Let's go," Ryan says, standing up and starting to shove his papers in his backpack. "You're bored. I'm sick of staring at this practice test. It's too nice outside for this bullshit."

Spencer blinks at him in surprise, a pleased, happy expression stealing onto his face. "You want to hang out?" Spencer says, carefully, like he's checking to make sure he heard Ryan correctly. "With me?"

"Yeah," Ryan says resolutely, but has no idea what to suggest. "We'll go do...something."

"Hell yeah," Spencer says. "That would be awesome."

"Cool," Ryan says mildly, shrugging his backpack up on to his shoulder. His stomach is more of a mess than ever, but he's determined not to let Spencer know. "Let's go, then."

—

"Oh, hey," Ryan says, when they're walking past the music shop. "Hold up. I need to duck in here for a second."

Spencer shrugs. "No problem," he says. "Tenn broke one of my sticks a few days ago when she was practicing a fill. I need some new ones."

"Right," Ryan says, nodding. Then he stops, pulling Spencer back from the entranceway with a hand on his arm and tugging him over to the side. "Wait," Ryan says. "Wait, what?"

"Tenn broke one of my sticks," Spencer says slowly. "I need new ones. I figured I'd come in with you instead of standing out here and enjoying the ambiance."

"You drum," Ryan says flatly. "You and—and Tennessee. You're both drummers."

"...is that a problem?" Spencer says, looking mildly concerned. "Are you anti-drummer or something?"

"Z needs a drummer," Ryan says, tightening his hand on Spencer's arm. Spencer's hoodie is soft and worn underneath his fingers. "They need a drummer so bad, you don't even know—wait, yes you do, you heard them at the show, why didn't you—both of you—seriously—"

"Wouldn't that have been kind of weird?" Spencer says, looking down at his feet. "We didn't even know you guys yet. Or, well, we knew who you were but—" Spencer snaps his mouth shut. Ryan frowns.

"What?" Ryan says.

"Nothing," Spencer says, after a moment. "Anyway. It would have been super weird. And you guys would have just brushed us off anyway." He tilts his head as if to say wouldn't you have?

"Well," Ryan says, stepping back and letting go of his death-grip on Spencer's arm. "Yeah. Probably."

"See?" Spencer says, giving him a rueful smile.

"But that doesn't matter," Ryan says earnestly. "Look, it's cool, we're friends now. Or something. And you guys would—Tennessee would be perfect for them, or even you, if you didn't mind being in a band with all girls—"

"Of course I wouldn't mind, but you've never even heard us play," Spencer says, shaking his head a little in amazement. "And the thing with Tennessee—it's. Kind of complicated. I don't know if she wants to be in a band."

"So uncomplicate it," Ryan says firmly.

"Yeah, no," Spencer says, his voice a little flat. "I'm not actually a magician. I can't just snap my fingers and fix everything."

"Try," Ryan says, holding Spencer's gaze.

Spencer looks away, staring over Ryan's shoulder at the busy street. He's biting his lip a little. "I could—I could talk to her about it, I guess," Spencer says eventually. "She's better than I am, anyway. Z would want her before she'd want me. But I'm not promising anything."

"That's okay," Ryan says. "As soon as we're done here, we go back to wherever the hell your kit is, and you promise to play for me."

"I can do that," Spencer says, after a minute. He looks a little bit like a deer in headlights, but he squares his shoulders and nods at Ryan. "I suppose it's a fair trade for not telling you guys. Promise you won't laugh when I suck."

"You haven't heard me play guitar," Ryan mutters, finally standing aside so Spencer can pass by him to get into the shop. Spencer pauses in the doorway and gives Ryan a weird look, but then he shakes himself, letting the subject drop. Ryan is grateful. He didn't mean to say that out loud in the first place, especially not to someone who hangs out with Brendon-the-musical-genius all the time; Spencer's not going to be impressed by Ryan's erstwhile fumblings.

—

George Ryan Ross, Ryan thinks to himself. George Ryan Ross, you are a big fucking idiot, what were you thinking.

Spencer's kit is in a small room off his parent's basement; it's barely big enough for Spencer and his drums and Ryan, who is currently sitting on a folding chair that Spencer grabbed on their way down. The room has dark wood paneling, with a single rectangular window set up high in the top of the wall. The late-afternoon light illuminates an ever-present swirl of dust motes, falling on Spencer's kit and then bouncing up again as he plays.

And, and. Fuck.

Spencer can play.

Ryan can feel the air move every time Spencer plays something particularly complicated, the slight breeze from the cymbals. Spencer plays fast, with his whole body, and Ryan is way too close and the drums are ringing in his ears, perfect and overwhelming. Spencer is sweating, entirely focused, but looking up every once in a while to grin at Ryan, to send him a look that says yeah? what do you think? yeah?

Ryan's throat is dry. Somewhere in the back of his head, Ryan is utterly certain that Spencer has no idea just how good he is. He's phenomenal. He's missed a beat twice, just twice, in—actually, Ryan's not sure how long he's been playing. If Tennessee is even better than he is—actually, Ryan can't think about that too much, or his breathing starts to go all funny.

His breathing's kind of going funny anyway. Spencer is really, really fucking hot when he plays the drums. Ryan figures that as soon as he steps out of this room he can go back to lying to himself, but here and now it's such an obvious fact that there's no point in denying that Ryan wants Spencer in a very physical and totally inappropriate way. Ryan wants him in a way that is never going to happen, because Spencer will be off having hot sex with his hot-ass girlfriend who also plays the drums and—shit.

Ryan just needs to stop thinking.

Part Two | Part Four

almostblue — Mon, 27 Jun 2011 08:25:15 GMT

Master Post

Ryan's phone beeps on Monday afternoon, just as he's leaving AP European History. The text from Z just says come over, and Ryan nods at his phone and then slips it back into his front pocket. He'd been expecting that text ever since he woke up this morning to a message that said mental health day. you in? Ryan had wanted to, he'd really, really wanted to, but he'd spent all of Sunday slogging away on that goddamn paper about why Napoleon decided to take over the rest of Europe. Not turning it in seemed like a monumentally stupid idea. He'd sat up in bed, groaning in frustration, and then typed back i cant, shit, AP paper due and stumbled off to the shower with a sour feeling in his stomach. His day hadn't improved much from there.

Ryan can see Tennessee's tall frame at the end of the hallway, and he turns to the side, ducking his head and walking as fast as he can to the buses. He can't put his hat on until he leaves school grounds, but he can at least make himself less noticeable until he's safely away. Tennessee is just—Ryan just can't fucking deal with them right now, can't handle being at the center of all of that energy and cheerfulness. He doesn't want to talk to Spencer and Tennessee and watch them hold hands, accidentally, like they're not even realizing they're doing it. He just wants to escape, and maybe by the time he's walking up Z's driveway the tightness in his chest will have faded away.

Ryan slips into the line for the bus that'll take him to Z's neighborhood, pulling his hat and headphones out while he's waiting to board. He ignores the freshmen wrestlers (they have to be subtle in public, but they don't generally let that prevent them from pushing or shoving at him when the closest teacher isn't looking).

By the time he's managed to find a seat, the bus is pulling away from the curb and all Ryan has to do is close his eyes and listen, letting his head fall back against the cheap, slippery brown plastic. It's a shorter ride to Z's house than it is to his own. Ryan only makes it through five songs before the bus is stopping at the street that curves into Z's neighborhood, and he ducks his head down as he walks off, ignoring the whispered insults he can hear even through the headphones. It doesn't matter. He's almost home, almost safe, and fuck what these guys think about him and Z and everyone who doesn't fit into their standards of behavior. He's suddenly, painfully glad that Z doesn't have to do this anymore. She scraped together enough money to buy a car almost as soon as she'd gotten her permit, and even though she steadfastly maintains that it was because she needed something to haul her gear around in, Ryan knows that a large part of it had to do with the assholes on her bus.

"Keep walking, faggot," someone—probably Carl, the stupid sophomore who thinks fucking with Ryan is the route to popularity—yells out the window as soon as Ryan's on the curb. He keeps his back straight, shoulders back, as he walks away with the other kids who live in Z's neighborhood, none of whom he knows. None of whom will do anything but stare, either—the special brand of assholes that will beat you up if you're not careful don't live in Z's neighborhood. Thankfully. It's only as he's turning into her street, shielded by the tight row of trees that Mrs. Lee-who-lives-on-the-corner planted when they were kids, that he lets himself slump.

God, Ryan hates this fucking town.

The door to Z's house is open when he walks up, latched but not locked. He pushes it in slowly, listening for signs of life. Z's definitely here, but Ryan's not sure where here is until he hears the faint sound of an acoustic guitar coming from upstairs. Ryan tugs his headphones out, silent now, and walks up the stairs. He pushes the door open to Z's room and she's sitting on the bed with her guitar, one leg crooked and bent underneath her, one leg stretched out towards the doorway. She's playing something soft and quick, a sad melody that sounds like an old folk song.

"Hey," Ryan says quietly, once she's finished. Z smiles at him, holding out her hand.

"Come here," Z says, waving him over. "Come sit with me. I'm working on something. What do you think?"

"Let me hear it again," Ryan says, dumping his backpack on the floor.

"Just close your eyes and listen," Z says, and Ryan leans back against her pillows shoved up against the headboard, closing his eyes. He tries to just breathe and listen, imagining Z's fingers on the fret, to let the music wash over him like a wave. It's good, it always is, but on first listen it doesn't sound like something that would work for The Like. It's sadder and rougher, more like a country melody than anything else.

Z plays it three times, pausing occasionally when she wants to work out a progression or fiddle with a bridge. Ryan keeps his eyes closed. He's still not relaxed, not even close, but he feels a little less...brittle around the edges, and he can't escape from the way he's feeling anymore. Z is playing him a song that sounds like it's about love lost, or love never had, or love once had and then forgotten, and with anyone else he'd be getting up and leaving the room. But Z's different. Ryan isn't going to take this out on her. He's just going to sit here and listen, and try to come up with something constructive to say that isn't about the ache in his chest, even if, even if—

This whole thing really fucking hurts.

"Something tells me you're not thinking about the song," Z says softly, eventually. "What's up, Ry. Shitty day?"

"No," Ryan says, rolling over, away from Z. "It's fine. I mean, calling it a 'shitty day' would imply that there are days which are less shitty, so."

"Yeah," Z says. "I know. I just—couldn't do it. Today. I didn't have anything important in class, and I wanted to work on this song."

"And you didn't call Brendon?" Ryan says, turning back. He tries to keep the hurt tone of out of his voice, because he's not trying to be a dick. He's honestly surprised that Z texted him instead of Brendon.

"Maybe I didn't want to hang out with Brendon today," Z says airly, and then relents when Ryan gives her an unimpressed look. "Fine, I always want to hang out with Brendon. But it doesn't mean I'm going to. He's not everything, Ryan. He's a nice guy and I like him a whole fucking lot, but he's not you."

"Yeah," Ryan says, turning back to his very important activity of staring up at the ceiling. "I'm glad you have him."

"Wow, could you sound any less excited about it?" Z says, setting her guitar down. She shifts on the bed until she's pressed up against Ryan's side, her head tipped onto his shoulder. "You're jealous," Z says softly, and it's not a question.

"I'm," Ryan says, and then stops for a moment to make sure this comes out right, because unlike every other guy that Z's dated, he's not actually jealous of Brendon. Fuck if he knows why, but it's true. "I'm not jealous of you and Brendon," Ryan says carefully. "I like him. He's good for you, and he respects you, and he's kind of a lamer but whatever, you seem to be into that lately, so it's good." Z quirks an eyebrow at him, waiting for Ryan to continue. "I just kind of sometimes wish I could have that," Ryan whispers, when it's becoming obvious that Z isn't going to let him off the hook. "I mean—whatever. It's not a big deal."

"Why don't you think you can have that?" Z says, after a few moments have passed with neither of them speaking.

"Because I can't," Ryan says. "I don't—fuck, Z. Don't make me do this." He's tensing up, gritting his teeth.

"You remember when we were kids?" Z says suddenly. "We were seven, I think. And we watched that movie, and you told me afterwards that you'd always be my secret-keeper if I would be yours."

"Z," Ryan says. The words come out cracked around the edges. He doesn't think he can have this conversation. Saying the words out loud, fuck, it'll make it real.

It's going to hurt more if it's real.

"I am the only person you ever have to tell," Z says, her voice a low whisper. "And I think I know what you're going to say but let it go, Ryan. I'll carry the secret for you, you don't have to—"

"Fuck you," Ryan says, tunelessly. He owes Z this, and maybe she's even right, but he just doesn't want to.

"Say it," Z says, and when Ryan looks over her eyes are large and solemn, and she's squeezing his hand almost painfully. "Do I have to go get the razor? We'll swear with blood again, if we have to, but Ryan Ross, I am telling you right now that sometimes I know you better than you do. This is fucking eating you up inside. If we have to fucking—exorcise you or something, after, we can. But you can't stay like this."

Ryan breathes.

"Don't get the razor," he says. Z's fingers are warm and firm in his own. He tips his head onto to her shoulder, letting his eyes close. Z smells good. Familiar. Z bends down and presses a kiss to the top of Ryan's hair and then whispers just tell me. Ryan nods against her shirt. He can feel her heart beating.

"This is the stupidest thing I've ever fucking done," Ryan whispers back. His eyes feel hot. "They're in love, Z. They're in love and they've been in love and I don't want to fuck that up, not even in my head. There's never going to be space for me. Not the way I want." Ryan rubs at his forehead. "And they don't fucking get it, they keep coming back and coming back and I don't understand why they can't just leave me alone."

"Because they like you," Z says, smoothing her hand over Ryan's hair. "Because Spencer and Tenn, they're—good people."

"But they don't love me," Ryan says, forcing the words out. Now that he's started, he might as well fucking finish. "They never will. I'm always going to have to watch them be happy together. Every single smile, everything just makes it hurt more. And I can't fucking say anything. I can't do anything except take it and—" Ryan swallows, sucking in air. "And it hurts," Ryan says, closing his eyes. "It hurts more than I thought something could."

"I know," Z says. And then, "Thank you."

"Any fucking time," Ryan mutters, keeping his eyes closed. Z must have been lying, because he doesn't feel any better after saying it out loud. He just feels tired. Hollow.

"Ryan," Z says, poking Ryan's nose until he opens his eyes. "Look at me."

"I don't even like you right now," Ryan says, but they both know it's a lie.

"That was rough," Z says, nodding at him. "Don't think I don't get that. I'm going to hug you for a while now, and you're going to shut up and like it. And then we're going to go downstairs and cook up the most self-indulgent shit we can find in my kitchen. Macaroni and cheese with bacon. Brownies. Whatever," Z says. "Whatever you want. And then we're going to sit on the couch and watch bad movies all night."

"That's not going to fix this," Ryan says tiredly.

"Nothing's going to fix this," Z says, and it's another punch to the gut, but a clean one. Ryan blinks at Z and then he nods, because well, yeah. It's almost refreshing to hear someone say it out loud. "I can't fix this for you. There's nothing we can do. So I'm going to hug you and then we're going to go indulge the shit out of ourselves for a while."

"Okay," Ryan says. His chest is starting to feel a little less hollow. "I—okay."

—

The roadtrip is Tennessee's idea.

Well, Spencer concedes, idea might be too strong. She basically comes up to him at the beginning of their lunch period and says, "Spencer, can we—could we potentially not do this today? Spencer?" looking tired and fragile (like she pretty much never does, especially not in public) before he's nodding and texting Brendon. He wants a break too, and he's betting Brendon could use an afternoon of not sitting still. They meet Brendon outside the lunch room and go downstairs.

They run into Ryan and Z on their way, and Spencer doesn't have to look at either Brendon or Tennessee before he says, "We're getting out of here. You want to—"

(He especially doesn't have to look at Brendon, he can practically feel the smile starting on Brendon's face without even turning his head.)

Z answers for them both, nodding and looking relieved. Ryan's looking really tired. Spencer aches to ask, but can't quite figure out how.

They sneak out through the back door of the orchestra room. The fire alarm's been broken for years; if someone presses down on the glass casing while the door's open, the alarm won't ring. It's a two-person operation, but Ryan and Z have it down to a science. Spencer is entirely impressed. He and Tenn usually just cut and run through the football fields, counting on their long legs to get them past the tree line in time before they're spotted.

"I like a girl who can disable an alarm system," Brendon mock-whispers, slipping past Z and through the door that Ryan's holding open. Z rolls her eyes, motioning the rest of them to move faster. "This only works for sixty seconds," Z hisses. "Move, come on guys." Ryan waits until the last moment, grabbing at the locking mechanism just as Z lets go of the casing. It's a delicate dance, but they manage to shimmy Z through the opening before the door shuts, with Ryan's long fingers trapping the latch bolt until the last possible second.

There's a moment of breathless fear, and then the silence rings out, the muted noises of a school during lunch break safe behind the door. Z smiles widely in satisfaction. Ryan squeezes her elbow.

Z's little hatchback is a tight squeeze, but she says she wants to drive, and no one argues, shuffling into seats and settling in. Tennessee tips her head against Spencer's shoulder, quiet and still. Ryan is next to her, staring out the window, and Brendon and Z are whispering hurriedly in the front seats.

"If we're going somewhere, we should go now," Spencer says, watching the door of the school carefully for any signs of life. Z nods, whispers one more thing to Brendon, and then starts the engine. They pull out of the lot slow and steady, but Z only waits two blocks before hitting the gas. Spencer blinks, startled into high alert by the sudden jolt of blues music through the stereo and the wind in his face.

"Thank god," Z calls out, over the sound of Dan Aeurbach's rough, throaty croon. "I thought we were never going to get out of there."

"And whose fault would that be?" Ryan says, smiling a little at the front seat. "Took you two long enough to make an action plan."

"Playing hooky is seriously business," Brendon deadpans, turning around to look down at Ryan over the rims of his chunky glasses. "Important decisions had to be made."

"Important decisions like...lunch?" Spencer guesses, as they pull into the parking lot of the supermarket down the street.

"Important decisions like picnic supplies," Z says, turning off the engine with a click. "Stay here, guys. Brendon and I will be right back." Tennessee hums in response, a sad little noise. Spencer smooths his hand over the back of her hair. Her eyes are closed, lashes soft and dark against her cheeks.

"Is she okay?" Ryan says softly, almost a whisper.

"I'm right here," Tennessee murmurs. Ryan smiles humorlessly.

"Are you okay?" Ryan says. His shoulder is pressed up against hers.

"No," Tennessee says, after a moment.

"Me either," Ryan says, so soft it's barely audible. Spencer looks over to see Tennessee's hand snaking out from between them, her fingers curling around the back of Ryan's hand. Ryan sighs a little, and squeezes back.

—

Spencer wakes up abruptly when Brendon shoves a bag full of groceries on his lap. "Hold this," Brendon says, and Spencer nods dumbly. Tennessee sneezes, shoving the plastic bag out of her face and blinking at Brendon in confusion. Next to her, Z is loading Ryan's lap up with bottles of lemonade and cranberry juice and seltzer, while Ryan makes confused noises and then burrows back into his sweatshirt. "Did we all fall asleep?" Spencer asks, his brain stupid and slow, and Z nods. "Sorry," Z says. "That kind of took a while. We got, uh. Distracted."

"Distracted?" Spencer says, raising an eyebrow. "In a supermarket?"

"Single-stall bathrooms with locks!" Brendon says, grinning widely.

Z leans over and smacks him in the head. "Shut up," she says. "They did not need to know that."

"You would have told Ryan eventually," Brendon says. "I'm just being a good friend, Z. I'm improving Spencer and Tenn's sex life."

"I'm going to improve your face if you don't stop talking," Z says darkly. Spencer can feel Tennessee snickering into his chest.

—

The next time Spencer wakes up, they're turning onto a dirt road far outside of town. Tennessee's still zonked out on his chest, but Ryan is rolling down his window and lighting a clove, sweatshirt marks still pressed into his cheek.

"Hey," Spencer mumbles, and flails a hand out until he can pat at Ryan's shoulder. Ryan looks over at Spencer, and then he smiles a little and hands it over. The smoke is sweet; it smells like incense and spice, and Spencer takes a long drag.

"Don't inhale," Ryan says, when Spencer passes it back. "Just breathe it in and hold it and then blow it out. And then lick your lips."

"I know how to smoke a clove," Spencer says, but he still relishes the taste of molasses that's left on his lips. He thinks about kissing Tennessee, just to share, but something stops him. Ryan is looking away from him, dappled sunlight playing on his delicate features as they drive through the trees. Spencer wants to kiss him, wants to pull the taste of sugar off his mouth and offer it up to Tennessee. Wants to watch as Tennessee takes a drag, her lips forming a perfect "O" around the filter, and then trades her taste back to Ryan.

Spencer wants a lot of things.

"We're here," Z says, pulling off at an unlabeled fork in the road. There's a small patch of dirt, barely marked as a parking lot except for one crooked sign. There's a trail leading into the woods, but it takes a sharp left after a few yards and Spencer can't tell where it leads.

"Should I be concerned that you're leading us all out here for nefarious purposes?" Spencer says, climbing out once Brendon's hopped out and pushed the front seat forward. "You guys didn't pick up axes and shovels at the supermarket, did you?"

"If I killed Ryan I wouldn't have anyone to go shopping with," Z says dismissively. She pops the trunk open, standing in bare feet while she kicks her heels off and switches to a pair of low flats. Then she pulls out two blankets, handing them to Spencer. Spencer looks around for more things to carry, but Tennessee and Ryan are standing next to the car, leaning on each other and yawning, each loaded up with grocery supplies. He shrugs, and tucks the blankets under his arm.

The sunlight is warm through the trees as they set off, heat that quickly fades as they move through the patchwork trail of light and shadow. Brendon and Z walk ahead of them, holding hands. Spencer feels strange, breathless and weightless. Tennessee is quiet next to him, but with a tiny smile on her face that suggests she's not feeling quite so fragile anymore. Ryan lags behind.

"I can carry one of those," Spencer says, turning around to check on Ryan.

"I've got it," Ryan says. He bites his lip, then looks away. "I'm fine. You don't need to help."

"I'll trade you a blanket for a lemonade," Spencer says, holding it out in front of him. "I'm really thirsty." It's a slight lie, but with a purpose. Spencer's starting to understand Ryan a little bit better than he used to.

"Okay," Ryan says, after a pause. Their hands brush when Spencer takes the cool plastic bottle away, tucking it under his arm. "Do you know where we're going?" Spencer says, letting Tennessee continue ahead with Brendon and Z. He can hear Brendon's voice rising in mock-outrage, and he suspects Tennessee's woken up enough to start teasing him and Z about their supermarket adventure.

"Yeah," Ryan says, carefully. "Z and I come here a lot."

"Oh," Spencer says. "Um. Do you mind us coming along, then?" He understands what Ryan's not saying—that wherever this mysterious hidden place is, it's special. It's something for Z and Ryan alone, a refuge from the world, and the fact that Z led them here without a second thought means something.

"No," Ryan says, stopping in the middle of the path and looking fully at Spencer for the first time all afternoon. "I don't mind." Spencer's struck with another sudden sensation of breathlessness. Ryan's hair is mussed and there are deep circles under his eyes—but here, in the woods—it almost seems as though Ryan fits in with his surroundings. A strange place for a strange boy, something wild and strong. Ryan's eyes are so, so dark.

Spencer can't breathe.

"We should go," Ryan says faintly. They're too close, and Spencer knows it. Six inches more and they'd be kissing, and Ryan's mouth would taste like the tang of sugar and Spencer needs to back away. Not because he thinks Tennessee would care—but because she wouldn't, and that's a whole other problem in and of itself. It's something they need to talk about, and soon. Spencer loves Tennessee, and he's falling in love, and the mess in his head is getting harder and harder to think through.

"Yeah," Spencer says finally, forcing himself to step back. "Yeah. We should—let's catch up with the others."

"Right," Ryan says, swallowing hard. "Yeah."

—

Brendon finally catches sight of the lake, blue and clear, and turns around to look at Z, smiling so brightly it makes her stomach hurt a little with how much she wants to kiss him. (All the time, is the thing. She wants to kiss him all the time.)

"Hey, come here," she says, and pulls him close.

He grins into her mouth. "I love this," he says, breaking away a little. "This—" he sweeps an arm around to indicate the cliffs and the water and the bright, bright sky, "I just, it feels like I could lift clear off the ground."

"You're not allowed," she says automatically, but relents a little. "Only if I can come with you," she says, and he touches her cheek. "Anywhere," he says quietly, suddenly much more serious, and Z's still not used to his quick shifts but she knows Ryan would say he's not unlike her in that way. She nudges her cheek into his hand, and then they're interrupted by Tennessee clearing her throat. (It's entirely possible that Z forgot she was there for a second.)

"Shall we lay down a blanket," she says delicately, and Brendon lets go of Z to turn to Tennessee and hold out his hand.

"Will you trust me with this delicate operation, milady?" In response, Tennessee dumps everything she's carrying but the blanket in his arms and lays down the blanket herself. "I guess not," Brendon says, mock-dignified, and puts everything down very carefully, glancing up at Tennessee. "Have I performed to your satisfaction?"

"There's a 'That's what she said' joke to be made here, but I'm just going to leave it at that," Ryan says dryly behind them, and Z turns to face him.

"Because what, you're pretending to be an adult today?" She grins at him, expecting him to grin back, but he only smiles quickly and a bit shakily, turning away from her to put down his load of picnic food. Z glances at Spencer and makes a mental note to ask Ryan what happened in the forest when she gets him alone.

For now, though, she's going to pay attention to her—boyfriend? Person-she-is-dating? Something?—who is grinning at her because "Tennessee only pretends to have a black heart, dude, look—" and now she sees them, three bags of skittles on the blanket. She knows neither she nor Brendon bought any Skittles, so she looks at Tennessee with raised eyebrows. Tennessee ignores them both, a little pink-cheeked, rummaging around in the plastic bag she was carrying and laying out the (admittedly somewhat unorthodox, fine, Z knows her taste is a bit odd sometimes) picnic food on the blanket. She doesn't blink at any of the cookies though she does make an amused noise and look up at Brendon and Z both when she gets to the Twizzlers.

"Did either of you buy anything more, er, substantial?"

"Spencer has that bag," Brendon offers, and then, more quietly, "Thanks for carrying around Skittles for me, Tennessee Thomas."

She shakes her head. "It's no big deal, just, you like them."

Maybe Tennessee doesn't think it's any kind of a big thing, but Z gets it, She shifts over so she's standing behind Brendon and squeezes him around the waist a little. "We like you," she says, putting her chin on his shoulder.

"Yeah we do," Spencer says, finally piping up. Z was beginning to worry he'd lost his voice in the forest (she so needs to get Ryan alone right now, but she has to wait). "Of course we do."

Brendon turns in Z's arms. "You too," he says, very quietly, and normally Z can brush off that sort of emotional blackmail, but somehow she can't right now.

"Yeah yeah," she says, and swallows. "Let's sit down and avoid the impending low blood sugar crisis. If we don't feed Ryan now he'll start chewing on someone's leg."

"Only because you're so tasty," Ryan says blandly, and Z relaxes a little, because he's sounding more okay than before.

They portion out the cookies (though they let Brendon have all the Skittles—well, not so much let him, more accept the inevitable) and the apples, and make peanut butter sandwiches because Brendon remembered to buy plastic knives. Z has no idea what they would have done otherwise, but she's betting it would have involved creative uses of Other Things You Can Use To Spread Things On Sandwiches.

"On one quite memorable picnic we used a pen," Tennessee points out, and Z snorts in amusement.

Ryan blinks at her.

"How does that work?" Ryan says, frowning in confusion. Tennessee shrugs. "You make do," Tennessee says, tipping her head back so she's staring up at the clouds. "My hands were all covered in mud, and we had a lot of bread and peanut butter and no knife. I felt it was quite an ingenious solution."

"It was until you put it back in my messenger bag," Spencer mutters. Ryan bites his lip, gaze dancing back and forth between the two of them as they share a secret smile.

Eventually the sun and water and air starts to make them all sleepy, Z included. Tennessee and Ryan lie down, talking in whispers about something while Spencer watches them, something a little bit achy in his eyes. Z's not sure when she became quite this good at reading other people than Ryan, and she's not sure she likes it, but she supposes it's sort of useful when you're worried about your best friend in a certain situation. Then she looks at Brendon and catches him mid-yawn. He closes his mouth, looking sheepish. Z grins at him. "It's okay to take a nap, you know," she says, and he clearly takes that as permission to put his head in her lap and fall asleep. Z feels sort of weird, looking down at him, and finds herself stroking his hair. She looks up and meets Spencer's eyes, clear and steady, and she colors a little.

"He doesn't sleep enough," she says, voice low.

"I know," Spencer says. "Tennessee doesn't either. They worry a lot. About stuff."

Z doesn't want Brendon to be worried, she thinks, and strokes his hair again, carefully taking his glasses off so they don't end up making his head hurt. She smiles at Spencer and they sit there in companionable silence for a while. Spencer digs a book out of Tennessee's purse, and Z giggles a little when he starts to read, frowning in concentration at what is a very very pink book. For once, she isn't bored without anything to occupy her hands or her thoughts, she just sits there and watches the trees and the sun licking at the water and feels weirdly content.

Eventually, Ryan and Tennessee start moving again, Tennessee nearly knocking the book out of Spencer's hands when she sits up and stretches her arms out.

"Ooops," she says, laughing, and her voice must wake Brendon up because he turns over and blinks up at her, then touches his face. She hands him his glasses and he fumbles to get them on, accidentally poking her in the stomach and yawning. She bends down to kiss him and he meets her halfway. She has to bite her lip in order not to say what she's feeling right now, because it's all very stupid, but when she looks up at the others, she thinks it's probably in her face anyway. Fuck.

Ryan apparently takes pity on her, because he says something about getting back to the car, and then, while they're folding blankets and stuffing their trash into one of the plastic bags, he says, all casual, like it's not something she should have been told weeks ago: "Tennessee drums. And she's quite good, too." Z blinks, because seriously?

"Why haven't you—"

"Because she's weird about it," Ryan says, looking over at Tennessee and Spencer, who have abandoned folding their blanket for looking at the view and talking in low voices. "And I thought—I owe you for the other day." He shrugs uncomfortably. "So, like, maybe do this carefully?" Ryan says, and Z reaches over and squeezes his shoulder because Ryan still has that broken look to him. She thinks it's probably a secret he wasn't supposed to tell, but he's telling her, and that means a lot.

Z can be careful. She can be—okay, so maybe it doesn't come naturally to her, but when it's about her band, she can totally make an effort.

Fuck, though. A drummer.

—

She asks Brendon about it that night when they're on the phone.

"I don't know why she's weird about it," Brendon says. "She's never weird when we jam together, her and me and Spencer."

Z bites her lip. "Could you maybe—Or, No. Sorry. I shouldn't ask you to do that." She rubs at the bridge of her nose.

His voice is soft. "No, I could. Not just because you're asking. I think—honestly, she'd be kind of perfect. And I think she wants to, she's just scared."

"Have I told you lately how much I like you?" Z says.

"Nah," Brendon says. "Tell me again." Z grins at her phone. "When are you going to see them next?"

"Not tomorrow, at least. Spencer said not to call either of them for, um, anything but emergencies."

Z grins. "Aha, I see. Private couple time?"

"Oh yeah," Brendon says. "I suggested we go get dinner together just to be an ass, and you should have seen the look on Spencer's face. Pure pain, baby."

Z snorts. "You, um, do you want to meet up later though?"

"Always," Brendon says, and she doesn't quite know how he makes it sound so easy. "The diner?"

"Perfect," Z says.

—

Spencer's doorbell rings the next morning, almost exactly an hour before he's expecting it to. Spencer grins and tugs a pair of pajama pants on over his boxers, turning off the TV with a muted click and going downstairs. The twins are swimming in their very first relay today, and Spencer's home alone after some well-timed fake coughs, and now his super-hot girlfriend is standing at his front door holding two cups of coffee. His life is awesome.

Tennessee kisses him when he opens the door and then walks past him, setting down the coffee cups on the table in the living room. He closes the door and leans against it, just looking at her for a second, her long legs and her short little dress and her hair tied back in a messy braid.

"No one would be home, you said?" Tennessee says, giving him a sly glance over her shoulder.

"Uh-huh," he manages, and she ducks her head and grins, then pulls her dress off in a flash. "Good," she says, wrestling it over her head. "You would not believe how uncomfortable this dress is. You wouldn't believe it, Spencer."

"No," he says, "probably not," and god, he wants to touch her. Her braid's gone all sideways from pulling her dress over her head, and he reaches out and touches her neck, then undoes her braid, trailing his fingers through her hair. Her eyes go all soft when he does that. Her underwear doesn't match even a little bit. Spencer loves her.

"I really love you, you know," he says, and that's casual between them at this point, but at the same time he always means it. No matter what this thing with Ryan leads to, he's not scared he'll lose Tennessee over it.

"Yes, yes, so you've said," she says, and her eyes are still all soft. Then she ducks away from his hand and starts walking towards the stairs. "I feel as though there might be a bed somewhere, Spencer, I have this hunch."

"I think you might be right about that," he calls after her, grinning.

She glances over her shoulder at him. "You should come help me investigate what we can do with that," she says, and then saunters upstairs. Spencer follows. What else is he going to do? He tackles her into the bed and they're both laughing, like they do, and the sunlight glances across her hair and he can't breathe, he never can remember how when they're like this, and how did he get so lucky, anyway? Her smile is open and her eyes are open and she laughs into his mouth when he swears about his jeans (they're far too uncomfortable now, too tight, and Spencer thinks he'd be better off without them) and the house is empty and he doesn't have to let go of her for hours and hours.

They're quiet, after. Spencer is stroking her hair and she's looking up at the ceiling, breathing softly. He closes his eyes and then opens them again, propping his head up on his hand and looking at her. He doesn't know how to start this conversation, because didn't they just—? and Spencer knows that normally that means that no one else is involved, that no one else should be involved, but.

But Ryan. Ryan and Tennessee and him, and if Spencer doesn't say something now, he's not sure what might happen.

Spencer swallows, gathering up his courage. "Maybe we should talk about Ryan," he says, and Tennessee takes a deep breath against his chest.

"I think so, yes," she says, and then tugs him closer. She doesn't say anything for a little bit, staying silent and thinking. Spencer feels like he should be able to hear her thoughts; she's so focused, so intent.

"It's not that I don't love you," she says eventually, kissing him softly. "You know that, right?"

Spencer nods against her mouth, because yes. "I know," he agrees. "I know Tenn, it's just, like." He swallows. "It's just more?"

"More," she says, sounding a bit far away. "Yes. That's it."

"I don't know how to explain it," Spencer says. "I wasn't looking for this. I love you, god. You're everything, Tenn. But it's just—there's something there, isn't it? I'm not just imagining things."

"No," Tennessee says. "I want to—Spencer." She sits up suddenly, staring down at him. "He just fits," Tennessee says. "It feels like this is right. I can't explain it either, but. It just is. And I think—"

"Yeah," Spencer says. He swallows hard, because this is where it gets a bit complicated. He knows she cares about Ryan, has seen that every time he's been around, but Spencer needs to be sure, he needs to be absolutely sure that this isn't just her deciding Ryan needs them and Spencer wants him and she likes him a lot so she might as well, or something.

"You think?" he prompts when she doesn't continue.

"Spencer, he's so—" her cheeks are going a little red again, flushing, and Spencer starts to grin, because, well. At least he knows that part of it isn't just Tennessee humoring him.

"Beautiful?" he suggests, even though that's a weird word to use about another guy. But Ryan is.

Tennessee nods. "Yes, that's, that's what I was thinking." She closes her eyes. "His hands, Spencer," she admits, and then squirms around so she's facing him. She's biting her lip, the way she does when she's sort of turned on but a bit weirded out about it. "But you're sure about this too? This is really what you want?"

Spencer nods, because it's a bit hard to articulate just how sure he is that he does want this, just as much as she does. "Yeah," he manages. "No, I do."

"You're really okay with the 'him' part," Tennessee says, tilting her head to the side. "I know we've talked about it, like, boys in the abstract, but this is—he's going to be a real boy, Spencer. A very real boy, with a dick and all of that, and I mean, for me it's just, er, more of the usual," she goes a little more pink at this, "but you, are you really sure—"

Talked about it is an understatement, Spencer thinks. Tennessee is the only one who knows, the only one who's ever known that Spencer doesn't only like girls. So Spencer is...yeah. He's definitely okay with the thought of Ryan's cock, as much as thinking that makes him feel sort of strange and desperate and squirmy inside. "I'm sure," Spencer says, breathlessly, because wow, okay, he knows Tennessee is trying to be helpful—but she really shouldn't be bringing up Ryan's guy parts when she's nudging a thigh in between his legs. It's probably pretty obvious how sure he is. "I'm—I'm sure. You know I am."

"You really are, aren't you," she says wonderingly, reaching out to trace his jaw. "Spencer, I can't—" she pushes forward and kisses him sort of desperately, like she's run out of things to say and can't stay away, has to touch him. She does that sometimes, now that they've spent quite a bit of time getting over their respective initial shyness together, and Spencer finds it so incredibly hot that he just shudders into the kiss and pulls her closer.

"Fuck," he mutters against her neck when they break off to breathe, and Tennessee laughs a little shakily.

"I don't think I can, I'm too," and she pulls his hand down until he's touching her; she's so wet that Spencer's fingers just slide, she must be so close. He nudges her onto her back, keeps touching her.

"Are you," Spencer says, before he can think better of it. He can't help it, he wants to know, wants with a sudden, desperate intensity to hear Tennessee say it out loud. "What are you thinking about, is it just you and him, or—"

"Everything," Tennessee murmurs, rolling her hips up against Spencer's hand. Her breathing is stuttery against his neck. "God, Spencer, all of us, it would be so—" She leans in, biting down firmly on Spencer's neck, and Spencer tips his head back.

"Fuck," Spencer says again, his own voice coming out just as breathless. Tennessee just bites down harder, sending a sharp frisson of sensation down Spencer's spine. "Come on," he says against her ear, shifting to slide two fingers into her, "come on, Tenn, I want to see you—"

"Oh," she says, her mouth falling open and her back arching, "oh shit, Spencer—" and she's always so, he can't get over how gorgeous she is when she comes, he can't.

Abruptly he wishes Ryan was here with him so they could watch her together, like this, just like this. And then when Tennessee was ready to go again (when she's this worked up it doesn't take long) and then they could, fuck, Ryan and her. Spencer can see it in his head—all of them, Ryan's long limbs twined up with Tenn's, the way Spencer could lie next to them and watch. The way Ryan's hair would get all mussed up and his lips would turn red under Tennessee's mouth, and the way Spencer could run his palm down the graceful arch of Ryan's spine. Ryan would push back, into him, and then they could keep him in the middle, one of them on either side. And, and then it would just be them, all of them, soft and warm and open, so much skin and—

Tennessee gets a hand on him, eyes still dark, and he comes before he even realizes how close he already is. They sleep a little after that, until the afternoon is casting long shadows in the room and Spencer suddenly remembers he hasn't eaten since breakfast. Which is never a good plan. Tennessee's stomach chooses that moment to growl as well, and they both start laughing.

"Food it is," Spencer says. After glancing at hi's alarm clock and making sure they have at least another two hours to themselves, he hands her one of his t-shirts and her underwear (she steals his clothes whenever she can and he likes to enable her), and grabs a pair of sweatpants for himself before they wander downstairs.

Over bacon and toast, she tells him she can't remember when she fell in love with Ryan, that it just felt inevitable and right.

Spencer has to take another sip of his coffee before he can answer, because it's a little overwhelming, all of it. "I do know," he admits. "When we were out dancing, I—"

"Oh yes, that night, I couldn't stop looking at either of you," Tennessee says. "It's so strange, isn't it, this thing we're trying for?"

"I think it would be stranger not to try," Spencer says, thinking about them both, thinking about Ryan smiling for real and getting to hold them both. "We have to, I think."

"I can't figure out which I want more," Tennessee says thoughtfully. "If I just want him to be happy, or if I want him to be ours."

"I think it might be the same thing," Spencer admits. He thinks back to their afternoon free from school; Ryan in the woods, strange and wild, Ryan's hand in Tennessee's and the way he'd fallen asleep on her shoulder, his expression finally at peace. "Or, I mean, I hope it's the same thing."

"Me too," Tennessee says, smiling bright and beautiful. She laughs a little. "So we're really going to do this, then?"

"Yeah," Spencer says, kissing her again. "Yeah. We are."

—

"So I was thinking," Z says, and sucks on the straw of her shake. She swirls it around a bit to get at the ice cream-y chunks in the bottom that haven't quite melted yet, and the tall glass makes a weird noise on the formica counter of the diner. "Um, I mean, I don't know what you wanted to do tonight—"

Brendon shrugs, smiling at her a little. "I'm pretty cool with 'whatever,'" Brendon says. "That was the plan, right?"

"Right," Z says, nodding. "Yes. Whatever."

"Did you...have a specific 'whatever' in mind?" Brendon says. He's still picking at the remains of his french fries and has nearly finished his portion, which is pretty impressive, considering Z had never seen that many french fries in her life. At least not all in one place, on one plate, like some french-fry convention or something.

"There's a drive-in nearby," Z says, before she loses her nerve. "They're playing all of the Indiana Jones movies tonight. I mean, we won't be able to stay for the whole thing, it goes all night, but I thought—"

"Z," Brendon says, lighting up. "Z, holy crap, how is that even a question? Get the check, let's go."

"Okay," Z says, smiling and breathing out for what seems like the first time in forever. It's dumb, that she was that nervous about suggesting a stupid drive-in movie marathon, but sometimes—sometimes Z thinks that Brendon thinks she's all fascinating and otherworldly, like he's actually believing her facade. Which is good, because that's the whole point of having a facade, but sometimes? Z just wants to sit around and make-out and watching stupid Harrison Ford movies. It's just—it's not something she's used to admitting to people, that's all.

But Brendon is still grinning at her with absolute delight as he waits impatiently for the check, so maybe it's okay.

—

They pull in just as Raiders of the Lost Ark is starting, and Brendon keeps craning his neck to see the screen as Z tries to find a parking space. They have those parking attendants standing around and theoretically helping people find spaces, but the field is absolutely packed and Z can't really see anything except rows and rows of other cars. They finally manage to find a space off to the side. It's not ideal, but it will do.

"I wish we had a blanket," Brendon says wistfully, pushing his seat back and kicking his feet up on the dashboard. "We could sit on the hood, like they do in movies."

"Yeah," Z says, shaking her head at herself. "That...probably would have been smart, huh."

"Probably," Brendon agrees. "But you didn't know for sure if we were coming. And anyway, it's almost nicer like this." He reaches out and takes her hand, rubbing his thumb across the backs of her knuckles.

"Yeah," Z says, squeezing back. Damn her tiny little Volvo. She kind of wants to be snuggled up with Brendon to watch the movie, not sitting here ten inches away in the driver's seat. She'd move over to sit next to him, but Z isn't quite sure her passenger seat is big enough for two people. Or, no, she knows it isn't. Her mouth quirks, remembering the bump on her head the night she and Alex tried it out.

Although.

"Do you think," Z says, peering at the backseat of her car thoughtfully. They could probably fold the front seats down, and take off the headrests, and then maybe they'd be able to sit back there and enjoy the movie together without grievous bodily injury.

"Hmm?" Brendon says, looking up. He glances at Z and then follows her line of vision to where she's staring at the back seat, squinting thoughtfully.

"Oh," Brendon says, after a moment, in an interested tone. "I see your point, Ms. Berg."

"Want to try it?" Z says, already starting to open her car door. "I think we can make it work."

"Totally," Brendon says, flashing her a smile. There's something in the way he says it—mischievous, slightly dirty—that makes the pit of Z's stomach flip over, and she hides her face down near the floor of the driver's side, pretending to be very interested in pulling her seat all the way forward.

It's not that she's embarrassed. It's just that it's been a long time since she's been with someone who made her want this much. There's something about the way Brendon touches her that just leaves her aching, restless and overwhelmed and Z doesn't even know what's different from before, she just knows that it is. Brendon's sweet, and he makes her laugh, and he's really adorably awkward, and none of those things should be a recipe for mind-blowing makeouts, and yet—it's like there's this other side to him too, something he doesn't let very many people see. It's this weird mix of confidence and vulnerability, of the way his eyes get dark and his breath hitches, the way he slides his fingers across Z's skin.

"Ow," Brendon says, rubbing his head and frowning at the lip of the doorframe, and Z snaps back to the present. Right. Setting the car up, that's what they're doing. She wrestles the headrest off, and then pushes down on the seat until it clicks into place; across from her, Brendon does the same. It's a tight fit to wriggle themselves into the back, but once they're in there they have enough room to sit back and stretch their legs out and still see the screen.

Z sighs happily. Brendon grins at her, and then does a completely obvious and obnoxious yawn and stretch, ending up with his arm around her lower back. Z takes a moment to reflect on how gone she must be for this dude, to let him get away with that, and then snuggles into it.

"You're really fucking lame," Z tells Brendon, once she's got her chin tucked into his shoulder.

"I am exactly what it says on the box," Brendon tells her gravely. "And that box is labeled Super Awesome."

"Uh-huh," Z says, grinning. "Whatever you say, buddy."

Part Three | Part Five

almostblue — Mon, 27 Jun 2011 08:24:24 GMT

Master Post

"So," Brendon says, as they're watching Marion down shots in a bar in Siberia. "I hear that sometimes going to drive-in movies involves making out."

"Oh yeah?" Z says, raising an eyebrow at him and grinning. "You've heard that, huh?"

"Just a thought," Brendon says innocently.

Z leans forward, brushing her mouth against the curve of Brendon's jaw. Brendon makes a soft noise, tilting his head to give her better access. Z smiles into his skin, and then pulls away. "There," Z says. "Now watch the movie."

"I can't," Brendon says. "Too distracted now."

"Sucks to be you," Z agrees, and then she's laughing as Brendon turns around and gently tackles her. He noses at the curve of her neck, pressing his mouth into the same spot, just underneath her ear.

"The movie," Z points out, even though Brendon is pressing little kisses into her skin, and it feels really nice. "The movie, B. We're going to miss it."

"I'll buy you the DVD," Brendon says.

"I own the DVD," Z says, outraged, and Brendon snickers.

"Okay, okay," Brendon says, pulling back. "Fine. Sorry. I just—you're hot."

"I'm not saying no," Z points out, flicking him in the nose. "I'm just saying it's bad timing." She glances over at the screen. "But I suppose they're going to be fighting in this bar for a while," she hedges.

"Yes," Brendon agrees. "Yes, they are. Can I kiss you now?"

"You're insatiable," Z mutters, and then Brendon is kissing her lightly, the barest press of lips and teeth. Z slides her hands into his hair and kisses back, enjoying the heat and warmth of Brendon's body perched on top of hers. They're squished into the backseat like this, and there really isn't enough room to move, but Z really doesn't care that much. Brendon's mouth is soft on hers, soft and gentle, and it's obvious that he's not pushing for anything more. He could, though. Or she can.

"Come here," Z murmurs, sliding her hand out of his hair and down to the curve of his shoulder. She tugs until they're pressed chest to chest and hip to hip, much closer than they were before.

Brendon raises an eyebrow at her. "I thought you were opposed to the making out," he says, looking like he's trying not to laugh.

Z shrugs. "I know how to prioritize," Z says, and then Brendon's mouth is covering hers again, and his kisses are much less hesitant this time around. Z squirms a little, leaning up so she can bite at the edge of Brendon's jaw. There's a patch of heat blooming low in her stomach, and she rolls her hips experimentally, pressing until she can slide her thigh up and in. Brendon makes a surprised noise into her mouth, sliding his hands into her hair so he can kiss her deeper, pressing his hips down so that he's rubbing up against Z's thigh. He's very obviously hard.

"Wow," Z murmurs, a little helplessly, and Brendon makes a soft noise in reply. Z can't help herself—she suddenly wants to be touching naked skin, like, yesterday—and she lets her hands slide down Brendon's sides a little further, to the edge of his hips. Z kisses him deeper, opening up under his mouth even as she slides her palm roughly in between them, rubbing down the front of his jeans.

Brendon makes a startled noise into her mouth, a choked-off moan that Z takes as eager consent. He's not wearing a belt, just jeans and briefs, and so it's easy enough to slip her hands down his stomach, to tuck her fingers underneath both and keep going. Z closes her eyes and bites her lip, her stomach tightening up as her fingers brush against curly hair and soft, warm skin. There's just enough room to brush the tips of her fingers down the side of his cock, and Z marvels for a minute at how soft Brendon's skin is until she realizes he's holding himself absolutely still above her.

"Bren," Z breathes, suddenly feeling a little a nauseous. She stills her hand immediately. "Oh, shit, Brendon—I didn't—tell me this is okay," Z whispers. Brendon has his eyes closed, breathing heavily through his nose, and Z's stomach sinks further. "Oh god," Z says, weakly, tugging her hands out of his underwear. "Shit, Brendon, I'm so sorry—I thought—"

"No," Brendon gasps out, opening his eyes. "What are you. Wait—Z, what?"

"You didn't," Z says. "You got all quiet and still, and I thought—"

"No, hey," Brendon says, letting his weight rest on her more fully. He reaches down and links her fingers with his, then leans in and kisses the top of her forehead. His face is flushed, and there's sweat beading along his hairline. "No, it's okay, you just surprised me."

"Surprised you?" Z says weakly. "Like. Bad surprise?"

"Like good surprise," Brendon says firmly. "And also like, SURPRISE! surprise. I was just trying not to, you know. Give your dress a surprise."

"Oh," Z says, and then she can't help but snicker a little. "Oh."

"Yeah," Brendon says, nuzzling into the crook of her neck. His left hand is rubbing up and down Z's bare thigh, tracing patterns underneath the thin fabric of her dress.

"So this is—okay?" Z says, still a little hesitant. "You've done this before?"

"Yeah," Brendon breathes, rolling his hips down again, like he can't quite help himself. "I'm not like—I mean, I'm about as non-virginal as you can get while still actually being a virgin."

Z blinks at him for a moment.

"Really?" she says softly, brushing his hair away from his face. "You've never—"

Brendon grins at her a little. "Trust me," Brendon says. "I still know what I'm doing. I promise there will be orgasms."

"No, I didn't mean that," Z says, flicking Brendon in the forehead. "Idiot. I just meant—I don't know. I'm glad you told me," Z says, honestly. It's not like she had been planning anything for tonight in particular, but there are condoms in the glove compartment, and it's not like Z's had a ton of sex, but she's had enough.

She and Ryan had both been fifteen when they'd lost their virginity, just a few weeks apart. When Z thinks about it now she realizes that they were both kind of young, but she hadn't felt young at the time, and she knew Ryan hadn't, either. It had been this big exciting secret between them—Z remembered looking around the lunch room with Ryan, whispering back and forth and gossiping about who was still a virgin. It seems so petty, now, petty and really dumb, but it had just been so overwhelming at the time. Neither of them really knew how to process all these new feelings and sensations and emotions, so they'd fallen back on old habits, holing up together in Z's bedroom and talking for hours.

Both of their relationships had ended pretty quickly after that.

But either way, she's been having sex for almost three years at this point, and sometimes she just...forgets that not everyone is in the same place. The idea of fumbling into that with Brendon, not knowing it was his first time, makes her heart hurt.

"You okay?" Brendon says, nosing at her collarbone. "You got all quiet."

"Yeah," Z says, shaking her head a little. "No, I'm just—I'm really happy you told me. I, um—I was fifteen," Z says. "So it was a while ago."

"Oh," Brendon says, his face softening a little. "That's—that's kind of young."

"Yeah," Z says, nodding. "I mean—it was okay! I don't want you to think it was terrible, or anything, it wasn't. Just. I probably would have been all 'hey, let's have sex!' and then it would have been awkward and I really, really, really don't mind waiting, if that's what you want, or like, if you don't want to that's okay too, but the car kind of isn't the best place and we should probably wait until we're in a bed—-"

"Z, relax," Brendon says, laughing outright. Z snaps her mouth shut. She can feel her face flaming. "I am pretty happy with my life choices," Brendon says, pressing his face into her shoulder. She can feel him smiling against her skin. "I'm not opposed to the idea, it just never felt right, so I'm waiting until it does," Brendon says simply. "And speaking of feeling right, I was totally about to try and get you off before you almost made me come, so I'm going to get back to that."

"Oh," Z breathes out. "Okay. I mean, don't let me stop you, that's—Oh," Z says, because Brendon's already sliding his way down her body, pushing her dress up so that it's rucked up around her stomach. Z bites her lip and shifts restlessly, letting her legs fall open a little more. She can feel Brendon's breath on her stomach, hot and warm, and then he leans in and he's nipping at her skin, just below her belly button. His hands are cradling her hips, slipping underneath the sides of her panties, and Z tries and fails to remember which ones she put on this morning. God, she really hopes they're not an old, raggedy pair. That would suck.

Brendon's mouth is hot on her skin, his tongue slipping out to trace a meandering path down her hips and the top of her thigh. He keeps nipping at her skin, little bursts of sensation that make her hips jump up involuntarily. Z struggles to sit up, just a little, because seriously if she needs to apologize for wearing totally non-sexy underwear she'd like to do so as soon as possible, but Brendon flicks his eyes up at her and smiles, biting down on the inside of her thigh and Z forgets to do anything but arch her back and press forward. She can feel the way she's starting to soak through her panties which—okay, yes, not exactly super sexy, but at least they're plain green boy shorts and not the full coverage Hanes she wears under tights sometimes. Z opens her mouth to say something self-deprecating, but then Brendon looks up at her, holding her gaze while he licks a long, slow stripe up the front of her panties.

"Nevermind," Z mumbles weakly, letting herself fall back against the door. Brendon hums a little against her skin, and Z shifts restlessly because fuck, seriously, all this teasing, it's like—it's so good, but it's so frustrating, and she doesn't know whether she wants Brendon to continue doing what he's doing forever or get on with it.

"I like these," Brendon murmurs, kissing along the elastic on the inside of Z's thigh. Z spreads her legs wider, arching up, but Brendon just moves back a little, making her wait. He slips two fingers underneath the seam, holding it away from her body, and then Z can feel his tongue sliding across bare skin, so close to where she wants it.

"Fuck," Z says, groaning. "Brendon."

"They're cute," Brendon mumbles, just as Z fists a hand in his hair and tugs him forward. She can feel Brendon laughing softly against her skin, but dammit, she doesn't even care. She's wet and swollen and aching, and Brendon needs to either deal with that or pay the consequences.

"Come on," Z mumbles, when Brendon seems content to just sit there and nuzzle at her, to run his fingers gently down her slit and do all sorts of nice things that are not even remotely what Z wants right now. She's just about to tug on his hair again when she feels his hands on her hips, sliding her underwear off, and Z has to sort of kick her legs awkwardly so that they end up on one leg and not stretched over Brendon's head, but then—oh god, Z can't even breathe, because his mouth is on her and he's not teasing anymore. She can feel the way he's licking her open, gentle but firm, sliding his fingers up to where she's warm and wet. Z can hear herself making stupid, stupid noises and fuck, she doesn't even care.

Brendon pulls back a moment later, and Z hears herself whimper helplessly. She shifts her hips up, trying to get his mouth back. Brendon grins at her and then lifts her leg up, arranging it over his shoulder. "Easier this way," Brendon murmurs, leaning back in. "God, you smell so good—" He licks another long, slow swipe from top to bottom and then Z can feel his fingers stroking at her, pressing lightly, like he's giving her the option.

And shit, Z thinks to herself, as she pushes her hips forward sharply and his fingers slip in all the way—she is so taking that option. He presses up inside her, rubbing carefully, and then he leans down and swipes his tongue over her clit and fuck, that's the magic combination right there. If Brendon just keeps doing that—and yeah, he is, long, slow licks of his tongue and gentle pressure on her clit, and he's moving his fingers a little faster, a little rougher, and Z feels everything do that turning-inside-out thing and god, she's going to come soon and it's going to be awesome.

"Okay?" Brendon whispers, and when he looks up at Z his mouth is shining in the low light. Z wants to kiss him, she can't help it, and she tugs him up roughly, still working herself back on his fingers. "What," Brendon whispers, looking a little confused, and Z groans.

"Just fucking kiss me," Z pleads, her stomach starting to tighten up. "Just god, keep doing that and just kiss me—"

Brendon covers her mouth with his own, breathing thick and fast, and Z bites down on his lower lip, tasting herself when she swipes her tongue over the mark in apology. She's so close, and everything she can feel and taste is Brendon, his mouth on her skin, his fingers working inside her. She just needs something else, something to push her over the edge, and she whines a little, tensing up. Brendon breaks away, panting, and then she feels his thumb smoothing against her clit, quick little circles, light and teasing and Z comes, sudden and breathless. Brendon doesn't pull his fingers away, and she can feel herself clenching down on him and somehow that makes it even better, makes her ride it out on this awesome wave of pleasure that leaves her a little stunned at the end.

Z licks her lips, her chest heaving, and tries to remember how to breathe. "Wow," she says, unsteadily, as Brendon carefully moves his fingers away.

"I would say that was a wow," Brendon breathes. His voice is low and rough, and he's looking at her like—Z doesn't even know. Like she's amazing, or something.

"Come up here," Z says, flailing her hands a little until she can settle her hands on Brendon's hips and pull him on top of her.

"I am up here," Brendon says, leaning in to kiss her neck. Z tightens her fingers, tugging him in. "Closer," Z says firmly, sliding one hand down to work at the front of his jeans. She manages to tug them open far enough to get her fingers in, and there, seriously, his skin is so soft. Z holds him carefully, brushing a thumb across the head of his cock just to feel him jerk a little at the sensation. "Now. No more distractions."

"Sounds good," Brendon says brokenly. He presses another wet, open-mouthed kiss to her neck, and Z slowly starts to move her hand. She thinks idly about going down on him, but right now she's kind of just sated and sleepy, and oral sex would require them to move. Brendon's warm on top of her, whimpering slightly and squeezing down on her shoulder whenever she speeds up. This is nice, right here. Z honestly doesn't feel like moving, and Brendon doesn't sound like he minds.

Z swipes her thumb over the head of his cock again, pressing down slightly and tightening her hand. Brendon whimpers again, louder this time. "Good?" Z says, her voice coming out breathier than normal. "Is this okay?"

"Yeah," Brendon whispers. His voice is low and rough. "Fuck. Can you—just a little faster, like—"

"Like this?" Z says, finally speeding up to something that will actually get Brendon off. "Or..." She slows her hand down again, and she's rewarded with a groan. Z can feel herself grinning.

"Please," Brendon whines, pushing himself up on his elbow so he can kiss her, frantic and messy. "Z, please, come on—"

"Oh, fine," Z murmurs, smiling against his mouth. "Since you asked so nicely." She's not trying to tease, she just can't really help it. Brendon's all warm and flushed and pliant; something about seeing him this way makes her want to push, want to see how far she can take him. Possibly it's a little weird, but Z's never been overly concerned with being normal.

"Oh, god," Brendon whispers, when she finally tightens her hand and gives him what he needs. She can feel the way he's bucking up into her hand, and Z's just starting to wonder if she might be up for a second round when Brendon shudders, coming into her hand with a muffled groan against her neck.

"Oh fuck," Brendon says, pulling away. He makes a horrified face. "Oh, fuck."

"Oh," Z says. She looks down and yup, Brendon definitely just came on her dress. Shit.

"Would you believe me if I said this has never happened before?" Brendon says weakly, and Z bursts out laughing. It's just—his face, he's bright red and blushing, and she should probably be upset but instead it's just kind of hysterical. Her boyfriend really is a walking disaster.

"It's okay," Z manages, through her laughter. "It's fine, Brendon. I'll wash it."

"I am so sorry," Brendon says sadly, but there's a smile starting to pull at the edges of his mouth. "I swear to god. I'll come over and do your laundry for you."

"Oh, because that's not suspicious," Z says. "Not at all."

"Shut up," Brendon mumbles, hiding his grin in her shoulder. "I could just be a doting boyfriend. You never know. "

"You forget that Ryan practically lives at my house," Z says. "He'd never let you hear the end of it. Trust me."

"But what are you going to do right now?" Brendon says, making a face as he pokes at her stomach. "Are your parents going to be up? Oh, god, they're going to hate me. They're going to know I came on their daughter." He looks a little sick.

"That's what attractive yet modest cardigan sweaters are for," Z says, kissing him again. "Seriously. Don't worry about it. I have some in the trunk for emergencies. Fashion emergencies," Z says severely, when Brendon's eyes get rather large. "This isn't a common occurrence, don't get any ideas."

"No, hey," Brendon says, his expression softening. "I didn't mean it like that."

"I know," Z says softly, marveling at how she actually believes him. Brendon may be many things, but malicious isn't one of them. Z's pretty sure he doesn't have a petty or dishonest bone in his body.

"We should probably get going, though," Brendon says, sounding regretful. "My aunt's going to be wondering where the hell I am."

"Oh, the horror," Z says, rolling her eyes, but she follows when he starts to climb into the front seat of her car.

—

"I've come to a decision," Z announces dramatically, halfway through lunch the next day. She waits for the expected lull in the conversation to signal everyone else's excitement and interest, and it's then that she realizes that absolutely no one is paying attention.

"Ryan," Z says, poking him with her fork. "I've come to a decision. An important one. I need you to pretend to care for a second."

"Z, Stop," Ryan mumbles, brushing away her fork. Z frowns at him. He's been too quiet lately, too locked inside his own head. Her Ryan-radar is pinging and Z means to find out what's going on with her best friend, stat, but she also has an announcement to make and seriously, what the fuck, no one is listening.

"GUYS," Z says, bringing the conversation around the table to a screeching halt. Tennessee and Brendon are blinking at her in curiosity, their heads pushed close together over Tennessee's Chemistry textbook and Brendon's half-finished homework. Spencer pauses in the act of offering Ryan one of his iPod earbuds. Ryan just looks at her blankly.

"Go back to what you were doing," he tells the table at large, the ghost of a smile flitting across his face. "Z's important announcements are usually about how she likes shoes, or something. They're never actually important."

"Oh," Tennessee says, her forehead creasing in confusion. Brendon just looks amused.

"It wasn't about shoes, shut up," Z says, groaning. She knows what he's referring to, and he's gotten it all wrong, as usual. "It was about—oh, never-fucking-mind. You ruined the joke already."

"Let me guess," Ryan says dryly. "It was about how you hate Mondays. Or about how your band needs a drummer." He gives her a look that says see? See what I just did there? louder than words ever could, and then he accepts Spencer's earbud offer, tucking it into his right ear.

"I do hate Mondays," Z muses out loud, sucking on the straw of her soda. "And we do need a drummer." She tries to give Spencer and/or Tennessee a significant look, but Tennessee is back to helping Brendon with his Chemistry homework again, and Spencer's scrolling through his iPod with intense concentration.

Z tries again. "It would be so great if we knew someone who played the drums, wouldn't it?" she says, to the table at large but mostly in Tennessee's direction. She thinks she detects a faint blush on Tennessee's cheeks, but when she turns to see if her oh-so-subtle approach is working on Spencer, all she gets for her troubles is Ryan giving her an unimpressed look.

"What?" Z says, feigning innocence.

Ryan kicks her under the table.

"Ow, fuck," Z mutters. "It was just an observation."

"I'm sure if anyone here happens to have a secret drumming talent, they'll let you know," Ryan says. "Now that we all know beyond a shadow of a doubt how desperate you are."

"We're not desperate," Z starts out, and then cuts herself off with a sigh. "Okay, yeah, we are kind of desperate," Z mumbles, picking at her half-eaten slice of veggie pizza. "We can't keep playing with a fucking drum machine." Z gets the feeling that someone at their table is watching her closely, but when she looks back up, everyone is engrossed in their own activities. Everyone except Brendon, who is biting his lip and looking thoughtful.

"I can play a little," Brendon says. "I mean. I'm not great, but I'm not terrible. I could practice more, if you guys are really stuck."

"That's sweet," Z says, reaching out so she can squeeze his hand. She means it, too. "And that would be awesome, but that's kind of a recipe for disaster, you know?"

"Hey, I'm not that bad," Brendon says, winking at her. "I've only broken someone's kit twice before. That's a decent track record, right?" Next to him, Spencer makes a slightly pained noise.

"That's—-not bad," Z says, trying to keep a straight face. "But no, I meant, like. With the whole you-and-me thing, and then if it didn't work out—you know what I mean," Z says, unwilling to say something like if we broke up, you'd leave us high and dry and that would suck a whole fucking lot. It's sweet what Brendon is offering, it really is, but letting Brendon into her band is just—it's not a good idea.

"No, I know," Brendon says, sliding his foot around her ankle for a moment, underneath the table. "I was just thinking I could help out until you find someone permanent."

"Okay," Z says, biting her lip. "Um—I'll think about it." A couple of practice sessions might be okay. Though it'd be better if they could just find someone they knew they could keep. And she kind of wants a girl, which, Tennessee is very carefully not looking at either of them, nose pressed so close to her book that she might as well be sleeping on it. Z's dying to just ask her outright, but she can't shake the feeling that maybe this isn't the right time.
It's a lost cause, anyway, because at that moment the lunch bell rings. "Urgh," Brendon says, staring down at his Chemistry homework. "I'm still not done. You think I can figure this out by myself during History?"

"Just borrow the book," Tennessee says, pushing it towards Brendon. "Don't worry about it. You can give it back to me after class."

"Thanks," Brendon says, hefting it into his backpack. "You sure?"

"Absolutely," Tennessee says, nodding firmly. She shoots Z one last unreadable glance before gathering her things up and saying a quick goodbye to all of them, kissing Spencer on the nose before she runs off to AP European History. Z follows suit, tugging her backpack onto her shoulder and joining the crush of people streaming out from the cafeteria. She waves goodbye to Spencer and Brendon as they head off towards the other end of the school for Spanish, and then it's just her and Ryan, hurrying down the hall towards their French class.

"Subtle," Ryan says, giving her another unimpressed look. "You think you sledgehammered the point enough?"

"No," Z says, giving him a placid look. Tennessee's mysterious resolve to keep her awesome drumming a secret is already starting to wear down. Z can feel it. "Not really, no."

—

In Chemistry, they're treated to a lecture on oxyhydrogen. Spencer wishes they'd get to do an actual experiment; he really enjoys things that blow up (who doesn't?) but apparently there are safety rules in Chemistry and they don't allow students to handle substances that are this volatile. So instead they all have to sit there and hear about why it's so volatile, and then watch their teacher carefully create a tiny explosion for them.

Boring.

Next to him, Brendon is fidgeting. He tilts his head at Tennessee and whispers, "Why aren't you in Jazz Band?"

Tennessee freezes. Spencer's not sure what to do, but he's sure this isn't the place for this particular conversation. He knocks at Brendon's elbow and pencils later talk about this later on Brendon's notebook and nods at his girlfriend who glares at him. He doesn't know why she hasn't told Brendon yet, and he's not going to make her tell him, but he knows they should have the actual talk somewhere they won't get interrupted by explosions.

After class, they avoid Ryan and Z and hide in the Art room, which is empty during the last class period. It's a fact he and Tenn have definitely taken advantage of before, but right now they have more pressing things to deal with, like Brendon and his insatiable curiosity.

Brendon says, carefully, "I don't get it. You, you and Spencer both, you're awesome and your drumming, seriously, it's really good, but you won't. Um. Z obviously wants you in her band."

Tennessee isn't looking at either of them. Spencer shoves his hands deep into his pockets because he's not very good at watching when she's in pain, but he really has to let her tell this story. If she wants to.

Tennessee licks her lips. "It's not that I," she pauses. "Z's band is awesome."

"So are you," Brendon says fiercely.

"It's dumb," she says.

"You don't actually have to tell me," Brendon says, "but you have to know you're good enough for them. More than good enough for them."

She breathes in. "Okay," she says. "I just. I had a drum teacher."

Brendon stiffens, and Tennessee shakes her head. "Nothing like that," she says. "Nothing—he just wasn't very nice. He was very good, but he wasn't very nice. He'd say, like. 'Of course you don't have that fill down yet, fine, let's run it again.' And stuff."

There was more to it than that, Spencer knows. He said worse things, this asshole teacher of Tennessee's and it took Spencer two months to figure out why she stopped drumming. He got her to play with him and then he asked her to come to one of his lessons, and now she has Bob, Bob who is the nicest guy Spencer ever met, and who never ever criticized her for the first three months of lessons. Spencer hadn't told him anything, but Bob's good with people.

"What an asshole," Brendon says. "What an absolute, absolute asshole."

Tennessee peers at him through her bangs. "Yes," she says. "He was. But, er, that's why. So now you know."

"Okay," Brendon says. "He so doesn't deserve to take anything away from you, but I get it."

"You do, don't you," Tennessee says, sounding sad. Brendon hugs her then, tightly, and Spencer aches a little, looking at them both. It'd be nice if there was some kind of instant karma button, he thinks, poking at the floor with his toe.

—

That Saturday, Z ends her call with Brendon and looks up at her bandmates. A shitty drum teacher, Brendon said, and wouldn't tell her anything else. "I shouldn't even say that much," he said, sounding sad. Z wanted Tennessee to join them before, true, but now she really really wants her because no one should have music taken away from them like that. No one.

"Guys," she says. "You know how I mentioned a possible drummer?"

"Oh fuck," Laena says immediately, like she'd been worrying. "She won't do it?"

Z shakes her head, then realizes what it looks like she means. "No! I mean maybe. I don't know. She—something happened, and now she doesn't think she's good enough to drum in front of an audience, but I really think she's the right person."

"Oh, that's awful," Annie says. "Can we help somehow?"

"I don't know," Z admits. She doesn't. You can't just make someone feel better. (She should know, she's been best friends with Ryan Ross since forever. Also, to be fair, she's not all that together herself all the time.)

"Just keep asking," Laena says. "I don't know her, but just keep asking."

"Maybe we could just ask her to come around and feel it out?" Annie says. "No obligation, nothing like that, just, like, trying it out. Trying us out."

"That's what she said," Z mutters, but she thinks Annie might be on the right track.

That's when Spencer calls her and asks, "Have you heard from Ryan?" and no, Z hasn't heard from Ryan. Not since they got out of school yesterday, come to think of it.

"Check the school," she says, swallowing down the sudden worry. She's too far away, Spencer's closer. "He sometimes goes walking there when he's, um." When he's really upset, and it's always a fucking bad idea.

—

Ryan isn't thinking straight, or else he would have realized this was a terrible plan.

It's only when he rounds the corner of the athletics wing that he notices where he is, where he's going. He's been walking aimlessly for hours, unable to sit still, unable to face going home. He doesn't want to call Z and he doesn't want to call Spencer or Tennessee; fuck, he can't call anyone. His legs ache. Everything aches. He's used to feeling shitty but not like this—like he's been hollowed out, like every nerve in his body has been scraped down into nothing.

He just keeps walking. He rounds the corner and keeps walking and there's, yeah, there's five members of the wrestling team hanging out waiting for their rides in front of the entrance. He thinks about turning around and going back the way he came, but that would take a hell of a lot longer than just walking past them and down the street where he can get on the 201 bus to go home. Fuck it. Maybe they'll behave.

But he should have known better. "Faggot," one of them mutters, as Ryan walks by. There's some nudging, some whispers, a few lewd hand gestures. Ryan grits his teeth.

"Moron," he mutters, but he must have been louder than he thought, because one of them is on his feet. It's Carl, of course it is.

"What was that?" Carl says. "Did you have something to say?" And it's so obvious that he expects Ryan to back down because people always back down, but Ryan's just done. He's been hurting and hurting for hours, for days, and if these fuckers think they can do worse than that, they're welcome to try. And this time, he'll give back as much as he can.

"I said you're a moron," he says, turning around. "You, and Steve, and every one of you assholes. You're so stupid you wouldn't know a book if it hit you in your fucking faces, and you're on a second-rate high school wrestling team, and you're never, ever, ever going to get out of here." I am. Just wait and fucking see.

"Oh, I bet you can't wait to get out of here," Carl says, looking at him. "I bet you can't wait to go somewhere they'll fuck you as much as you want."

Really, how predictable can you get? Ryan smirks. "You want some, is that it?"

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Steve says, spitting on the ground. He rubs at his crotch, giving Ryan a leer. "I bet you couldn't even take it. I'd choke you with this motherfucker."

"You think I can't take it?" Ryan says, walking towards them slowly. He stops a few feet away. They're all staring at him, cold glares full of anger and fear. It's kind of sad, Ryan thinks, in the corner of his mind that isn't fueled by sheer adrenaline.

"Yeah," Steve says. He looks confused, though. Ryan doesn't usually move towards them. "You fucking faggot motherfucker," Steve-the-moron adds, and Ryan knows it's time to act.

The wad of phlegm is a direct hit, right on Steve's ugly face, in between his eyes. Ryan's already ducking away from the swing before he's even finished swallowing, backing away and taking off at a dead run. He can hear the sound of yelling behind him, the pounding of feet on the pavement. Ryan skids around the corner, his heart pounding, stomach tensing in preparation for the first and probably only swing he's going to get off—

—and runs straight into Tennessee.

"Get the fuck out of here," Ryan gasps out, shoving her shoulder. "Seriously, run."

"We've been looking everywhere for you," Tennessee hisses, and her mouth is set in a thin line, and Ryan has the sudden, overwhelming urge to apologize but there isn't time.

"Go," Ryan says, pushing at her arm, and at the exact same moment Tennessee's eyes widen and she hisses "Duck!"

Ryan moves without thinking. He pulls his shoulders in, tucking himself down, and then someone grabs his arm and he's thrown up against the brick wall of the gymnasium. He sees Tennessee's head snap back as one of them punches her across the jaw—a punch meant for Ryan, but they're obviously not very organized—and then his head is slammed into the brick and Ryan's stomach drops, nausea blooming in his stomach. The back of his head feels wet but there's no time to think—he gets a punch to the jaw, then another, and someone gets his nose. He kicks out wildly because it hurts, but there's too many of them, at least two of them holding him in place while Steve shakes his hand out with a grim smile.

"You fucking asked for it," he says, and Ryan swallows hard, because he did, fuck, but Steve's rubbing at his crotch again, pointedly, and—

Oh, god.

Ryan has a split second to process, a moment of sheer, unadulterated terror, and then there's a blur of blond hair and Tennessee's wrenching herself free from the guy who has her hands behind her back. Ryan's eyes widen. She's behind Steve, but only for a second, because then she's ducking to the side and landing a solid right hook to his head. He pulls away, confused, and then she pulls back and lands another, then another—two quick, solid blows, right to his nose, and Ryan hears a crack! and then there's a spray of something dark and wet on Steve's face, too.

Ryan kicks out again, taking advantage of the distraction to fight dirty, to knee the guy on his right in the balls and then bite down on the other guy's arm. He sinks his teeth in, hard, and the guy yells out—a harsh, guttural noise, right in Ryan's ear. Tenneesee's relentless—they're all around her, now, obviously preparing to deal with this unexpected threat when there's the sound of more feet pounding on the pavement and Spencer skids to a stop around the corner.

Everyone pauses.

"Get the fuck away from them," Spencer says, in a voice that Ryan's never heard him use before. It's low and dangerous, and Ryan can see how Spencer's already clenching his hands into fists. Ryan takes advantage of the distraction to elbow the guy next to him in the solar plexus. He keels over, groaning.

"I'm serious," Spencer grinds out. "You don't think there's more of us coming? They're right behind me. They've already called the fucking police." Ryan can feel the last remaining hand on his arm slowly loosening, and he tugs himself loose as soon as he thinks he can make it. The wrestling guys start to back away slowly, glancing at each other.

"Not our fault he's a fucking faggot," one of them mutters, under their breath.

"Get the fuck out of here," Spencer says, and as if on cue, there's the wail of sirens in the distance. It's the magic combination, even though Ryan's 99% certain that Spencer is bluffing; the guys take off around the side of the building at a dead run.

Ryan lets himself slump down to the pavement. He brings a hand up to the back of his head, and it comes away dark and wet.

"Ryan," Spencer murmurs, and then there's hands trying to help him up, smoothing his hair away from his face. Ryan jerks away, anger flaring bright and sudden in his chest.

"Don't fucking touch me," Ryan spits out.

"Ryan—" Tennessee says, looking confused as she wipes the blood and grime away from her temple. "Ryan, what—?"

"I don't need anyone else to fight my battles," Ryan says, his voice shaking. "What the fuck did you think you were doing?"

"Helping," Tennessee grinds out, her voice low and dangerous. "They would have—Ryan, they were going to—"

"So?" Ryan spits back. "The fuck do you care?" Behind them, the sirens are fading away. Ryan had figured Spencer was bluffing.

"What do you mean, what the fuck do we care?" Spencer growls, still reaching out for the cut on the back of Ryan's head. "Shit, we need to get you to a hospital."

"I'm fine," Ryan says, jerking away again. "I don't need your help, okay? I don't need you. Either of you. I could have handled it."

"Maybe you could have," Tennessee says, still quiet and furious. "But you shouldn't have to."

"That's my problem, then," Ryan grinds out. "You're so—you're both so—I don't get you, either of you. Why the fuck would you want to help—" Me, Ryan thinks, furious and disjointed. Why the fuck are you here, why can't you just stop caring, don't you understand how much this fucking hurts?

"Because we care about you," Tennessee says, and she reaches out again, and Ryan can't—he just can't. Fuck this.

"You don't," Ryan spits. "You don't, the two of you, this is all just some game to you, 'let's help the poor faggot out'—"

"Don't you ever call yourself that again," Spencer says, and Ryan's never heard him sound so serious.

"You just don't get it," Ryan says, slightly hysterical, and his face feels wet, and Ryan grits his teeth and blinks, hard. He hasn't cried since he was ten years old; he's not going to start now. "Why can't you just leave me alone?"

"Do you think I could leave Spencer alone in that situation?" Tennessee demands, reaching out, taking Ryan's face between her palms of her hands and forcing him to look at her. Ryan tries to pull away, but Tennessee's strong, he knew that, drummer and all. "Do you?"

"No," Ryan whispers. It feels like the words are being torn out of his chest.

"Then you know why I couldn't leave you," Tennessee says, softer now.

"I don't," Ryan says, his voice cracking. "Why?"

"We're not leaving you," Spencer says, quiet and firm. "Not ever."

"You can't," Ryan says weakly. "I. We. That's not." Possible, Ryan thinks. That's not normal, that's not possible. Ryan wants to scream and he wants to cry and he sort of wants to pass out. He does none of those things, but it's a close call.

"Who cares?" Tennessee says, smiling wry and sharp. "We don't."

"Whatever," Ryan says, shaking his head. "Don't—that's not funny."

"Good," Tennessee says, her mouth firming back into a thin line. "It's not supposed to be." She brushes her fingers over Ryan's temple, and when she pulls them away Ryan can see that the tips are dark with blood. He feels lightheaded all of a sudden.

"Ryan," Spencer says, catching him by the arm when Ryan blinks and the world shudders into motion for a long, terrifying minute. "Seriously, we're taking you to a hospital. You're still bleeding."

"I can't," Ryan says. He thinks about just pointing out that he doesn't have health insurance, but then Spencer and Tennessee will try to pay for it, and—no. Ryan's not doing this right now. He isn't.

"Why not?" Tennessee says, pulling him carefully to his feet, watching him closely. "Ryan, you're hurt. I don't know why we're even still discussing this. "

"Just take me to Z's," Ryan says, shaking his head and then stopping abruptly when the movement engenders more vertigo. "If you take me the hospital, I swear I'll fucking...I'll run away. I'll walk home. Just—please," Ryan grits out, hoping against hope that just for once, someone in his life will fucking listen to him.

"This isn't the first time they've attacked you," Spencer says suddenly, his voice flat, espressionless. "Is it?"

Hah, Ryan thinks. You have no idea. He keeps his mouth shut. "Just take me back to Z's house," Ryan says, abruptly close to falling over from exhaustion. He leans heavily on Tennessee's steadying arm. "I know where the spare key is. It's not a big deal."

"We're not leaving you," Tennessee says quietly, as they make their way slowly across the parking lot to her car. Spencer is on his other side, close, but not touching.

"That's nice," Ryan says. He concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other.

—

The drive to Z's house passes in a blur. Ryan hears Spencer talking quietly to someone on his cell phone, hears him repeating the directions to Z's house to Tennessee, but everything around him feels distant and dull. It's not until Spencer's opening Ryan's car door and holding out a hand to help Ryan out that he starts to wake up again, and suddenly he's very, very awake because Z is flying across her lawn and throwing her arms around him.

"Don't you fucking do that to me," Z mutters, clutching him so tightly that Ryan groans in pain. She stiffens, dropping her arms and looking at him with a guilty expression. Ryan closes his eyes, leaning up against the side of Tennessee's car. The metal is warm to the touch. He can feel Z's hands brushing over his head, checking for bruises and cuts.

"I'm still so fucking mad at you," Z says. "Why the fuck didn't you call?" She pulls her fingers away, looking down at them for a moment, and Ryan wishes everyone would stop putting their hands in his blood and then looking at him like he's going to break. It's just a head wound. They bleed a lot. Maybe Spencer and Tennessee aren't used to it, but Z definitely is. There's no reason for her to be all freaked out right now.

"Come inside," is all Z says, but Ryan feels the way her hand is trembling when she links her fingers in his. He looks over his shoulder to see Spencer and Tennessee giving each other an unreadable look, and then he looks forward to see Brendon standing in Z's doorway, his eyes large and concerned, and what the fuck, seriously, is there going to be party here tonight or something?

"Don't get pissed," Z murmurs, squeezing his hand as Brendon moves out of the way so they can make it through the doorway. "Tenn and Spencer called him first and then I called him and then he refused to go anywhere but here. He's worried about you. They all are."

"Everyone needs to worry about me somewhere else," Ryan says, following Z to the bathroom. He sits down on the closed toilet, his head spinning, and then suddenly he's crowded into the room by three people while Z goes to tell her parents why their house has suddenly been invaded with teenagers. He's glad Z's mom didn't get a look at him when he came in, or he'd be in the hospital for sure.

Brendon is the first to break the strained silence. "What happened?" he says softly, biting his lip. "Did you—"

"Tripped," Ryan says blithely. "Happens all the time. I'm clumsy."

"Don't," Spencer says, his mouth a thin, hard line. "Don't do that, don't pretend it didn't happen. They fucking—someone should arrest those assholes."

"If someone was going to arrest them, it would have happened long ago," Ryan says humorlessly. "What, you think this is the first time this has happened? You think I'm the only guy they've ever beat the shit out of? It's not—" he pauses, searching for the words. "It's fine," Ryan says tiredly, pushing himself up so he can get a good look at himself in the mirror.

It's not a pretty picture. His left eye is rapidly swelling shut, and he can tell just from looking that he's going to have matching black eyes tomorrow. There's blood and dirt smeared on his temple, across his forehead, and when he pokes his nose gingerly there's a bit of a crunching sound. He doesn't think it's broken, though—he pokes it again, just to make sure, and then he hears a pained noise from behind him.

"Ryan," Tennessee says helplessly, and then she's pressing her face into the back of his neck, hugging him with something akin to desperation.

Ryan freezes, two fingers still on his possibly broken nose. "What?" he says, instead of telling her to let go again, because as much as Tennessee hugging him is kind of hurting his ribs, he's not a complete asshole. Not most of the time, anyway. And she seems really upset.

"No one should look that unconcerned about making sure their nose isn't broken," Spencer says softly, and Ryan looks through the mirror to see that Brendon has disappeared, that it's just him and Spencer and Tennessee crammed into the small guest bathroom on the first floor. "How many times, Ryan? How often does Z have to—fuck, how many times?"

"Eight or nine," Ryan says, looking away. "It's fine, Spencer. Usually it's not broken. It's not a big deal." And Ryan knows that his definition of big deal is different from other people's, he does, but there's no way he can explain that without going into the whole story about his dad, and he—he trusts them, maybe, he thinks he might love them, but that story is a lot to give someone and he's not quite sure that Spencer and Tennessee are there yet. Maybe they won't ever be.

He's saved from elaborating by the appearance of Z at his elbow, followed by Brendon, laden down with Z's first aid kit and multiple packages of frozen vegetables.

"Peas on the face, you," Z says firmly, giving Tennessee a Look. Tennessee moves away from Ryan, stumbling back towards the door. Brendon follows close behind her, pressing a bag of frozen vegetables into her hand. "Ryan, sit down, head between your knees. I need to look at that cut on the back of your head."

"It's fine," Ryan says, for what feels like the hundreth time tonight, but Z just raises an eyebrow. Ryan rolls his eyes, wincing, and then sits down.

"You act like we've never done this before," Z mutters, unscrewing the cap from a large bottle of hydrogen peroxcide with one hand while she brushes Ryan's hair away from the cut with the other. "Actually—you know what, fuck it, just take your shirt off and get in the tub."

"Seriously?" Ryan says, looking up to glare at her.

"Do you want me to pour this all over the floor?" Z says, holding the bottle up. "Strip. And the rest of you—Out. I need room to work." Brendon and Tennessee slip out almost immediately, but Spencer stands his ground, still looking unexpectedly fierce, and a little bit like he's about to loose his shit all over the place.

"I just—" Spencer says, and Z fixes him with one of her best glares. "Out," Z says, pointing firmly.

Spencer goes.

—

Who does that? Spencer thinks, almost stumbling as he walks out the door. Who goes to school every day knowing that the worst, the worst could—Spencer knew it was bad, of course he did, but he didn't know. Fuck. And Tennessee nearly—he tries to blink away the image of her, surrounded, but he can't seem to manage it.

He wants—actually, he even doesn't know, he thinks, staring blankly at the cluster of family pictures that line Z's living room wall. He wants all of this not to be happening. Fuck.

He picks his way up the stairs because he needs to at least see Tennessee; he knows Z can take care of Ryan, knows she'll say the right things in a way that Spencer couldn't, not right now. As much as he wants to help, he's also really good at recognizing when he's out of his depth. It's such a shitty thing: he's no good at being powerless, but he's so fucking good at knowing when he can't do anything. The adrenaline of earlier is ebbing away into an empty aching feeling in his chest, and he doesn't know what to do right now, so he needs to go find Tennessee. It's a strategy that usually works.

The bathroom door upstairs is cracked open. Brendon is saying something and Tennessee is laughing. Spencer swipes a hand across his eyes and knocks.

—

"Yeah," Brendon says, and Spencer pushes the door open the rest of the way.

"Can I come in?" he says.

Brendon glances at Tennessee, who nods. "You don't faint at the sight of blood, right?" Brendon says. "Because I need to be able to do my work, here."

Spencer manages a grin. "Nah, I'll live. Tennessee's the one with the injuries; I should be able to survive watching them get cleaned up." He sits down, leaning against the bathtub.

"I don't know," Brendon says musingly. "She's kind of a gory sight at the moment."

"Really, though, you should have seen the other guy," Tennessee says, then corrects herself. "Guys," she says. "There were several."

"So I gathered," Brendon murmurs. "Tilt your chin up, 'kay, because—" She does, and he carefully cleans the cut under her jaw.

"Thanks," she says, and flinches when Brendon's hand slips.

"Sorry," he says. "Sorry, my hand slipped."

"That's quite alright," she says. "I laugh in the face of pain, etcetera."

Brendon touches her cheek with the cotton ball he's holding. "You're totally brave," he says softly. "I—you're totally brave." He bends down to throw the cotton away and soaks a new one in rubbing alcohol.

Tennessee shakes her head automatically. "No, I just couldn't watch him get hurt. Spencer did the same thing."

"You got hurt, though," Spencer says quietly. Tennessee flicks her eyes over, looking at him.

"I'm okay," she says. "I'm okay, Spencer. Ryan's worse off."

Spencer nods, because yes, he's aware of that. He sneaks his hand up to touch Tennessee's hand and she's not looking at him, but she curls her fingers around his, squeezing and letting go. Spencer zones out a little and when he starts listening again, Brendon is talking.

"But, like, I don't quite get it. How many of them were there?"

"I'm not sure," Tennessee says, and her voice sounds brittle. "I came around the corner and oh, there were a lot, and Ryan, and I just couldn't even think because he was all alone against the wall and I couldn't leave him there, I couldn't—"

"No, I got that part," Brendon says. "You did a good thing, Tenn. I would have been scared shitless. I couldn't have done it."

She draws in a sharp breath. "I—" and then she's crying, all of a sudden, and Brendon is hugging her and Spencer just hurts. Tennessee doesn't cry like most people; there's no build-up, no watery eyes. She's tough and in-control until the moment she isn't, anymore, and watching her break down always makes him die a little.

"Hey," Brendon says softly. "Hey, hey, Tenn, you're okay, we're all here, you're okay." She's clinging to him and Brendon kisses the top of her head. "Shhh," he says. "We're all here, you're okay."

"Love you," Spencer manages, voice shaking because yeah, he's kind of crying too, silently.

"Yeah, we all love you, everyone loves you," Brendon says. "You're just that lovable," and there, that's the right note, just cheerful and earnest enough that she chokes a little, laughing, and the worst of it ebbs.

"Z loves you," she says. Brendon goes a little red. "No, she does, and she loves Ryan. I'm not all that certain of how she feels about me, however, though it's awfully nice of her to let you clean me up in her bathroom."

Brendon grins. "No, hey, she totally loves you too, beanstalk. I'm getting jealous, the way she keeps talking about you." He quirks an eyebrow at her.

Tennessee blinks. "Me?"

"You're a drummer," Brendon says gently. "A lady drummer, and a damn good one at that. You just might be her new favorite person."

Tennessee swallows.

Spencer holds his breath. He tried to talk to her about Z's band, he kept his promise to Ryan and tried but she just shook her head and kissed him and said, "Perhaps at college, Spencer Smith," but maybe, maybe—oh god, it would be so good for her, so good for all of them—

Brendon senses his advantage. "Try it," he says softly. "Just try it."

"You think I—"

"You're good enough. More than. Just try it. Don't promise them anything, but."

She nods, and Spencer wants to smile for the first time in hours. He reaches for her hand again. "Love you," he says quietly.

"You too," she says, and he kneels up and kisses the corner of her mouth carefully.

Brendon's looking at them both and smiling. "Let's get some ice on your hand, Thomas, and then let's go downstairs and see how Ryan's doing."

Part Four | Part Six

almostblue — Mon, 27 Jun 2011 08:22:49 GMT

Master Post

Ryan's total injury count—-according to Z, anyway—is two black eyes, multiple bruises, and one fairly nasty cut on the back of his head that's shallow but won't stop bleeding. Ryan's had worse, and he knows that Z knows it, but for some reason this time around she won't let it go.

"Just keep holding it closed," Z snaps, glaring at him when Ryan tries to move his hand away. He's tired of holding his head over the tub, for fuck's sake. It's not bleeding that badly.

"My wrist is cramping," Ryan points out, shifting so he can force himself into a slightly less awkward position over Z's bathtub. "And it's fine, you said it yourself. It's just a little cut."

"I thought it was fine before it wouldn't stop bleeding," Z says, completely ignoring her own advice when she pushes Ryan's hands away to peer at the cut again. "I'm not letting you die in my bathroom."

"Local boy found naked in bathtub, covered in blood, story at eleven..." Ryan drawls, and he's mostly kidding but he doesn't miss Z's shaky intake of breath, the way she bites her lip and very carefully turns away from him. Ryan waits, but she doesn't turn back around.

"That's not funny," Z says quietly, and then there's a hitch to her breathing and Ryan feels a wave of guilt wash over him, settling firmly in his stomach.

"Z," Ryan says, one hand on his cut scalp, the other reaching out to brush against her arm. "Hey, Z. I didn't mean it. It was a joke."

"You always joke," Z hisses, pulling away from him. "You always push and push, like it doesn't matter, like you don't matter, and you do, Ryan. You fucking do. What the hell would I do without you?" Z says, and now she's actually tearing up, wiping at her mascara with impatient fingers. Ryan feels like shit. "You're not allowed to fucking die on me," Z says. "And I bet you a lot of money that everyone else in this house feels that way too, so stop playing so fast and easy with your life and get some fucking perspective."

"I don't," Ryan says, numbly. "I—Z, of course I don't. I don't have a fucking deathwish."

"Then stop acting like everything that happens to you doesn't matter," Z says quietly. "Because it matters to me, Ryan. It matters to me and it matters to Spencer and Brendon and Tennessee, okay? So suck it up." She's wiping at her eye makeup again, smudging it to all hell, and Ryan can't do anything but lean in and tuck his face into her shoulder, one arm snaked around her waist to hold them both up.

"I'll try," Ryan whispers, closing his eyes. "Promise, Z."

"You better," Z mumbles, her face pressed into his hair. Her hand is covering his, and Ryan lets himself just sink into the familiar sensation of Z's hugs and Z's smell for a moment. He lets himself relax and then all of a sudden he hears a soft, pleased noise, a sort of quiet ah-ha!.

"It's stopped bleeding," Z says, pulling her hand carefully back. She's smiling again. "We can tape it up now."

"Thank god," Ryan mutters, lifting his hand away from his scalp and crossing the room to go sit on the closed toilet seat, next to the medicine cabinet. His palm is stained with blood, but Z's hands on his head are gentle as she starts to tape him up with gauze, and when she pulls her hands away her fingers are clean.

There's a knock at the door.

"Can we come in?" Spencer's voice says, quiet and hesitant. "Ryan, are you okay?"

"Yeah," Ryan says, and the door opens to reveal Spencer and Brendon and Tennessee, all clustered around the door and peering in anxiously.

"He's fine," Z says, dropping the last of the bandages in the trash. "It stopped bleeding. He's just going to be sore for a few days, that's all."

"No worse than normal," Ryan says, shrugging, and then he looks away awkwardly when Spencer and Tennessee's faces fall. Whoops, he thinks. This whole "mattering to other people besides Z" is going to take some getting used to.

"Anyway," Z says, when it looks like no one else is going to say anything. "I think we should all stay here tonight? If you guys want, I mean—" She looks slightly nervous after she gives the invitation, but she's cut off almost immediately by a chorus of agreement.

"I need to call my parents," Tennessee says, digging her in pocket for her phone. "But hell no, I'm not leaving. They'll have to force me out of here tonight if they want me to come home."

"Me too," Spencer says, crossing the room to stand awkwardly next to Ryan. "You sure you're okay?" He says, in an undertone, and Ryan nods. "Yeah," Ryan says. Tennessee's words are still running around and around in his head, and he can't help but tilt his body so he's touching Spencer slightly, his shoulder brushing up against Spencer's hip. Spencer brushes his fingers over the back of Ryan's neck, hesitant. Ryan closes his eyes and lets himself lean into the pressure.

"Then that's settled," Z says, nodding at the rest of them. "Sleepover in the den."

"Moulin Rouge?" Ryan mumbles, his eyes still closed.

"Absolutely," Z says firmly. "Whatever you want, Ry."

—

"So what next?" Z mumbles, as the end credits begin to roll. She's got her face mashed into the pillow that's tucked up against Ryan's side, her eyes barely open.

"Sleeping," Ryan mumbles, flailing out a hand to pat her on the head. He misses and ends up with his hand in the half-eaten bowl of ice cream perched on her knee, and he holds his hand up to inspect it with a grimace.

"Ice cream's sneaky shit like that," Brendon mutters, from his vantage point on the floor of Z's den. "You think it's totally safe and then it gets you every time."

"I don't even know what you're talking about," Ryan says, rummaging around for something to wipe his hand off on. "Does this happen to you a lot?"

"Don't tell me you've never stepped in a half-eaten bowl of ice cream," Brendon says, rolling over onto his back so he can sneak his toes up to the couch, underneath Z's legs. "I do it all the time. It sucks."

"I haven't," Ryan says, shaking his head. "Because I actually do my dishes sometimes, you messy freak."

"Hey," Z says tiredly. "Don't call my boyfriend a freak." She tries to punch Ryan in the arm, but mostly succeeds in poking his shin.

" 'time is it?" Tennessee mumbles, from her spot just below Ryan's perch on the couch. She and Spencer are stretched out on the floor, as close to Ryan as possible without actually sharing the couch with him. Ryan's torn between finding it sort of sweet and getting sick of stepping over them every time he has to pee.

"Three am," Ryan says, softening his voice. "Go to bed, Tenn."

"Mmm," Tennessee says, rolling over and blinking at him sleepily. Next to her, Spencer is passed out, snoring softly. "Not until you do. But why are you—Ryan, why are you covered in ice cream?"

"I'm wondering that myself," Ryan says, but he accepts Tennessee's offer of a paper towel after she retrieves the roll that had gone missing under the couch.

" 'm going to bed," Z says, pushing herself up to a sitting position. "Ry, you want me to give you the couch so you can stretch out? Or do you want to sleep in my bed and I'll stay down here?"

"Here's okay," Ryan says quietly. If it was just him and Z he'd probably take her offer of a bed, but as it is he's not horribly uncomfortable on the couch and he kind of wants to stay down here with Spencer and Tennessee, if he's honest.

"Does that offer of sleeping in your bed hold for everyone?" Brendon says with a sleepy leer, but Z just rolls her eyes, bending down to kiss him and then standing up.

"Only for people I'm not dating," Z says, yawning. "My mother would have a heart attack if she found you in my bed tomorrow morning. I think she might actually keel over."

"She doesn't do that when it's Ryan," Brendon says, brushing his fingers against her ankle as she carefully steps over him. "You never know, she might be immune."

"She also still makes Ryan smiley faces on his pancakes with syrup," Z points out, clicking the lights off. The glow from the TV is suddenly the only light in the room. "It's not really the same thing."

"I know," Brendon says, winking at Ryan. "I'm just teasing. Sweet dreams, babe."

"You too," Z says. "All of you." She gives Brendon one last look, biting her lip and smiling over her shoulder, and then she's gone.

"What a girl," Brendon says softly, sounding awed for no reason that Ryan can ascertain. He's wearing a soft, slightly goofy expression, and Ryan makes a gagging face at no one in particular.

"Stop making creepy eyes at my best friend and go to bed," Ryan says, fumbling around until he's more comfortable. "You're weirding me out." Brendon mumbles something back that sounds suspiciously like you should talk, but when Ryan looks back over he's feigning sleep.

"Everyone in this house is crazy," Ryan tells Tennessee solemnly, peering down at her from his perch on the couch. She smiles sleepily up at him. "Yeah," she says, reaching up to squeeze gently at his knee. "Quite crazy, I agree."

—

Waiting for her possible drummer to walk through the door of their rehearsal space is possibly the most stressful thing she's ever experienced. Worse than the talent show, rea
Z's chewing on her thumbnail, a habit she thought she was rid of. But as it turns out, wally. She wants this, it's the key to so many other things, and she can't quite believe it's happening, oh fuck.

Her bandmates are next to her on the couch. No one's saying a word.

There's the door.

"Hey, Tenn," she says, once she's crossed the room to open the heavy metal-framed door. "Hey, you made it."

Tennessee licks her lips. "It looks like I did, yes." She looks around their practice space, and Z takes a moment to at least congratulate herself on how much better it looks now than it did before. They'd cleared out the back of the room and then spent the morning moving Laena's brother's old drum kit here, a project which had taken approximate four hours and a lot of of smoothies and duct tape.

It's still kind of a disaster zone, though.

"It's a mess," Z says apologetically. "Sorry about that."

"Oh, you should see mine and Spencer's," Tennessee says, grinning a little. "This is fairly clean, comparatively."

"We try," Laena says. "Z trips over stuff all the time, but at least she usually doesn't break anything."

"This is Laena," Z says, digging her elbow into Laena's waist. "She likes to make fun of me. She's also our bassist."

"I know," Tennessee says, and she's starting to look a bit more relaxed, thank fuck. "I saw you at the talent show, you were really good." She turns to Annie. "You're Annie, right? Keyboard and hand claps and such."

Annie smiles. "Yes, that's me. And actually I'm the one who falls over the most, if we're going to be fair about this. My girlfriend just thinks it makes me self-conscious, so she pretends Z is the clutzy one."

Z feels a momentary rush of affection for the way Annie is so clear about her and Laena when she can be; she's so quiet and so sweet, but she doesn't move an inch on the things she thinks are important.

"You're right," Laena says, grinning. "You're the clutzy one and Z is the kitchen disaster."

"What are you, then?" Tennessee says, sounding amused.

"Me? Oh, I'm the levelheaded one."

"I'll get you for that," Z murmurs, trying for menacing and mostly managing to sound giggly. She really likes her band. And it seems like Tennessee might like them too, if the way she's grinning is a fair indication. Okay. Time to see if this will work for real. "Ladies," she says. "Shall we try something out?"

Abruptly, Tennessee is back to looking nervous. Z ignores it; Brendon told her Tennessee is basically amazing even if she undervalues herself, so Z's just going to go ahead and get the music going and hope that clears up the nerves. "Like, I thought we could start with some Beatles?"

Laena nods. "I Saw Her Standing There?"

They've been messing around with a cover of that, partly because it makes Annie grin at her keyboard and Z and Laena get to split vocals for it. "Do you know it, Tennessee?"

"Do I—" Tennessee sniffs, mock-haughtily. "I'll have you know that we're born knowing how to play The Beatles where I come from. There's a reason they called it the British Invasion, you know."

Z snickers. She suggested The Beatles because she's overheard Spencer and Tennessee debate the merits of Ringo Starr about eighteen times over the past weeks, and she's glad to see it was a good choice.

"Places, everyone!" she says, because she likes saying it and because it makes Annie laugh and Laena roll her eyes fondly.

Z slings her guitar strap over her shoulder and counts them in. After about thirty seconds, they all move forward as far as they can, because as it turns out, a real drum set makes a hell of a lot more noise than a fake one.

"Sorry," Tennessee calls. "I—um."

"No, it's fine, we just have to adjust some shit," Z says, and lets Laena deal with both of their pedals while she adjusts her amp.

It takes them a few tries to get the sound balance worked out right, but when they do, oh my god. Sure, Z messes up the lyrics halfway through the second verse and Laena starts laughing in the middle of "you know what I mean," because Z accidentally put in way too much of a leer there, and Tennessee loses track of where she's at a couple of times. Annie's fairly perfect, but that's par for the course. Even with all of that, though, it's so—it's so good. Z's laughing helplessly by the end of it, and the rest of them are grinning too.

"One more time?" Laena's almost bouncing.

Tennessee pushes her bangs out of her face, taking a deep breath. "One more time," she agrees.

They keep at that song for the next half-hour when Z, remembering Brendon's entreaty to not push Tennessee, suggests they break for the day. "I, for one, am getting tired. You've got rhythm, Thomas."

Tennessee smiles quickly. "Thanks, I—"

Z shakes her head. "Just think about it." She looks at her bandmates, who are both nodding. "If you want it, the spot is yours, but you don't need to tell us your answer now. You should, however, partake of our traditional post-practice blended beverage extravaganza, yes?"

Shaking her head, Laena says, "What Z means is that I will now make you all smoothies. I don't know about the extravagant part, but I do have mango."

"Mango sounds fairly extravagant to me," Tennessee says.

"Just don't let Z touch the blender," Laena says, and Tennessee laughs.

—

Z's sucking down a mango-strawberries-kiwi smoothie and listening to Laena and Tennessee argue the merits of traditional drum kits versus more tricked-out ones, when her phone buzzes. It's a text from Ryan: spencer asked me on a date. with him and tenn. what do i even say. Z blinks. She'd been hoping, but oh, oh wow. You say yes, she texts back, and then tugs Tennessee away from the table, leading her into the next room.

"We need to talk," Z says, trying her best to sound gentle. "Um, not about the band," Z says, when Tennessee's eyes go wide and scared. "About you and Spencer and Ryan. You're like—you're not going to hurt him, right?"

Tennessee looks confused. "Hurt him? What, Z, I—"

Z shows her Ryan's text and Tennessee's eyes turn soft.

"Spencer asked, yes. I told him we should. We want him, Z."

"Right, but for what?" Z says quietly, conscious of Annie and Laena in the kitchen.

"For as long as he'll have us," Tennessee says simply.

Z swallows. That's what she was hoping, yes, but she's still scared. "You hurt him and I'll, I don't know."

"If we hurt him, you can do whatever you want to us," Tennessee says. "He shouldn't have to hurt like that anymore. That's not why, but that's why we've been pushing. He deserves to be happier."

"You can't fix him," Z says.

Tennessee shakes her head. "No, no. It's not about that. It's just—he's incredible, you know?" She looks down, blushing. "We both think so. And we know it's kind of strange, that there's two of us, but—whatever," Tennessee says, looking back up. "We've talked about a lot," Tennessee says. "Me and Spencer. We're both as serious as we possibly can be with this. We're not going to jerk him around."

"Okay," Z says. "Okay. You have the best friend's approval." And because she can't help herself, she leans up on her toes and hugs Tennessee, and then runs back into the kitchen. "No making out in here, guys, you're going to scar the wild Thomas."

Laena doesn't drop Annie's hand. "She can take it," Laena says, smiling to take the sting out of the words.

"It is true, I can take it, indeed I can," Tennessee says, coming in behind Z. "You're far more palatable than the hijinks of our Miss Berg and her erstwhile paramour, anyway."

"I resent that implication," Z says, and it's easy, it feels easy, and she's hoping for so many things to come out right that it kind of scares her. Hope is a terrifying thing, but maybe, just maybe they can make it work out this time.

—

"Seriously," Ryan mutters, rolling his eyes. "Just pick one."

"I'm thinking," Z says. Ryan's closet is an unholy mess, as usual, but at least everything's mostly clean. "Look, I usually never get to dress you up for dates. Let me enjoy this for a moment."

"That's because you always try to make me wear something idiotic," Ryan says, frowning at his reflection as he messes with his hair. He's trying to play it cool, but Z can see where his hands are shaking, just slightly.

"Like paisley is the height of cool," Z says, but she stops stalling and starts pulling things out in earnest. "Are you wearing those pants? Or are you changing."

"I don't know," Ryan says, turning to face Z. "Should I? I just—fuck, Z, I don't know anything. What the hell am I doing?" His voice is still calm and even, but there's a familiar shake at the edges.

Z isn't going to call him on it though, because if she points it out he's going to lose it completely, so it's better for both of them to pretend that everything is fine. She's good at Ryan-wrangling, and she knows it works better if she pretends to be a bit oblivious. And she wants it to work, she wants him to do this.

"You're going out on a date with two attractive people who think you're wonderful," Z says, frowning at Ryan's collection of vests.

"Yes," Ryan says helplessly. "It's the two part that's tripping me up." It's not, really, Z doesn't think, or it's not the only thing, but it's probably the easiest to fixate on.

"Hey," Z says, bringing him the first three shirts she wants him to try on. Ryan looks down at her, his eyes wide and scared. "Hey. Don't worry about it, okay? We know them. I mean, I can't believe I'm saying this, but we both know they're for real." Z touches his shoulder. "They really like you," she says quietly. "They're trying to do this right. Just—let them try, okay? And if it doesn't work—we'll figure it out from there."

"I really want it to work," Ryan says, equally quietly.

"I do too," Z says, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. "Now. Try these on. And hurry up, we only have half an hour and we need to make you look hot."

"I always look hot," Ryan says, some of the familiar sarcasm beginning to return. His shoulder aren't quite so high, though, so Z knows her words might be sinking in.

"Yeah, yeah," Z says. "Whatever."

—

"You look nice," Spencer says quietly, smiling at Ryan as they walk towards Tennessee's car. Tennessee leans out the window, honking the horn and grinning when she sees Ryan.

"Thanks," Ryan says, trying not to blush. "Um. You too." Spencer isn't particularly dressed up, but he's obviously taken a little time with his appearance; his hair is all shiny and clean, and he's wearing a tight hoodie and dark blue jeans. Z and Ryan had eventually compromised on Ryan's outfit; he'd ended up in his favorite jeans and boots, but with a green v-neck that Z insisted showed off his collar bones.

"Hello, handsome," Tennessee says. "I'm afraid there's a toll required for the journey. New rules." She leans out the window and tips up her cheek, and Ryan can't help smiling when he leans down and gives her a peck.

"Thank you," Tennessee says, winking at him. "Now get in. I've secret plans."

"Secret plans?" Ryan says, raising an eyebrow at Spencer as he pulls the back door of Tenn's car open.

"Honest to god," Spencer says, sliding in next to Ryan. "I have no idea where we're going or what we're doing. She told me I'm not even allowed to ride in the front seat."

"Are those complaints I hear?" Tennessee says, raising an eyebrow at them in the rearview mirror. Ryan shakes his head quickly; next to him, he can see Spencer grinning and doing the same. "Thought so," Tennessee says, hitting the 'play' button on the tape deck. The car is suddenly filled with the sounds of The Clash. Spencer nods in approval.

The ride to wherever they're going is fast and loud, but enjoyably so. Tennessee's staying silent and mysterious in the front seat, so the only thing Ryan can hear is the sound of Joe Strummer singing about Spanish bombs when Spencer leans over to him.

"I could try and come up with a witty line," Spencer says. "But Tennessee's kind of better at that than I am."

"What?" Ryan says, blinking at him.

"I was saying I don't really have a witty line for this," Spencer says, and then he leans in and kisses Ryan on the cheek. It's quick and soft, but Ryan can still feel himself blushing. He thinks his mouth might be hanging open.

"I know this is weird," Spencer says, shrugging awkwardly. "But we wanted to try and make this as not-weird as possible."

"It's not weird," Ryan says, before he thinks too hard about it. It should be, but it isn't. Maybe that's what's throwing him. Everything feels too easy. Ryan's not used to easy.

"Cool," Spencer says, leaning back against his seat and smiling at Ryan, one of those blindingly sweet smiles that still leave Ryan a little breathless. "That's the idea."

—

"So how's it going?" Brendon says, peering over Z's shoulder at her cellphone. "Is everyone still wearing clothes?"

"Stop," Z murmurs, smiling to herself as she types out a reply to Ryan. "They're fine. It's going fine. And no one's naked yet."

"Too bad," Brendon says, grinning. Z rolls her eyes.

"Stop fantasizing about your friends getting naked together," Z says. "It's weird."

"I'm not fantasizing," Brendon says, tucking his head into the crook of her shoulder so he can spy on her phone more easily. "I'm just saying. If no one gets naked tonight, it will be a travesty."

"You think any day without nakedness is a tragedy," Z says. Her phone beeps again. The text says, spencer just kissed me. Behind Z, Brendon makes an interested noise.

WHAT???? Z types back.

not like that. on the cheek, the answering text replies. Z feels something settle a little, deep down inside. She didn't want to admit she'd been worried, she trusts them, honestly, but—well. Maybe she'd been a little worried.

Her phone beeps again.

it was nice. also we're here, wherever here is. turning phone off.

"Aw," Brendon says, and if he were anyone else Z would probably hit him, but he sounds like he actually means it. "See? I told you everything would be fine."

"Yeah," Z says, tossing her phone onto the bedside table. "You did. I know."

"They're good people," Brendon says, sitting back a little so he can stretch out his shoulders. "They'll take care of him, Z."

"Ryan doesn't need anyone to take care of him," Z says, without thinking. It comes out sharp. Brendon raises an eyebrow.

"Sorry," Z says immediately, shaking her head. "Sorry. I just—"

"I know," Brendon says, his eyes softening. "I know. You're protective of him."

"With good fucking reason," Z says, scooting across the bed so she can lean up against the pillows. Brendon follows suit, bumping his shoulder into hers. "I still can't believe he just—I don't even know what he was thinking. He's such an idiot sometimes."

"Everyone has to make their own mistakes," Brendon says. He tips his head back so he can look at Z's ceiling fan, spinning slowly above them. "I know I have. I definitely regret some of this shit I said to my parents before they kicked me out and I ended up here."

"Oh," Z says softly, because—okay, she knows Brendon doesn't mean it like that, but it sort of sounds like—

"Z?" Brendon says, frowning a little and turning to face her. Z knows she's suddenly become very stiff, but she can't help it. "What—"

"But you're not sad you moved here?" Z blurts out, the words tumbling out all at once. "Right? Or are you going to leave after the semester's over, it's only three weeks, I know you said it was getting better with them, but you—but we—"

"Hey," Brendon says firmly, turning on his side so he's facing her. "Z. Look at me, okay?" Z can feel his hands on her jawline. She takes a deep breath, and then lets him gently turn her head so they're looking at each other.

"No," Brendon says. "No, and no, and seriously, no. I'm not going anywhere. I'm four classes short of graduating, anyway. I've moved around too much, and the school board is being picky about my credits. I'm going to have to take summer classes or stay on for another semester at least. And with my parents, it's not—it's getting better, yeah, but I'm definitely not ready to go back there yet." He pauses. "And besides," Brendon says, a little softer. "I'm not leaving you."

"Okay," Z says, biting her lip. "Promise?" She hates herself for it, for the needy tone in her voice, but Brendon is just—awesome. He's awesome and amazing and Z can't remember the last time she's been so stupidly, unnecessarily happy with someone. She's never been this happy with someone, if she's being honest.

"Promise," Brendon says solemnly. "I mean. For the next year, at least. I can't promise I'm going to get old and die here. But I don't think you're going to do that, either."

"Definitely not," Z says, wrinkling her nose. "We've got a year to make a demo and record an album, and then we're getting out of here. I just didn't want—you know," Z says lamely, because it seems kind of selfish to say I didn't want you to leave before I did.

"Yeah," Brendon says. "I know." Z can feel him settling in a little closer to her, slipping his hand into hers. It's quiet between them for a moment. The house is empty and still.

"So what do you want to do?" Z says eventually. "Everyone else is out falling in love, and things. We have the evening to ourselves."

"Oh, I don't know," Brendon says casually. He swipes his thumb across the back of her hand. "I thought we could have sex."

"Surprise of the century," Z says, snickering a little. "I knew the conversation would eventually make it back to the topic of nakedness."

"Yeah," Brendon says, but underneath his the casual tone, his voice sounds a little off. "Uh. About that."

"What?" Z says, sitting up and kicking off her bunny slippers and starting to tug at her socks. There's no point in leaving them on, they're just going to come off anyway. "Is that about that making-out-in-the-shower thing you told me about the other day? Because I told you, my shower is small, we'll both slip and die."

"No, um, Z—" Brendon says, tugging on her hand, forcing her to look at him again. Z pauses, one hand still holding her left sock. "I meant," Brendon says awkwardly. "Like. Sex. Like sex that involves condoms. Not just orgasms."

Z blinks at him.

"Oh," Z says.

"Is that a bad 'oh'"? Brendon says hesitantly, after a moment. "Or a good one?"

"It's good," Z says weakly. "Really good."

"Okay," Brendon says. "Um."

"Yeah," Z says. "No, seriously, okay, it's really good, I am so down with that, but you said—you said you'd never, and this is kind of a big deal, and I feel like maybe I shouldn't be in my socks and bunny slippers right now, and possibly I should have showered, and—" Oh god, Z thinks, slightly hysterical. oh my god, Z, STOP TALKING.

"I really don't care," Brendon says, starting to smile. Z's glad her utter and complete loss of a verbal filter is funny to someone. "Z. Do you think I'd be saying this if I cared about whether you'd showered?"

"Maybe?" Z squeaks. She finally gets it together to throw her left sock over the bed, kicking the slippers off as well because okay, she's not a virgin, she's done this before, but it's still kind of weird to think about seeing fuzzy ears in the corner of her vision while she's having sex.

"Well, I don't," Brendon says. "Greasy hair and bunny slippers and all, okay?"

"You make it sound so enticing," Z says, but she wiggles a little closer on the bed, holding her breath.

"It's not like I showered," Brendon says, grinning at her a little. "This is, uh. Kind of spur-of-the-moment."

"Are you sure?" Z says, biting her lip again. "This is a big deal, okay. Or it can be. It can be a big deal."

"If you don't relax I'm going to rescind the offer," Brendon mumbles, but he's leaning in, kissing her feather-light and soft. Z lets herself relax into the pressure, the softness of his mouth on hers. "Seriously, though," Brendon says, once he pulls away to breathe. "I'm a little bit in love with you. I want to. It's okay. I'm not going to regret this."

"Oh," Z says, wonderingly. She can feel her breath stuttering in her chest, just a little.

"So let's do this," Brendon says, leaning in to kiss her again, and Z can't help it—she's smiling against his mouth when he kisses her again. It's both his words (I'm a little bit in love with you, oh god) and his oh-so-smooth tone. Z feels like she's walking on the clouds, like everything is suddenly sunshine and roses and cotton candy, and she's not prone to hyperbole and it's a dumb metaphor, but—yeah. It feels like she's floating away.

"How do you want to, um," Z mumbles, even as she's pressing in closer and Brendon's hands are coming to rest on her hips so he can pull her on top of him. He tugs a little, and Z lets herself be pulled, and then she's straddling him, legs bracketing his thighs. Brendon's already half-hard. Z presses down without thinking, chasing the sensation, and Brendon makes a breathless noise into her mouth.

"Uh, the normal way?" Brendon says, once they've pulled apart again and Z is occupying herself with sucking a large and noticeable hickey into the side of Brendon's neck. He's all pale and smooth, and he likes to tilt his head back and make these soft little noises. It makes Z want to push and push, makes her want to hold him down and force him to stay still so she can bite him harder.

(It's the kind of thing she might be worried about—these sudden, um, urges she has—if Brendon wasn't so obviously into it. If he didn't tilt his head back and look up at her, all open and trusting and honest.)

"Huh?" Z says, pulling back and admiring her handiwork. She brushes her fingers over the mark, now slightly raised and red under her fingertips, and Brendon lets out a breath.

"The normal way," he says, catching her face in both hands and pulling her in so he can kiss her deeply, slick and rough. "Whatever way we feel like, fuck—" Brendon breaks off, glancing down at Z's hands underneath his t-shirt, holding on to his hips. "Okay," Brendon says breathlessly. "Wait. We need to be naked."

"Usually," Z agrees, but she's already sitting up and tugging off her undershirt. She has to roll off of Brendon so he can wiggle out of his jeans, but then she shucks the rest of her clothing and suddenly Brendon's pulling her down and—jesus christ, Z thinks blearily, because there's skin, so much skin, and Brendon is smooth and soft and rough in all the right places.

"Fuck," Brendon mumbles, spreading his legs slightly so Z can fit in between them, wrapping them around the backs of her legs so they're closer, closer. His hands are running up and down the long length of her back, a single stroke from the nape of her neck to the curve of her ass, and Z can't help arching her spine into the pressure.

"Yeah," Z says. "Yeah—wait."

"What?" Brendon says, blinking up at her, red lips and a dazed look on his face. He's hard against her stomach, and Z loses her train of thought a little when he shifts under her, rolling his hips up slightly, like he can't help it.

"Condoms," Z says firmly. "We need them. Hang on."

"My wallet," Brendon mumbles, pulling her back down. He gets one kiss in before Z pulls back again, shaking her head at him.

"Didn't you pay attention in sex ed?" Z says grinning. "Never use the wallet condom." She sits up, twisting and stretching so she can reach her bedside table and fumble at the second drawer from the top. "Here," Z says, finding the lube first and dropping it on the bed, and then stretching even further so she can rummage in the back for the 3-pack she knows is in there. Just in case.

"You keep lube in your bedside table?" Brendon says, raising an eyebrow.

"Gotta have something for when you're not around," Z says, winking at him. Brendon makes an interested noise in reponse, but Z just pushes aside the random other assorted crap in that drawer until her fingers finally close around a slim cardboard box. "A-ha!" Z says, victorious and grinning. "Found it."

"Good job," Brendon says, and his tone is joking but he's looking up at Z with an expression that's more serious than anything else—serious, and honest, and oh, yeah. Z is so down for this.

"Okay," Z says, and Brendon pulls her back in, settling her back down on top of him. "Okay, so should we just—"

"Yeah," Brendon says.

"Okay," Z says. "Because I was thinking about blowing you first."

"Oh god, wait, I changed my mind," Brendon gasps out, as Z starts shuffling backwards. "I'm picking that option, fuck."

"I figured you would," Z says, grinning into his stomach. She bites at the thin skin there and Brendon rolls his hips up, tilting his head back with a sigh. His cock is thick and flushed against his stomach, and she rubs her thumb over the head, watching carefully so she can enjoy every little reaction. She knows it's not Brendon's first blowjob or anything, but it's still gratifying when she takes him in her mouth and he bucks his hips, one hand clenching in her hair. He releases her just as quickly, murmuring sorry, sorry, but Z just shrugs, pulling off for a moment to close her lips around the head of his cock and suck gently.

"You can pull," Z says, before she takes him back in. "I don't mind. Just don't like, rip my hair out or anything."

"Uh-huh," Brendon says weakly, but he slides his hands back into her hair anyway, tugging gently whenever she does something that he really likes. He's not huge or anything, so Z can easily take him in all the way, and that earns her a strangled moan and a harder tug than all the rest put together.

"Z," Brendon gasps out, after she's been at it for a little while, taking her time and generally enjoying herself. "Z, fuck, you need to—we need to. I'm kind of close."

"Yeah," Z says, sliding her mouth off after one final, gentle lick. "Yeah, I was getting that." The words are flippant but she's careful to keep her tone soft, so Brendon knows she's not teasing. "Can I be on top?" Z whispers, once she's straddling him again, leaning down so that Brendon can chase his own taste out of her mouth, a move that earns her another surprised moan.

"Always," Brendon whispers, and Z bites down, hard, on his lower lip. She feels the firm pressure of Brendon sliding his hand down her side, coming to rest on her ass and then dipping down between her legs. He brushes his fingers over her entrance, and Z pushes back against his hand. "You okay?" Brendon says breathlessly, pressing just the tips of his fingers inside of her. "Do we need lube, are you—fuck, you're so wet," Brendon says, and Z grins into his mouth, shifting her hips so he'll move his hand away. She grabs the condom package, ripping it open with both hands and then rolling it on to him, chucking the empty wrapper over her shoulder. Whatever. She'll pick it up later.

"I like going down on guys," Z murmurs, getting herself situated and then sliding her left hand back down to line him up. "I like going down on you."

"Great," Brendon says, his voice still strained. "Awesome. That is an awesome development—Z, fuck," Brendon gasps out, because Z's sliding down on him, slow and careful. Her breath hitches when she's finally all the way down.

"Z," Brendon says again, looking awed and slightly freaked out and turned on, all at once, and Z can't help herself, she leans up to kiss him again, soft and gentle this time. She can't get over how good he feels inside of her, thick and perfect. She rolls her hips just once, experimentally, and Brendon grabs for her hands, tangling his fingers with hers. "You feel amazing," Brendon whispers, and Z nods.

"So do you," she whispers back, and she means it. "I'm going to move, okay?"

"Yeah," Brendon says, and Z rocks her hips, pushing herself back onto his cock. She loves being on top like this, loves running the show even if it means her legs will probably be sore tomorrow. It's worth it, god.

"Z, I can't," Brendon says, and then he's untangling their fingers, grabbing on to her hips as he thrusts up. Z gasps out at the sudden shock of sensation, of the way he's suddenly filling her up in all the right places. "I just can't—" Brendon says again, and Z nods, leaning forward so she can bite down on his shoulder.

"Whatever you want," Z gasps out, her mouth falling open when Brendon starts fucking into her, hard, like he's been hanging on by a thread this whole time and now he can't help it. "That's good. I'm good." She knows she's babbling, but somehow he's managing to hit all the right spots, and Z would be impressed if she wasn't too busy chasing the sensation, rocking her hips in time with his thrusts. She leans down again and it's skin to skin everywhere, Brendon's hands on her hips and his cock pressed deep inside of her, just right, and when she kisses him rough and messy Brendon suddenly stills, every muscle in his body drawn up tight. "It's okay," Z gasps out, sinking one hand into his hair, squeezing down on him so that she can feel every inch of him inside her. "It's okay, come on, I want to feel it—"

"Oh, god," Brendon whines, and then he's throwing his head back and pressing his hips impossibly closer, fucking her with jerky, desperate thrusts until he comes with a muffled yell into her shoulder. Z can feel his dick pulsing inside of her and it's hot and she's fucking dying to get off but she's also struck by the sudden intensity of it all, of knowing that Brendon's never felt this before, with anyone. Z just wants to stay here forever, wants to do this again and again, wants to sink into this moment and never let go.

Brendon stays there for a while, his forehead pressed to the curve of her collarbone. Z strokes his hair, unable to help herself. "Hey," she says softly, once he's finally caught his breath. "Hey, B. You okay?"

"More than okay," Brendon says, blinking up at her with an expression that's stripped entirely bare, even for him. He looks amazed, amazed and endorphin-stupid and so, so happy.

Z can't breathe; she thinks that this must be what flying feels like.

"Love you," she says softly. She doesn't even think about it; it just tumbles out, honest and so very, very true.

"Yeah," Brendon says, reaching one hand up to brush her hair out of her eyes. "Yeah, god. Love you. I love you. Fuck, Z—wait." He pauses. "Shit, we are such a cliche right now."

Z blinks at him. And then she snorts, because yeah, they really are.

"Whatever," Z says, bending down for another kiss. "I meant it. So there."

"Me too," Brendon says softly. He's starting to slip out, so Z pulls back, wiggling her hips until he's no longer pressed up inside of her. Her thighs feel wet. Which, oh fuck. She bites her lip.

"Okay," Z says, as Brendon's tugging off the used condom. "So that was awesome and amazing and life changing but I really need to come now and then we can make moon eyes at each other, okay?"

"Can I help?" Brendon says, tying off the condom and tossing it into the wastebasket underneath Z's nightstand. "I get to help, right?"

"Duh," Z says, "That's part of your job description." She slides her fingers down, biting her lip, but Brendon stops her with a gentle hand on her wrist.

"Can I go down on you?" Brendon says, and his voice is low and throaty. "Can I. I really fucking want to go down on you right now."

"Um, like I'm going to say no," Z says, and climbs off of him to settle back against the pillows. Brendon rolls over, kissing at her stomach and thighs before tucking her legs up behind his head. "This is the life," Z says, smiling wide and happy at the first touch of Brendon's lips, sighing a little as he licks over her clit before sucking gently.

"No disagreements here," Brendon murmurs, and Z grins and settles back to enjoy herself.

—

"...paintball?" Ryan says, blinking, as they pull in to the lot.

"And mini-golf," Tennessee says seriously. "And bowling. There are many options, my friend."

"And yet," Spencer says, unbuckling his seat-belt, "I suspect you brought us here for the paintball. I see right through you, you know."

"Won't that hurt?" Ryan says, peering at Tennessee's bare legs underneath her dress.

"I brought leggings," Tennessee says, grinning at him. "And yeah, probably, but it's always worth it when I manage to get Spencer in the neck."

"You're evil," Ryan says, not with a tinge of admiration.

"Yes," Tennessee says patiently. She's fumbling in her purse and then pulling out a pair of black leggings, and Ryan swallows and then forces himself to look away while she tugs them up and under her dress. It's not that he wants to look away, but it feels like—he doesn't even know. It feels like something he shouldn't be seeing, yet, even if neither Tennessee nor Spencer seem to care.

"Shall we?" Tennessee says, after she's ready, and Ryan and Spencer both nod. Ryan's actually only played paintball about twice in his life, but he's pretty curious about playing it with Spencer and Tennessee. He suspects there will be a lot of friendly competition and cat-calling. He also suspects that Tennessee is about to kick both of their asses, but at least it will be entertaining.

They each pay their own way, once they're inside, and Tennessee shoves her flats in her purse and puts on a pair of sneakers. She looks absolutely absurd. Her dress is white and lacy and has kittens on it. Her sneakers are bright blue.

"You look awesome," Ryan says, and means it whole-heartedly.

"Thanks," Tenneesee says, smiling broadly. "Now. Where do we pick up our body armor?"

—

"Ow, fuck!" Spencer yelps, for the eighteenth time, ducking back behind the barricade. Ryan grins into his face mask. Next to him, Tennessee knocks her shoulder into his.

"Nineteenth time's the charm," She stage whispers, pushing herself up so she can quickly glance around the corner, over Ryan's crouched form. "Go for the stomach."

"I'm starting to worry you're actually insane," Ryan whispers back, but he nods when she starts to silently count them in. She holds up three fingers, and then two, and on the first finger they both slam out from behind their corner and start frantically looking for Spencer's red body gear. Ryan's grip on his paintball gun is clumsy and awkward. They wait a second, two seconds, and then all of a sudden Ryan's face make explodes in a burst of yellow paint and Tennessee is howling with laughter.

"Okay," Tennessee says, standing up and tugging her mask off. Her cheeks are flushed red with exertion, and her hair is an absolute mess. "That's it. I'm done for the day."

"Sorry," Spencer says, jogging over to where Ryan is wiping paint out of his hair and grimacing. Spencer's smiling wide and unapologetic. "I was totally aiming for Tenn."

"Your aim kind of sucks," Ryan points out, but he accepts a helping hand up, and there's something soft and warm blooming in his chest as he walks back to the entrance nestled in between the two of them. His clothes are a mess and he knows they all look absurd, but right now he doesn't even care.

They drop off their gear and head out into the parking lot together, still bumping shoulders and giggling. Somehow, by the time they get to the car, Ryan realizes he's holding on to both of their hands.

"You're coming with us all the time from now on," Tennessee says, squeezing Ryan's hand before dropping it so she can fumble in her purse for her keys. "That was way more fun than just going with Spencer. You make a great decoy."

"Thanks," Ryan says dryly.

"You'll get better," Spencer says, holding on to Ryan's hand as they scramble into the back of Tennessee's car together. The parking lot is hazy in the falling light, a darkening expanse of concrete broken by the shimmering circles of tall streetlamps. "It takes some practice before you really get the hang of it."

"I'm pretty sure all the practice in the world couldn't make me better at that game," Ryan says, remembering in painful detail the three separate times he'd managed to slam himself into a concrete barrier. "But it was pretty cool," he says carefully, when Spencer's face falls. "I had fun."

"Good," Tennessee says, turning the engine over with a hum and then a roar. "That was the idea. You don't smile enough, Ryan."

"I'm working on it," Ryan says softly. Spencer slides over so he's touching Ryan's arm with his own.

The ride back to Ryan's house is quiet, but not uncomfortably so. Ryan stares out the window and thinks about everything and nothing, and by the time Tennessee is finally pulling into Ryan's driveway, he's not even sure how much time has passed.

"I wish we could stay out later," Tennessee says, turning from the front seat to face Ryan and Spencer in the back. "But I have this thing tomorrow with my parents, some big craft fair that my mum's been dying to go to, and it starts at like, nine in the morning."

"It's okay," Ryan says, a yawn curling out of his throat without his permission. "Spending two hours scrambling in fear for my life kind of wore me out."

"Next time will be a little more relaxing, we promise," Spencer says. Ryan blinks at him, that warm feeling in his chest curling into something even larger and brighter. "There's going to be a next time?" Ryan says carefully, because he just wants to make sure.

"Absolutely," Tennessee and Spencer say firmly, in unison. They roll their eyes at each other, afterwards.

"Good," Ryan says, biting his lip when it feels like his smile is plastered all over his face, impossibly huge. "Okay."

"Yeah," Spencer says. He takes a deep breath, squeezing Ryan's hand again and moving in awkwardly for a hug, and Ryan just—doesn't let himself think about it too much. He listens to the large, bright thing in his chest, instead, and when Spencer moves closer Ryan tilts his head up, pressing his lips to the corner of Spencer's mouth. He feels Spencer startle as he does it, a jump of muscles and motion, and then Spencer relaxes into, moving forward so that it's a real kiss, not just a brush of lips. His lips are dry, but his mouth is soft and warm.

Ryan lets himself stay there for a moment, just a few seconds, and then he pulls back to check Spencer's expression. Spencer's eyes are warm and surprised, and his cheeks are tinged with a faint blush. "We didn't want to assume—" Spencer says softly, still only a few centimeters away. "We figured, you know. We'd take this really slow—We don't want you to feel like you have to—"

"Kissing is okay," Ryan whispers, leaning into kiss him again. Then he pulls back farther, turning to face Tennessee. She's smiling at them, her eyes dancing with fondness and amusement.

"Well hey, do I get a good night kiss, too?" she says, and Ryan laughs, leaning in to kiss her. Her mouth is softer than Spencer's. She tastes like strawberry chapstick and Ryan wants to stay here forever, wants to map out all the ways their kisses are different and yet strangely similar, and then out of the corner of his eye he sees his porch light flicker on.

"Time to go," Ryan murmurs. Tennessee kisses him on the cheek, and then Spencer follows, pressing his lips to the same spot as Ryan unbuckles his seatbelt. He slides through the door and then turns back to them once he's outside the car, closing the door with a click. He wants to say something awkward and heartfelt, but Tennessee just winks obnoxiously at him, mouthing Call us! while waving her hand next to her head, shaped like a phone. Ryan snorts, shaking his head.

"Now I don't know if I want to," Ryan says, grinning at them, and the last thing he hears before Tennessee pulls them out of the driveway is the sound of their combined laughter.

—

Z doesn't want to move. Doesn't want to move ever again, in fact. She's carding her fingers through Brendon's hair and humming softly, and she's just—it's pretty stupid, how happy she is.

"Z?" he says softly, voice rough like he's falling asleep (and fuck, she wants to fall asleep with him and wake up together even though he's basically a human furnace and everything will be uncomfortably hot in the morning).

"Yeah?" she says, equally softly.

"I think—is that your phone?"

She blinks and listens—"It totally is," she says, surprised. She'd put it on silent and it had stayed silent while they, well, but now it's humming, so she must not have turned off the vibration. "Shit," she says, and squirms out from under Brendon to rummage through her purse, hanging half off the bed. Like the awesome boyfriend he is, Brendon holds on to her legs so she doesn't fall off and only laughs a little bit at her when she squirms back onto the bed and answers the phone with a breathless, "Talk."

She's expecting Ryan, so she almost falls off the bed again when it's actually Tennessee on the phone.

"Oh," she says. "What do you—hi?"

Tennessee laughs a little. "Z, hi, hey. How was your evening?"

Z isn't blushing, she's just not, but she thinks the way Brendon's eyes are dancing means she probably is, just a bit. "It was nice," she says, ignoring Brendons muffled "Nice? Just nice? Z Berg, I'm hurt."

"Good, excellent," Tennessee says, and Z thinks she maybe sounds a little nervous.

"How was yours?" she asks, trying not to worry about what Tennessee being nervous could mean for Ryan. What if something went wrong on their date? What if Ryan freaked out? What if they didn't—

"Oh, my evening," Tennessee says, sounding relieved. "It was good, great. We played paintball."

Z's eyebrows nearly reach her hairline. "You—really? Ryan played paintball? Voluntarily?"

"We had fun," Tennessee says, a smile in her voice. "I think Spencer has the most bruises, though Ryan lost the most points."

"Of course he did," Z says, grinning fondly. "So, like, was there something you needed?" She winces after saying it, biting her lip and hoping she didn't just come off as insanely rude.

The way Tennessee hesitates, though, gives her the feeling that maybe she was right about Tennessee calling for a purpose. "Spill," she says, and hopes it doesn't come out wrong, hopes Tennessee isn't actually calling to turn down—

"I'd like." Tennessee pauses. "If you would still have me? I'd like to join your band."

"Oh my god," Z says, and falls off the bed.

"Z?" Brendon says, his voice distorted by laughter as he peers down at her. "Z, are you okay?"

"A drummer," Z says, her voice filled with wonder. Through the phone, she can hear Tennessee laughing just as hard as Brendon is. "Our drummer. Tenn. You're going to—we're really—oh my god, I love you. This is going to be amazing." Z pauses, because Brendon is gesturing at her. "Brendon says I should tell you that I got so excited I fell off the bed." She wrinkles her nose at her boyfriend.

"I heard the thumping noise," Tennessee says, still laughing. "But yes. Yes. If you want me—I'm in."

—

Epilogue - Three Months Later

Z's voice rings out through the practice space, ending on a low note, perfectly timed to the rising beat of the drums. Ryan's perched on their broken amp, watching all of them in turn; Z's little hip shakes and the wide smiles aimed at Brendon, sitting on the floor near her microphone; Annie's carefully timed head bobs and straight posture; the way Laena dances in place; the intense joy that radiates out from Tennessee as she plays. From his perch Ryan can just barely see the lyrics to their new song, taped to the floor next to Z's effects pedal. It's the one she was working on a few months ago, speeded up in tempo so that it now sounds more joyous than anything else.

A shift in shapes has come about
And no one's safe or sacred now
But isn't that much better than
The limbo we were living in

Diaspora or renaissance
Blame mercury or fate or chance
Changes always come in packs,
Sniffing out your darkened doorsteps

"And the world is upside down," Z sings out, and Spencer brushes his hand over the curve of Ryan's hip as he walks up behind him. Ryan leans into the touch, tilting his head backwards so he can just barely see the bottom of Spencer's jaw as he stands behind him.

"Hey," Ryan mouths, and Spencer squeezes his hip, leaning down to brush a kiss over Ryan's mouth.

"Hey," Spencer mouths back, and then they both face forward so they can continue watching Tennessee rock the fuck out. Her hair's flying everywhere, and it's not a particularly intense or drum-heavy song, but Ryan knows that's just the way she is—she gives it her all, every time, even if it's just their final practice before their first show at the Green Cauldron on amateur night.

"I'll stand my ground," Z sings, voice rising, and Ryan can't look away, because yes, yes. They'll stand their ground, they'll make this work. Somehow.

almostblue — Mon, 08 Nov 2010 18:27:33 GMT

Amateur Cartography

Brendon/Spencer, NC-17, ~42,000 Words.

Summary: In the summer of 2008, Brendon’s still trying to figure everything out. He’s good at keeping his own secrets, but when a prank goes awry, he’s faced with the realization that Spencer has some secrets of his own. They end up stumbling backwards into a complicated relationship—one that definitely doesn’t include sex. Or does it?

Warnings: This fic contains BDSM themes. For more specific warnings, please highlight to view: spanking, pain play, wax play, d/s, bondage, scratching, biting, pinching, humiliation (very mild), gags, blindfolds, orgasm denial, and two dudes who don't always get everything right. If there are any questions about these warnings or if you would like more specific details, please send me a private message on LJ.

Disclaimer: I don't know any of these people, and this never happened.

Notes: Despite the summary above, this is essentially just a big epic fic about Brendon's pain kink.

So that happened.

This story exists because of two people: disarm_d and roga. disarm_d helped me with this from the beginning. Endless emails were sent while we figured out the plot. She answered all my dumb questions and convinced me that no, I was actually capable of writing this. She is 100% the reason this actually got written. And then somewhere in the middle I asked roga if she wouldn't mind reading the first 20k and checking it for mistakes, and she proceeded to beta the entire thing in real-time for the next month and a half. So. I know you guys have already read this a million times, but this is for you. Thank you for everything, and especially for not letting me settle for "good enough." I promise I won't show you the coda so at least some part of this 'verse will actually be a surprise ♥

This takes place during the summer of 2008, and all events roughly match up with the official timeline as listed here. The title comes from the album Left and Leaving by The Weakerthans.

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five

Not-Quite-Fic: All of This and Maybe, Brendon/Spencer, R

almostblue — Sun, 27 Sep 2009 05:20:39 GMT

All of This and Maybe

Brendon/Spencer, R, 3500 words. Contains some fairly mild power play dynamics and exhibitionism kink.

Note: This is a snippet of something I started a long time ago; it no longer fits in the timeline of that particular story, but I think it can stand on its own as a PWP. So, uh. Imagine there's been lots of pining before this happens! *handwaves*

Somewhere between Albany and Chicago, everything changes.

Spencer had been staring out the bus window, watching the highway flow past, an unbroken string of power lines and brief bursts of incandescent light. It's somewhere past 2am and Spencer can finally feel himself start to come down from the show, all his restless adrenaline starting to melt away under the never ending hum and rattle of the road. The bus windows are cold under his fingertips. Spencer's hands leave sheer white prints that fade almost instantly when he pulls his hands away.

Jon's fumbling around in the kitchenette, making something that smells like Easy Mac, and Spencer can hear the low murmur of Ryan's baritone coming from his bunk. He's probably on the phone with Keltie and Spencer would like to begrudge him his happiness, he really would, but he's not that much of an asshole. Spencer considers, very seriously, the option of getting up and convincing Jon to make him Easy Mac, but in the end he just gets up and heads back toward the bunks. There's light coming from the back lounge and Spencer pokes his head in, just to see what Brendon's doing.

"Spencer," Brendon says, stretched lengthwise along the entire back couch. "Spencer, come in here. I need moral support for this."

Spencer glances at the screen. "You need moral support to watch The Never-ending Story?"

"The empress is dying, okay."

"She's dying for the entire movie," Spencer says. "And then she gets reborn, or whatever. It's not sad if you know what happens."

"You're missing the point," Brendon says. "Just shut up and come here and enjoy the movie with me."

Brendon sits up, humming along with the music as Spencer goes to stretch out on the couch and Atreyu rides intently across a field in search of a cure for the empress. Brendon lays back down with his head in Spencer's lap and Spencer scratches behind Brendon's ears a few times, just saying hello. Brendon sort of snuggles a little into Spencer's thigh and it kind of sucks, honestly. It sucks that Brendon is just his friend, will never be anything other than his friend. Spencer's chest feels sort of vaguely hollow but the thought of getting up and leaving makes him feel worse, so he stays.

"I always wanted to be Atreyu," Brendon mutters into Spencer's thigh, back curved into the cushions of the couch. "He's all heroic and shit."

"I'm surprised your parents even let you watch this," Spencer says, stretching out to rest his arms on the back of the couch. "It's kind of dark and unwholesome for a kids movie, all that stuff about magic books and how life has no meaning."

Brendon shrugs, making a non-committal noise against his thigh. Spencer reaches down and flicks his ear.

Spencer doesn't actually remember falling asleep, but he wakes up with a start when the Gmork is howling in his cave at a wounded Atreyu, surrounded by swirling clouds of encroaching Nothing. This part always scared the crap out of him when he was a kid. He rubs his hand over his eyes and peers down at Brendon, still resting on his lap. Brendon's awake and already looking up at him, biting his lip.

Huh, Spencer thinks blearily.

"Hey," Spencer says out loud. His voice comes out raspy. "What time is it, anyway?"

Brendon doesn't answer--he sort of half-shrugs, darting his eyes away and staring intently at the wall, then looking back up at Spencer, chewing on his lower lip all the while.

On-screen, Atreyu is waking up, tear-stained, on Falcor's back. Spencer opens his mouth to ask if Brendon's okay--seriously, he looks almost upset, and maybe he's just waiting for Spencer to notice or ask him about it or something--and Brendon leans up, supports himself on his elbows and brings his mouth to Spencer's, feather-light.

Spencer knows he's staring, but it takes until Brendon starts mumbling apologies and moving away to realize he's just sitting there, frozen solid with shock. There's a tiny thread of elation starting to wind its way up through his chest but he needs to--Spencer needs to--

"Whoa, hey, wait, Brendon," Spencer says, catching him by the arm. Brendon won't make eye contact and Spencer maybe tugs him back down onto the couch a little more forcefully than the situation wants. "What was that all about?"

"Nothing, Spence, seriously--"

"Nothing?"

"Let's just say it was a joke, you know, ha-ha, seriously, I'm sorry, I just thought that maybe you were, I was getting--" Brendon's wincing, cheeks red and Spencer's pretty sure he needs to do something before this conversation heads in the wrong direction. He catches Brendon's chin, swallowing Brendon's half-hearted denials.

Brendon's mouth is soft and when Spencer parts Brendon's lips with his tongue, he tastes sweet. Brendon pulls back just a little, enough so that his words are still just air in Spencer's mouth. "Spence," he says, "You're--is this, I mean, can we--"

"Totally," Spencer says, pulling Brendon back in, letting his hand cradle the base of Brendon's skull as they kiss. He can touch, now, Spencer realizes, and he curls his fingers, runs his nails over Brendon's scalp and feels Brendon swallow hard. Brendon kisses spit-slick and a little clumsy and Spencer just wants moremoremore.

Brendon's still sort of leaning over him awkwardly and Spencer wraps a hand around his upper bicep and tugs at the same time Brendon moves forward and Brendon ends up on his lap. He blinks quickly, eyes wide and lips a little swollen. Spencer pulls him in again, slides a hand down to Brendon's lower back and pushes and yes, there, now Brendon's straddling him and it's closer to what Spencer wants but still not quite enough. Brendon bites his lip and smiles a little and leans in again, rests his arms on Spencer's shoulders and kisses him lazily. Spencer lets him.

Spencer knows, in the back of his mind, that the door to the lounge is still wide open, that this isn't really the time or the place. Jon and Ryan are probably asleep, but. He isn't sure what's going on or whether this is a one time deal (Spencer hopes, hopes that it isn't but two hours ago he'd been utterly convinced Brendon was straight) or what, but he forces himself to pull back, removes his hands from where they're cupping Brendon's hipbones entirely without his permission.

"We should," Spencer tries. "The door. It's--we either need to stop doing this right here or close the door." He's giving Brendon an out, he realizes suddenly. He's giving him the chance to walk away or maybe say hey, I was just curious but Brendon doesn't seem like he's interested in taking it and that's a surprise, also. Spencer wonders just how wrong he was, how many things he's been missing lately, wrapped up in his own head.

Brendon ignores him, pressing forward against him and licking into his mouth a little slow and a little dirty. He's starting to grind down slightly on Spencer, hips shifting his weight, little teasing presses of his thighs and it's really fucking distracting. Spencer feels like he's slightly out of his depth, here. He's used to being the one sort of running the show, so to speak, and Brendon's kind of forcing him to throw that particular rulebook out the window. Spencer is starting to get the impression that Brendon needs a fair bit of persuasion to get him to do what you want him to do, which, okay, isn't really that surprising. Spencer should probably have guessed that one beforehand.

Spencer kisses back and works a hand into Brendon's hair, instead, waiting until Brendon pauses to take a breath and then pulling, just enough so that Brendon can feel it, so that he's forced to move back with Spencer's hand. "The door," Spencer repeats. "Do you want me to close it?"

Brendon cuts his eyes away and down, licking his lips. Spencer just waits, letting his own breathing even out and every once and a while darting his eyes over Brendon's shoulder to make sure no one's stumbling back to their bunk and peering in.

"No," Brendon says finally, softly.

"Um," Spencer says.

"No, I don't want you to close it," Brendon says, finally meeting Spencer's eyes. He's got a familiar look on his face and Spencer's can feel his eyes widen as he recognizes it. It's that same look of evaluation and now Spencer's maybe beginning to have an idea what it means, what he might have been saying in all those wordless conversations. Part of Spencer wants to push Brendon off, turn the lights on and try and figure out what the hell is going on. He's apparently been reading Brendon wrong all this time and Spencer's a little thrown, to be honest, with the kissing thing and now this, Brendon looking at him like he's waiting for something.

"I'm going to get up and close it halfway," Spencer says finally. His voice is rough and it takes him a minute to recognize it as his own. "I won't shut it or latch it."

Brendon nods, eyes large and dark.

Walking across the room is awkward but Spencer manages it, peering around the door before he pushes it closed halfway. The bunk area is dark and silent and he's almost positive the rest of the bus is asleep but they're going to need to be extra quiet. Something in him flares up at that, at the thought of seeing how far he could push Brendon before he got too loud. Spencer tries not to think of it as a challenge.

He sits back down on the couch, wondering if this is when it gets awkward, but Brendon just sort of slides into his lap, mouth back on Spencer's almost immediately. Brendon's a little rougher now, a little less hesitant and Spencer responds in kind, tensing his fingers so that when he slides his hand up Brendon's back and back down again it's less of a caress and more of a scratch.

Brendon makes these weird little rumbling noises in his throat when Spencer bites down on his neck, a cross between a purr and a growl. It shouldn't be hot but Spencer can feel his dick twitching in his jeans because Brendon just keeps grinding down on him, these tiny, teasing circles that are driving Spencer insane. Brendon's being a fucking tease and Spencer could have predicted that, sure, but knowing it abstractly and being subjected to it are apparently two different things.

Spencer drags his nails harder down Brendon's back and Brendon arches, shooting a quick glance at the open doorway and it's almost like he wants someone to wake up, Spencer thinks dumbly, brain stupid and slow. It's almost like--something connects, then, something sizzles and pops and oh, oh, maybe.

"You need to stay quiet," Spencer murmurs in his ear, winding a path with his tongue and nipping every few inches. "Or they might wake up and hear you."

"Yes," Brendon gasps softly, and Spencer doesn't know if he means Yes, they might wake up or Yes, I want them to hear us, I want them to see.

"What if I told you to stay quiet," Spencer says, words tumbling out into Brendon's mouth. He doesn't really know what he's doing but fuck, fuck, the look on Brendon's face is worth it. They can talk about it in the morning and there's time to worry about it later, when Brendon isn't rubbing off against him, panting. "What if I told you couldn't make any noise, no matter how badly you wanted it."

"Fuck," Brendon whispers, "Shit, Spencer, can I," and he's rubbing his knuckles under Spencer's shirt, skin on Spencer's bare stomach and Spencer just wants and Brendon's fingers are so, so clever. Spencer knows this; he's watched them hundreds of times, during concerts and on guitar hero controllers, and the thought of them around his cock makes him shiver.

Spencer runs one hand up to catch Brendon's jawline, thumb pressing in the secret hollow just under his chin. He leans in and bites Brendon's neck, scraping teeth over Brendon's ear, alternating sharp and soft and tongue. "I thought I just told you to stay quiet," Spencer murmurs, fingers digging in just enough to make Brendon's throat catch. He's not blocking Brendon's airflow or anything--his fingers are splayed lengthwise along the side of Brendon's neck, not wrapped around it--but he can still feel how every breath Brendon's taking is stuttered, uneven. Brendon bites his lip and nods, trying to snake a hand between them, palm cupping over Spencer's dick. Spencer exhales in a whoosh when Brendon presses down, strokes him firmly through his jeans. Brendon's palm is warm and slightly damp, even through the thick fabric. There's no illumination in the room other than the blue light from the tv and everything between them, every kiss and touch and breath seems slightly unreal. Brendon's cheeks are flushed.

Spencer continues talking almost into Brendon's ear, letting his voice rumble low and honeygravelled. Quiet quiet quiet, he thinks, and he knows that Brendon knows the door's still open, sees him check out of the corner of his eye and lick his lips. Spencer doesn't have a problem with noise during sex but everything feels more intense like this, his senses heightened, his awareness vibrating painfully sharp in the few inches between them and the rest of the room fading out into a blur.

"What do you want," Spencer murmurs, testing Brendon, and he's gratified when Brendon stays quiet and just squeezes him, rubs his thumb down along the outline of Spencer's cock. Brendon leans forward, licks his tongue into Spencer's mouth and starts trying to undo his belt with one hand but Spencer stops him, fingers firm around Brendon's wrist. "That's fine," Spencer says. "We can do that, but," Spencer tips Brendon's chin up, forces him to make eye-contact, "I want you to tell me what you want, first." Spencer's kind of feeling his way through this as they go along, but he's not prepared for the blush that blooms over Brendon's cheeks, the way Brendon's eyes darken just a little.

Spencer can't help it--he reaches out again, rubs his thumb across Brendon's lower lip, shiny with spit, pressing in. "Don't talk," Spencer says, "Don't say anything, just show me."

Spencer pulls his fingers back, intending to give Brendon room but Brendon follows Spencer's hand with his mouth, catching Spencer's index finger with his teeth, curling his tongue around the very tip. Spencer exhales softly and Brendon leans forward, curling his tongue around Spencer's fingers and sucking two of them into his mouth, keeping his hands flat on his thighs. Brendon works his fingers with a dirty rhythm, all tongue and suction and innuendo and it's fucking distracting. Spencer pulls his fingers away, slides them down Brendon's stomach, angling to get at Brendon's cock still trapped in his jeans but Brendon shakes his head, leaning in to nip at Spencer's neck at the same time he grabs Spencer's wet hand and guides it to his back, leaves it resting on the swell of his ass, and oh, okay, holy shit, Spencer thinks numbly.

Spencer's done that a few times, done far more, but it's not the sort of thing he would normally be suggesting the first time he hooked up with someone; it's not a liberty he's used to taking on the first go-around. Brendon licks his neck and Spencer has to suppress a shiver, trailing his wet fingers farther down Brendon's spine. He did ask, though, he thinks. He did look Brendon in the eye and ask him what he wanted and maybe it's just that Brendon trusts him enough to ask for this, maybe he knows that Spencer isn't the type to freak out or run away. Spencer files it away to think about later, when he doesn't have his hand down the back of Brendon's pants.

He pushes Brendon off his lap gently, keeping one hand on his hip as he straightens Brendon up and starts to work on getting the rest of his clothing off. He considers just shoving his jeans down to his knees but he really wants Brendon back on his lap, likes watching the expressions flit across his face, likes the feeling of Brendon's stuttered breaths on his skin. He can't have that if Brendon's legs are caught in his pants, so he tugs them all the way down, leaving Brendon to kick them off. He shimmies out of his own jeans, too, leaving his boxers on because Spencer suspects that if they're skin to skin, Brendon on his lap, this is going to be over far too quickly. He needs a layer of fabric between them, however thin.

Brendon moves forward as soon as Spencer's settled, arranging himself on Spencer's lap with an easy sort of grace, completely naked and there's so much skin in front of Spencer, all of a sudden, he can't seem to stop staring or touching or breathing Brendon in. Brendon cants his hips a little bit when Spencer's hands slide down his sides, draws in a sharp breath when Spencer presses him down with thumbs firm on his hipbones and Spencer knows Brendon's getting off on it, the feeling of Spencer watching him, the feeling of being on display.

"God, you're so..." Spencer mutters, unable to help himself, unable to finish the sentence. Gorgeous, his mind supplies, because it's true, Brendon in this light is all pale skin and rough jaw and subtle curves but his mind also comes up with overwhelming, and maybe that's closer to the truth. This whole thing is overwhelming and Spencer feels like he's going to need a week just to process but right now he's just running on instinct and lust and maybe a little bit of fear. Spencer's pretty sure there's nothing in the world that would convince him to stop this right now, save maybe Ryan or Jon walking into the room.

Spencer pushes his fingers back into Brendon's mouth, letting Brendon get them sopping wet with spit before trailing them up the back of Brendon's thighs, feeling him twitch a little at the sensation. Spencer presses up against him, teasing, feels Brendon give a little under his fingers, open up a little and Spencer drags a rough hand over Brendon's cock at the same time and Brendon shakes, actually shakes. Spencer can feel it everywhere Brendon's touching him and he's suddenly, feverently glad for his ability to multi-task. Spencer has a feeling Brendon isn't going to last long, and since he can't be bothered to stop and find lube he's trying to be very careful, just teasing touches and the tip of his finger, letting Brendon's body set the pace, but he's working Brendon's cock with a punishing, steady rhythm. Brendon digs his teeth into his lip and god, Spencer realizes he's close, all of a sudden, just from the friction of Brendon on his lap, from the tight, warm clench of him around his fingers, from watching Brendon get off barely inches in front of him. Spencer also realizes that when Brendon comes he's going to come on Spencer's stomach and his own gut clenches up at the thought of that, want and need and nownownow and he speeds up his hand, crooking his fingers inside Brendon as Brendon keens because damned if he's coming before Brendon does without anyone touching him.

Brendon's eyes fly open like he wants to say something and he looks almost surprised as he comes, surprised and young, lips parted slightly. Spencer groans as Brendon comes all over his stomach, tugging his fingers out and pulling Brendon in roughly, forcing him to grind down on Spencer's cock even as Brendon's still shaking through his orgasm, biting Spencer's mouth frantically. Brendon pulls back and he looks like he wants to speak again, like he's hesitating and Spencer's so close, brain sparking in dizzy waves but something makes it through the haze, something connects, and Spencer gasps out "you can talk now," and Brendon whines into his mouth, whispering "Spencer, Spencer, Spence, fuck, I want see you--come on--" and Spencer does, he can't do anything else. It crashes over him in waves and Spencer isn't aware of anything else for a few breathless minutes, but he eventually has to open his eyes. Brendon's gone utterly still on top of him.

"Well, shit," Spencer said finally, after the silence has stretched on too long, mouth against Brendon's sweaty temple. He can feel everything cooling, sticky and strange and he's suddenly uncomfortable. Overwhelmed, he thinks again, and yeah. Spencer feels a little like he got hit with a sex truck.

"Yeah," Brendon agrees, pushing his hair off his forehead and biting his lip. "Yeah, definitely."

Header Post

almostblue — Sun, 12 Jul 2009 19:59:13 GMT

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