Full of fail...

Red is the Rose by cloudlessclimes,

cloudlessclimes — Sat, 08 Sep 2012 23:42:03 GMT

Title: Red is the Rose

Author: cloudlessclimes

Band(s): Panic! At the Disco

Pairing(s): Brendon Urie/Spencer Smith

Word Count: ~29 000

Rating: R

Warning(s): graphic violence

Summary:

A sort of fairy tale. In which Brendon is the much maligned crofters' son and Spencer is the human Guardian of the Faerie King's Roses (yes, roses. it's a job okay. someone has to do it). Their stars briefly align, they fall in love, and have to beat a curse older than time to be together. Loosely, very very very loosely based on the Ballad of Tamlin, with a smattering of various global folk and fairy tales thrown in for good measure. Takes place in a parallel world that is a mishmash of Ireland and Las Vegas just because that's how I roll. Very much an AU.

Part One Part Two Part Three

Bonus Materials

Fanart:
1 piece by look_alive here

Fanmix:

1 mix by morganya here

bandombigbang2012 Red is the Rose, Brendon/Spencer, R, Part 3

cloudlessclimes — Sat, 08 Sep 2012 22:43:43 GMT

Part 2

As the last strains of Patrick's voice float eerily through the feasting hall and the final notes of the lute die away in the quiet of the night, The Faerie King stands and walks to the front of his raised platform. He claps Patrick on the shoulder and says in a clear, if slightly nasal voice, “Thank you, Patrick. Your song is a fitting farewell to one of our most brave soldiers.” He inclines his head towards Spencer, who says nothing in reply, just grips Brendon's clammy hand all the harder. “Spencer, your sacrifice is great, and your name shall be sung, echoing to the rafters of this hall, forevermore.”

Looking from the King, to his Bard, to Spencer, and back again, anger sings through Brendon’s veins like quick-fire. “Bullshit!” he calls out, wrenching his hand out of Spencer’s grip and getting to his feet. Spencer’s mouth is a round moue of shock, and William and Gabe get to their feet, standing on either side of Brendon, gripping his arms tightly.

The King’s dark eyes flash, vulpine and angry. “Who dares risk such an outburst against their King?” He stands up and stalks on his tall boots to the edge of the throne stage. Scanning the crowd he finds Brendon easily, pinning him with his coal dark glare. “What did you say, human?”

“I said, bullshit!” Brendon barks out, again. His entire body is vibrating, but not from fear. In all his years, Brendon cannot recall being so angry. “You claim to celebrate Spencer, his bravery, his dedication, his choice.” He manages to wriggle free from the painful grip the Kingsguard has on him, and taking a deep,1 fortifying breath continues, “But how many weapons has Spencer made for you? How many wars have you won because of them? How many suits of armour has he made? How many times has he kept you safe?”

The King continues to stare, never blinking, his dark eyes burning right through Brendon, who takes a deep breath and continues, ignoring Spencer’s sad pleading eyes and his gentle exhalation of please. “This is not Spencer’s choice at all.” Brendon knocks the angry curl of his fists against his thighs. “You could have let him go a thousand times over these thousand years, but you kept him here, because you knew. You knew that you could use him, for this.”

Pete slowly walks down the steps leading to the throne dais. The chunky heels of his platform boots plod heavily against the polished wood and gold as he methodically makes his way towards Brendon. It seems as though the entire room is holding its breath, all but Brendon, who is breathing so hard his vision is dark and blurry around the edges. He focuses on Spencer’s hand in his, the hold fragile, but real. The Faerie King walks slowly, and with purpose down from this throne and across the feasting hall. His dark eyes burn with the otherworldly Faerie light Brendon had thought beautiful, but in Pete, it’s terrifying. He stops in front of Spencer, arching an eyebrow at Gabe, who shrugs and smiles. “That,” he says slowly, “Was quite a speech. And who exactly are you, human?”

Tilting his head down to look in the king’s feral brown eyes, Brendon swallows and then says, “I’m Brendon, Brendon Urie, of Summerlin. I am Spencer’s…friend.”

Snorting a laugh out through his nose, the King draws himself up to his full height, which to Brendon’s surprise even given the very tall platform boots Pete is wearing, is not very tall at all. When he replies, he speaks into Brendon’s collarbones, “Well, friend of Spencer, what know you of our world?” Brendon can’t look away from the King’s crown. It’s fashioned from hundreds of deadly-looking golden rose thorns.

Brendon’s eyelashes twitch on his cheeks when he blinks, and a muscle jumps in his jaw, “I only know what Spencer has told me.” He bites his lip, the pink tip of his tongue flicking out to sweep across the indentations. “But, it seems to me, from what Spencer has told me about his time here, that you,” He pauses to give the King a knowing glance, “rarely turn away from a fight. You say this is how it is, this is how it must be. But…what if fate is…I don’t know? What if it’s a lie we tell ourselves when we’re too afraid to do anything? It just seems like just because your father’s father’s father,” Gabe barks out a laugh and Brendon hitches his shoulders, “once made a deal with this Caorthannach, that doesn’t mean that you should just accept it. It doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t fight. Does it?”

Everything, and everyone, is silent and still. Brendon watches as the King’s glance never wavers from his own. He can feel the heat of Spencer beside him, can feel the burn of breath held too long in his lungs. And then, with an upward twitch of his full lips, the King begins to laugh. He laughs so long and so hard that he’s bent over, hands on his knees struggling for breath and the dark kohl he’s smudged around his bright-burning eyes is running in inky rivulets down his cheeks. “I like you, Urie of Summerlin.” The King claps him companionably on the shoulder, with more force than his stature would have lead Brendon to believe possible. “You know, I do enjoy a good fight.”

Brendon blinks stupidly at the King. He startles a little when he feels Spencer forcibly remove his fingers from Brendon’s grasp. Gabe and William raise their fists in the air. “To battle!” The King’s roar echoes off of every stone in the feasting hall. His voice is parroted by the crowd, the din enough to shake the rafters. “Patrick! A war song, if you will!” Pete turns his back on Brendon and Spencer and heads back to his throne. “Tomorrow, we fight!” Gabe and William cannot hide their astonished expressions as they follow the King forward. “Spencer, Gabe and William will rally the Seelie troops. You will arm them!” Pete claps his hands in enthusiastic glee.

It’s only then that Brendon tears his eyes away from the spectacle of the King, doing a sort of hitching jig step to the tune Patrick the bard is picking out on his lute. It’s never easy for Brendon to read the expression on Spencer’s face but if he has to hazard a guess he would say from the paleness of his skin, the dimming of the Faerie-light glow, and the slackness of his red, red mouth, Brendon would say that Spencer is devastated.

“What have you done?” Spencer’s eyes are filled with sorrow as he tilts his head at Brendon, then storms through the crowd and exits the hall.

He stands there blinking for a moment before the fear and panic of the last few minutes washes over Brendon. “Spencer! Wait!” he calls out, shoving desperately though the throng of Fae folk, most of whom are in various states of excitement and enthusiasm about the King’s call to battle. Wild eyed with panic, Brendon reaches the main doorway of the great hall, but has managed to completely lose sight of Spencer. He shoves through the back slapping members of the Kingsguard who are massed there, making up their own words for Patrick’s jaunty melody.

Bursting into the cool night air, Brendon stands for a moment, scanning his surroundings and hugging his arms across his chest. He waits for his eyes to adjust to the full darkness in front of him, almost painful in contrast to the warm brightness of the feasting hall. He imagines everyone is inside the hall and has no idea where to start looking for Spencer. Tentatively, he calls out, “Spencer?” and is unsurprised when he receives no answer. Rubbing his hands down his arms, Brendon steps away from the Seelie King’s castle and onto the Faerie road, keenly aware of the lack of warmth and light.

Stone buildings dot the roadside and as Brendon walks, he sees light in a window a few houses up the road. “Spencer?” he calls again, trotting quickly towards the light. It’s a small building, and the light is coming from a hearth fire. Brendon steps inside and realises he’s found Spencer’s shop; the blacksmith forge. Only unlike at home where the smithy’s place is filled with horseshoes and repaired farm equipment, the walls of this room are covered in weapons and armour, made of metal so bright it reflects and magnifies the glow from the fire until the entire room is bathed in light. Spencer isn’t in the shop, but the burning fire tells Brendon he can’t be far.

There are smaller outbuildings scattered across the property, and Brendon starts his search in the first one he comes to; a barn. The nicker of horses and their pungent smell immediately stabs Brendon in the gut with pangs of home. It’s dark but Brendon can make out the restless forms of two animals, sleek and tall, and so unlike good old Algernon, the plough horse Brendon had grown up with. There’s another shadow, leaning against one of the stall gates. “Spencer?” Brendon softly calls.

Spencer is leaning on a barn beam, forehead cradled against his braced arm. “Brendon,” Spencer’s voice is sad in the stillness of the barn, and the hurt in it rips down Brendon’s spine like a thousand shards of broken glass. “There’s going to be a war, Brendon.”

“I didn’t know!” Brendon’s exclamation disturbs the quiet and the horses paw and snort. “I swear I didn’t know!” He rushes to Spencer’s side, clutching at his upper arm. “I just didn’t want to lose you, I didn’t think…”

“No, you didn’t.” Spencer’s wide palm cups Brendon’s cheek as he talks. “This could be the end, Brendon, of everything—The End Days. It’s not just the Faerie world that’s in danger, do you understand?”

Lacing their fingers together, Brendon shakes his head, drawing closer to Spencer, seeking his warmth. “But…”

Spencer silences him, pressing a kiss to Brendon’s temple, “Samhain is the time when the veil between worlds is thin; what your people call All Soul’s Night. It’s a time when your world, and this world, and the underworld, they blur.”

“Oh,” Brendon’s eyes go wide and he hides his face in the soft cotton of Spencer’s shirt. “I just wanted to save you.”

Drawing Brendon into a tight embrace, Spencer sighs into Brendon’s ear. “I know, I know you did. And you took a horrible risk, mo chroí. The King could have had you killed, right then and there.” Brendon can feel Spencer’s heart pounding beneath his fingertips where their joined hands rest on Spencer’s breastbone. “But then Pete never could resist a challenge. I just don’t know how to ensure we can win. So many people, so many innocent creatures at risk…”

“Because I love you,” Brendon finishes sadly.

“Yes,” Spencer untangles their fingers and traces the shape of Brendon’s mouth in the dark. “I am a warrior, and I will fight as asked.”

“Me too!” Brendon’s face is set in a determined frown and he wraps his arms around Spencer’s neck. “We’ll win, Spencer. We have to.”

Spencer rests his forehead against Brendon’s “Aye,” he says softly, but without much conviction.

Brendon makes a whining noise, low in the back of his throat. Winding his fingers in the soft strands of hair falling in a mess at the nape of Spencer’s neck, Brendon pulls Spencer down to him, presses their mouths together in a sloppy, desperate kiss. “I just wanted us to be together,” Brendon whispers against the bow of Spencer’s top lip.

The only reply Spencer makes is a pained growl. He wraps his blunt fingers bruising hard around the jut of Brendon’s hipbones, his thumbs coming up beneath the rough fabric of Brendon’s shirt to swipe at soft skin. Spencer pulls Brendon even closer and bites formless words into the width of Brendon’s careful smile. The kisses they trade are a painful clash of teeth against sensitive flesh and their hands are rough, too desperate to be careful. Brendon clings to Spencer, mewling and rubbing his face into Spencer’s shoulder when they finally break apart to draw breath. It stings when Spencer traces over the bitten skin of Brendon’s plump bottom lip with the pad of this thumb. When he ducks back in, Spencer uses his tongue to lave relief into the deep bite marks his urgency had created.

“Please,” is all Brendon says, and all Spencer needs before walking Brendon backwards to an empty horse stall. Their breathing is loud and the exhalations mingle in the air as Spencer tips Brendon down into the soft hay. His hands trace up Brendon’s body, rucking his shirt up as they go, and his mouth tracing nonsense shapes across the exposed skin.

Spencer laughs when Brendon attempts to open the tiny buttons at his throat with shaking hands, and instead roughly drags it over Spencer’s head, throwing it across the stable in his urgency. Brendon swallows Spencer’s laugh with a messy, urgent kiss, drawing Spencer down on top of his prone sprawl. With a groan, Spencer’s long blunt fingers skate down across Brendon’s pale skin to rest at the waistband of his trousers. He arches an eyebrow in question, and Brendon’s eager reply is the twitching of his hips. Cradling the fragile bones at the base of Brendon’s skull in the palm of one hand, Spencer makes short work of Brendon’s pants with the other. “Please,” Brendon sighs, desperate.

Huffing laughter into Brendon’s neck, Spencer lifts up only long enough for Brendon’s hands to do more than their teasing pawing at Spencer’s ass, and ruck down his breeches low enough to free his cock. They groan at the feeling of warm skin against skin and Brendon’s hands claw up the sharp definition of Spencer’s spine, jagged fingernails raising welts in his eager explorations. There’s no time for gentleness, and they’re too eager; keyed up on fear and adrenaline to do little more than rut against one another. Brendon easily spreads his legs allowing Spencer to lay more of his weight on top of him. Hissing as Brendon scratches a deep furrow across his shoulder, Spencer grabs at Brendon’s hand, stretching his arm up over his head and back into the hay.

Brendon moans and arches up, meeting the smack and thrust of Spencer’s every movement. His cock glances off the pronounced cut of Spencer’s hip and he huffs out a whine, blindly seeking out Spencer’s mouth with his own. They rock against each other, perfectly fitting into the hollows and planes of each other’s body, and Spencer cries out, rough in the darkness when Brendon manages to fumble a calloused hand around his cock. “I wish I could see you,” Brendon whispers brokenly, rubbing his cheek into the softness of Spencer’s beard. He cups his hand over the head of Spencer’s cock, come pooling there and sliding over his wrist into the hay. Spencer’s answer is unintelligible, half Old Words, half nonsense and Brendon laughs with joy as his own cock slips through the mess of Spencer’s orgasm low on his belly. Brendon comes with a woosh, pulling Spencer down to him and licking a droplet of sweat from Spencer’s cheek.

Spencer holds Brendon close, his head resting on Spencer’s shoulder, until his breathing evens out, and the pounding of his heart in his ears slows. He watches, closely memorising Brendon’s features as he gives in to sleep. Even after, Spencer lies in the dark, listening to the horses and the stillness around them, wishing he knew how to keep Brendon safe. Anything more beyond that was outside of his ability to even think about.

When he is certain that Brendon is sound asleep, Spencer manages to untangle himself and, after sifting through the soft hay they’ve made their bed, he manages to find his breeches and shirt, slipping them on in the dark. He covers Brendon, still deep in sleep, with a blanket pulled from the dividing wall. As he passes their stalls he gives each horse a companionable slap on the rump, and heads out the door. Leaning against the wall of the barn, Spencer squints up at the sky, looking at the nearly full moon, which spreads light across the pasture. His thoughts are a jumble in his head, wondering what the next day, Samhain, holds; he wonders if it will be his last, or the last for everyone.

He’s so deep in thought he fails to see William until the Kingsguard is right in front of him. He startles with a jump, and William laughs, his smile blinding white in the moon’ s light. “Well, warrior, on your guard are you? You’ve straw in your hair,” William says, before very helpfully extending his long arm and extracting the offending object. He gives Spencer a knowing glance and says softly, “It’s like that, is it?”

A little sheepish, but unembarrassed, Spencer shrugs and says, “Aye.”

“What are you going to do? With Brendon, I mean.” William settles beside Spencer, and leans back against the barn board.

Scratching his nails through his bead, Spencer squints at the sky and says, “What can I do? He gave me a gift…a drum.”

William’s mouth drops open in a surprised O. “He’s bound himself to you? Does he know what that means?” His brown eyes are warm with concern and pity.

Sighing deeply, Spencer presses his palms flat against the roughhewn boards of the barn behind him. “He does now, I think.”

“Surely you must know that it’s not so easy as marching on Caorthannach and her Unseelie court? Win or lose, there is some very old magic at play. The King—Pete, he has chosen you…” William trails off.

“I am no fool, nor new to Faerie ways. There is always a price to pay.” Spencer stares unblinking into the darkness, stubbornly refusing to look at William.

William stares in the same general direction as Spencer and after long, painful moments he says, “There may be a way…”

“A way?” Spencer does look at William, now. His glance is too guarded to be hopeful, but he is curious.

Crossing his arms in front of him, William pushes away from the barn with his hip and takes a deep breath, “The wise women, they talk about the old magic, sometimes. And as hard as it might be for you to believe, standing guard is not always the most exciting of pass times, so I hear…things, sometimes.”

Spencer nods eagerly, “Yes, so. William, do get to the point, mo chara.”

“They say that if you can survive Caorthannach’s ride, if you can make it to dawn, that the curse may be broken and you will be…”

Shaking his head in confusion, Spencer implores, eyes wide, “Go on?”

William frowns a little to himself, considering his next words. “Do you love Brendon?”

“I do,” Spencer answers without hesitation.

“Does he love you?” William fits his hand to the crook of Spencer’s elbow.

The expression on Spencer’s face is inscrutable when he finally says, “Well if he doesn’t he must be out of his mind because he’s stuck with me, isn’t he?”

William laughs and says, “The wise women say that when you are to take Caorthannach’s ride, if your true love,” William emphasises the words and smiles sadly at the face Spencer makes, “can hold on, all through the night, no matter what, then when the sun rises you will be...”

“Human?” Spencer’s expression, bathed in moonlight, is so full of hope that William can only nod. “Oh! Oh, we must tell Brendon!” Spencer grabs Williams hand and starts to haul him into the barn.

They hurry through the barn to the stall where Spencer had left Brendon, “Brendon! Brendon wake up!” Waking slowly, Brendon yawns and stretches his arms over his head, making the old horse blanket Spencer had covered him with dip dangerously low across his hips.

Blinking sleep from his eyes, a slow smile spreading across his face as he wakes, “Hi.”

“William, you must tell Brendon what you told me!” Spencer urges William forward, and takes a spot beside Brendon, cuddling him close and securing the blanket around him.

William clears his throat awkwardly and stares down at the couple, “Well, there may be a way to break the curse. A way to survive Caorthannach’s ride.”

Looking up at William, Brendon’s eyes are wide and earnest. He trips over the shape of the syllables, foreign in his mouth but finally manages to say, “Caorthannach’s ride?” blinking his confusion between Spencer and William.

William frowns at Spencer and then says, “Yes, it’s part of the tithe, you see the Queen is Unseelie. She is... the opposite of our people. Legend says that long ago, and long ago she was one of the Seelie court,” Spencer waves a dismissive hand and William stops his yarn spinning to sum up with, “Basically, on his way to the Unseelie lands, Spencer will be transformed into...”

“Unseelie,” Spencer takes Brendon’s hand in his and squeezes.

“Yes, so.” William ploughs on, ignoring the expression of distress on Brendon’s face. “But, if his true love,” he arches a pointed eyebrow at Brendon, “Can hang on through the night, no matter what, the magic will be reversed. Payment will not be required.”

Spencer takes in Brendon’s stunned face and says, “And I can be human, again. I can go home.”

“Home? Oh!” Brendon makes as if to stand, then remembers he’s naked and sits down hard on the straw. “Oh! I can do that! I can absolutely do that! My mother always says I’m tenacious as a terrier!” Brendon smacks a kiss to Spencer’s cheek.

“You would not mind, then? It would mean leaving Faerie. Going back to the Summer Lands?” Spencer chews on his bottom lip, waiting for Brendon to answer.

Shaking his head back and forth, Brendon says, “I don’t care. I just want to be with you.” He smiles wide and then nuzzles at Spencer’s cheek. “My home is where you are,” he whispers, kissing Spencer quickly.

“So!” William claps his hands together, loud in the dark and startling the horses in their stalls. “Now all you have to do is survive. And, well, all we have to do is survive this battle the King is waging.”

Shocking both William and Spencer, Brendon breaks into loud, head back, full out laughter. “Yes,” he says, laughter hiccupping down to little more than giggles, “All we have to do is that. That’s all. No big deal.”

“No big deal!” Spencer hugs Brendon around his waist, pulling him into his lap, and joining in his laughter.

***

Samhain morning is sunny and clear, the crisp bite of autumn missing from the air in the Seelie lands. Brendon yawns loudly, leaning against the door jamb, an old patchwork quilt falling around his bare shoulders. “Good morning,” Spencer rumbles low in Brendon’s ear. Brendon leans back against Spencer, glad of his solid warmth. They stand there, silently surveying the growing dawn as Spencer wreaths Brendon’s hips with his hands and snuggles close to rest the point of his chin on Brendon’s shoulder.

“What do you think of Faerie?” Spencer asks. They’d left the barn and its stables not long after William had revealed the possibility of overcoming the old magic, and spent the time curled together in the tiny rope bed in Spencer’s shop. The last few hours of night were for whispers and reassurances and soft kisses like wordless promises against skin.

Brendon turns his head a little, rubbing his cheek against the soft hairs of Spencer’s close cropped beard. He smiles almost in apology, and glancing out over the green rolling hills that lead down to the Wild Wood and says, “To be honest, it’s not all that different from home…Summerlin. I mean everything is, well, nicer and brighter, and we don’t have your freaky Faerie lights but,” he scrunches up his nose and giggles, his shoulders sending the quilt sliding dangerously low on his bare skin.

Spencer chuckles and gives Brendon’s belly a squeeze, “You were expecting palaces made of crystal and roads paved in gold?” His eyebrow arches knowingly, but his tone is playful and teasing.

Without taking his eyes off the lightening horizon, Brendon finds Spencer’s hand and stills his petting by fitting their fingers together and bringing them to rest on his hip. “Maybe?” he waggles his eyebrows, making Spencer laugh harder.

“Come now, there’s work to be done this day.” Spencer tugs at Brendon, drawing him away from the door.

***

Brendon’s eyes are wide in amazement. He had boggled before, when they’d walked into the smithy and seen the array of weapons and armour gleaming bright from every surface. That display had nothing on the cache hidden in a cellar at the King’s Palace. He’d worked with Spencer and a few of the Kingsguard Elves—including William and Gabe, to load wagons with weapons and fit the Seelie with armor. Some of the swords were so large Brendon couldn’t lift them alone.

“He’s a good lad,” Gabe says as he and Spencer lean against the castle wall, sharing an earthenware jug of Sprite Wine to stave off the thirst of their morning’s labor. They’re watching as Brendon searches through an assortment of gleaming gold breast plates to find one small enough to be suitable for the tiny Pixie who’s head barely comes up to Brendon’s waist. The little blue creature is chattering away and Brendon is nodding and smiling, even though he can’t possibly understand a word.

Spencer feels warmth bloom all through his chest and he takes a long gulp from the jug, “Aye, that he is.”

The early afternoon is spent planning and organizing and rallying the troops from all corners of Faerie. If Brendon’s face had reflected amazement at the array of weapons, his expression at seeing the arrival of the Seelie can only be called delight. His eyes shine and his smile threatens to split his face as he greets Pixie and Sprite and Elf. The King gives long blustering speech after long blustering speech, and William and Gabe plot points on maps and give orders.

Spencer is right, Brendon knows nothing of war, nor of battle. His only experience with soldiering came from seeing his brothers don uniforms to patrol the far borders of Summerlin, protecting the fragile peace of the Republic. “If there weren’t so many beautiful, incredible folk to greet, I would be quite bored. I don’t understand a word anyone is saying, and they’re not even speaking the Old Words.” Brendon fidgets in his seat at a long table in the King’s council room.

“Dusk is coming, mo chroí, by moonrise you won’t even remember that boredom was once a possibility.” Spencer squeezes Brendon’s knee and stifles his laugh with his glove encased fist.

***

When the King has finally run out of filibuster, and William and Gabe are sure that the Seelie army know their orders, Brendon and Spencer go back to the forge, making half-hearted attempts to ready themselves. “Here, Bòidheach,” Spencer beckons Brendon over to a bench by the forge. “For you.”

Brendon blinks, very carefully reaching out a hand to stroke tentatively across the intricate woven interlace rose pattern that covers most of the breast plate Spencer is holding up to him. “For me? But, when did you…” his voice trails off and he swallows hard, trying to fight off tears.

“A warrior cannot do battle unprepared, now can he?” Spencer’s eyes are soft with affection. “I managed to fight a Pixie for this, so it should fit.” He concludes with mock seriousness.

“Hey!” Brendon elbows Spencer, but takes the breast plate in hand and gets Spencer to help him don the rest of the suit of armor. “I remember being human, and having a squire,” Spencer grouses in amusement.

Brendon exhales and holds his arms out at his sides, fingers working inside the stiff new leather of his gauntlets. “How do I look?”

Spencer bites his lip and snorts. Brendon looks like a child playing dress up, and something breaks off inside Spencer’s ribs, rattling painfully around his insides. “Brave and bold,” he manages to say, finally. “But you need a helmet to be proper.” Spencer reaches back onto his work bench, before plonking a helmet down over Brendon’s head and swiftly flicking the face plate shut.

“Hey! I can’t see!” Brendon flails around, managing to catch Spencer in some tender spots before Spencer can snatch at his hand. He uses Brendon’s own fingers to flick the grate open and leans in until their noises are almost touching. His grin is wide and ridiculous. “You’re very silly, Spencer Smith. This is serious!”

“Aye, mo chroí, very serious.” Spencer once more reaches back to his work bench. “If I were to give you a broad sword I wouldn’t have to worry about you being taken to the depths of Hell, you’d off yourself with no help at all.” Spencer smirks when he sees Brendon’s pouting expression of outrage. “So these should do the job.” He hands Brendon a sheath that’s the length from elbow to wrist.

“What are they?” Curious, Brendon’s nimble fingers work the leather thong open and he grabs two slim handles made out of a dark, ebony-like wood. A metallic snick sounds through the small room as he extracts two blades, blue metal glowing and lethal. He blinks and after staring at the weapons, stares at Spencer.

“Pixie sticks,” Spencer shrugs and takes them from Brendon’s loose grasp. “Try not to slice that pretty face of yours open before the battle’s even begun, aye?” He fixes the sheath to the arm of Brendon’s plate mail, then takes off his helmet, kissing him soundly.

Brendon breaks from the kiss, gazing sideways out the tiny window. “The sun is going down.” He whispers into Spencer’s cheek.

“So it is,” Spencer pats at Brendon’s waist with a metallic tapping. “Brendon,” his voice drops low and serious, “you must know I would never, ever hurt you.”

His brows furrowing in confusion, Brendon says passionately, “Of course you would never hurt me! Of course I know that!” He totters awkwardly, walking in his new suit of armor for the first time, and his arms are heavy and stiff when he tries to reach for Spencer.

“I just,” Spencer pauses and licks his lips, “I need you to know that. I can’t say what will happen when we march on the Unseelie. I don’t know what kind of magic the Caorthannach will use. If I try…if I do hurt you, know then I am no longer myself and you may…” He swallows hard and drags his index finger along the Pixie blades at Brendon’s elbow.

Realization dawns and Brendon does fling himself at Spencer then, “No! No! I can’t! I won’t. You can’t ask me to hurt you Spencer, you can’t.”

Spencer holds him close and makes gentling noises under his breath, “Brid willing it won’t come to that. But I know no other way to protect you from what I may become—what the Caorthannach could yet make me.” He holds Brendon’s face in his hands and kisses him once more, pretending he doesn’t hear the sob choking at the back of Brendon’s throat.

***

When the sky is a velvety purple the likes of which Brendon has never seen back in Summerlin, he and Spencer, hands joined, head to the King’s Palace to take their place in the march on the Caorthannach. They just miss Pete’s rousing speech, and are swallowed up by a sea of cheering Fae folk. The Kingsguard marshal the throng into formation, and Spencer and Brendon take their appointed places in the center of the massed troops.

Brendon’s neck swivels back and forth as he tries to take in the vast number of creatures all around him. Everywhere he looks there are Elves and Faeries and Pixies, and even the tiny Sprites and the awkward Dwarves have gathered into units behind the waving vanguard of the Seelie Lands.

“So,” Brendon says, desperately trying to keep his fear from his voice, “What’s plan B?”

Spencer, looking every bit the knight warrior he was back in the thick of the Wild Wood when Brendon first met him, frowns and says, “Plan B?”

“Yeah, so say William’s wrong and this whole ‘hold on and ride through the night’ thing doesn’t work. What do we do then?”

Eyes piercing blue in the advancing moonlight, Spencer says, “Oh, Brendon. My beautiful Brendon. Don’t you see? There is no plan B. We live, or we die.” Brendon blinks and gulps for air but has no time to reply, as the Fawns blast their horns and the entire army surges out into the night.

Brendon feels awkward and stupid in his armor, sure that he’ll be more a hindrance than anything else, but he struggles along beside Spencer, who awkwardly holds out his gloved hand and wraps Brendon’s own gauntleted hand in his fingers. “Hold on to me,” Spencer says, “and don’t let go. No matter what.” He doesn’t seem to mind being outpaced by the other Seelie warriors.

“No matter what,” Brendon agrees solemnly Soon enough, the purple sky deepens to an inky black and the Wild Wood looms around them, under the full and bright of the moon. A fleeting glance at Spencer makes Brendon startle and exclaim a shocked, “Oh!”

Spencer is…fading--in and out-- himself and gone. Brendon blinks, thinking maybe it’s a trick of the moonlight. “Maybe my helmet’s too tight,” he mutters to himself. But then, when he looks again, in Spencer’s place, is a large, white horse. Brendon tips his head back and laughs. “Embarr!” he cries. He weaves his fingers through the horse’s mane and awkwardly climbs on to its back. “I think I can hold on okay,” Brendon laughs again, wondering at the ease of it all. He’d spent countless days as a child riding the lumbering plow horse Algernon through the Urie farm fields.

His relief at the turn of events is short lived. Almost as soon as he is astride the night air is alive with the sounds of the leathery beating of wings. Brendon sits low, pressing his entire length against the horse’s back, eyes squeezed tight shut and digging his knees into the horse’s muscular flanks, “I just need to hang on.” He says as a screeching howl rends the dark. He can’t tell if it’s the Unseelie creatures flapping just above his head, or just a normal wind, but he feels the breeze blustering against his skin, despite the obstacles of the other Seelie warriors surrounding him, who should be blocking it out, at least a little. Brendon’s fingers ache from clutching so tightly to the horse’s—Spencer’s—mane, and he feels like if not for the caging metal of his breast plate, his heart would beat out onto the forest floor.

Beyond the whining of the wind, the screams of the flying Unseelie creatures, and the clash of sword against sword, Brendon can hear the screams of the dying, the hoarse calls of the desperate, and a low, liquid squelching noise that signals the advance of a new onslaught of the Caorthannach’s creatures. Despite the almost mid-day brightness of the full Samhain moon, Brendon cannot see where these creatures are.

But he can smell them.

Brendon tries not to wretch as the stench of rot and decay fills his nostrils, creeping inside his helmet and threatening to choke him. He pants, desperate to keep a hold of Spencer. He should arm himself. He should unsheathe the deadly sharp Pixie daggers sheathed in his arm holster. But, Brendon is afraid that if he loosens his grasp, even one hand, even just a little, he’ll be unseated and it will be over; he’ll lose Spencer. So he breathes through his mouth, searching around wildly, not even attempting to steer the large white beast in any particular direction, putting his trust in Spencer.

As Brendon sees the Elves around him fall—one, two, three--he realizes that the latest attackers from the Unseelie army are slithering along the forest floor. His realization is proven true when Spencer bucks and rears up on his back legs, desperate to avoid being snared by the slithering creatures. The horse starts with such force that Brendon’s helmet is flung from his head, lost in the battling creatures around him.

The wind increases yet again, tearing at Brendon’s cheeks with powerful force. But somehow, he manages to hang on, even with the horse thrashing wildly beneath him. Spencer is doing everything in his power to keep them from falling into the slithering mass of slimy Unseelie bodies that are everywhere now. There is a lull in the noise and wind, and it’s then Brendon sees the Caorthannach. By the whinnying and stamping, Brendon knows Spencer sees her too.

They freeze in place.

Stuck as they are, Brendon takes the chance to unlace the Pixie blade holster, drawing one of the wickedly sharp knives out of their sheath and clutching the wood handle in his palm. He knows it won’t do him much good against the Caorthannach, but he feels better for having it at the ready. He’s panting, trying to calm himself, but he’s never in his deepest nightmares known what it’s like to be this afraid.

She is beautiful and terrifying. Every time they look at her she is something different; a woman, a dragon, a bear, all as tall as the twisted limbs atop the ancient trees in the Wild Wood. Her colors are so bright and so painful Brendon has to shield his eyes with his hand as stinging tears course down his cheeks. Then suddenly, she is no color at all, black as the night of the new moon, and barely more than the memory of where she once stood. Until she bursts to life again; a thing of flame. Her great wings unfurl, at once as leathery as the Unseelie creatures that continue to beat a horrible rhythm about their heads, and as fragile and delicate as a butterfly’s, splashed with colors Brendon does not know the names for.

She uses her wings to whip the wind into a fury once more, and Brendon buries his face against Spencer’s neck, clinging for both of their lives, stuck staring at this horrible creature. The Caorthannach, the Queen of the Underworld, has blood red scales like weeping sores that fade away to feathers as she screams, shaking the ground beneath the white horse’s hooves. She thrashes her spiked tail, causing thin grey beings to drop free from the trees. They land on the heads of the Seelie warriors, so busy fighting they fail to notice until it’s too late.

“Oh god,” Brendon wails. The grey beings unhinge their jaws, stretching them to engulf the struggling Seelie. When the greys fall away from the Seelie fighters, scuttling back to the Caorthannach who takes them beneath her wings, they are round and fat, leaving behind dried out husks that used to be Elves and Dwarves, and other Faerie folk Brendon spent the morning getting to know. Panting, Brendon pushes his face against Spencer’s neck. “No more. Please, please no more.” He mumbles between choking sobs.

Just as the grey beings fed on the souls of the Fairies, so the Caorthannach feeds on them. She grows bigger and taller, until she’s blotting out the stars in the night sky. She’s a woman once more, her face beautiful and cruel as she laughs. Brendon can hear her voice inside of his head. It’s like music. “No, no.” He shakes his head, tugging on Spencer’s mane. “Come on! Move, we need to get away from her!” he viciously kicks his heels into the drum of Spencer’s belly, spurring him into a gallop.

Brendon feels it, like a pulse of lightning between the horse’s back and himself, the moment Spencer starts to change. Brendon digs in with his knees and keeps his Pixie dagger fisted in his right hand, his left tangled in the soft white hair of Spencer’s mane for balance. But it’s like lightning burning him along his legs. In less than the time it takes to blink, he’s no longer sitting astride a horse.

Brendon blinks dumbly for a moment, only roused from his confusion when the creature he’s clinging to roars louder than a thousand trumpets, and he can only watch in horror as the creature bolts forward, great rows of razor sharp teeth making short work of the Troll he’s grasped in his jaws. “Oh, Spencer,” Brendon says. And then he feels awful for thinking at least Spencer is still in there somewhere because it was one of the Unseelie minions he’d ripped apart. The creature that was Spencer is bucking and thrashing and doing its best to toss Brendon from its back.

Brendon thinks he remembers learning about such creatures in school, once. Head and shoulders of a lion, teeth of a shark and, “Oh!” Brendon raises the hand he’s using to grasp his dagger. Using his knuckles he swipes across his face and his hand comes away stained with blood. Eyes wide he manages to duck just in time to avoid another stinging blow from the creature’s scorpion tail. With painstaking slowness Brendon manages to work his way onto Spencer’s shoulders as the creature, the manticore, hurtles through the dense forest growth. He flings both arms around the creature’s neck, careful to duck low and avoid the lethal jaws and teeth.

They’re headed straight for a huge thicket of rhododendron, Brendon’s best guess puts at half the size of his town. Maybe they could hide inside the maze of laurel leaf and be safe until moonset? “Yes, Spencer. Yes!” Brendon continues to dodge the constant snap of the scorpion tail but he hugs Spencer close, encouraging him on.

The waxy leaves of the hell are close, so close that if Brendon dared, he could reach out and graze the dark green plants with his fingertips. Maybe this is it, maybe this is their chance to be safe. Though locals called them rhododendron hells, it looks the most like any kind of heaven Brendon can let himself believe in; safety. Well as safe as he can be with Spencer snapping and growling, but, Brendon thinks, Spencer loves me. He would never hurt me. Brendon honestly believes that, like he’s never believed in anything before.

Brendon is exhausted and clinging to the bucking, thrashing beast and he’s been dangerously lost in thought. And now a wave of vertigo washes over him so strongly that the only thing keeping him clinging to Spencer is his knees. The rhododendron hell is getting farther and farther away. Farther and farther below them. Shaking his head like a spaniel coming out of the water, Brendon realizes in the few moments he took for hopeful wool gathering, Spencer had shifted shape again.

The brown feathers in Brendon’s grasp are anything but soft. They cut his hands and his knees and along his sides where his shirt has rucked up underneath his breast plate. As Brendon is trying to get his bearings Spencer turns his head to screech, his large golden eagle eye unblinking and his deadly hooked beak snapping at Brendon’s clutched fingers. Brendon tries to remember to breathe as the wind whips painfully against his skin. The moon is bright and from this great height Brendon can see the bodies of uncountable Seelie strewn across the swath of meadow leading to the Wild Wood. He swallows a wave of nausea at the sight, as well as at the swooping and diving as the eagle tries its best to beat Brendon off of him.

The icy needles of a pelting rain soon join in the ferocious wind, turning the eagle feathers into stinging blades against Brendon’s flesh. The rain water mixes with the blood from Brendon’s cuts, but he bites his lip and holds on against the stinging pain. The water is falling in such great amounts that the bowl shaped clearing that eventually rises into the gentle Seelie hills Brendon had just that morning admired from Spencer’s doorway soon becomes a lake, washing away several of those of the remaining Seelie army. Great white caps race along the lake’s surface blown by the gale force winds, and Brendon flicks his hair out of his eyes, desperately wracking his brain for some way to find relief from the pins and needles shooting up his exhausted arms and legs.

The eagle seems to be warring against the elements just as much as Brendon. Taking advantage of the moment when the eagle isn’t trying to pluck Brendon free of him, Brendon seats himself upright on the eagle’s back, armor heavy, and balanced on his knees. Using the Pixie dagger, Brendon slices through the straps securing the guardbraces over his shoulders, using the leather to secure himself to the eagle’s wings.

He’s panting with the effort when the bird starts its dive. “No, no! Spencer, no!” Brendon’s voice is barely a murmur, swallowed by the howling fury of the storm. Brendon pulls with all the strength he has left, coming away with bleeding palms and fists full of feathers. But still, the eagle dives. They hit the water with an audible smack and Brendon gives silent thanks that he’d tied himself to Spencer, or else they would be lost.

They dive below the surface of the lake, only to rise again as Brendon gasps to the surface. The second time Brendon pulls in a great lungful air, he realizes he’s no longer sitting on an eagle, but rather wrapped in the spiraled coils of a snake. The cobra-like animal is enormous, with teeth the size of Brendon’s arm. And it’s doing its best to drag Brendon below the surface of the lake, permanently. “Hold on, just hold on.” Brendon closes his eyes against the fear that threatens to overwhelm him, and wraps his arms around the snake’s body, silently repeating to himself all he has to do is hold on, and Spencer will never hurt him. Their fight goes on and on, above the water and below, wind stinging the cuts all over Brendon’s body, and the frigid water of the lake startling him to full consciousness so he can suck in great burning gasps of air.

If Spencer has morphed into enormous snake, the Caorthannach is gigantic. Where the wicked teeth in Spencer’s mouth are as long as Brendon’s arm, the ones in the Queen of the Underworld’s serpentine jaws are as big as Brendon. On each of his increasingly fewer and shorter moments at the surface of the lake, Brendon realises that she is slithering towards them. She rears up and strikes when a Seelie warrior attempts to block her path. If the claymore blades of her teeth don’t kill the people fighting because of Brendon, because of his selfish need to save Spencer, then the toxic venom dripping from her jaws like the rain that falls without relent surely will.

Brendon is so weak, so tired. His brain is screaming at him to relent. He knows he could just let go, unravel himself from the snake’s --Spencer! He’s still Spencer!-coils and it will be over. Just as Brendon is reaching beneath the surface of the water, fumbling with his dagger, there's a great musical flapping like the distant tinkling of a million tiny bells, and the moon in the sky is blocked out by the shadow of a great dragon. Pete is piloting the beast, its indigo scales shining against the platinum of his armour. When he's close enough he gives a mighty yell and jumps from his mount onto the Caorthannach-snake, brandishing the sword Spencer made for him when he first arrived in Faerie.

The King whoops and yells, laughing like a child at a carnival. Raising the sword high above his head, he stabs the Caorthannach in her serpentine face, pinning her jaws shut. Then as she thrashes, trying to free herself of the sword, and of Pete, he takes out another smaller yet no less lethal looking sword, and without hesitation, in one smooth stroke, lops off her head. The body of the beast goes careening backward, Pete still clinging to her slippery black form. As the Caorthannach’s body goes plummeting to the ground, there’s an earth shattering crack as the ground opens up beneath them. Molten red-gold fire shoots high into the autumn night sky, and the last thing Brendon sees before giving into his exhaustion and letting the water pull him to slumber is the laughing face of the Faerie King being pulled down into the licking flames of the Underworld.

* * *

Slowly, Brendon opens his eyes. Against the pounding in his head, two fuzzy yet familiar faces come into view. He blinks a few times and then struggles to a sitting position. “Gabe? William?” His head swims and he raises a hand to his hairline, pressing at the bleeding knot there. “Wait. Spencer? Where’s Spencer?” He looks around frantically, ignoring another wave of nausea.

All he has to do is look at the expression on his friends’ faces and Brendon knows. “No! Oh nononono no! Spencer!” He scrambles to his feet, panting with the effort. “I failed him,” he bows his head and shudders. Blinking back tears he manages to swallow his sobs as he looks at the bleak faces of William and Gabe.

Gabe pulls Brendon to him in a fierce hug, managing to finally pry the pixie daggers from Brendon’s curled fists. “You were really, really brave, little man. You hung on long enough for Spencer to distract that Queen Bitseach. Pete--the King--he got her. Fucking vanquished her nasty ass, and went out in a blaze of Seelie glory!” Gabe’s voice catches and breaks, his tears falling into Brendon’s dark hair.

“What do you mean? Wait,” Brendon sucks in a painful breath, shivering in his damp clothes. “You mean Pete’s...”

“Gone,” William finished solemnly, bowing his head. He unhooks his heavy purple cloak and drapes it over Brendon’s thin shoulders, trying to warm him from the shock of injury and loss. “His heraldry, as well as your Spencer’s will give Patrick and all the bards to come something to sing about through all the ages” His smile is sad as he brushes a hand over the crown of Brendon’s hair.

Brendon huddles miserably under William’s cloak, still clutching at Gabe. The smell of fire and sulphur are still strong in The Meadows, although the lake is gone and the grass is dry. In the distance Brendon can hear the sounds of the last remaining members of the Unseelie army retreating into the far off Wild Wood. “What happens now?” Brendon asks in a small voice. He’s not really expecting an answer.

With Spencer gone, everything Brendon hsd sacrificed for is gone too. He can’t go home, only the Faerie King, only Pete can release him from his time in the Seelie Lands. And now Pete is gone, and Brendon fears he may well be stuck in some sort of horrible limbo. Like Spencer had been. He cannot bear to think of it, and is unsure he will be able to cope with a thousand years of longing to be free.

If the Queen has been vanquished and the Unseelie army defeated, there will be no need to pay the Thousand Years Tithe. So Brendon cannot even sacrifice himself for the good of the Faerie folk. He is, essentially, trapped. Spencer had warned him about eternity. As the weight of his fate sinks in, Brendon slumps back to the ground. He stretches his hands out, palms flat against the dying autumn grass, beating his frustrations into the ground. He isn’t sure how he narrowly misses touching a red hot coal that hisses in the coarse weeds.

“That must be left over from when the Queen...you know.” Gabe makes an exploding noise and then waves his hands around his face. Still trying to figure out exactly what happened between the time Spencer turned into a viper and the time he’d himself been thrown beneath the waves and knocked unconscious, Brendon just stares at Gabe in silence.

“Unless,” William says very slowly. He crouches down beside Brendon and very carefully scoops the glowing red coal up into his leather gauntlet.

“Be careful,” Brendon hisses in pre-emptive sympathy.

Holding his hand out flat, William stares at the coal as Brendon and Gabe stare at him. “Curious,” he says finally.

“What?” Brendon doesn't think his anxiety and confusion are entirely the fault of his concussion.

Turning the ember over and over in his hands, William says, “Maybe you didn't fail at all. Maybe, just maybe the thing you wish for with all your heart can come true.” Very gently he takes Brendon's hand in his and drops the coal into it. Brendon flinches and hisses—but there's no heat, no pain. There is a thrumming though, almost a pulse; like the thing he's gingerly holding is alive. Puzzled, Brendon blinks down at the coal and then up at William.

William stands between Brendon and Gabe, smiling expectantly. When Brendon makes no move, William inclines his head to the broad expanse of the Wild Wood. Frowning, Brendon follows William's glance as he walks over to where the trees grow in a thick tangle. Cradled in the roots of a Rowan tree is what Brendon has heard the village elders call a Brid's Well. Not wells at all, these small pools have been found all over the Republic and are said to have been blessed by Brid—The Mother herself—and possess magical properties.

Brendon shrugs, at this point it can't hurt to try, can it? He reaches out and opens his hand. The strangely burning ember drops into the pool and disappears in the brackish water. All three stand and stare trying to find something in the pool's dark depths. “Well,” Brendon's voice cracks, “it was a good thought.” He pats William's arm and squeezes Gabe's hand in his.

“Wait! What's that?” Gabe points at the water's surface and they lean closer, desperate for any sign that something is happening.

After a few brief moments, Brendon sees it. Tiny streams of bubbles are floating to the surface of the well water. “Oh!” he exclaims—the bubbles are increasing in size, number, and frequency as they begin to frantically push towards the surface. And then, as they watch in awe, they're no longer bubbles at all, but the tender shoots of new leaves--plants that gleam with an unnatural light as familiar to Brendon as breathing.

Gabe tugs Brendon and William backwards as the vines and leaves snake out of the well, over its sides, and over grow the tree's roots. Soon enough rose buds appear and then burst into enormous red-pink blooms. The three move back even more as the plant continues to spread in a thick tangle over the forest floor—completely overgrowing the pool. “Give me your sword,” Brendon says without looking away from the amazing sight before him.

“What?” Gabe asks dumbly.

Brendon holds out his hand, “Your sword. Give it to me!” Without hesitation Gabe unsheathes the deadly broadsword with a metallic snick. Taking it in both hands, Brendon starts to hack haphazardly at the vines, muttering “Magic grows stronger, over time,” under the quickening of his breath.

Without having to be asked, William has his own deadly blade in his hands, chopping at the thick foliage. Brendon cries out “Spencer!” as he pl¬ucks a bloom as wide across as his shoulders.

Curled deep inside the thicket of blooms and vines, lies Spencer. He's naked and filthy, and covered in bruises and cuts. “Spencer! Oh, Spencer!” Brendon crawls over the greenery and gathers Spencer into his arms. “Shh, shh. You're okay, I'm here. You're okay.” Brendon shushes Spencer as he shakes and shivers, moaning quietly. Brendon's not sure if he's talking to Spencer or himself.
¬
Blinking, and with a voice like he's spent a week in the desert, Spencer says, “It worked, mo chroí . You were brave and bold, and it worked.” He smiles weakly, but his eyes stay open and Brendon swipes Spencer's hair away from his face, careful of the deep, nasty cut on Spencer's forehead.

But, he's warm and solid, and Brendon can't help notice, human.

“You too,” is all Brendon says, pressing a kiss to the top of Spencer's head. Gabe tucks his cloak around the pair of them, and then picks up his broadsword from where Brendon had discarded it on the grass. Brendon looks from Gabe to William, who has picked up Brendon's Pixie daggers and is tucking them into his belt. “Where are you going?” Spencer rasps from the security of Brendon's arms.

“To get Pete,” Gabe says at the same time William says, “To Hell and back, gods willing.”

Brendon nods at them and bids them good luck, and then can't help but smile at Spencer's confused expression. “You don’t remember?” When Spencer slowly shakes his head back and forth Brendon kisses him and whispers, “You kind of missed a lot. Don't worry, I'll explain it all later. Rest now, we have all the time in the world.” Brendon kisses Spencer and strokes his fingers through his hair, watching as his eyes fall closed in sleep, watching as Samhain eve fades away into a very human dawn.

Glossary
Bhí mo chroí ó shin trasna na farraige-Since then my heart was across the sea

Bitseach-bitch

Bòidheach-beautiful

Caorthannach-thought by some to be the devil’s mother, is a demon that was fought off by St. Patrick when he banished the snakes out of Ireland

Embarr-the name of the white horse who carried Fionn mac Cumhaill’s son Oisin to the mythical land Tír na nÓg

Fianna-(singular fian) were small, semi-independent warrior bands in Irish mythology and Scottish mythology, most notably in the stories of the Fenian Cycle, where they are led by Fionn mac Cumhaill. They are based on historical bands of landless young men in early medieval Ireland known as kerns

Fionn mac Cumhaill-known in English as Finn McCool, was a mythical hunter-warrior of Irish mythology, occurring also in the mythologies of Scotland and the Isle of Man. The stories of Fionn and his followers the Fianna, form the Fenian Cycle (or Fiannaidheacht), much of it purported to be narrated by Fionn's son, the poet Oisín

focáil leat-Fuck off!

mo chara-my friend

mo chroí-my heart

Sidhe-demon,generally used for Faerie folk in some folklore

Téigh trasna ort féin-Go fuck yourself!

Bonus materials:
Art: by look_alive
here

Mix: fantastic soundtrack by morganya
here

bandombigbang2012 Red is the Rose, Brendon/Spencer, R, Part 2

cloudlessclimes — Sat, 08 Sep 2012 22:13:19 GMT

Part 1

“Yes, please, I would love to see whatever it is you think I would like so much.” Brendon easily joins hands with Spencer. They walk casually through the Wild Wood, and Brendon can’t tell if it’s having Spencer at his side, or just the softly glowing light everything they pass is now bathed in, but the dark forest doesn’t seem nearly as frightening as it did when he was on his own. They walk through the woods at a stroll and Spencer points out species of plants and trees Brendon has never seen on his side of the North Fence, back in Summerlin.

There are animals too--quiet and watchful, their large eyes shining in the glow of Spencer’s Faerie light. Brendon chortles happily as the creatures venture forth to greet Spencer, their natural curiosity finally winning out over their shyness at Brendon’s presence. Spencer speaks softly in the Old Words to a tiny, deer-like animal and Brendon stoops to pet her soft roan fur. “Is this what you wanted to show me?” Brendon can barely contain the wonder in his voice.

“No, this is very much unexpected.” Spencer stops his soft murmuring and nods his thanks at the tiny fawn. “What I think you would enjoy is over here,“ he pulls Brendon by the hand, and through a dense growth of ferns taller than most men. “Look,” he says, his smile wider than Brendon knew it could be.

Brendon is speechless. Eyes wide, he tries to take in all that he’s seeing. A pond--or a small lake, really--spreads out before them. It’s a blue Brendon has never seen before. Not even a mid-summer sky, or Spencer’s eyes, can come close to matching its beauty. The water glitters and shines, both with the otherworldly light all things touched by the Seelie folk seem to possess, and reflecting the thousands upon thousands of tiny lights that glimmer in the air above it, and skip along its surface. “Wow,” is the only word Brendon can form after long quiet moments. “I love fireflies!” He exclaims, holding out his hand as one of the twinkling lights zigzags closer.

“They aren’t fireflies.” Spencer whispers in Brendon’s ear. He rests his chin on Brendon’s shoulder, one arm around his waist, pulling him close.

“...not...fireflies?” Brendon leans back into Spencer’s solid warmth, confusion clear in his voice as he cranes his neck to try and read Spencer’s expression. “Then what are they?” he says in a low, husky voice as one of the lights hovers over his outstretched fingers.

Spencer holds out his own hand, allowing one of the lights to rest on his index finger. “Have a look,” he says and raises his hand close in front of Brendon’s eyes.

What had at first appeared to Brendon to be the flickering tail of a firefly is actually an orb of light. Contained within is a tiny creature, her translucent wings beating faster than a humming bird’s. “Oh! She’s beautiful! What are they?”

“Sprites,” Spencer says with authority. “Spirits of the forest. They’re the smallest of all the creatures in Faerie, and possibly the oldest. Their size and knowledge allows them to pass through the veil between worlds with an ease most others envy.” Spencer’s voice is thick with an emotion Brendon can’t read and he thinks perhaps Spencer is talking about himself. “Especially at this time of year.”

Brendon blushes and grins when the tiny Sprite kisses the tip of his nose, her delighted laugh a barely audible squeak. “I think she likes you.” Spencer laughs as they watch her fly away, her fragile wings arcing rainbows as she flies back out over the pond.

“I like her too!” Brendon is thoroughly besotted as he gently touches his nose, still warm from the Sprite’s kiss. They watch the tiny creatures bob and weave and duck and spin. “What are they doing?”

“Courting,” Spencer smiles bashfully.

“Courting?” Brendon watches the lights merge and join then flutter apart. “Oh! You mean...oh.” He coughs to cover his embarrassment and then follows Spencer to the shelter of a thick evergreen that must have been a sapling when Spencer was a human boy.

Patting the ground beside him, Spencer laughs and nods, “Yes, that is what I mean. Will you rest here awhile with me, Bòidheach?”

Wordlessly, Brendon sinks down beside Spencer, wrapping his arms around him and sinking into his solid warmth. They content themselves with watching the Sprites and their dazzling display. “At home,” Brendon says in a hushed tone, “when the animals...when they...court. It is usually in the spring. It is unusual for,” he coughs and clears his throat, unsure why he is so embarrassed, “mating to occur at the full of autumn, isn’t it?”

“Time moves differently for the Seelie,” Spencer kisses the corner of Brendon’s lips and then yawns broadly, making them both laugh.

“You were just about to go sleep when I interrupted you,” Brendon admonishes, settling Spencer down until his head is pillowed on Brendon’s thigh. He runs his fingers through the soft, slippery strands of Spencer’s hair.

Spencer nuzzles into the petting and says, in a sleepy voice, “Mmmm...will you stay with me, just a little while longer?”

Brendon’s heart lurches in his chest as he looks down at Spencer’s face; eyes closed and more relaxed than Brendon’s seen him in their few brief meetings. He trails the pads of his fingers over Spencer’s bearded cheek, making his eyelashes twitch at the tickling sensation. “No place I’d rather be.” Brendon buries his hand back in Spencer’s hair, smoothing it over and over. “I suppose I’ve missed Sunday meeting by now anyway.” His tone is a little more bitter than he would have liked.

“Oh, aye?” Spencer mumbles, on the edge of sleep.

“Mmm. But lately I’ve been wondering. You know, how am I supposed to believe in something I’ve never seen? How am I supposed to follow rules that say if I do not marry I am nothing? That if I choose to court a man I have no rights?” Of their own volition Brendon’s fingers tug at the strands of Spencer’s hair he’s got wrapped around his fingers.

The tugging wakens Spencer, and his eyes flutter open, studying the dark scowl on Brendon’s face, “That is the truth of it? Men are not free to court of their choosing?” He blinks and rubs his cheek against the rough fabric of Brendon’s homespun trousers.

“Yes,” Brendon soothes the spot where he’d been tugging at Spencer’s hair. He sighs and wrinkles up his nose. “Anyway, I’m not sure I can believe anything when these so called beliefs were supposedly whispered in the ear of the Founder of Faith by a salmon. That can’t actually be true, any more than loving who we chose to love is wrong.” He shrugs and his shoulders droop.

“Fionn mac Cumhail didn’t talk to the salmon, he ate it.” Spencer’s brows crease in a frown and his voice is grumpy and young. It surprises Brendon that Spencer would know the tale, but it’s easy to forget Spencer comes from a time so long in the past. He’s just about to question Spencer about this so called Exchange of All Knowledge when he looks down.

Spencer is sound asleep, his breath soft and warm against Brendon’s leg. Brendon sighs and stares at the Sprites and their magical lights.

* * *

It’s raining heavily when Brendon finally ducks under the wire barbs of the fence in the North Pasture, making for home. And finds himself staring into one large brown eye. Algernon the Urie family plow-horse is chewing at some weeds he’s pulled from around the fence post. And atop Algernon is Brendon’s brother, Matt, his scowl plain enough to see behind the rivulets of rain water falling from his wide brimmed hat. He’s not alone. Brendon swallows and blinks up into the face of his eldest brother. Mason is dressed in his Captain of the Guard uniform, astride his yearling, Boxer. Most disturbingly of all, Ian the good natured shepherd is standing between the two, the rain water mixing with his tears and a thin trickle of blood that is escaping from his left nostril; a purple blue bruise under his eye.

“Oh Brendon, I am so sorry.” He says, attempting to move towards Brendon, only to be cut off when Matt and Mason move their mounts into his path. “They made me tell them! And then they made me wait with them, every day until you returned.”

“Brother, would you care to explain your deceptions?” Mason’s expression is stern and stony.

Every day? Sighing while trying to give Ian a look of reassurance and forgiveness, Brendon says, “No. Not to you. Let’s go see Mother and Father.” He shoulders his way between his brothers and their horses, giving Algernon a friendly pat on the rump and linking his arm with Ian’s, then continuing across the pasture as if to continue his way home, without giving his brothers a second glance.

As he stands before the hearth, the cheery fire spitting and popping in protest at the thin mist of rain water sneaking down the flue, Brendon’s stomach twists with the absolute knowledge that he’s disappointed his father and hurt his mother deeply. She sits in her rocking chair, wringing her kerchief in her fisted hands and weeping. “So, you missed Sunday meeting to go traipsing about in the Wild Wood, chasing Faerie folk for days at a time.” His father stalks back and forth in front of him, watching the measure of each footfall and not even sparing Brendon a glance.

“Yes.” Brendon has had enough of lies and deception. He winces when his mother’s weeping is joined by Ian, bawling along with her.

“You went into the Wild Wood!” Mason shouts. “That is forbidden! You know that!”

Voice oddly calm, Brendon turns to his brother and smiles, “Forbidden, but not formally so. Am I right? There are no laws to keep people out, only fences and old wives' tales.”

“There’s no lovely girl in Henderson. No courting. No wedding to be had.” His mother blows her nose loudly. “Oh Brendon, my beautiful baby boy, you lied to us. Your own mother and father. How could you?”

Brendon shrugs and takes a deep breath, trying not to cry at the sight and intensity of his mother’s distress, “I would spare you the truth.”

“Truth? Truth! Boyd do you hear the words your son speaks? It is madness.” Grace stands up and then sits down just as abruptly. “And to add to our misery, you missed Sunday meeting, what was I to say to the womenfolk at the market these past three days?”

“Yes mother, I missed Sunday meeting. I’m sure the entirety of Summerlin is abuzz and calculating at which exact moment I shall be cast into the Outer Darkness!”

“Don’t say that!” Brendon’s mother, father, Ian and Mason shout simultaneously, making complicated hand gestures between their mouths and hearts.

Clapping a meaty fist against Brendon’s shoulder, sending him slightly off balance, his father says in grave seriousness, “Your mother and I can only conclude that you have been enchanted. There’s no help for it; you must go to The Brobeck and beg for your immortal soul.”

“Father! I don’t need to beg anyone for...”

“Silence!” Boyd roars, his round face an alarming shade of red. “You have brought enough shame to your family, and yourself. Cavorting all over the Republic, at all hours, doing whatever it is you want at the moment. You will listen to me Brendon, and you will listen to me well. If you do not seek The Brobeck’s council, you will most definitely be cast out of this household! Do I make myself clear?”

Long seconds tick by and Brendon says nothing. He tries to formulate a plan. He wants with all his heart to run to the Wild Wood and beg Spencer to bring him to the Seelie Lands. He wants to run to the Wild Wood and pluck every last rose from the King’s beautiful plants, compelling Spencer to take him to the King.

He just wants Spencer.

But he has no plan, and no time to make one, pinned in place as he is by his father’s angry blue-grey glance. He looks at his mother, his brother, and Ian. The thought of leaving all he’s known, no matter that he has never felt he truly belongs, leaves him cold. He can never have what he wants, anyway, so instead he finally replies, “Perfectly.”

“I’m sending Mason with you, to make sure you actually go to The Brobeck, and don’t end up at some other foolish distraction. And take Ian with you, his soul can use some council as well, I’m sure.”

“Yes, sir!” Ian pipes up. He’s finally stopped crying and looks painfully eager to please his employer and secure Brendon’s forgiveness.

Mason clamps an arm across Brendon’s shoulder, ushering him towards the door. “Let’s go now, The Brobeck is expecting you. Has been since Ian told us what you’d gotten up to. The sooner we leave, the sooner this nonsense will be over with.”

The boys cast withering glances at each other, but whatever fight Brendon felt when set upon by his brothers at the edge of the Wild Wood has long fled. He bends to kiss his mother’s cheek, brushing away a tear as it drips from her chin. “I’ll be back soon, Mother.”

They tromp across the fields and through The Meadows, Mason never far from them, smugly astride his yearling as Brendon and Ian shiver in the cold fall rain. “I really am sorry, Brendon. It was a stupid story to make up, and then you were gone so long and your brothers were so angry...I didn’t know what else to do.” Ian says miserably, spitting out the words from between his chattering teeth.

Brendon hugs himself, the sopping wet wool of his sweater scratching against his fingertips. “No, Ian. I’m sorry that you had to lie for me in the first place. And I am certainly sorry that my brothers felt the need to beat you. Their anger is for me, it was wrong of them.”

Ian hiccoughs miserably and his face twists up as though he’s about to cry again, so Brendon hands him Bogart to pet. The little dog had trailed their every move from the fence line to the house, and now across the fields. Brendon’s glad of his company. He would be lying if he said he isn’t afraid.

The Brobeck is the spiritual leader of his people. No one Brendon knows has ever actually seen a Brobeck, mind, but He puts forth writings and His speeches and proclamations are read at all Sunday Meetings, festivals and Republic events. He is wise and powerful and, Brendon thinks, completely terrifying to contemplate.

The Brobeck’s compound, ironically enough, is almost to Henderson. It takes Ian and Brendon, who are walking briskly because of the cold rain, almost an hour to get there on foot. When they reach the bramble hedge that obscures the house from the high road, Mason says, “Okay, so I’ve brought you here. You can do the rest,” and rides off back towards Summerlin proper.

“So,” Ian’s voice is high pitched and he swallows loudly, “Would you make terrible fun of me if I said I am scared?”

Brendon’s smile is tight and grim, when he reaches out his hand to give Ian’s fingers a comforting squeeze. “Not at all, my friend. Not at all.” He pushes at the rusty gate and it squeals in protest. The pathway leading up to the only brick house Brendon can recall ever seeing is narrowed by the considerably brambly hedge that rises a good ten feet on either side of the gravel walk. The grey clouds and pouring rain do nothing to lift Brendon’s spirits, and he senses that Ian feels the same way. The wooden porch on the front of the house is drooped and peeling. “You’d think they could spare a few coins from the collection plate to spruce the place up a bit, wouldn’t you?”

Ian snorts out a laugh and then covers his mouth with his hand when the heavy front door opens. “Breezy!” Ian grins, and then says, “Oops, I mean Sister Weekes. I didn’t know you worked for The Brobeck,” he says the last words in a low tone of reverence.

“Hello, Brother Crawford, it’s good to see you.” Breezy--Sister Weekes, brushes her long dark hair behind her ear and smiles at Ian and Brendon in turn. “I greet visitors and schedule appointments. He’s expecting you, Brendon, you can go on through.” She motions towards a long hallway and smiles warmly. “You can hang your sweater up on a peg just there, and I’ll bring you some tea, this weather is terrible! You poor boys must be frozen.” She is genuine and kind when she smiles. Brendon is unsure how much his family has told her, or how much she’s heard from Summerlin gossip, but there’s nothing but warmth in her expression.

Brendon drops his sweater over a peg by the front door and watches as a puddle starts to form on the ugly brown rug beneath it. “Um,” he rocks back and forth on his heels, hands jammed into the front pockets of his trousers, “Ian I guess you can wait out here?”

Nodding eagerly, Ian takes a seat on a faded red settee, a small cloud of dust puffing into the air from his weight. Breezy once more indicates the door at the end of the long hallway, and then turns to making a pot of tea. Brendon drags his feet, in no hurry to meet The Brobeck.

The halls are cluttered with piles of books and papers, and the walls are lined with water colors depicting the Faith and its glorious past. He snorts, wondering what Spencer would make of this telling and retelling of things he’s seen with his own eyes. And then Brendon wonders if he’ll ever get a chance to ask Spencer, or even see him again. For the first time since he cleared the tree line from the Wild Wood, Brendon swallows back the threat of tears.

The door at the end of the hall is ajar and Brendon cautiously walks into the room, waiting for the grand Brobeck Reveal. The room is empty. Well, not exactly empty; there’s a large desk and shelves crammed with yet more books and a sofa and several chairs, but there’s no one, Brobeck or otherwise, in the room. Confused, Brendon takes a seat in one of the hard wooden chairs and stares out one of the many paned windows, watching the rain fall. He’s so absorbed in his thoughts, Brendon jumps to his feet when there’s an affected coughing sound from just inside the door. “Brother Weekes?” He asks in confusion.

“Hiya Brendon,” Dallon Weekes, Breezy’s husband and owner of Summerlin’s only mercantile gives an awkward wave as he enters the room. “Have a seat,” Dallon waves Brendon back into the chair and slides behind the desk, shuffling papers and picking up a clipboard. “So, your parents tell me you’re enchanted.” He makes air quotes and a small, careful smile graces his handsome face.

Brendon blinks and his brain eventually catches up with his eyes. “Wait. You’re The Brobeck?”

“Pay no attention to the man behind the desk,” Breezy jokes as she enters with a tea service on a silver tray. She hands Brendon a large cup of already brewed tea and sits on the edge of Dallon’s desk, the skirt of her pretty pink striped dress fanning out over it. “I suppose you could say we’re The Brobeck.” She shrugs.

Dallon nods agreeably. “Yes. Because, well, there’s a lot to write, and a lot to read. And, it’s kind of an inherited position. My Father was The Brobeck and his father was The Brobeck, and well you get the picture.” Dallon gratefully takes the cup of tea Breezy offers him. “And, well, in all this time nobody’s ever asked for an audience. They seem pretty happy with a letter.” He makes a face that is somewhere between apologetic and resigned.

“But that’s....that’s ridiculous!” Brendon blusters and then burns his tongue when he raises the tea cup to his lips and drinks deeply.

Having carefully set the tea things on the big desk, Breezy takes a chair beside Brendon. “Look Brendon, people, they need to believe in something. And we help them, we do. And if there’s a little...mystery to it, that’s okay too. And well, you never know...we keep the rules, and people like rules. They like to feel safe. Our writings, they make the world make sense.”

“This doesn’t make any sense at all to me.” Brendon mutters and sets his tea down on a small round table.

“We’ve never had someone claim Enchantment before, either.” Dallon confides in him. “Are you? Have you been to the Seelie Lands?”

“What? No!” Brendon stands then and makes to leave, until Breezy settles him again. “Wait. You mean you believe in Faerie folk?”

“Of course,” the Weekes’ say together.

Dallon shrugs like he’s stating a simple truth. “They know about us, we know about them. We put up a fence, they cast a spell on the Wild Wood, and everyone’s happy.”

“Except me.” Brendon says miserably, playing with the china tea cup; spinning it round on its saucer.

Setting his clipboard down again, and shuffling yet more paper, Dallon sighs and says, “Look, Brendon. In all my years, in all the years of all The Brobecks before me,” Breezy harrumphs in her throat and Dallon quickly amends, “Before us, I mean, no one has ever gone into the Wild Wood. Ever.”

“So?”

“So--you went, you explored you--sowed some wild oats.” Breezy laughs at the expression of extreme distaste on Dallon’s face. “Now you’re back and you can honor your parents and never go back.”

Brendon is so taken aback he just sits there with his mouth hanging open. Eventually he finds words, “Really? That is your sage and learned advice? Honor my parents?”

“Oh, well and tell us about the Faeries. You know, if you want to.” Dallon chuckles. “Look Brendon, it’s not like your dad gave us a lot of time to come up with something here. You went into the Wild Wood. You weren’t supposed to. Don’t do it again.”

“I’m not going to tell you about Faeries! You shouldn’t even care about Faeries, never mind believe in them. And for the last time, there’s no law against going into the Wild Wood. Just because everyone’s been too afraid to ever do it, doesn’t mean it’s wrong!”

“You’re old enough to know better.” Breezy adds. “Just find a nice girl and settle down, okay?”

His tea finished, Brendon stands. “So that’s it? No praying for my immortal soul? No lecture about being cast into the Outer Darkness? Just...just...do what everyone expects of me?”

“We always pray for everyone’s immortal soul,” Dallon says and Breezy nods encouragingly. “Here’s a list of readings I’ve put together about avoiding temptation and respecting your elders and community traditions.” He hands over a neatly folded square of paper.

Brendon snatches the sheet from Dallon’s hand and tucks it into his pocket. “This is...ridiculous. I’m done here!” And he storms out of The Brobeck’s office and into the waiting room. “C’mon, we’re leaving!” Brendon shouts at Ian without stopping to wait for him.

“How did it go?” Ian says with concern, trotting to catch up with Brendon.

“I’ll tell you how it went! It was ridiculous. If I didn’t think Sunday Meeting was a waste of my time before, I certainly do now. Ian you’d do well to lead the people of Summerlin, they’re all a bunch of sheep, and The Brobeck is the biggest sheep of all.” Brendon’s arms pump furiously as he stalks across The Meadows.

Ian’s expression could not be more shocked if Brendon had slapped him. “Brendon! You can’t say that! That’s terrible!”

“So are they!” Brendon huffs. “I am so done with this town and its sheep-people.”

“What are you talking about?” Ian straightens his glasses and lengthens his stride to keep up with Brendon.

Brendon stops dead and holds up his hands to prevent Ian from crashing into him. “Here, take this. Prove to my father that you saw the Brobeck; that you’re willing to repent or whatever it is the flock tells you you’re supposed to do.” He reaches into his pocket and takes out the square of paper Dallon had given him, pressing it into Ian’s palm.

“Why? Why can’t you tell him?” Ian’s voice is pitched high with worry and he shakes rain water out of the tangled mess of his curls.

“I’m running away,” Brendon announces with a flourish.

Ian’s eyebrows rise to his hairline in surprise. “Um, don’t you think at your age it’s more like...leaving.”

“Whatever, “ Brendon waves a dismissive hand. “I’m going back to the Wild Wood and no one can stop me. I’m not coming back. See how they like that! And you feel free to tell my brothers that if they ask.” Brendon abruptly turns north and stalks off.

Blinking into the post-storm drizzle Ian says, “Wait. Did The Brobeck pray for my immortal soul too?”

* * *

The feasting hall is loud with merriment, but Spencer sits staring glumly into his tankard, watching the ale slosh around in the pewter cup. “Hello, pretty! Why so glum?” William, one of the Kingsguard, and of the Elven realm straddles the long bench beside him, stealing Spencer's tankard and helping himself to a healthy swallow.

The Captain of the Guard—Gabe, who is coincidentally also an Elf—flicks the thick purple velvet of his cloak aside to reach over and tug on a lock of William's long brown hair. “Bilvy, my good man, I know that look. I do believe the pretty human is besotted.”

“Feisigh do thoin fein,” Spencer growls, focusing his attention on the table.

William clamps a sympathetic hand at Spencer's shoulder and gives him a knowing look. “So, which member of the Seelie Court has caught the eye of Pete's pet human?” Gabe forges on, oblivious to the look of misery on Spencer's face.

Exasperated, Spencer huffs out an indignant breath and says, “Not that it's any of your concern, but no one in the court holds any appeal for me.”

William laughs at Spencer's conviction and Gabe narrows his eyes, considering. “Ah well, I do know the look of a lovesick pup when I see one, so Flower Boy, if it's not someone in the court...”

“Oh Spencer!” William suddenly exclaims, “You can't mean that you've fallen in love with a human?” He spits the word out like he's tasted something nasty.

“I know it's been a while since I was among my own kind, but I am human. Why should I not...have affection for another human?” Feigning nonchalance Spencer lifts the drum stick of an oversized fowl from his truncheon to his mouth, and takes an obscenely large bite, chewing with his mouth open in the hopes of significantly offending Elivish manners so that his two dining companions leave him in peace. “And for your information I am not Pete's pet human. It seems to me that being human in the Seelie court is the last thing anyone would ever want to be.” He mumbles around his bite of food.

A dark, knowing glance passes between the two elves before William finally says, “Spencer, you truly do not know?”

“Not know...?” Spencer prompts after he swallows his food, wiping his face with his sleeve.

“You have been among the Fae-folk for some while now...” Gabe starts, then takes a fortifying swallow from his own tankard. “Have you never noticed that Pete, Our King...he does not take hostages?”

Spencer stops, and the poultry leg is suspended in his grip, halfway between his plate and his mouth. “Well, now that you mention it...”

William pats Gabe's shoulder and continues for him, “Spencer, every thousand years the Seelie King must pay a tithe to the Caorthannach. This is how the veil, however thin, is maintained between the worlds. How we keep the peace in all realms.”

Spencer glares-glacial blue—at both members of the Kingsguard. “What care I for the cost of peace? I have been held here, waiting for some act to be equal to the saving of my life. How much gold Pete must surrender is nothing to do with me.” He quirks his eyebrow and tears a large bite of bird flesh between his teeth.

“Spencer,” Gabe sets his empty cup down on the wooden table with a thump, “The tithe isn't gold. It's not money at all. It's—you.”

“What?” Spencer sputters into his own trencher, his eyes wide and his mouth open in confused disbelief.

Very gently, William reaches over and wipes the beads of ale from Spencer's beard with the leather tips of his gauntlet. “Once, every thousand years on what your human world calls Samhain, the Caorthannach demands a sacrifice to keep the pact made by Pete's ancestors. Pete knew you were the one, that's why he's kept you, all these years.”

When he can speak again Spencer says, “Samhain? But that's less than a fortnight away in the Summer Lands!” Spencer stands, then sits, then stands again. The Elves give him a look of pity, whether in sympathy for the truth Spencer’s just learned, or for the fact that he still keeps track of the passage of time in the human world, Spencer can’t say. “I will not offer myself up on a plate to some sidhe! This is absurd! Surely the King will see reason?”

Gabe and William just continue to look sadly up at Spencer, “It is the way of things, Spencer. You cannot change it. The magic is too strong. The world is dependent upon this thing.” Gabe tugs on Spencer's elbow and settles him on the bench beside him, cuddling him close. “You owe the King, the Seelie folk, a debt that must be repaid. No one lives forever.”

Blinking and swallowing, Spencer says, “This is not how I imagined a warrior's end,” he stares at his lap and says no more. He doesn't say that the world is unfair and unkind and how dare he be allowed to find Brendon just in time to be snatched away. He just blinks slowly and tries to remember to breathe.

* * *

Brendon runs through the Wild Wood heedless of the wandering vines and twisted tree roots he trips and stumbles on too many times to count, but his anger pushes him on. He thrashes through the darkened trees, feet pounding against the moss strewn ground, anger pushing him on to the familiar clearing and its roses—and Spencer. He is so angry and disillusioned by his meeting with Dallon and Breezy (he refuses to ever again refer to them and their sham belief as The Brobeck) that hot tears course down his cheeks as he swipes aside trailing tendrils of greenery. He doesn't know what he'll do when he gets to the clearin¬g, doesn't know what he'll say.

He only knows he wants Spencer.

Breathing heavy, Brendon bends at the waist, his hands braced on his knees, mumbling at himself to get it together. He dashes the tears from his cheeks and inches closer to the rose bush. He inhales the lush scent of the blooms and he starts to feel more calm. Biting his bottom lip, Brendon reaches out to stroke his thumb slowly across a rose petal, watching as his finger tips are bathed in the faerie light.

“Brendon?” Spencer's voice behind him is soft, tentative.

Turning quickly on his heel, Brendon crosses the short distance to where Spencer is standing, once more in his armour and cloak, although his broadsword remains carefully housed in the sheath across his back. Relief floods through him as Brendon flings himself at Spencer, who has no choice but to open his arms to Brendon or be flung backwards by the force of the embrace. “Oh Spencer!” Brendon is barely able to keep the tremble of a pent up wail from his voice.

“Hey. Hey now, it's all right, mo chroí, it's all right,” Spencer rests his cheek atop Brendon's head and makes soothing, quieting noises, holding him tight. Very gently, Spencer strokes the tip of his forefinger under Brendon's chin, tilting his head up so he can meet his eyes. “What is it? Are you hurt? Did something frighten you?” Spencer's concerned darkened eyes flit from studying Brendon's face to searching the darkness beyond the safe pool of light cast by the rose bush.

Brendon sags against Spencer, feeling the glowing warmth of the armour's metal seep into his bones like reassurance. “No, no.” He swallows loudly and Spencer watches as Brendon's pulse leaps just below the set of his clenched jaw. “I'm...lost.” He finally says in a small voice.

“No, Bòidheach, you are not lost. You've found me. You're here now, shhh.” Spencer kisses across Brendon's forehead and cheeks.

“No, no,” Brendon rests his cheek against the breast plate of Spencer's armour, pausing while he tries to find words to explain all that has happened since he last saw Spencer. “Everything I thought I once believed—everything my parents still believe, and the entire Republic for that matter—it's all lies, all based on superstition and nonsense.” Brendon stops babbling and raises his face to Spencer's. He mashes their mouths together in a desperate, messy kiss. “Please,” he husks, “Please Spencer, take me with you. Take me back to the Seelie lands with you. There's nothing here for me, anymore.” He sniffles and moves to wrap his arms more securely around Spencer's neck.

Jerking back, Spencer releases Brendon so abruptly and shoves at him with such force that Brendon has to fling out his arms to keep his balance. “You know I can't do that. That cannot happen.” Each word is clipped and precise, and the look in Spencer's eyes is so shuttered and cold that Brendon cries out like he had fallen.

“I don't care!” Brendon wails miserably. “I'll do anything! I'll pick every single last rose from that bush and beg the Faerie King himself!” Brendon scowls and takes a brave step forward. “Everyone in the Republic is a liar. And even those that don't spread the lies, live in fear of those lies. They are sheep! Hateful, fearful sheep. I can't live that way, Spencer,” Brendon holds out an imploring hand. “I won't live that way. I won't go back.”

“Brendon!” Spencer's voice is loud in the quiet of the Wild Wood. He says the name sharply, and it sounds strange to Brendon's ears; no warmth, no terms of endearment. Spencer crosses his arms over his chest, ignoring Brendon's reaching arms. “Do not say such things. The King's justice is no joke! You are human you belong in this world, you know nothing of the Faerie world, and I would not wish it upon you.”

Repeatedly opening and closing his balled fists at his sides, Brendon cries, “I don't care! If you won't take me to the Seelie Lands maybe we can just stay here?” he waves his arm to take in the dark circle of forest beyond the rose bush, “In the Wild Wood. Maybe make a home together by the Sprite's lake. I don't care about being human, don't give a damn about the Republic, Spencer. I only care about you.” Brendon darts forward, grabbing desperately at Spencer’s cloak and bunching it up in his fists.

Spencer stares unflinchingly at Brendon for long minutes, swallowing and breathing heavily, but saying nothing. Finally, with a little nod to himself and an arch of his eyebrows he says, “No. Go home Brendon. There's nothing for you here.” He pries Brendon's fingers from their tangle in the soft velvet material and pins them to his side.

“Nothing? Truly? You...you do not want me?” Brendon closes his eyes and draws a deep breath, hope and fear warring inside his ribcage.

Stepping back, Spencer pauses and says, “No,” so softly Brendon takes a second to process what he's said. And then, before Brendon can even blink, Spencer is gone.

It's a lie. Brendon knows it is. He could tell by the downturn of Spencer's mouth and the way he seemed to have to fight to say the word that Spencer had lied to him. But why?

* * *

Brendon does not go home.

Instead he continues North through the Wild Wood, and eventually comes out the other side. The journey to the Economic Capital is reduced by one quarter, not having to circumnavigate the Wild Wood. Brendon has been here a handful of times, mostly as a child with his parents to get supplies and spread the word of the People of Faith. Boyd Urie had called it Sin City and Brendon realizes as he comes to the crest of a hill overlooking the city, that he's never learned its actual name, everyone just calls it The Capital.

Everyone in Summerlin is familiar with the Administrative Capital, Henderson, that was far closer to his village. Brendon can't help but look in awe at all the tall brick and mortar buildings that reach almost to the clouds, illuminated with lamps that burn unnaturally bright in what is either an attempt to mimic or mock the bright light of the Seelie creatures. Digging his hands deeper into the front pockets of his trousers and setting his shoulders, Brendon begins to trot down the hill, determined.

Many of the musicians he's built instruments for, and many of the singers he's given lessons to eventually make their ways to the towers of The Capital, playing the many cabarets and music halls that distract and console those who have lost more than their share in the city’s gaming halls. Brendon thinks maybe if he can find a familiar face, he can put into action his plan. It's not difficult. As he's walking by a particularly colorful hall, the strains of a guitar, the sound of which he knows like his own mother's voice, calls to him. Inside he finds Ryan, the boy he'd sold his first guitar to.

“Brendon!” Ryan exclaims brightly. He carefully sets his guitar down and unfolds his long limbs from the stool he's perched on. He pulls Brendon into a hug and the fedora perched on his head is knocked askew and they both laugh. “So, you've finally decided to take your chances in the big city, huh?” Ryan smiles, his brown eyes warm as Brendon settles the hat back onto Ryan's head.

“Yes, I was hoping that maybe I could sleep on your floor, play some music with you, and make some money...”

“Of course! Of course! I owe you so much more than I ever paid for old Gladys over there.” He hooks a thumb back towards the stool and his guitar. “And really, with your playing and voice I'm sure that we can make these losers actually pay us some attention and, you know, actually pay us.” Ryan wrinkles up his nose and laughs, head back and bright.

Brendon takes a minute to survey the room. It's full of dour looking men who seem to not have noticed in the least that Ryan's song no longer fills the room. It's a relief that Ryan doesn't ask him why he's in the city, or what he needs the money for. Ryan had always had secrets and reasons of his own and he never seemed to ask anyone anything more than they'd be willing to tell. “Yes with your lyrics and my singing I'm sure we'll be a hit!” Brendon laughs as Ryan winds an impossibly long scarf around and around his neck against the autumn chill.

“Let me just show you my room and then we can head back to the bar and make a start at our new partnership, yes?” Ryan drops a companionable arm around Brendon's shoulder and leads him out of the music hall. “You're travelling light, I see.” Ryan takes in Brendon's bedraggled appearance and lack of any kind of pack or bag.

Biting his lip Brendon says, “Er...no. It's kind of a long story actually...”

“No matter.” Ryan claps him between the shoulders and they turn up a rickety wooden staircase on the side of the building. “This city is ripe with fresh starts! My friend Keltie,” He pauses to waggle his eyebrows lasciviously, making Brendon laugh, “Makes all of my clothes. I would offer to lend you some but I don't think that would work so well.” Ryan looks at Brendon and then himself, taking in their difference in height and totally different body types. “But she does a wonderful job and lets me run a tab so I'm sure she could fix you up in no time.”

“That would be wonderful!” Brendon exclaims, “Although I don't intended to be here very long, a week or two at most. But, a new shirt and vest never hurt anyone!” He smiles wide as they climb the stairs. “I also didn't think to bring my guitar. Would you have one I could use? Or perhaps there's a pianoforte at the music hall?” They stand on the narrow stoop as Ryan fusses with his watch fob and the tiny brass key affixed to it.

“Yeah, I'm sure there's a piano in there under all the dust that Jon will let you play.” Laughing, Ryan throws open the door and barks out a laugh, “Do I have a guitar you can borrow?” Light from the doorway shines into the tiny room, casting shadows into the corners but lighting up glass bottles strewn around the floor and atop every surface, the remnants of a viscous glowing green liquid—absinthe--in most of them. There is a rack on wheels by the tiny twin bed and in it rest at least six guitars of all description.

“Oh!” Brendon crosses the room and his hands immediately land on the neck of a maple guitar. “It's beautiful,” he whispers reverently.

For the first time in his life, Brendon feels like things are going according to plan. Granted the plan is very loose, but he sings and plays with Ryan—in music halls and bars, and sometimes on street corners just for fun and the joy of being able to make music however and where ever they wish. And he makes a little money and manages to buy the supplies he needs. He works with speed and determination, Spencer never far from his thoughts.

A fortnight after he'd arrived into the glaringly bright lights of the big city, Brendon is ready to go. Ryan returns to the little room at the top of the stairs, the previous night's earnings spent on the bottle of absinthe he's tucked under his arm. “Oh,” he says taking off his hat, eyes widening as he sees Brendon's meagre, recently acquired belongings piled in the center of the room as Brendon struggles to cover a large object with a tarp.

“Thank you so much for all you've done for me, Ryan.” Brendon's eyes shine with sincerity as he crosses the room to embrace Ryan.

“You're leaving, so soon?” He breaks their embrace and sets the bottle he's carrying down on a shelf by the bed.

Shouldering a small leather pack and securing the larger tarp-covered object to it, Brendon smiles and nods, “Yes, I couldn't have done what I needed without you.”

“Here, take this. You make her sing in ways I never can,” He stoops to hand Brendon the beautiful maple guitar Brendon hadn't been separated from since his first day in Sin City.

“Oh, oh! Thank you! I promise to take good care of her!” Brendon wraps Ryan in a fierce hug one more time, the brass strings of the guitar making a loud, painful twang as it's trapped between them.

Brendon pretends he doesn't feel the fall of Ryan's tears onto his shirt collar. “Come back and visit, any time. You really are most welcome.” Ryan mumbles and pulls away, dashing at a stray tear with his long fingers.

The entire time he'd stayed with Ryan, Brendon had never volunteered any information about why or how he'd come to the city, or about why he needed to make money. Ryan had never asked about what Brendon had hidden under the tarp in the corner of the room and as far as Brendon knew he'd never stolen a peek at it either. Ryan didn't know where Brendon was going, and he certainly didn't know that Brendon could never come back. “I'll do my best.” Brendon forced an affected, overly sunny smile. Then, lifting two fingers to his brow in a salute, he heads out the door and down the rickety wooden stairs.

* * *

Brendon runs headlong into the Wild Wood. He has a lantern in his hand and a fire inside him so bright he knows exactly where he's heading. His pack is snug against his back and the large bundle tied to it thumps rhythmically with every step. He'd strapped Ryan's guitar across his chest and tries to play it to the beat of his walking, using the same hand he's carrying the lantern in to attempt an awkward strum. He laughs at the sight he must make, but there's only the darkness and the unseen, yet felt presence of creatures too timid to come to greet him. He feels buoyant and giddy the closer he gets to the rose bush. Brendon believes his plan will work. It has to. He carries on, tripping on branches and bracken and determined to make it back to Spencer.

Seeing the warm glow of the Faerie roses ahead of him, Brendon slows his step, trying to walk and rearrange his belongings at the same time, laughing as he pitches over onto his back in a heap. He manages to struggle free from the straps of his rucksack and leans his new guitar against one of the menacingly tall trees. Carefully, he takes the large bundle in his arms and carries it over to the rose briars. “Spencer?” he calls softly, and waits.

When Spencer doesn't appear, Brendon reaches out a cautious hand and strokes the pad of his thumb across a petal on an especially large bloom. Still, nothing. Brendon sighs and his eyes dart nervously around the forest before he wraps his hand around the rose, and pulls. It comes effortlessly off in his hand but still, Spencer does not appear. With a grunt, Brendon sets down the package and, lips set in a thin line, plucks another rose. And another. And another. Anger and desperation course through his blood as Brendon plucks bloom after bloom from the safety of the green foliage.

Chest heaving and hands scratched from his haste at plucking the blooms Brendon looks wildly around him. “What have I done?” he whispers to himself, eyes wide with fear as he shoves the thick fall of his hair from his eyes.

“Brendon? What are you doing here? What...” Spencer, glowing brightly and scowling fiercely takes in Brendon standing by the now stripped bare rose bush, the ground beneath his feet mottled with crushed rose blooms and petals. “I told you to go home. What have you done?” He's not wearing his armour, just a pale blue embroidered doublet over a crisp white shirt, and breeches and knee high leather boots that are a rich brown. In his right hand, poised to strike he holds a long bladed, lethal looking knife.

“And I told you I couldn't.” Brendon walks towards Spencer but makes no attempt to touch him. “I told you I wanted to be with you.”

“And I told you I did not wish for that to be so.” Spencer's voice is just as soft and unsure as the first time he'd told Brendon he didn't want him, his eyes are cast downwards and he refuses to meet Brendon's.

Reaching out a tentative hand to rest on the stiffly starched sleeve of Spencer's shirt, Brendon says, equally as soft, only full of conviction, “Yes, but you lied. And you're lying now. The only difference between you and the citizens of the Republic, the People of Faith, is that you don't believe your own lies.” Brendon bites his lip to suppress his smile. “Here,” he says ducking down but not breaking contact. He hefts the tarp covered bundle one handed and foists it at Spencer.

Spencer's eyes go incredibly wide. “What, no. Brendon I can't...” He holds his hands up and starts to back away, but Brendon still has hold of his shirt sleeve. “You don't know what you're doing...what this means!” His voice is high and breathy and Brendon laughs.

“It's a gift, for you. Given freely.” He tugs on the loose rope securing the tarp over the object beneath. A snare drum shines in the otherworldly glow of the roses. The drum head is an unblemished, white calfskin and the sides are detailed with interlace traced into silver. It's beautiful. “A drum, for you. I made it.”

“You would give me a gift?” Despite his hesitance and fear, Spencer can't help but reach out and bring the drum up by its embroidered strap. “Brendon,” Spencer makes a pained, gasping noise and gathers Brendon to him, “What have you done?” He mumbles into Brendon's hair.

Brendon returns the embrace just as fiercely and draws back to smile up at Spencer, “So, the old wives tales are true then? A gift given freely to one of the Seelie folk...”

“Binds us forever, yes.” Spencer manages a small smile, and there is no joy in his voice. He sheaths the dagger he'd been holding, it makes a metallic snick as it slides home into the scabbard on his belt, then sighs, taking Brendon's hand. “You are mine. And I am yours. Always.”

“Yay!” Brendon squirms in Spencer's grasp turning until he can wrap his arms around his waist. Ghosting his lips over Spencer's beard, Brendon bites playfully at the pink swell of Spencer's bottom lip before hesitantly pressing their lips together in a sweet kiss.

Spencer cups Brendon's jaw, deepening the kiss and tracing the cleave of Brendon's lips with his teeth. “But, I cannot protect you.” he husks.

“Protect me? From what?” Brendon leaves his arms loosely around Spencer's waist as he draws back, staring at Spencer with a puzzled tilt of an eyebrow.

“Eternity...”

Brendon shakes his head back and forth. “I don't understand.”

“You will.” Spencer says, then ends the conversation by pressing his lips to Brendon's once more before guiding him into the roses.

* * *

The feasting hall at the Faerie King's castle is filled to bursting, quite literally as what appears to be a giant comes hurtling through the thick lumbered doors to raucous laughter, just as Spencer and Brendon arrive. It's lit up brighter than Sin City and Brendon can't help the look of drop-jawed, wide-eyed marvel he sports as he takes in the sights. There are beings and creatures of all sorts from all corners of the Seelie Realm. “Is that a unicorn?” Brendon hisses when he glances in the corner and sees a maid with long auburn hair stroking the neck of a white horse.

“Shh,” Spencer grouses, pecking a kiss to Brendon's cheek and strengthening his hold on Brendon's hand that he's clasped in his.

“There he is! The man of the hour!” Spencer sighs heavily and closes his eyes as Gabe's obnoxiously loud voice floats over the crowd.

“We thought you'd skipped out on your own fete!” William smiles pleasantly as they come to stand, flanking Spencer.”

Brendon blinks up at Spencer's very tall, very pretty friends, “Oh! I took you away from a party?”

“Téigh trasna ort féin!” Spencer makes an abortive, sharp gesture shaking his head from side to side once, and whatever else Gabe and William were going to say is lost when Spencer says over top of their noise. “Brendon, this is Gabe,” he gestures to his left and Gabe makes a courtly bow, cloak over his arm and extending a hand to Brendon, who giggles. “And this is William,” he claps an arm across William's shoulder, while he repeats the same movements as Gabe. “They are from the Elvin lands, and are in the Kingsguard.”

“Captain of the Kingsguard,” Gabe adds obnoxiously.

“Oh, pleased to meet you!” Brendon does a funny little wave, “I'm Brendon Urie, Human, late of Summerlin.” And he does a shuffle ball change, making both William and Gabe tip back their heads with laughter.

“Oh, you're Spencer's pet human!” Gabe reaches out to ruffle Brendon's hair and he laughs harder when he hears Spencer growl, focáil leat and sees Brendon's confused glance. “Isn't that sweet that you've come to see him off?”

“See him off?” Brendon follows behind as they head to the long banquet tables. Gabe and William plunk themselves down on a bench, and look up at Spencer and Brendon expecting them to do the same.

Spencer stands where he is, and grabs a tankard of ale up from the table. He drains it and then says, “I haven't told him, yet.”

“Oh! So you don't know!” Williams brown eyes are full of sympathy. He tugs on Brendon's sleeve and Brendon topples down beside him, half on the bench, half on Gabe's lap, making Gabe and most of the people who had so far been casting not so furtive inquisitive looks at Brendon, bray with laughter.

Wriggling free and into an upright position between Gabe and William, Brendon, who is still confused says, “Tell me what?

“Our Spencer here is to be the latest once a millennium snack for the Caorthannach,” Gabe offers smugly without preamble.

Spencer continues to mutter extremely unflattering things about Gabe's ancestry and his progeny, and Brendon continues to gawp in confusion. “That didn't clear anything up at all, just so you know.” Brendon scowls but he lets Spencer gently cradle his hand between both of his own.

Smiling soft and a little sad, Spencer cuts off Gabe's rambling diatribe about the creation of the worlds and the universe between by saying, “Brendon, remember when you wondered what it was the King wanted from me, to make him hold me here so very long?”

“Yes! I told you that a thousand years of arms and armour should be more than enough payment for saving your life.” Brendon busses a kiss to the corner of Spencer's mouth, and ignores Gabe and William’s doe eyed cooing.

Biting his lip between his teeth, Spencer inhales through his nose and says, “I am the tithe the King is going to pay to the Caorthannach. Me. He's going to send me to Hell, Brendon. To keep the realm safe. All of the realms.”

“What?” Brendon yelps, all the color draining from his face. He stands up quickly and all eyes in the hall quickly turn to survey the disruption. Spencer's mouth is a thin line as he yanks on their still joined hands, seating Brendon on the bench beside him once more.

“That is my purpose, a sacrifice so that all may live.” Spencer's voice wobbles but he juts his chin up, blinking slowly. “Now do you see what you have done? You have bound yourself to me, but I am to go where you cannot follow. And you will be here, alone...”

“For ever.” Brendon swallows thickly. He flings his arms around Spencer's neck, kissing him fiercely, heedless of the Elves cat-calls. “How can this be?” Brendon whispers against Spencer's lips, “I only just found you. I won't let you go! I can't.”

Spencer hugs Brendon to him and allows himself a brief moment to stroke gentle fingers along the planes of Brendon's cheekbones. Pulling away slightly, Spencer rests his forehead against Brendon's. “It is already decided.” He says softly.

Brendon is shocked at the ease with which Spencer seems to have accepted his fate. He cannot do the same. His brain is going a mile a minute, trying to come up with a way to free Spencer from this curse, to free them both to be together. His musing is interrupted by the soft but clear strumming of a stringed instrument Brendon thinks he remembers vaguely learning about when he was a bairn; a lute. Everyone in the feasting hall quiets and the strumming of the lute is for a beat accompanied only by the scraping of silverware against truncheons and the soft footfalls of serving maidens.

Everyone is looking at the dais at the Western end of the hall. The King, whom Brendon hadn't noticed before, is sitting in his throne. The King of the Faerie folk looks nothing like Brendon imagined. So far every encounter with the Seelie had shown Brendon someone almost unnaturally beautiful. And, well, it's not like the Faerie King is unattractive, it's just he's sort of small and, well pointy with a horsey grin that Brendon finds...unsettling.

And that grin is turned full force on the lute player. Sitting at the King’s feet is a tiny, red head most of his face obscured by a ridiculous, floppy hat made of golden velvet with a large peacock feather stuck in the trim. His features are fine enough for him to be of elven kind but he is in no way tall enough to be of that realm. “Oh, Patrick's going to sing you off!” William claps as the sound of the lute fills the room, elbowing Spencer in the side, and Gabe sighs dreamily at the dais.

Brendon recognizes the song, from the folk tales the grannies used to tell. It's sad and slow and beautiful.

Of all the money e'er I had,
I spent it in good company.
And all the harm e'er I've done,
Alas! it was to none but me.
And all I've done for want of wit
To mem'ry now I can't recall
So fill to me the parting glass
Good night and joy be with you all.

So fill to me the parting glass
And drink a health whate'er befalls
Then gently rise and softly call
"Good night and joy be to you all"

Oh, all the comrades e'er I had,
They're sorry for my going away,
And all the sweethearts e'er I had,
They'd wish me one more day to stay,
But since it falls unto my lot,
That I should rise and you should not,
I gently rise and softly call,
“Good night and joy be with you all.”

So fill to me the parting glass
And drink a health whate'er befalls
Then gently rise and softly call
"Good night and joy be to you all."

Part 3

bandombigbang2012 Red is the Rose, Brendon/Spencer, art post

cloudlessclimes — Sat, 08 Sep 2012 21:45:47 GMT

Okay, so I'll admit it, I'm a giant look_alive fangirl. Her art is always so interesting and well done and mostly just beautiful. She always puts plenty of details in but this time I can't stop looking at the amazing textures in Brendon's shirt, his hair, the guitar, everything. Thank you so much! Have a look (warning it's kinda big because I am kind of dumb and can't figure out how to resize it) then go tell look_alive how awesome she is!

bandombigbang2012 Red is the Rose, Brendon/Spencer, R, Part 1

cloudlessclimes — Sat, 08 Sep 2012 21:25:51 GMT

Title:Red is the Rose
Author: cloudlessclimes
Band(s):panic! at the disco
Pairing(s):brendon/spencer
Word Count:~29 000
Rating:R
Warnings:violence
Notes: Thank you to my wonderful betas and cheerleaders, ohnoscarlett and prettykitty_aya for all their encouragement, hard work and mostly for listening to me whine and complain. Thank you to look_alive for my beautiful art and to morganya for my wonderful, perfect mix which is honestly a damn fine soundtrack.
There are a smattering of Irish words in this fic, and I’ve provided a glossary at the end. The vagaries and intricacies of Irish spelling are legend, and any errors in transposing are mine.
Summary: A sort of fairy tale. In which Brendon is the much maligned crofters' son and Spencer is the human Guardian of the Faerie King's Roses (yes, roses. it's a job okay. someone has to do it). Their stars briefly align, they fall in love, and have to beat a curse older than time to be together. Loosely, very very very loosely based on the Ballad of Tamlin, with a smattering of various global folk and fairy tales thrown in for good measure. Takes place in a parallel world that is a mishmash of Ireland and Las Vegas just because that's how I roll. Very much an AU.

Brendon makes a frustrated groaning sound in the back of his throat. Hands on his hips he frowns down at the little dog, who is looking expectantly at the cold cellar doors. “You know, Bogart, I’m beginning to think you’re doing this on purpose.” He runs his hands down the smooth wooden buttons sewn carefully along the front of his vest. “It’s a good thing you’re cute. But man, you’re not a puppy anymore!” Brendon smiles at the terrier as he turns his attention to hauling open the rusted and stubborn doors. He gives a cry of victory when the latch gives way with an angry creak.

Wiping his hands on the seat of his trousers, Brendon drops down among the potatoes and turnips harvested at the beginning of the autumn. “If this wasn’t your very favorite toy, you know I wouldn’t be down here,” Brendon grouses as he gingerly searches through the mounds of root vegetables. “I honestly don’t know how you found a crack big enough for it to fall down here.” Squinting in the murky half-light, Brendon clutches the grey wool mouse in his fist and raises his arms aloft in victory, the weak sunbeams streaming through the floorboards making the dust motes dance. “Ah ha!” Brendon cries, “You’d think the faeires had a hand in it.” He throws the toy out to Bogart and can feel a laugh bubbling up inside of him at the sight of his dog stalking the soft toy when he hears the squeak and slam of the front door, and the unmistakable baritone of his father’s voice. “Grace!”

Brendon thinks he should move; go chasing after Bogart since their game had been interrupted by the loss of the dog’s most beloved toy. He thinks he should probably be anywhere on the Urie homestead but where he is. But, his feet won’t move. Instead he cranes his neck, tilting his head back and straining to peer through the knotted pine floorboards, into the great room above.

He tracks the tap-tap-tap of his mother’s quick, nervous foot falls as she hurries from the hearth at the back of the house to greet his father at the front door. “Boyd! You’re back early. We weren’t expecting you. Supper won’t be any time soon, I’m afraid.”

His father makes a grumbling noise and says, “Your son was supposed to meet me at the North Pasture, to help me finally mend that bit of fence before the snows come. He didn’t show up, I’ve come back here to pry him away from your apron strings.” Brendon bites his lip and swallows painfully, eye still pressed to the small strip of daylight.

He hears his mother sigh and the swish of her skirts as she says, “Oh my dear, must you be so hard on him? I’m sure Brendon just got caught up with the sheep or the chickens...”

“Mostly likely he’s off behind a haystack noodling away on his fool guitar.” Boyd interrupts, anger and frustration behind every word.

Much to his shame, Brendon can feel the familiar prick of tears at his father’s harsh words. “He’s just a boy,” his mother offers weakly.

“He’s more than eighteen! A man grown!” Brendon’s father gruffs. “If he doesn’t stop his daydreaming and take some responsibility around here, he’ll never make a decent match!”

Brendon’s mother gasps. “I do suppose I’ve coddled him, some. But he’s the youngest of our five, Boyd. And so very different from his brothers...”

Not waiting to hear more--just glad that, this time, he’s not in the same room and expected to sit through a lecture about his parents’ disappointment in Brendon’s inability to find an acceptable marriage prospect at the Harvest Festival--Brendon quickly boosts himself out of the cellar and back into the warm late fall day. He stops his march to abruptly pick up his guitar and then tears across the door yard and into the green-gold fields surrounding the croft. He runs as far away as he can from his parents and the sting of their bitter words.

He runs and he runs, Bogart nipping at his heels. He’ll show them. His mother and his father both. He heads to the far North Fence, towards the fence he didn’t even know it would be his chore to mend. His father talks so often with Brendon’s brothers, tells them his plans for the small farm, and the business of it, that Brendon sometimes thinks his father forgets that Matt and Mason aren’t him, and that his father hasn’t told him anything at all. He mumbles under his breath about showing them, and fixing the fence so it is the finest in all of Summerlin.

Finally, when he can run no more, he flops down onto the cold ground panting and blinking at the gun metal grey sky. Bogart refuses to believe that this epic game of chase has come to an end, and is dancing around Brendon’s prone form. Brendon laughs and sits up, wiping at his face where the terrier has licked several enthusiastic kisses. “Stop it!” Brendon giggles. Bogart stands still for the briefest of moments, before darting away, eager to continue their game. Brendon slips the guitar’s strap over his head and then takes off after his dog. “Hey! Come back! Stop!” Panic begins to fill Brendon’s voice as Bogart heads towards the very gap in the fence that was supposed to be mended that morning.

“Bogart! Bogey! Boges! No!” Brendon’s eyes go wide and he runs faster as he watches the twitching dog disappear through the hole. His entire life, Brendon had been told to never, ever go past the North Pasture fence, and he’s pretty sure that his father and his father’s father before him had been given the same warning. The Uries had settled the northernmost patch of arable land. Everyone in Summerlin knew that the untamed Wild Wood lay beyond and it was a place of darkness and menace. Everyone, it seems, except Bogart.

Bogart, it seems, has no interest in stopping, or listening to Brendon. So, despite his fears and a life’s worth of warnings, Brendon sets his guitar against a weathered fence post and with more effort than is strictly sensible, manages to wriggle through the gap in the fence. “From ghoulies and ghosties and long-legged beasties, and things that go bump in the night, may the good lord deliver us,” he mutters softly under his breath. He stops at the very edge of the tree line and unhooks the age-worn fabric of his trousers from where he’s been snagged on a stray nail. He reassures himself that all of the stories he heard about the Wild Wood as a lad at his granny’s knee are just that--tall tales told to keep in line those with enough imagination to wonder what may lie in the world beyond Summerlin. They’re just foolish children's tales, and nothing more.

It has to be the ghost of those stories whispering in Brendon’s ear that make the trees on this side of the fence seem larger and darker and altogether more menacing than any tree he’s seen on his family’s croft or in the village beyond. Because no matter how tall and gnarled the trees, there’s no way their branches could actually blot out the bright mid-afternoon sunlight to such a degree that Brendon’s left squinting into the gloom, is there? The darkness beneath the trees, their limbs entwined together like skeletal arms, is so great that what little path there is through the ferns and bracken under Brendon’s feet disappears so suddenly that the sound of his dog thrashing through the undergrowth is all that Brendon has to guide him.

The lack of bird song and the thrum of insects in flight can be easily explained away by the turning of the season towards the harvest, and surely has little to do with any sort of ancient curse the women-folk of Summerlin murmur to their children in lieu of lullabies. So Brendon swallows his fear, tugs at the hem of his vest, and continues into the thick of the Wild Wood, ears keen for any sound of Bogart.

In an instant it seems the entirety of the Wild Wood is filled with Bogart’s high, sharp barks. “No! Oh no!” Brendon cries out, rushing blindly forward, tripping on branches and other things littering the forest floor. In his haste, Brendon isn’t exactly sure what he expected to find when he finally caught up to Bogart. But even in his extremely wild imagination, Brendon could never have fathomed this. In his heart he had hoped that Bogart has caught the scent of one of the Wild Wood’s creatures and had given chase, but that isn’t it at all. Bogart is barking, the force of it shaking his entire body. His teeth are bared and his haunches are low to the ground in fear. The focus of all his doggy energy is a large, well Brendon wants to call it a rose bush, but that does little to explain the enormity of the tangle of plants in front of him.

And even though all of the plants Brendon’s come across on his side of the fence have turned the golden-brown of autumn, these roses are in full bloom. The foliage is a hedge of bright green, waxy leaves and the thorns that kept him out of his grandmother’s garden as a child, are nowhere to be found on these strange shrubs. The blooms are the size of dinner plates and a deep pink that Brendon doesn’t know the name for. It occurs to Brendon that he can clearly make out each subtle shift in hue on each petal and leaf. The threatening darkness of the Wild Wood doesn’t exist here; the roses are bathed in a soft, inviting sunlight.

Brendon makes soothing sounds at his dog, snapping his fingers at his side in a familiar gesture and lowly calling Bogart to him. The little terrier jumps into Brendon’s arms, snuggling into the embrace, but whining as Brendon continues to walk towards the rose hedge, drawn by their beauty. As he gets close enough to touch, Brendon is overwhelmed by the spicy, exotic scent the roses are emitting, like no other flower he’s seen, or smelled, before.

Bogart wriggles and struggles in his arms, but Brendon is compelled to feel the delicate blooms in his hands; to inhale their beautiful, intoxicating scent. Maybe, just maybe if he picks one rose, just one, and takes it back to his mother, just maybe she’ll forgive him for being such a failure of a son. He reaches out, cupping the biggest, most beautiful rose in his palms and giving it a gentle tug.

“Hey!” Bogart yelps and jumps from Brendon’s arms. Brendon himself is so startled by the sudden loud voice booming from the roses that he windmills his arms wildly, before falling on his ass. He blinks and swallows and looks up into the face of the most beautiful person he’s ever seen.

“Um...hi?” Brendon twirls the plucked rose between his fingers and swallows nervously, yet unable to look away.

The man--if that’s what he is and not some kind of apparition or hallucination Brendon’s imagination has conjured out of fear--points an accusing finger at the rose in Brendon’s hand, “What do you think you’re doing?” One graceful eyebrow is arched in inquiry and the glacial blue of his eyes is cold with anger.

Managing to draw his glance away from the man’s face, Brendon’s blinks stupidly again, taking in the deep brown of his velvet doublet and surcoat and, most importantly, the glint of light off a broadsword as long as Brendon is tall. The more Brendon looks at the weapon, the more he thinks that it’s not the light glinting off the sword at all. Rather, it seems to emit a glow bright as daylight, like the roses themselves. “I was just...I mean...I thought I’d...” Brendon stammers as he gets to his feet, “I didn’t mean to pluck it. I just...couldn’t help it. I just wanted to find my dog before he got totally lost.” He chews nervously at his bottom lip and ducks a glance at the now strangely silent Bogart.

“The King will have your head!” The stranger growls, lifting his broadsword with a practised ease Brendon finds intriguing rather than frightening.

Awkwardly stumbling to his feet, Brendon manages to ask, “King?” Summerlin has been a free province and Republic ruled by an elected minister since his Grandfather was his age, and Brendon can’t imagine what it is this strange, albeit handsome, man could be talking about.

Eyes gleaming with a coolly un-natural light, the man sighs, allowing the point of the sword to rest against Brendon’s throat, not painful, not piercing. A warning. “The Faerie King,” he explains plainly. “These roses mark the door between your world and his. I am the Guardian of the Roses...”

“Faerie King?” Brendon steps back, well away from the lethal tip of The Guardian’s sword. He chuckles and tries to calculate how probable it is that this man is completely unhinged. “You cannot be serious.”

The Guardian moves forward, his sword thrust out in front of him. “I assure you I am perfectly serious. Deadly serious.” Brendon raises his hands up in surrender and defeat as the sword once again warms against the jumping pulse in his neck.

“It’s just...they’re just stories. I mean...things mothers and grannies tell the little bairns to keep them in line.” Brendon frowns, thinking about all the times he’s laughed at the ridiculous stories that seemed to terrify his siblings and the other children at the parish school.

“There is a Faerie King, these are his roses, and I am their guardian.” The man’s expression shifts from menace to exasperation. “Although I cannot recall another human braving the King’s magic to travel the Wild Wood and discover this portal; these flowers.” It’s the most the man has said to Brendon thus far and Brendon finds himself liking the sound of his voice, the shape of his lips, and his neatly trimmed beard.

Brendon laughs, full out and bright. “That’s because of all the stories about Faerie magic the old ladies fill their children’s heads with. Your boss has done a pretty good job of keeping the villagers on the other side of the fence, I’ll give him that. It takes forever to get anywhere because we have to take the South Road, instead of just cutting through this place.” Brendon holds his arms out wide and Bogart, taking that for invitation, paws at his trouser leg to be lifted up again. Without taking his eyes off The Guardian, Brendon leans down and deftly scoops up the dog. “And Guardian of the Roses? Seriously? That’s supposed to be...frightening? What’d you do to make the King mad?” Brendon chuckles and rubs at the scruff of Bogart’s neck.

Indignant, The Guardian lowers his broadsword to his side and huffs, “I will have you know that I am Spencer, Smithy of the Summer Lands. Guardian of the Roses and Warrior of the Fianna!” He raises his chin and peers at Brendon down length of his nose.

“Fianna!” Brendon smothers his giggle by kissing Bogart’s head, soothing his worried whines. “Are you kidding me with this?” Brendon is beginning to think he should probably be worried for his safety after all, and that he is quite possibly in the presence of an escapee from the lunatics’ workhouse in Primm Valley. “Look, Spencer Smith, the Fianna are definitely part of the tall tales my granny tells. “Long ago and long ago more than a thousand years past, when the streets were paved with butter and the houses painted with gold...” Brendon adopts the stooped posture and quavering, shrill tone of a crone, and points one crooked finger at Spencer.

Instead of laughing, or getting even more exasperated or angry, Spencer just looks defeated. “Truly? There are no Fianna? How can that be?” He slumps then, the cape over his shoulder rustling with the movement. “I know time moves differently in the Seelie Lands but...truly? One thousand years?” Spencer swipes ineffectually at the fall of hair over his eyes.

When those pale blue eyes look up to study Brendon, they are filled with such sadness that Brendon steps forward, resting a comforting hand at the crook of Spencer’s elbow. He rubs his thumb across the soft velvet of the cape and notices that what he thought were roses embroidered along its edge with golden thread are actually roses embroidered with gold. “Well, I don’t know if it’s exactly a thousand years, but it’s been long enough that those stories are just,” Brendon stops and shrugs apologetically, “You know, just stories.”

Spencer stiffens and draws away from Brendon’s touch, adopting a more formal, serious stance, “So everything I know, everyone I love, they are gone now.” He gives a little nod.

“If it’s any consolation, I’m pretty sure everyone I love wishes I was gone, now.” Brendon mutters, his attention on his careful petting of Bogart’s ears.

Spencer studies Brendon, curiosity plain on his face. But instead of asking any questions, he sighs, shaking the hair from his eyes. “The King could demand your head for what you’ve done.” Spencer gestures at the rose Brendon had picked, now drooping forlornly on the forest floor where Brendon had dropped it to pick up Bogart.

“Could?” Brendon swallows audibly and squeezes Bogart a little too tightly, making the dog wriggle in his hold.

“Yes. There must be a payment made for the crime you have committed.” Spencer easily flicks the broadsword from one palm to the other as though it weighed nothing, before reaching around his own shoulder and housing it in the sheath there. Brendon blinks in amazement. “And, as I am the Guardian of the Faerie King’s Roses,” Spencer speaks his title with slow and deliberate formality, finishing with a courtly bow and extension of his gauntleted hand, “It is I who collects payment.”

Licking at his lips, Brendon says, in a voice that squeaks a little, “Payment? So, if not my, uh, my head...then what?”

Spencer strides purposefully towards Brendon, a small smile playing on his lips. “Well, I am fairly sure you didn’t intentionally defile the King’s roses, correct?” Brendon nods eagerly as Spencer gets closer and closer. “I am also certain that you did not seek out the location of the roses in an attempt to unlawfully enter Faerie, did you?” Just as eagerly, Brendon shakes his head back and forth. Reaching out a hand, Spencer strokes at Bogart’s scruff. “So, then, I feel the payment should fit the crime.”

“I don’t understand.” Brendon says dumbly as Bogart hops from his arms to jump and paw at Spencer.

When Spencer is finally as close to Brendon as he can be without touching, he says, “A kiss,” the words whispering across Brendon’s cheek.

Brendon can't breathe. How is that even a choice: his head on a plate for the Faerie King, or kiss Spencer?. He swallows and blinks and finally manages to take a breath. He's only recently admitted to himself that the reason he failed so spectacularly at the matchmakers' Harvest Ball is because their attempts at matches were not people, were not girls he felt he could be matched with. In a secret corner of his heart Brendon has always known he was destined to be a Bachelor. But, to admit as much out loud was to be destined to a life of ostracism and isolation.

In Summerlin, and the whole of the Republic, men who do not marry women; who have romantic relationships with other men, are denied the right to inherit, the right to own property, and the same is true of Spinsters—women who lie with women. They are tolerated, but never allowed to be full and true members of their communities.

He knows it goes against everything his family believes, but he cannot lie to himself. It is customary for first kisses to occur under the wedding banns, which Brendon will never see. While kissing Spencer can be seen by most as a way to survive his trespasses against the Faerie King, Brendon knows that he would also be acknowledging everything he's held inside for so very, very long. "Okay," the one word is barely more than an exhalation.

The little space between them disappears as Spencer lays a gentle hand at Brendon's jaw, tilting his face ever so slightly upwards. He presses his lips to Brendon's in a chaste, brief kiss. His lips are warm and soft and Brendon's arms come up to circle Spencer's waist, fingertips grasping at the velvet of Spencer's surcoat. Brendon opens his eyes, blinking, to see Spencer's face still so very close to his.

Spencer is smiling and he chuckles a little when Brendon groans—a small noise at the back of his throat. "Your debt has been paid." Spencer says softly. Brendon's brown eyes are dark with confusion and then he realises he is standing there, hugging Spencer to him.

Bogart yips happily, and Brendon, cheeks reddened and a sheepish expression on his face, finally draws away, and Spencer steps out of the circle of his arms. "I guess I better get back. You know, take the dog home and I'm sure there are some chores I was supposed to do and haven’t that my father can yell at me about." Brendon's shoulders shake as he giggles.

Spencer stoops to collect the discarded rose, "You are free to go," he says softly, placing the flower in Brendon's open hand and carefully closing his fingers around it.

"I…yeah. Right." Brendon nods and then whistles for Bogart who happily trots over, eager and waiting for Brendon. They start the long dark walk out of the Wild Wood, and Brendon finds that a sense of loss has replaced his earlier foreboding. "Spencer?" He calls over his shoulder and is shocked to see that the unearthly light that bathed both Spencer and the rose bush is even brighter than before and Spencer is, well, he's shimmering.

"Yes?" Spencer's voice sounds like it's coming from very far away, and not the few paces Brendon had walked.

Brendon’s eyes dart from where Bogart, a white shape in the gloom of the woods, is retreating back the way they’d come, and Spencer. “I...um...just, if this is a dream? Do you think I’ll remember it?”

He expects Spencer to laugh, but he looks thoughtful for a moment before he says, “If you want to. If it’s important to you, you will.” And then, he disappears. Brendon is startled by the suddenness of it and he stares at the spot by the roses where Spencer had just been until Bogart circles back to him, yipping his annoyance. Brendon sighs and shakes his head, setting off through the dark, pathless forest, the feel of Spencer’s lips still a cool tingle on his own.

* * *

“Oh! Oh my baby brother! There you are!” Brendon’s trot across the fallow field is brought to an abrupt halt when he finds himself with his arms full of his sister, Kyla. Tears are coursing down her cheeks and she locks her arms around his neck.

Brendon, once he regains the breath that Kyla knocked out of him, is confused. “Um...hey.” He hugs her back and tucks wayward strands of her pale blonde hair behind her ears. “You’d think I’ve been gone for a thousand years, not just a couple of hours.” He chuckles and manages to untangle himself from his sister’s hold.

“A couple of hours! Brendon you’ve been missing for two days!” She fidgets, smoothing the blue calico fabric of her dress over her hips. “Mother and Father have been beside themselves with worry.” She takes Brendon’s hand in hers as they walk towards the dooryard.

Tilting his head Brendon studies Kyla for a moment, her face so much like his, but her features fair where his are dark. She’s only a year older than Brendon but she’s been married for almost two years and has her first child on the way. “Two days? But I left at midday to fix the North Fence!” He blinks at her and then thinks to himself time moves differently in Faerie. Could being near someone from Fairie be enough to change time here?

Kyla affects a stern expression as she shoos the chickens away from the front door, “Brendon, don’t make up stories. You know how it irritates Father. He has no patience for such things. I’m sure if you apologize for causing them worry, that will be enough.”

Brendon wants to protest. He feels the need to defend himself and to explain that he is telling the truth. But he bites his tongue. It won’t matter. His parents have always seen what they want to see when it comes to him. “Okay.” He says instead, as Kyla opens the door to the croft house.

* * *

He can’t stop thinking about the roses in the Wild Wood. Actually, if Brendon’s being honest with himself he can’t stop thinking about Spencer. He finds himself, at the most random times, tracing the feel of Spencer’s lips against his own; absently tracing the fullness of his bottom lip and smiling stupidly at the memory. His behaviour doesn’t do much to discount his mother’s theory that he had been set upon by hooligans and had been hit on the head and rendered unconscious as an explanation for his days long absence.

His father doesn’t really question Brendon any further beyond his initial explanation of him “losing track of time and falling asleep in a barn down in the valley”, or question how that resulted in the loss of two days time, but, he puts Brendon to work, harder than ever, and under constant supervision, leaving him precious little time for daydreaming. He mucks stalls as his father cleans and repairs tack. His brothers watch as he repairs the fence between the family croft and their own.

And, up on the drumlin where Brendon does his very best to usher the sheep homeward, his companion is the shepherd Boyd Urie had hired away from a neighbouring croft farm when it became clear that Brendon is more suited to sing lullabies to the spring lambs than have the flock pay him the slightest attention. Ian is sitting beside Brendon watching out over the hills as the pasture slopes away to the north and the green-gold of Summerlin is swallowed by the darkness of the Wild Wood.

“What, so you’re telling me you spent two days, in there?” Ian glances timorously away from the woods, to Brendon, and back again.

Brendon chuckles nervously. It’s been almost a week since his encounter with Spencer, and while he’s done his best not to speak the details aloud to anyone, he is only human and he does enjoy a good tale; telling or hearing. Ian makes a great audience, his eyes go wide and owlish behind the ridiculously thick lenses of his spectacles at just the right moments in Brendon’s story. “Well, it didn’t seem like two days, to me anyway,” Brendon answers in his own defence. It had only seemed like an hour or so, not nearly enough time at all, judging from the ache in his chest whenever he thinks about it--whenever he thinks about Spencer.
Which is to say, almost constantly.

“So, are faeries real?” Ian asks in awe.

“Spencer said they are.” Brendon laughs, shoulders hitching up and down. He calls out to Bogart, who is weaving back and forth underneath the shaggy legs of Ian’s sheep dog, distracting him from his job.

Ian claps a friendly hand at Brendon’s shoulder. “You should go back and find out! Brendon, you’re amazing. No one goes into the Wild Wood. No one. Ever. But you weren’t even afraid, you just walked right in and found...magic!” Ian stands, wiping bits of dried grass from the seat of rough spun britches and adjusting his cap over his eyes in deference to the low, but bright sunshine. He grabs his crook from where he’d set it down in the grass, and heads after the sheep--while Nell the sheep dog barks, trying to keep the flock out of the gully.

After watching Ian scamper around, blocking the path of the head ewe, Brendon gets up and joins him. “I’m not even sure I could find the same spot again,” he says truthfully, and a little forlorn.

“Well,” Ian answers, leaning on his staff and smiling, “If you never try, I guess you never will find it, huh?” He snickers and shoves his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

Brendon opens his mouth to protest, and then closes it again. “You know, you’re right!” he finally says. “Make sure Bogart doesn’t follow me, okay?” He gives the little dog a pat on the head and says, “Be good for Uncle Ian, Boges.” and then starts to trot down the hill, in the direction of the Wild Wood.

“Huh? What?” Ian’s expression dances between confusion and surprise. “I didn’t mean now!” Ian starts to follow after Brendon and then stops abruptly. “Wait! What am I supposed to tell your dad?”

Giggling, Brendon raises his arms, palms up, in a comical shrug, “You’re a canty wee lad, I’m sure you’ll think of something!”

“Kiss a faerie for me!” Ian waves, laughing.

Brendon’s happy loping slows as he traces the line of the North Pasture fence. He wishes he had paid more attention to where the hole in the fence had been. When his father had complained of his unwillingness to fix it, Brendon had known exactly where to find it, but now that it had been repaired in the business since his adventure, Brendon was not so sure he could find it again. He sighs and puts his hands on his hips. He narrows eyes, following the endless line of metal and spruce spread out as far as the eye can see. “Well,” he muses, “on this side of the fence, I’ll never see Spencer again.” He takes a deep breath and boosts himself over to the Wild Wood side of the fence, careful not to snag his trousers this time.

Immediately upon crossing the tree line, Brendon regrets not having a plan, or, having given this foray any kind of forethought at all, really. He could use a map, a warmer sweater and a lantern. In the shadows that spread like a stain beneath the trees, Brendon finds it impossible to tell if he is retracing his steps. He stumbles blindly forward, thinking maybe he should have brought Bogart with him after all. He misses his cheerful doggy smile and the dog is an excellent tracker and could have led them back to the roses--and Spencer.

With hope in his heart and a vague notion of which direction he needed to travel, Brendon swallows down his fear at the dark and silent Wild Wood and carries on as best he can. He stumbles and trips and he’s uncomfortably warm from his exertion, and a thin trail of sweat is tracking down his spine. It feels like he’s been at this for hours, yet for all Brendon can tell he’s been going around in circles. Brendon stops his aimless pacing and clenches his fists in frustration.
Brendon can’t even turn back to go home, because he’s not sure exactly which direction will lead him home. He bites his lip and sighs and decides to continue on forward. The toe of his boot catches on a log or a tree root. At least he hopes it’s something so easily explained. He has no time to catch himself, and hits the hard packed dirt with a grunt. He is so disheartened tears prick his eyelids and he thinks maybe he’ll just stay down there on the ground, feeling sorry for himself for a while.

“I just want to see Spencer again,” he whispers, wiping the dirt and leaves from his hands and knees. As he struggles to his feet, favouring his left side where he seems to have twisted his ankle when he fell, Brendon squints. He’s not sure if it’s wishful thinking or what now, but he thinks he sees the shadows around him fading to grey up in the near distance. He sniffles and wipes the crook of his elbow across his dirty face. He quickens his step, ignoring the dull ache throbbing up his leg, eager to investigate the light ahead.

Brendon cannot contain the wide grin that splits his face. It wasn’t wishful thinking. The rose hedge, vines twisting and flashing a brilliant green in the otherworldly glow they cast, looms up ahead. The sight and scent beckon him forward and Brendon reaches out without hesitation to stroke the fragile pink petals of one bloom. “Spencer,” he whispers again. If forced to, Brendon would be unable to explain how seeing Spencer again, when they’d met so briefly, had become so important to him. He rubs the pad of his thumb across his bottom lip and then using the hand that is cupping the rose, gives a tug and the rose comes free into his palm.

“Those are the King’s....oh, Brendon!” Brendon watches, delighted as Spencer’s stern, serious Guardian of the Roses expression morphs into one that perfectly mirrors his own. “I had not thought to see you again.”

Brendon smiles and steps closer to Spencer, “I’ve thought of nothing else but seeing you again.” He answers honestly. His cheeks redden in embarrassment and he ducks his head, shy at his own sudden declaration.

Spencer reaches out and rests his gloved hand on Brendon’s shoulder. “Your people have done a good job preventing anyone wandering into the Wild Wood. I do not get many visitors.”

Brendon tilts his head and studies Spencer. He is bathed in--or emitting--the same soft warm light as the flowers. He’s wearing the same thing he was when last Brendon saw him; soft brown velvet doublet and surcoat, and armour of a metal the likes of which Brendon had never seen. Brendon couldn’t look away from Spencer’s beautiful face. “No? It’s such a friendly, welcoming place!”

The laugh startled out of Spencer is full and rich, and makes Brendon laugh too. “Brendon, no one has ever come this far into the heart of the Wild Wood.”

“Never? But, it’s your job to guard them. That must be lonely.” Brendon leans into Spencer's touch and lays his arm across Spencer’s shoulder in a tentative attempt at a hug.

“Well,” Spencer swallows and smiles but doesn’t pull away from Brendon’s touch, “There are other things to do in Pete’s kingdom.” He’s joking, Brendon thinks. But he can see something else in Spencer’s careful glance, a sadness that keeps his bright smile from reaching his eyes.

Brendon tucks the plucked bloom into a buttonhole in Spencer’s surcoat, and they both laugh rather stupidly. “Pete?”

“It is the...familiar name of the King of the Seelie Lands.” Spencer covers quickly, realizing he’s given away more than he meant to.

“But he’s not your king?” Brendon slips his hand into Spencer’s and squeezes.

Before he answers, Spencer inclines his head, indicating that he would like Brendon to walk with him. Brendon, careful but curious, nods and they start a slow circuit around the wide expanse of the rose bush. “I owe him my life,” Spencer says simply, “but I am of the human world. It is my greatest wish to one day return to the life I had.” He focuses his attention on Brendon’s hand in his, and twines their fingers together. “But perhaps that is only a dream, as you have said, so much time has passed...”

The wistful tone in Spencer’s voice makes Brendon’s stomach clench. “Why can’t you come back to the human world?”

“I am indebted to the King.” Spencer holds a branch out of the way and directs Brendon past it with a hand to his back. “It is for him to decide when my debt is paid,” he shrugs.

Brow creased in frustration, Brendon flings himself down at the roots of a large tree and pats the ground beside him, “So what is this debt? How did you come to live in the Faerie world?”

“I was Fianna. I know to you that means little beyond adventure stories for bairns, but be sure, when I was of the Summer Lands they were a force to be reckoned with.” Spencer carefully unclips his surcoat and lays it on the ground before taking a seat beside Brendon, more gracefully than anyone wearing that much armour and a broadsword hung across his back has a right to. “My father was a Smith on a wealthy lord’s land hold. I was the only son and expected to learn his trade. But, where my father made horseshoes and waggon tack, I wanted to make armour. I studied hard and got good at it. The local Fian got word of my skill and enlisted me. As I had no land to inherit, it seemed a good choice.”

Brendon runs a finger slowly along the articulated joint of the greaves covering Spencer’s lower leg, “Did you make this?”

“Yes.” Spencer answers simply but with pride behind the word. “My sword as well. Fionn mac Cumhaill himself showed me how to be a soldier, a swordsman.”

“Okay,” Brendon says, helping Spencer remove his gauntlets and set them down by the roots of the tree. “But, I still don’t get what that has to do with you being taken to Faerie.”

Spencer picks up Brendon’s hands and once more twines their fingers together. “I think, in my time in the human world, the veil between worlds was...thinner.” He wrinkles up his nose and scratches it, carefully choosing his words. “The Fianna, we kept the Summer Lands safe for all people. All beings. But the Seelie, they have...different ideas about justice. There was a battle. I was struck by a blow from an Ogre's blade and unhorsed. I surely would have died had it not been for the King's mercy. He took me back to his lands and nursed me to health." Spencer shifts beside Brendon, uncomfortable at the memory.

Scowling, Brendon replies, "So he took you away from everything you'd known and…just kept you there?"

Spencer is lost in thought for a moment, using his fingernail to trace along the golden trim of his surcoat. "No kindness comes without a price, Brendon. I proved my usefulness and Pete has not yet found anything I could give him that would be equal to my debt."

Brendon stills the nervous movement of Spencer's hand. "You believe that? You don't think kindness can just be…just because?"

"Perhaps," Spencer's smile is small and tight. "But, that has not been my experience." He sighs and shakes his head, the shaggy brown strands of his hair falling into his eyes. "So, for now I guard the roses, as bidden."

Unable to disguise his shock, Brendon says, "For one thousand years? Spencer! Surely if he meant to the King would have taken something you have done as payment? He saved your life so he could keep you. The rich love their pretty things." Brendon finishes in a mutter, slumping back against the solid weight of the tree trunk.

"You think me pretty?" Spencer laughs and squeezes Brendon's hand.

Looking at their entwined fingers, Brendon is a little disappointed to note that the luminescence of Spencer's skin is not contagious. "Yes," Brendon blushes. "Well…no. You're…beautiful, actually." If the mid afternoon sun dared shine in the Wild Wood, Brendon's entire face would have burned as brightly. He was glad of the gloom, for once. He ignores Spencer's pleased laughter and carries on. "That's not the point I'm trying to make. It's wrong of the King to keep you so long. There must be a way back from the Seelie Lands, don't you think? Why don't you fight to find out?"

Spencer makes a frustrated noise at the back of his throat and untangles his hand from Brendon's to scratch at his beard. "At first, I tried. But, there was no way out, and each time I tried to return to the human world, the King promised I would be kept in Faerie all the longer. But, it does not seem as though one thousand years or more has passed since I came to be of the King's court. Remember, time moves differently between the veils."

Brendon quickly snatches back Spencer's hand, petting it before once more threading their fingers together. "It must be awful for you. All this time, guarding the roses…from nothing."

"It is not as bad as all that, aye? I have made friends, comrades. There is always a need for a standing army in the Seelie Lands. And a need for weapons and armour." Spencer shifts when Brendon leans his head against his shoulder. "I have found my place, for now."

“I wish I could find my place,” Brendon sighs softly.

Curious, Spencer cranes his neck to look down at Brendon and try and read the expression on his face. “Your place is with your family, is it not? Heart, hearth, home?”

The moment Spencer’s words leave his mouth, Brendon snorts and rolls his eyes. “You have no idea. I’m the youngest of five and my other brothers are successful at everything they touch and seem to have known their lot in life from birth--Matt is a crofter like my father, and Mason is a captain in the cavalry. My sisters are both married and happy with families of their own. I think, in the moments my parents aren’t lamenting my lack of initiative, they forget I exist.” He bites his lip and makes a fussy, unimpressed face.

Spencer brings a finger under Brendon’s chin to tilt his face up. “I sincerely doubt that anyone could forget you exist, Bòidheach.” He smiles and smooths Brendon’s hair across his forehead.

“Bòidheach? You speak the Old Words?” Brendon nuzzles into Spencer’s touch. “Only some of the grannies down in the village know what any of the words mean, nowadays.”

“Aye, well, to me they are none so old.” They both laugh at that.

Brendon sits up and wipes his palms on his trousers before taking Spencer’s hand again. “True. But I do know some songs that use the Old Words. I have no idea what they mean, but it quiets the lambs at night when they’re frightened.”

“You sing?” Spencer’s eyes are bright with interest.

“Well,” Brendon wipes deprecatingly at his nose. “I like music, you see. And singing has always come naturally to me. Sometimes I give lessons to the children in Summerlin, and lead the choir at Sunday meetings.”

Spencer swallows and his brow creases, “Would you...would you sing? For me?”

“Now?” Brendon’s cheeks redden with embarrassment again.

“Yes. Please?” Spencer’s eyes are so clear and so blue and so filled yet again with a yearning that makes Brendon’s heart ache inside his rib cage. “It's been so long. I played drums as a child and my father would hum a melody as he worked the forge.”

Brendon blows out a breath and nods, never one to give up an opportunity to put on a show. “Yes, of course.” He swallows and stands up, hands clasps demurely in front of him. “I might mispronounce some of the words, and I apologize for that, but this is how I learned it.” He takes a deep breath, then opens his mouth and begins to sing:
Is dearg an rós a fhásann sa ghairdín úd
Is geal bán lile na ngleanntán
Is fíorghlan an t-uisce a shrúthann sa Bhóinn
Ach is áille mo shearc-rún ná éinne.

Tar anall thar na cnoic, a spéirbhean álainn ó
Tar anall thar na cnoic chugam a ghrá gheal
Roghnaigh tusa'n rós agus tabharfaidh mis'n mhóid
Is beidh mise mar bhuanghrá duit i gcónaí.

Ba thíos na coillte glasa i gCill Airne a d'éalaíomar
Agus an ghealach is na réaltaí go soiléir ar an aer
Ba anuas ar a h-órfholt loinnir na géalaí
Agus gheall sí í féin mar chéile domh i gcónaí.

For the longest moment, Spencer says nothing. He just stares up at Brendon, blue eyes shining bright. “Thank you,” he finally manages and his voice sounds husky and low to Brendon’s ears.

“Did I do okay? “ Brendon takes Spencer’s offered hand and sits down beside him again, back resting against the wide expanse of tree trunk. Spencer gives him a wan smile and nods. “Don’t you have songs in the Seelie Lands?”

“Yes, but music and song are different in Faerie, as are most things. No one sings just for the joy of it. Music is the call to battle, songs are to weave spells, or speak of the glories of the King. ”

“That’s sad,” Brendon links his arm through Spencer’s and leans his head on his shoulder.

Spencer inclines his head, tilting it to rest against Brendon’s, “Thank you for that. It was beautiful. You truly do not know the words you sing?”

“Nope, just that it makes the flock happy. I’m not singing a bunch of curse words, am I?” Brendon snickers.

Looking at the flower drooping a little from where Brendon had secured it in his doublet, Spencer reaches up to touch it softly and says, “Not in the least. It is a love ballad, and compares the beauty and fragility of love to a rose.”

“Oh!” Brendon raises his hands to his mouth and giggles. “Well, that fits, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” Spencer takes the rose and twirls it softly against Brendon’s cheek.

Wriggling against the tickle of the pink bloom, Brendon laughs and clasps his hands around Spencer’s wrists. “So, are you going to collect your payment for my transgression?”

Visibly confused, Spencer looks from Brendon’s grinning face to the rose in his hand. “Transgression?”

“Well, you are the Guardian of the Roses, right? And last time I was here you seemed pretty serious about me paying the price for picking a rose...” Brendon prompts.

Spencer clears his throat and his cheeks turn a delicate pink, “Oh yes, of course. The price for stealing the King’s roses is...”

“A kiss” Brendon says coyly, fluttering his eyelashes. He deftly plucks the rose from Spencer’s loose grip and smiles bright, leaning in close. “Unless of course you think that as a repeat offender, the King deserves to see my head roll.”

Pressing his forehead to Brendon’s, in a low voice Spencer says, “No, a kiss will do. I feel I could become very fond of your...head, Bòidheach.”

“Bòidheach?” Brendon asks quietly. “You keep calling me that. What does it mean?”

“It means...friend.” Spencer finally answers after a long pause. His smile widens, revealing his white, even teeth.

“Friend. I like it...now about that kiss...” Brendon waggles his eyebrows and presses his lips to Spencer. Unlike their first kiss, so chaste and tentative, the moment Spencer tilts his head for a better angle, Brendon groans. That’s all the encouragement Spencer needs to press his tongue to the seam of Brendon’s lips.

Brendon opens his mouth and deepens the kiss, allowing Spencer to slide his tongue across his already slick bottom lip, and then into his mouth. Brendon’s eyes flutter closed at Spencer’s gentle but insistent exploration of his mouth. With a contented sigh Brendon wraps his arms around Spencer’s neck, and smiles as Spencer makes a satisfied grunting noise, pulling Brendon to him by his hips. Brendon pets at Spencer’s cheeks and peppers his face and neck with enthusiastic, sloppy kisses that make Spencer bark out a laugh. Silencing him by once more pressing a teasing kiss to his lips, they explore each others’ mouths for long, quiet moments.

When they finally break apart, chests heaving and faces red, Brendon leans into Spencer, resting his head on the solid warmth of Spencer’s shoulder. “Bòidheach,” Brendon sighs happily, and thinks that Spencer’s smile has never been more beautiful.

* * *

The spring in Brendon’s step doesn’t fade until he crests the hill that leads to his family’s croft and sees the familiar plume of smoke billowing from the hearth fire’s chimney. He slows to a careful walk, laughing as Bogart bounds happily toward him, and wonders exactly how much time has passed since he left Ian minding the flock in the North Pasture. He knows that he spent far more time with Spencer than he had the first time he’s ventured into the Wild Wood. He sighs and turns the latch.

“There he is!” Brendon’s mother exclaims and claps her hands merrily, rushing to the door and gathering Brendon into a hug.

“Uh, yes. Here I am.” Brendon giggles nervously and his eyes dart around the room. The table has been set for evening meal and his father sits at the head of the large wake table, scowling at the interruption. Handing his mother the large rose he’s held carefully in between his fingers on the long walk back from the Wild Wood, Brendon shrugs off his sweater and steps into the room.

Resting her hands lightly at the crook of Brendon’s elbow, Grace guides him over to the table, beaming as she says, “Ian told us you had gone off to Henderson, and we thought perhaps we might never see you again.”

“Henderson?” Brendon picks up a cup and takes a deep draught of the cold well water in it.

“You know Brendon, there are rules about courting. I suppose your mother and I have perhaps indulged your...odder inclinations, but I...we feel very strongly that we should meet this young woman’s parents.”

Shocked, Brendon covers the fact with a sputtering cough, “Oh, well...I...”

“Yes! Ian told us you’ve met a lovely girl from Henderson--that her mother hired you for pianoforte lessons!” Brendon’s mother’s eyes dance with delight and he can almost hear the wedding checklist ticking through her brain.

“I...yes. Henderson, I was in Henderson.” Brendon scowls and cuts viciously at the chop his mother sets on the plate in front of him.

Taking her seat beside him, Grace says, “Three days is quite a long time to be away, my dear. I certainly hope you were chaperoned. And we know nothing of this girl’s people.”

Blushing at the memory of kissing Spencer up against the dark trees in the Wild Wood, Brendon nods and says, “Of course, Mother. I would never think of attempting to spend time with an unescorted young lady. I apologize for not being more forthcoming...”

His father interrupts, “Please tell me she is of the Faith, Brendon.”

“Yes, Father.” Brendon busies himself with buttering his green beans and steadfastly does not meet his father’s eyes.

Passing a bowl of what Brendon thinks might be mashed parsnips, Grace says, “Boyd, we simply must meet this lovely family.”

“Yes, Brendon. We must.”

“Right.” Brendon scowls at his plate. No longer hungry, he slips pieces of meat to Bogart under the table and silently curses Ian and his stupid story.

* * *

Brendon manages to avoid having to plan a meeting of his family with the non-existent family of the fictional Henderson girl he’s courting because of the unexpected but welcome surge in requests for his services as a music teacher and luthier. Summerlin is a vast tract of land that stretches between mountains, lake, great meadows, and of course the darkness of the Wild Wood in the north. It is not unusual for Brendon to be gone before sunrise and back after moonrise. The work is challenging and rewarding and Brendon loves it enough to wish his parents could see it as an honourable trade.

A week goes by before Brendon can wait no longer and, on his way back from a particularly rewarding series of lessons in The Meadows, makes a beeline for the Wild Wood. This time he has the aid of a lantern to light his way. His feet have no difficulty at all in remembering the path to the rose bush. He stops for a moment to breathe deeply, inhaling the intoxicating scent the flowers emit. Exhaling slowly, Brendon extends a careful hand, his fingertips barely brushing a dinner plate sized bloom.

“I was hoping you would come back,” Spencer’s voice is soft behind Brendon, but it still startles him.

“Oh! I didn’t even have to pick a flower this time.” Brendon smiles and turns to Spencer.

Spencer lays a hand at Brendon’s waist, “Magic grows stronger, over time.”

“Do the flowers know what we’re doing?” Brendon whispers and waves a hand in front of the biggest blooms on the bush.

Laughing, full and bright and so beautiful Brendon can’t look away, Spencer gently tugs him from the massive tangle of rose brambles. “Something like that...” he brushes a kiss to Brendon’s temple.

It’s the cue Brendon’s been waiting for, and he slips his arms around Spencer’s neck, kissing him enthusiastically. When they break apart, Brendon’s hand resting lightly on Spencer’s chest, feeling the gentle thump of his heartbeat, he says, “You look...different.” He smiles and gives a small tug on the rough cotton of the shirt Spencer is wearing.

Spencer gazes down his body, and raises an eyebrow, “Well, I was preparing for my night’s rest.”

“Ah!” Brendon takes in Spencer’s loose shirt and tight breeches with an appreciative glance, “So no armour.”

“As a general rule I try not to abed with it, Bòidheach.” He smirks and tucks the tiny, yet lethal looking dagger he’d been brandishing into the waistband of his breeches.

Brendon laughs and hugs Spencer to him again, “Of course you don’t. Silly me. I’m not well versed in...knightly ways.” He likes that he can make Spencer smile, loose and easy without the shadows that plagued the gentle blue of his glance when first they’d met.

Rolling his eyes, Spencer returns Brendon’s hug and says, so close to Brendon’s ear that his voice is little more than a breath, “I would very much like to show you something. Will you come with me?”

“To the Seelie Lands?” Brendon untangles himself from Spencer and is staring at him, eyes wide with trepidation.

Spencer’s shoulders slump and he says, “No, no mo chroí. I cannot bring anyone to Faerie. Only the King can do that.” He cocks his head and gives Brendon a sleepy smile. “But I think it is something you would like. It is not far,” Spencer extends a hand in front of him, indicating the darkness of the Wild Wood beyond the pool of light that bathes the roses.

“Oh, of course, I know that. It’s in all the stories they tell the children.” His shoulders shake as he laughs at himself. “You’re allowed to leave the roses unattended?” Brendon shoves his hands into his pockets and rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet.

Raising an eyebrow Spencer replies, “Well, I don’t know if it’s a matter of allowed, but sometimes, given the right circumstances, I am permitted to wander a little, yes.”

part 2

bandombigbang2012 Red is the Rose, Brendon/Spencer, R

cloudlessclimes — Sat, 08 Sep 2012 20:53:14 GMT

morganya has made the most perfect mix. The folky vibe is amazing. Seriously every song fits the tempo and tone of the fic I wrote and I am so thrilled. You seriously need to download it or stream it and listen along while you read because it makes it so much better. Stand out tracks for me are A Kinder Columbus, Dust Bowl Dance and of course there is the nervous break down I had when I realized that If I Die Young is actually the most perfect song for the fic, and exactly captures everything I was trying to say.

Thank you morganya I feel so blessed and lucky to be the recipient of such an amazing mix.

If you listen please go tell morganya how fantastic she is.
Tracklisting:
1. Anais Mitchell - He Did
2. Nick Drake - Black Eyed Dog
3. The Weepies - Red Red Rose
4. The Band - Out of the Blue
5. Ani Difranco - Shy
6. Kat Flint - Christopher, You're A Soldier
7. Deb Talan - A Kinder Columbus
8. Drive-By Truckers - Too Much Sex (Too Little Jesus)
9. The Band Perry - If I Die Young
10. Bob Dylan - Simple Twist of Fate
11. Mumford & Sons - Dust Bowl Dance
12. Shawn Colvin - Diamond In The Rough

Beach Music 8.5 Brendon/Gerard NC17

cloudlessclimes — Fri, 17 Feb 2012 02:26:32 GMT

Title: Beach Music
Author: cloudlessclimes
Rated: NC-17
Pairing:Brendon Urie/Gerard Way
Disclaimer: This is purely a product of my diseased mind and has no bearing on reality what so ever, I own no one, I know no one.
Summary: Oh God. Ages ago I started writing Beach Music, the summary of which is: Brendon Urie is and has always been a girl. She meets Gerard Way. Things happen. And, well, I haven't abandoned it, exactly. Life, it gets in the way sometimes, you know? So, I seem to be feeling it again. I really want to finish this. I really, do.

One Two-A Two-B Three-A Three-B Four Five-A Five-B Six-A Six-B Seven-A Seven-B Eight-A Eight-B Eight-C Extra 1-The Sun Always Shines on TV Extra 2-It's Oh So Quiet

“I'm sorry Rob Mathes, could you please say that again? I don't think Ryan heard you!” Brendon's smile is exaggerated and wide as she pointedly thumps her arm across Ryan's shoulders.

The producer stops stuffing papers into his messenger bag and tugs at the collar of his polo shirt, “Oh, uh well, I know I'm not producing a tour for you gents, and lady,” he nods deferentially towards Brendon, “But I just think that what you've got here is so organic, so pure, I think you should just, you know, be yourselves on stage and do away with all the fancy costumes and such.” Rob smiles at Ryan and winks at Brendon when he sees Jon and Spencer nod in agreement.

Hitching his shoulders to knock Brendon's arm free, Ryan sighs and says, “Okay, okay. You were right and I was wrong. No vaudeville thing now, you happy Bear?”

“Delirious!” Brendon smacks a kiss to Ryan's cheek and then crosses the small distance across the studio to hug Rob. “My hero!” She sighs melodramatically.

Rob laughs and gives Brendon's waist a brief squeeze. He tucks wayward papers under his arm and then, saluting with two fingers raised to his brow says, “Okay troops, we'll rally again in the morning,” and then heads out the door.

“And on that note; Del Taco!” Jon waggles his eyebrows at Ryan who gets to his feet.

Scratching nervously at her nose and clearing her throat, Brendon asks, “Um, hey guys do you think we could have like a little band meeting for a sec?” Jon and Ryan turn back from the doorway and Spencer walks out from behind his drum kit, a concerned expression on his face.

Ryan leans against the wall by the sound board, shoulders hunched. “Do we really need to work out tour shit now?”

“Nonono, not about the tour!” Brendon shakes her head back and forth and kicks at the leg of her chair. “I just, um, Jon lives in Chicago, right?” wide eyed and nervous, her glance twitches between Jon and Spencer.

Jon snorts and says, “Okay, so we have to have a super important band meeting to establish that I live in Chicago?”

“No kidding, Bren.” Ryan scowls at her and crosses his arms over his chest, sighing.

But Spencer just studies Brendon's face, taking in the nervous way she's brushing her fingertips through her hair and chewing on her lip, “Yeah, Jon lives in Chicago...and?”

Smiling at Spencer, who's standing beside her, Brendon exhales loudly and says, “And, well...I guess he lives in Chicago and it's no big deal, you know? I mean it doesn't affect us, the band, at all.” Brendon swallows and pulls the cuffs of her hoodie over her hands to prevent her twitching.

“Thanks for setting the record straight,” Jon chuckles and tugs at the scraggly growth of his beard.

Spencer snaps, “Would you just let her finish? Jesus!” and scowls at Jon and Ryan.

“So, I was thinking,” Brendon takes a deep breath and smiles up at Spencer, squeezing his forearm in thanks, “That if, like, I didn't live in Vegas it wouldn't be that big a deal. Right?”

“Not live in Vegas?” Spencer's voice is louder than he means it to be, and he feels bad when he sees Brendon's shoulders tense. “Where do you wanna live?”

Rubbing her hoodie sheathed hands over the bare skin above her knees, Brendon shrugs and mumbles, “I dunno, I was thinking maybe New York? Somewhere on the East Coast.”

Ryan lets out a sharp, mean laugh, “Ooh. Okay. I get it now. This is about Gerard Way, isn't it?”

Brendon looks up at Spencer for a second, before she turns to Ryan and says, “Um, not really...” and she won't meet his eyes.

“Oh yeah. This is totally like the time you were in love with Tom so you were gonna move to Chicago to be with him. Or after we got signed and you were in love with being a rock star so you were gonna move to L.A. because that's where are the rock stars are.” The inflection in Ryan's voice never changes but he rolls his eyes. “C'mon,” he punches Jon in the shoulder and turns to leave the room, “in a month she'll be in love with pandas or some shit and want to move to fuckin' China.” Jon laughs and the two of them head out the door.

Breathing in and out and staring at her hands, clasped loosely in her lap, in a quiet voice Brendon finally says, “He always does that—treats me like I'm some kind of fuckin' stupid little girl.”

Spencer pulls up a chair beside Brendon and slides an arm around her slim shoulders, hugging her to his side. “In case you haven't noticed, our best friend can be kind of a misogynist dickhead sometimes. I thought maybe Keltie had high kicked it out of him by now, but...” Spencer sighs and presses a firm kiss to Brendon's temple.

Brendon's laugh is forced and sad, “Yeah.” She leans into Spencer and sighs again.

“Haley moved to Vegas the day after she graduated high school,” Spencer says into the quiet of the room.

“Huh?”

“I mean,” Spencer licks his lips and takes Brendon's hand in his, “She was eighteen years old and moved across the country, away from her family and friends, and didn't really give a shit what anyone said, and she did it for me. To be with me. So,” he shrugs awkwardly and swipes at his nose with his free hand, “she kind of knows what it's like. I'm just saying, you know, to move away to be with someone, because you love him. If you want to talk to her...”

Brendon squeezes Spencer's hand. “You're the best, you know that?”

His grin softening, Spencer smiles wide and blinding and laughs, “Nah, I just know that there's a way to be happy that doesn't involve being in a band, no matter what Stockholm Syndrome bullshit Ryan Ross tries to pull on you.”

“C'mon,” Brendon laughs and tugs Spencer to his feet, “Jon and Ryan are probably trying to remember where they parked their cars.”

* * *
Gerard smiles and exhales, cigarette smoke rising towards the hotel room ceiling as he leans back against the mound of pillows, “Hey!”

“Hey yourself,” Brendon smiles back before fussing with her computer, her image going momentarily blurry in the iChat window.

“Nice shirt,” the smirk in Gerard's voice would be noticeable, even if Brendon couldn't see him.

Preening exaggeratedly and tugging at the frayed collar of Gerard's old dress shirt, Brendon returns his smirk with one of her own and says, “Thanks. I stole it from this hot rock star I know.”

She blows him a kiss and Gerard laughs, “Oh yeah, that reminds me,” he tilts over the side of the bed and yeah, so maybe Brendon ogles his ass a little, “Look what I found!” He makes a little tah-dah motion and the holds a stuffed cat, comically waving one of it's paws towards his laptop.

“Gee Cat!” Brendon's eyes widen and she holds her arms out towards Gerard, “I was looking all over for him!”

“Come and get'im.” Gerard leers exaggeratedly and Brendon laughs again, narrowly managing to stifle an enormous yawn. “How you doin' honey? You look tired.”

Managing a small, wan smile Brendon answers, “Yeah, I'm always tired. The boys probably think I have like, sudden onset narcolepsy or some shit. But, goes with the territory I guess...” Brendon's voice trails off and she shrugs her shoulders dismissively.

“So...you went to the doctor?”

“Oh! Yeah! Yeah, the clinic sent me to a really nice lady, who does not know my mother. We have a schedule for appointments and stuff,” Brendon stops winding her fingers through her hair to pick up her giant handbag and start digging through it. Taking out a large envelope, Brendon slides out the contents and says, “Hey! Can you see this?” when she holds it up to her web cam.

Squinting, Gerard follows the movement of the page in his iChat screen, then, eyes going comically wide as he realizes what he's looking at, he manages to mumble, “Uh, yeah...is that...?”

“Yeah! Baby's first sonogram,” Brendon sets the printout in her lap and wrinkles up her nose, smiling. “Apparently that black blob in the corner is the kid. I'm eight weeks and four days. I can send you a copy if you want?”

Gerard's swallows a few times, willing his voice to work and blinking away the tears that have gathered in his eyes. Holy shit! That's a baby! “That would be fuckin' awesome,” he manages to rasp, hand reaching out towards his computer.

“I'm not a slut,” Brendon blurts suddenly, causing Gerard's head to snap up.

“Honey, what? Of course you're not...I never...what?” he shakes his head in confusion, watching as Brendon crosses her arms over her chest, scowling.

Biting her lip and spending too long fitting the sonogram back into its envelope, Brendon finally says, “Back in Jersey, when I found out...when I told you...it might not be yours...”

“And I said I didn't care! Because I don't,” Gerard interrupts, nodding and trying his best to keep anger out of his voice.

Brendon sighs and tucks her hair behind her ears, “But I do,” she says softly, fidgeting with the hem of her skirt. “I know what people say about me, Gerard. But, like, it's not like I fuck every guy I meet, you know?”

“Brendon...” Gerard stops short when Brendon holds up a warning hand.

“I have a couple of...friends...guys...we like to have a good time, you know? I trust them. And when I met you, I didn't know it would be a, a thing, and after we met in Chicago...I fucked other people,” her face scrunches up and she exhales loudly, but she keeps talking, “but not since you came to Vegas, I promise. I'm not a slut,” she finishes, her chin jutted up in defiance.

Gerard feels like something sharp has broken off inside him and is ping-ponging around his ribcage. With her eyes narrowed and her arms crossed, Brendon looks even younger than she is, and her tacked on promise is such a little kid thing to say, Gerard isn't sure how to answer her for a second, then he smiles. “Hey now, Queen Bee, what you did before we decided we were...us...it's kind of none of my fucking business. And um, okay so I took dummy math and got the fuck outta high school, but off the top of my head? Our gig in Vegas, when I came to see you? Was eleven weeks ago and if you haven't been with anyone since then...”

He watches Brendon, her scowl softening, “I'm eight weeks...and that was eleven weeks ago so..it's...”

“Ours,” Gerard can't stop the ridiculous grin that threatens to engulf his entire face.

“I like that kind of math,” Brendon smiles in relief. “I really wanted it to be yours, Gerard.”

“Me too,” he admits, hiding his grin behind a swipe of his hand. “So, any idea when I get to see you again?” There's a flurry of noise somewhere to Gerard's right and he turns, saying “Yeah yeah, I'll be right there,” before he turns back to his laptop.

Brendon shrugs her shoulders up to her ears, “I'm not sure, I have a bunch of stuff I need to do here first, but soon, I think.” She chews on her bottom lip for a second, “Gerard? Can you maybe not tell anyone yet? Kara was eight weeks and she told everybody and then, well, she wasn't pregnant anymore and I don't want...”

“Of course, Bren. Whatever you want. We'll tell people together okay? It's gonna be alright.” He nods and smiles at Brendon, who's leaned in close to her web cam. There's more noise behind Gerard and he rolls his eyes, making Brendon laugh, “So, I gotta go, but I'll talk to you tomorrow soon, okay?”

“Okay. Same Bat Time same Bat Station?”

“You got it!” Gerard smiles as Brendon winks and blows him a kiss before he closes his laptop and heads out to deal with whatever it is Brian wants now.

***
“Dude!” Gerard jumps at Matt’s exclamation and quickly clicks on another open tab. “Your girl has one of the tightest bodies I’ve ever seen in my life and you’re, like, checking out old man porn? Wait! Is that Maggie Gyllenhaal?” Cortez leans over Gerard’s shoulder and peers at the computer screen.

Caught and embarrassed Gerard sighs, “Yes, that’s Maggie Gyllenhaal. And no, it’s not old man porn. And, why the fuck are you telling me that you think about Brendon’s body?”

Cortez snickers and whacks Gerard’s shoulder, “Man, you’re looking at ladies in their panties with like, naked boobies and shit. That’s totally old man porn. What’s next? You gonna stash your Dad’s National Geographics under your mattress?”

Gerard snaps the laptop closed and glares at Cortez, “For your fucking information, this website? Is for that fancy underwear Bren loves, okay you perv? I’m buying her a present, asshole,” he huffs, cheeks flushed red.

“Aww, Gee! That’s so cute!” Cortez ruffles Gerard’s hair and then smacks him on the shoulder, “Little GeeWay misses his lady!” Then he laughs obnoxiously loud as he continues on his way to the bus’s kitchenette.

***

Making a disgruntled, sleepy noise, Gerard bats around for his cell phone. He's been brought out of the first decent sleep he's had in ages by the insistent droning of Respect by Aretha Franklin; Brendon's ring tone. Fingers sliding around the smooth plastic case of his iPhone, Gerard opens one bleary eye and looks at the time: 3:42a.m. “Mmm...lo?”

“Mmm...Gee?”

Brendon's voice is high and breathy and so unlike her that Gerard sits bolt upright, banging his head off the top bunk. “Shit, Queen Bee, you okay? Is everything...”
Labored, whining breathing fills Gerard's ear for a moment then Brendon says, “Ummmm...no! I was having this dream...”

“Aw honey, did you have a nightmare?” Gerard smiles sympathetically into the phone as his heart rate returns to normal and he eases back in his bunk, fingers gently probing the sore spot just above his hairline.

Concerned by Brendon's hiccuping gasps, Gerard opens his mouth to speak when she finally replies, “Uhh, no. Fuck,” there's a sound of rustling and then she says, “I was dreaming about you! You were inside me and it was so fucking good.”

Gerard swallows heavily and all he manages is a weak, “Uh...”

“I miss you so bad right now,” Brendon husks into the phone, “miss how you feel inside me. Wish you were here right now.” She's breathless and the volume of her voice ebbs and flows, and Gerard can imagine only too well what she's doing that may cause her to lose hold of the phone.

He's quite frankly shocked that Brendon called to initiate it. They'd tried it before-- phone sex and cyber sex--and it had always ended with Brendon dissolving into helpless giggles and Gerard willing to take on what ever genius declared Blue Balls a myth. “I miss you too Brendon,” Gerard finally manages to whisper into the darkness of his bunk, “I wanna be with you so bad, I could...”

“Tell me?” Brendon's gasp is a thready plea, “Tell me what you'd do...if you were here. Pretend you're here,” she pants in the phone.

Gerard returns her gasp with one of his own and then swallows hard against the need that unfurls low in his guts, “Kiss you. I'd kiss you. That fuckin' freckle, right by your eye, like on your cheek bone. Wanna put my mouth on you, light like, just to start.”

“Fuckin' tease,” Brendon growls.

Gerard manages a chuckle, turning on his side to face the bunk wall, rubbing his hand across his forehead and cupping his cell phone close. “You fuckin' love it. Then I'd kiss you. Your fuckin' lips, Bren, you don't even know,” he shifts is hips beneath his ratty tour blanket, “that thing you do with your tongue, shit honey,” his voice is pitched lower than usual.

“Lick,” Brendon exhales the word, “wanna lick you, taste you. Uh, Gerard,” her voice is a low throaty mixture of anticipation and relief.

Gerard allows his free hand to roam down across his chest, resting low and comfortable on his belly, fingers spread wide, “You taste so damn good. Gonna bite that spot, on your neck, make you fuckin' moan.”

As though she can actually feel it, Brendon moans and whispers, “Yeah, yeah. Do it,” and whines through her nose.

“Wanna lick down your neck,” Gerard is breathing hard through his nose and his fingers slide just under the waist band of his pajama pants, teasing the very tip of his erection, “Bren,” he pants, licking his lips, “Want you to...can you do something for me?”

The unsteady cadence of Brendon's breath fills Gerard's ear for a moment and then she manages a shaky, “Mmm?”

Snaking his hand up across his chest to tease at the flat disc of his nipple, Gerard digs his forehead into his pillow and whispers, “Take your hand, and like, touch your breast. Pretend it's me?”

“Oooh, yeah!” Brendon's voice is almost startlingly loud, “feels fucking awesome when you touch me like that,” Gerard can hear the rustling of Brendon's sheets as she shifts beneath them, “more fuckin awesome when you use your teeth.”

Gerard's hip involuntarily hitch upwards, and the bus bunk squeaks in wooden protest at his movements. “Jesus Christ, Brendon! Wish I was there to kiss you everywhere. God, your stomach—I fuckin' can't get enough of your stomach.” He drops his hand to give his straining cock a cursory tug.

“Mmm-hmm, so good, Gee. I still have marks, from your teeth,” Brendon gulps down air, fighting to get out words and her voice is high and tight, “On my tummy, I mean...”

“Shit,” Gerard interjects, panting and trying to keep hold of his phone and use the same hand to muffle his aroused whines as he increases the pressure of his fingers on his dick, “Brendon...”

“I know!” she bursts out before adding in a low, confessional whisper, “Sometimes, when I'm really lonely I press on the bruises and pretend it's you.” Gerard whines, high pitched and needy at Brendon's words. His breath is a scatter shot huh huh huh through the phone as he gives in and flicks back the waistband of his sleep pants.

Making needy noises of her own, Brendon says, “Are you touching yourself, Gee? Are you pretending it's me?”

“Yes,” Gerard hisses, clutching his cell phone so tightly his knuckles are white He closes his eyes and sinks into the glide and flex of his circled fingers around his aching cock.

“I wish you were,” Brendon says again, her voice barely more than a wistful exhalation of breath. “I tried, with my...my hand, but it wasn't the same, wasn't enough...” Her voice trails off in a moan and Gerard's breath stutters in his chest at the images her words cause to flash behind his tightly closed eyelids.

Trying to kick free of the tangled mess of his sheets, Gerard's grip on his phone loosens and it slides from his fingers. He just manages to catch it before the phone clatters free of his bunk. “Shit Queen Bee, do it. Fuckin' pretend I'm there. I wanna be.” He swipes his forehead across his forearm, smearing droplets of perspiration into the stained cotton of his shirt sleeve, and tightens the slide-hold on his hard cock. “Do you...have somethin'...?”

“Yeah, yeah...my purple one,” Brendon hiccups. “God, so good. Want you to fuck me so hard, Gee. M'so wet for you.”

“Mmm,” is all Gerard can manage through his clenched teeth. He's rocking up into the feeling of his circled fingers against sensitive skin, the electric snap of impending orgasm sparking at the base of his spine. He takes a few gulping breaths, listening to Brendon's reactions to what he imagines she's doing. “Yeah,” he exhales a long plume of breath, fluttering the hair over his forehead, “Shit, I can fuckin' feel you, Bren. Wanna taste you.” His nostrils flair as he exhales again, “Miss you.”

“Me too. ohohohoh” Gerard's hips twitch, matching the increasingly frantic stutter of Brendon's breathing. His tongue tip darts across his top lip, like he can taste her orgasm. He muffles a shout with his forearm and comes spilling into his hand and onto the thin fabric of his pajama bottoms.

Long seconds are filled with nothing but the tandem sounds of their shallow breathing. When Gerard can martial the wherewithal, he takes his hand out of his pants and wipes his fingers along the tousled knot of his sheets. “Holy shit, Brendon,” his voice is a rusted out wreck. He licks his lips and clenches tightly at the phone.

Brendon giggles, sleepy and soft, “Mmm hmm.” He can picture her and his hands itch to hold her. He knows that afterwards, she likes to be petted and cuddled into sleep. “Gee? Will you—will you stay on the phone til I fall asleep?”

“ 'course,” he answers immediately, despite the grainy itch of sleep tugging at him.

***

Gerard opens his gmail and laughs. There’s a new email from Brendon with the subject line : <3 <3 <3 <3!!!!!!!!!! He laughs more when he opens it and the entire body of the text reads:Thank You! You are the best, ever! I <3 it so much!! Noticing the attachment Gerard clicks on it and his chuckling dies in a surprised groan.

Brendon’s attached pics of herself, wearing the present Gerard had mailed to her. She's standing in front of a mirror wearing the tiny, sheer slipnightgownthing, one finger of her free hand twisted in the ruffled lace at its hem, the slightest glimpse of her white teeth where she’s biting into her plump bottom lip. The material skims her body and leaves little to the imagination (and if Gerard’s being honest with himself, he’s been using his imagination a lot in Brendon’s absence), the light casting shadows and making the curves and hollows of Brendon’s hips and breast and thighs stand out. She’s so fucking beautiful it makes Gerard ache, and he reaches out to trace the lines of her body with his index finger.

Shaking himself, Gerard draws his hand back from the screen and casts a guilty glance around the bus. He's still alone and he shakes his head, chuckling a little under his breath at his own ridiculousness. He minimizes the picture of Brendon and sees that there's another attachment. He clicks on this one wondering what sexy-ridiculous pose Brendon's come up with, and once the photo fills his screen all the breath is knocked from his lungs.

Gerard had forgotten Brendon's promise to send him her first ultrasound. But, in grainy black and white, that's the image he's staring at; can't look away from. Something that feels a like awe and joy and a lot like something he has no words for fills the spaces inside Gerard where breath used to be. He loses track of time, memorizing every line and shadow on the screen, knowing it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

Gerard hits print and snatches the page out of the printer before anyone comes back onto the bus and he has to explain what he's doing; put into words the incredible feeling. Still grinning, Gerard carefully folds the page and then takes his wallet out of his back pocket, tucking the page behind his drivers license for safe keeping. He nods and says softly, “Dad's keep pictures of their kids in their wallets, right?” and then stuffs it back into his pocket. Dad? Somewhat shell shocked at the first time he's let himself think the word, Gerard sits down hard on the sofa, repeatedly rubbing his fingers over his lips and staring into space.

It's Oh So Quiet brendon/gerard

cloudlessclimes — Tue, 14 Feb 2012 17:55:22 GMT

Title: It's Oh So Quiet
Author: cloudlessclimes
Rated: PG
Pairing:Brendon Urie/Gerard Way
Disclaimer: This is purely a product of my diseased mind and has no bearing on reality what so ever, I own no one, I know no one.
Summary: Oh God. Ages ago I started writing Beach Music, the summary of which is: Brendon Urie is and has always been a girl. She meets Gerard Way. Things happen. And, well, I haven't abandoned it, exactly. Life, it gets in the way sometimes, you know? So, anyway, enter the Sex is Not the Enemy fic-a-thon and the prompt pic I got seemed like a good way to get back into writing (ie finishing) that AU.

There’s no thunder clap, or lightning strike. But it’s not like she’s ever been one of those girls who sat around waiting for fireworks, anyway. Which is to say this is not at all what Brendon ever imagined the exact moment she falls in love would be like. She and Gerard have been doing whatever it is they’re doing for a while now.

And all she knows is she wants more of it, and more often.

It’s not even about fucking anymore. Well, okay, so it’s not just about fucking, at least for her, anymore. And from the amount of time Gerard spends calling her to talk about the view from the bus window, or emailing her photos of some weird bird he saw on the roof of a venue, she’s pretty sure it’s not just about sex for him, either.

Not that the sex isn’t awesome, because Brendon would be lying if she said otherwise. But, sometimes, after she’s come too often to count, when they’re languid and boneless, and their breathless laughter at nothing has shifted into something calm and content and warm and safe, she realizes there’s nowhere else she’d rather be, and no one else she’d rather be there with.

And that? Has never happened before.

She hasn’t asked a lot, but it has come up now and again, and no one she knows can ever explain to her how you can tell if you’re in love. They usually shrug and get a far away look in their eyes and say: “you just know”.

She watches Gerard from where she’s propped up at one end of his bunk. He’s reading At the Mountains of Madness aloud to her from the other end of the bed. Brendon can’t find much meaning in any of the Lovcraftian babble, but she admires Gerard’s commitment to convincing her that it’s the best book, ever. She likes the sound of the words in his mouth; the rise and fall and shape of them as they float across the small space. And finds herself wanting to like the things he likes, and she’s not sure when that has ever mattered to her before.

Periodically Gerard stops reading to look up at her and smile, his eyes tilted up at the corners and peeking though the messy dark veil of his hair. Brendon just nods a little and smiles in return, her fingers continuing to pick out random notes and bits of melody on Frank’s old battered acoustic. She wonders at the startling warmth singing through her veins at something so simple as a look. Leaning back into the peeling panel board wall she wriggles her toes against Gerard’s thigh, a distraction from her thoughts.

As the blanket slips lower, and Brendon’s toes tickle against Gerard’s bare skin, he giggles; a small indignant noise in the quiet of the bunks. Without even looking away from his book, he circles Brendon’s ankle with his thumb and forefinger, dragging her foot until it’s resting low on his stomach. She arches an eyebrow at him, and she can tell by the quirk of his mouth that he’s seen her, but Gerard still doesn’t break in his reading. He releases his gentle hold on her ankle, and splays his fingers over her calf, stilling her. His voice is a little louder, a little more desperate and Brendon can’t tell if that’s because of her closeness, or if things in Lovecraft Land are coming to a head.

Brendon puts both hands over her face, hiding her wide, ridiculous grin. The guitar slides from her hold, a discordant clang sounding through the bus as it hits the carpeted floor. Gerard flicks his hair out of his eyes and talk of Cthulu dies with the fading notes from the brass strings.

They lay there, staring at each other across the small distance, blinking until Gerard smiles and says, “Hey.”

Slowly pulling her hands away from her face, Brendon returns Gerard’s grin and wriggles her toes against his belly. In that moment--in that tiny perfect moment, she knows.

“Hey,” she says.

bandombigbang Wave 2 Brendon/Spencer Don't Drink the Water part 2

cloudlessclimes — Sun, 04 Sep 2011 00:58:45 GMT

Back

Brendon makes soft sounds of encouragement and his hips cant forward, seeking the friction of Spencer's thigh. The harshness of his breathing ratchets upwards as Spencer rests his full weight against Brendon, slumping to mouth messy and wet across the slippery cotton of Brendon's shirt.

Emboldened by alcohol and the fierce ache of the want coursing through his veins, Spencer uses his teeth and, with a growl, tugs hard enough to rip several buttons from their place. He licks his lips and presses his face into Brendon's belly, inhaling the sharp tang of his sweat, his tongue tracing a trail downwards.

Brendon's hands move up Spencer's body as Spencer does an unsteady, slow-motion not quite fall, stopping to rest his cheek against the leather and metal of Brendon's belt buckle. Brendon's hands hover in uncertainty above Spencer's head. “Wanna blow you,” Spencer slurs into tight denim.

“Fuck, yeah!” Brendon husks around an audible swallow. His fingers thread through Spencer's hair as he attempts to keep his balance, shifting against the crumbling brick as it digs uncomfortably into bare skin.

“You pull my hair, I'll fuckin' bite,” Spencer stares up at Brendon, his blue eyes narrowed in a tipsy attempt at menace.

“Oh yeah?” Brendon meets the cool gaze unflinchingly. He gives a teasing pull to a hank of Spencer's hair and laughs weirdly loud in the stillness of the yard. Spencer flashes a feral grin and snaps his teeth, nipping at the fragile skin around Brendon's bared navel, licking at the shake of Brendon's stomach as he laughs. Spencer's not quite sober enough to undo Brendon's belt buckle, snaps, and zipper. And after several failed attempts, Brendon strokes a capable hand over Spencer's fumbling fingers, making short work of his belt, and roughly yanking his jeans down to the tops of his thighs. Spencer can't help the low, greedy noise that rumbles up from the back of his throat at the sight of Brendon, hard and leaking in his briefs. A lucky flick of his wrist and Spencer flips down Brendon's waistband, nosing roughly at the dark whorls of Brendon's neatly trimmed pubic hair, inhaling his scent.

The feeling of Spencer's hot breath on his cock makes Brendon whine and shuffle, fingers restless against Spencer's skull, but very carefully not tugging. “Fuck yeah,” he says again, this time in a needy whimper. “You gonna suck my dick now, huh? Right here?” His words are punctuated by loud laughter and a thump just inside the back door, perilously close to where Spencer and Brendon are leaning.

Spencer wordlessly makes his approval of what Brendon's said known when he slicks his tongue along the turgid length of Brendon's cock. “Shit, you're not even in a hurry, are you?” Brendon fidgets under Spencer's close attention, his voice becoming increasingly high and breathy. “That turn you on? You thinking about what'll happen if they bring the party outside?” Spencer purrs his assent, jacking Brendon's cock a few times, then teasing at the slit with the tip of his tongue.

“We gotta be quiet,” Brendon stage whispers, before muttering a series of curses under his breath when Spencer swallows him down. Brendon can feel the muscles of Spencer's throat working his length as his tongue strokes over the sensitive nerves near the head of his cock. “Shit, I bet you want everyone to see how fucking good you are at this, right? Want 'em to watch your pretty mouth just fucking take all of my cock.” Brendon tugs approvingly at Spencer's hair.

Listening to Brendon, thinking about what he's saying, Spencer can't help it, he lowers his hand from where it’s echoing the movement of his mouth on Brendon's cock, down to relieve some of the pressure on his own straining erection. He digs the heel of his hand against the bulging denim and draws back for a breath, slurping kisses along Brendon's slicked shaft, and exhaling a shaky breath when he nuzzles at Brendon's balls.

Brendon is pushing back awkwardly against the house. It's the only thing keeping him upright. “C'mon Spencer. Get me off then fuck me.” He whines and looks down at Spencer through heavy lidded eyes.

“Shit yes,” Spencer bites Brendon's hip hard enough to leave marks, then slowly, his eyes never leaving Brendon's and unable to stop the pleased with himself expression flirting around the corners of his lips, Spencer sucks the leaking length of Brendon's cock back into his mouth. He fumbles with his own zipper, fingers easing a little of the sharp-edged ache of his own cock, just as hard and leaking as Brendon's, in his own hand.

Brendon's hips buck up to meet Spencer's mouth, the pace of the rhythm he's trying to set faster now, but his hands just pet encouragement across the soft strands of Spencer's hair. “You have such a dirty-- such a fuckin' awesome mouth,” Brendon babbles. At one particularly dirty lave of Spencer's tongue across his cock, Brendon tugs at a fistful of Spencer's hair.

Spencer's eyes flash a warning and he takes his hand away from where he's giving the base of Brendon's cock wicked, twisting strokes to slap a stinging blow across the tops of Brendon's thighs. And that's all it takes before Brendon's hacking out a noise razor edged between pain and pleasure and his come is slicking down Spencer's throat and filling his mouth. Sucking and licking and breathing carefully through his nose, Spencer makes greedy noises, making a show of slurping appreciatively at Brendon's cock.

There's a crash from inside the house, and both Spencer and Brendon haven't forgotten where they are. They're both still hyper aware of the room full of party goers on the other side of the wall. Grimacing as the aftershocks of Brendon's orgasm force him to mincingly rock up into his mouth, Spencer pulls off of Brendon's cock, sinking back onto his haunches. There's a string of spittle glistening in the growing moonlight as it threads from Brendon's softening cock to the short hairs of Spencer's beard. Spencer grunts out a weak laugh then smears his wet pink lips together, catching beads of come and spit and sweat that he missed.

Brendon looks, well, he looks wrecked. He's slumped against the wall, eyes dazed and unfocused. His jeans are still bunched and rolled uncomfortably tight at the tops of his thighs, the slight dark hair there making shadows against his skin. His shirt is in ruins, ripped threads and loose buttons hanging precariously from where Spencer had yanked at them. Spencer watches, hypnotized, as a bead of sweat chases the lean cut of muscle across Brendon's chest and stomach. After a few fortifying breaths, Brendon swipes a palm across his face, flicking his dark hair out of his eyes and giggles. “Holy shit!”

Whether because of the giggle, or the challenging look in Brendon's eye, or months of coiled tight want-- or maybe all three-- Spencer feels something click into place in his brain as he springs to his feet. Once more pressing Brendon back into the bricks, Spencer finds Brendon's mouth, roughly pressing it open with his own.

Brendon's eyes go shocked wide at the feeling of his own spunk slicking from Spencer's tongue to his own. He groans and laps, greedy for the taste. Spencer kisses him harder, grinding his erection into Brendon's bared thigh and grunting into his mouth. His hands come up to cradle the back of Brendon's head and he tugs at the dark strands of Brendon's hair until Brendon is moaning and gasping. “You been thinking about fucking all day, that mean you came prepared for the party?” Spencer murmurs as he switches positions, leaning up and away from Brendon's mouth to bite at the soft skin behind his ear

“What the fuck do you think?” Brendon raises his hands, pushing palms flat against Spencer's heaving chest to put a little space between them and then, he winks.

* * *
Spencer wakes slowly. Every muscle aches and it feels like at sometime in the night, someone had peeled back his scalp, sawed open his skull and shoved hot coals into his brain. He shifts from his uncomfortable hunch, arms and legs flung wide. He opens one eye in a squint and it all comes rushing back. He's naked, wrapped in a bright orange tarp. Brendon. Shit. Spencer sits up too fast—jostling his head and the meager contents of his stomach---and lays back on his elbows, panting. Panting for a few minutes and running his hands through the messy riot of his hair, Spencer starts to get to his feet.

As he stands, new pains flair to life along his shoulders and lower back and through his thighs. Brendon, Spencer notices, is nowhere to be found. Holding a hand up to block most of the bright light streaming through the dirt and dust covered windows, Spencer curses softly under his breath when he realizes that not only is it morning, the day is probably well on its way towards afternoon. He stands, utterly perplexed in the center of the potting shed. Hands on hips, index finger scratching idly at a dried patch of something he'd rather not think about, Spencer tries to determine what he should do next. Nobody saw him come across the garden with Brendon, that he's sure of, at least. But, Brendon had picked him up at the lab and was now missing, so Spencer could only conclude that he'd gone home.

Which leaves Spencer naked in Ryan and Jon's potting shed, holding on to an orange tarp and the precious little of his dignity that remains. He has no doubt that will evaporate the moment he sets foot in the house, and Ryan and Jon piece together what he got up to the night before. But first, he needs to find his clothes. Raising a hand from his hip to run it through his beard, Spencer looks around the small room, unsure at exactly what point the night before he got totally, completely naked.

He doesn't have to look too hard though, his shirt and jeans and the rest of his clothes are folded neatly atop a step ladder, his sneakers placed just so beside them. Picking slowly and carefully through the detritus of long abandoned gardening paraphernalia, Spencer slowly makes his way over to his clothes. Perched jauntily on top is his iPhone, and next to that, a scrap of paper that has Call me! :) <3 -Bden scrawled across it in black sharpie. Taking as deep a breath as his sore muscles can bear, Spencer exhales and flicks on his phone.

“Shit,” Spencer says, loud in the quiet. Yep. There it was, cleverly stored in his contacts under 'Bden' Brendon had left not only his phone number, but his last name--Brendon Urie-- Spencer taps the screen, and his email address.

Scratching his nose, Spencer stares at the screen for long minutes and then tucks it into the pocket of his still folded jeans. A quick search of the clothing pile reveals Spencer's boxer shorts. With a short tug and a perfunctory check to make sure they aren't too disgusting to bear, Spencer slips them on. He has to sit down onto the pile of clothes and pant a little; trying not to vomit.

With painstaking slowness, Spencer eventually gets dress in yesterday's clothes. He makes it as far as just outside the shed door before he has to spew his guts into the overgrown lillies. Spitting out the taste of his puke, Spencer takes out a pack of cigarettes and lights up. He's still hidden from view and takes the last few moments he can before going into the house and facing whatever it is that Jon and Ryan have to throw at him.

* * *

Spencer doesn't call Brendon.

But, Brendon must have got Spencer's number, because Brendon certainly calls Spencer. Spencer never answers. He is always too busy, or distracted or his phone is dead or he forgot his phone at the office. He has Brendon's phone number memorized. Brendon texts. Dozens of texts—about his day and his dog and even sends photos of his lunches and dinners. Spencer doesn't text back. That doesn't seem to matter to Brendon. He is persistent. Spencer will give him that.

See, the thing is, Spencer knows he's being a douche, okay? He knows it's just a matter of picking up the phone or even firing back an LOL to one of Brendon's texts. It's not like he actually set out to be awful to Brendon. It just sort of happens. Because Spencer has no idea how to handle this. He's never 'hooked up' in his life. Never once had a one night stand. And okay so maybe deep in his first year bio student mocking heart, Spencer wants what Jon and Ryan have. And maybe in the past Spencer had tried to find that with guys who really should have been one night stands.

But now, weeks have gone by and Brendon seems unaware that he was Spencer's experiment in casual sex. And Spencer has no idea what to do with that. He keeps ignoring Brendon. Why won't he go away?

“Hey Prof...Spencer, you have a visitor,” Cassadee's muffled, tinny voice interrupts Spencer's mental meanderings.

Wheeling his desk chair over to the phone he asks “A visitor?” Spencer glances at the clock above his computer where he's got a few spread sheets open, but had been staring into space. “Who is it?”

The intercom squawks to life again, only this time a bright, cheerful, male voice says, “Hi Spencer it's Brendon. I was driving around looking for new beaches and thought I'd see if you wanted to go into Hammond for a coffee or something?”

Jesus. “I'm really busy right now.” Spencer snaps. He then lowers his face to his desk blotter and carefully and with exact precision, starts to thump his forehead against the heavy wood. Before he knows what's happening, Spencer's office door bursts open and Brendon bounds in, a wary looking Cassadee hot on his heels.

“Come with me! Come on. You can't stay in this office all night!” Brendon smiles cheerfully and looks far more beautiful anyone in a Jesus is the Rock of my Salvation t-shirt and ripped up jeans ever should.

Spencer looks away quickly before he can give in to the pleading look in Brendon's dark eyes. “I have. I probably will. I need to get this shit done. Unlike some people I can't spend my days lounging on the beach.” He crosses his arms and runs his fingers across his beard covered chin, before turning back to his computer.

He doesn't look up when he hears the door softly click shut. He doesn't think about how ashamed of himself he is. Or how hurt Brendon must be.

* * *

“As your best friend, I feel it's my sworn duty to call you on your bullshit.” Spencer almost flings his coffee mug across the room in surprise when he opens his locked office door to see Ryan perched on the corner of his desk.

Grumpily setting his mug and folders on the desk and mopping at his sweater with his free hand, Spencer sighs heavily. Feigning patience, he settles into his chair and says, “What did I do to offend your delicate sensibilities now, oh wise one?”

“Brendon,” Ryan crosses one long leg over his knee and scowls.

“Could you just drop it?” Spencer sits up, spine stiff.

Ryan pulls his fedora down more securely over his curls, “You're hurting his feelings.”

“How do you know that? How do you know Brendon? Why are you talking about his feelings? What the fuck, Ry,” Spencer's eyes narrow as he picks up his mug and takes a fortifying gulp.

“Since the party. He's been kind of hanging out. Jon and I, we like him. He's good people.” Ryan nods for emphasis.

“Since when do you say shit like good people' And you don't know what you're talking about and it's none of your business.”

Stealing Spencer's mug and draining the contents with relish, Ryan wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist and says, “I'm your best friend. Also, you defiled the sanctity of my future writing cottage, so you kind of made it my business.” He screws up his face in an exaggerated expression of disgust.

“Fuck you,” Spencer says without any kind of malice.

“Look Spencer, I know your ex was a douchebag...” Ryan's learned from experience that using names is a very bad idea.

“A lying cheating two timing douchebag who forgot to tell me he's not gay just fucking around,” Spencer interrupts.

Waving a dismissive hand, Ryan replies, “Ancient history. And just because you got your heart broken by an asshole, that does not give you the right to be an asshole now.”

“I just,” Spencer looks down at where he's picking at the hem of his sweater, “I thought; okay. Hook up. I can do this. I had a plan. Brendon's hot. We'd drink a lot. We'd fuck. And life would go on.”

Ryan blinks at him for long silent seconds. “That has got to be the stupidest plan I have ever heard. I mean you might be a genius when it comes to planning experiments or like, saving the lives of millions of hideously ugly fish, or whatever. But? When it comes to like, life plans and shit? You totally suck.”

“What if he's just like the others?” Spencer says it quietly. It's the first time he's ever given voice to the one thought that's plagued him since Brendon's first voice mail message.

“What if he's not?” Ryan stands and lays a hand on Spencer's shoulder. “What if he's the one, you know?”

“Not everyone gets a Jon Walker,” Spencer's smile is sad when he turns his head to rest it against Ryan's arm.

A fiercely possessive expression flickers across Ryan's usually placid face, “Damn straight. He's mine. But dude, everyone deserves to be happy. You deserve to be happy. And what if Brendon's it? And even if he's not, it's just fucking coffee.”

* * *

“Fuck,” Spencer reads the email from the dean again, just to make sure he hasn't misunderstood. Nope, there it is in polite academic politco speak; if Spencer's lab doesn't start producing results, never mind the number of papers he's published, the entire thing is going to be shut down and he'll have to work out of a closet sized office back at the university in Hammond. “Fuck that shit,” Spencer mutters, “I'll show them results.” Despite or maybe because of the ridiculously early hour, Spencer angrily stands up from his desk and stalks out to the boat house.

“Cash!” he yells, walking towards the little thirteen foot Sculpin, “Cash get your ass in gear, we gotta go out, now!” Stooping to yank on his rubber boots, Spencer is still mumbling under his breath about the possibility of being forced back to Hammond and out of Port Adams. He's just about to yell again when he notices a scrap of paper tacked to the shop door: Hung over. In @ noon. -$

Well. Shit. Spencer would fire the kid if he wasn't a whiz at keeping the various research vessels in working order and happily did whatever grunt work Spencer foisted off on him, when he wasn't off drinking, or running the boats into the dock. Still fired up from the annoying news he'd woken up to, Spencer grabs the boat keys off the hook and heads out to the dock, taking the bag of equipment he needs and jumping down into the little boat.

Key in the ignition, the boat's engine roars to life and Spencer steers it away from the dock and out into the open water of the Columbia river. Preoccupied and angry Spencer squints across the choppy water, looking for the buoys Cassadee and Cash had set out last week. He is silently thankful that the early hour means there's very little river traffic. He finds the first buoy set just where the river curves, spilling into the Pacific. Grunting with effort, Spencer drops the anchor and turns to start taking the meters out of the kit bag. Just as he does so a swell jostles the boat, sending Spencer and some expensive equipment sprawling across the deck.

Muttering curses against Cash Colligan and any and all future generations of Colligans, Spencer heaves a sigh and rolls up from the wet deck, scooping up the equipment as he gets to his feet. Setting the correct depth and location, Spencer moves to the side of the boat, intending to throw the dissolved oxygen meter into the murky river. Squinting skyward, he notices what had started out as a clear and sunny morning had changed, dark clouds now in no hurry to blow across the river and out to sea. He steadies himself, swaying in gentle time to the increasing rocking of the boat. Spencer hates boats. He really hates boats. Cash can pilot any and all research vessels at Point Adams for the rest of forever and Spencer would be perfectly happy about that. But Cash isn't here now, so Spencer gives himself a shake and heads to the side of the boat. As he's leaned over lowering the equipment, a huge swell slams the hull, and before he knows what's happening, Spencer slips, then slides, then pitches over the side of the boat.

His first thought is that clearly he needs to pay more attention to his own 'be aware of your hands and feet at all times' speech. His second thought is that he is clearly an idiot with no sense of self preservation and was so busy fuming about being called unprofessional by the University, and Cash's hang over, that he'd forgotten to put on a PFD.

Spencer's last thought is that this is a really fucking stupid way to die.

It's his last thought because the back of his head makes thumping contact with the aluminum side of the
the Sculpin, and then the world fades to darkness.

***
Spencer awakens, coughing and sputtering, stinging salt water pouring from his nose and mouth. He opens his eyes, blinking against the sun, and staring straight into Brendon's brown eyes, wide with concern. “Oh, thank God,” Brendon says enthusiastically, helping Spencer to sit up.

“What? I mean, I don't...How did you?” A coughing spasm interrupts Spencer's confusion and he gasps for breath, shoving the fall of his soaking wet hair out of his eyes.

Sitting back onto the sand, a comforting hand patting Spencer between the shoulders, Brendon smiles, “I saw you. Was just about to go out,” he crooks his thumb towards his surfboard lying on the beach beside them.

Blinking stupidly at Brendon's wet suit, Spencer leans back on his elbows. “Oh, well um, thanks.”

“No problem,” Brendon chuckles and extends a hand to help Spencer up from the beach. “C'mon, we should take you into Hammond, go to the clinic and get you checked out.”

Groaning, Spencer manages to struggle to his feet. He's missing a boot and his sweater and jeans are heavy with sea water. “That's not...I should get back to the boat. You don't need to take me,” His protests die in another fit of coughing. He blinks, embarrassed as he bends over and spews yet more water over the beach rocks.

“Yes, I do need to take you. The whole point of fishing your sorry ass out of the water was so you don't die,” Brendon says sternly, taking Spencer by the elbow and directing him up the beach to the parking lot. “Someone from your lab can go out and get the boat, it's fine.” He motions towards the mouth of the river and the Sculpin is there, safely anchored and bobbing jauntily in the sun dappled water.

They trudge slowly and carefully to Brendon's car, Spencer having to stop several times to vomit. By the time they reach the old yellow Volvo station wagon, Spencer's panting, and he's shivering so hard his teeth are chattering. “Shit,” Brendon pats at Spencer's sweater, and water squelches beneath his hand. “You're probably in shock.” He leans Spencer heavily against the passenger door and hustles around to the hatch. Rummaging around in the back of the car for a few seconds, Brendon pops back up with an armful of clothes. “Here, put these on,” he shoves them at Spencer, his tone firm and no nonsense.

Spencer looks from the clothes to Brendon, and stands mutely against the car. “For fuck's sake, Spencer, I'm not gonna fuckin' molest you or something. You're soaked and shivering, and I kind of don't want you to die of hypothermia in my car on the way to the hospital.” Brendon takes an angry step forward and yanks at Spencer's dripping sweater. After a few seconds of staring, Brendon just sighs and stalks to the back of the car, where he shimmies out of his own wet things and into his dry street clothes. After a few more sputtering coughs Spencer shrugs and manages to get into the clothes Brendon has provided with relative ease. The jogging pants are too short and the elastic cuts into his hips, and the t-shirt is too small, but they're warm and dry and smell like Brendon, and Spencer leans heavily against the car once he's finished redressing.

“Hey, hey you alright?” Dark eyes clouded with concern, Brendon quickly rounds the car to clutch Spencer's arm, just as he's starting to slump to the ground. “Here, buddy. Sit down before you fall down.” Brendon manages to wrestle the passenger door open with a minimal amount of fuss, and after brushing a stack of papers onto the floor, he helps guide Spencer into the seat, carefully leaning across him to fasten the seat belt.

“Thanks,” Spencer croaks. Brendon tosses the jumbled pile of Spencer's soaked clothes and boot into the back seat and then slips behind the wheel. “I don't have any shoes,” Spencer announces rather stupidly, wriggling his naked pruney toes against the black of the cart mat.

Brendon gives him a reassuring smile and says, “No sweat. And I don't think the clinic's too sticky on the no shoes no service front,” before he drives out towards the highway.

The quiet in the car is only broken by the unobtrusive sound of Brendon's iPod on low, playing something soft and instrumental. “I almost died,” Spencer says like it just occurred to him. And maybe it has, now that he's not puking up the Pacific Ocean and his teeth aren't chattering, and Brendon isn't touching him.

“Yeah, but you didn't,” Brendon quick smile wrinkles his nose and he cocks his head, looking at Spencer. Spencer can feel the weight of Brendon's stare, even though his eyes are obscured by sunglasses and he turns his attention back to the road just as quickly.

Spencer fusses with the buckle of the seat belt and the elastic waistband of the too small pants he's wearing. As he looks down his attention shifts to the stack of papers Brendon had cleared from the seat. He hooks the lanyard of a small plasticized ID badge with his bare toes and with careful, stilted movements drags it up, bringing it in close to read it. “Dr Brendon Urie?” He says aloud, stunned and staring at the university issued card in his hands.

Looking embarrassed Brendon bites his lip and chuckles nervously, “Um, yep. Got my PhD in Estuary Sea Grass Biodiversity a couple of years ago.”

“Why didn't you tell me? Shit, are you one of the people Bryar conned into taking some of my lecture topics?”

Adjusting his sunglasses before putting his hands back on the steering wheel, Brendon shrugs again, the thin blue material of his t-shirt bunching between his shoulders, “Um...it never came up? And yeah I guess so, right? I think I'm scheduled for 9 am next Wednesday.”

“But...” Spencer stammers, “I treated you like you were just some hot, asshole, idiot surfer!” As if he didn't already feel guilty and awkward about how he reacted to Brendon after Jon and Ryan's party, he feels worse now, “Why didn't you say anything?”

Without looking at Spencer Brendon says, “Yeah, I know. No one's ever treated me like a hot, asshole, idiot surfer before.” His laugh is loud when he says, “I kinda liked it. And I thought you were some hot ass anti-social science type who liked random hook ups. Shit happens, you know?”

Spencer doesn't really know what to say to that, “I'm not...well I guess I can be anti-social, but I don't like...hook up, ever.” He stops cold when Brendon snorts and raises an eyebrow over the black plastic frame of his glasses. “Before, I mean. And I freaked out. I didn't know what to do or say so I said nothing and you were so sweet and determined. And now and you saved my fucking life and I'm just an asshole and so so so god damn sorry.” Spencer finishes in a rush and sits staring at his hands in his lap, struggling for breath.

“Spencer, yeah, okay you were a dick,” Spencer winces as Brendon talks, “but that was before, and this is now, and I'd really like to see you—get to know you. But I don't think the ER is the best place for a real first date, right?”

Laughing a little, Spencer shakes his head and says, “Okay.”

“Okay,” Brendon laughs and smiles, then takes Spencer's hand and holds it, loose and comfortable on his thigh as he turns into town.

Fanart:
fish biologist Spencer by aredblush

Fanmix:
Drowning Lessons by kurdt105

bandombigbang Wave 2 Brendon/Spencer Don't Drink the Water Part 1

cloudlessclimes — Sun, 04 Sep 2011 00:50:03 GMT

Title: Don't Drink the Water
Author: cloudlessclimes
Wordcount: ~12 000
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Brendon/Spencer
Warnings: Drunk sex
Summary: A sort of PhD AU. Definitely a tale of hip waders, hook ups, stupid fish puns, and not so coincidental meetings. Wherein Spencer is a fisheries scientist near Hammond Oregon and is perfectly content to spend his days trying to track white sturgeon, bearing the mocking of his arts major best friend, and failing badly at romance. Until one day at the beach he meets Brendon, and starts to think there's more to life than underfunded research and making first year bio students cry.
Disclaimer:I own no one. I know no one. All made up. Please don’t sue me.
Notes:Many thanks to the bandombigbang mods for organizing this whole thing. Thanks also to my beta and hand holder, ohnoscarlett, and any and all who had to hear me prattle on about this for years.
I am not a biologist, but ohnoscarlett is so I have been assured that all the details are good to go.
I've also never been to Hammond Oregon or the Columbia river, but thanks to the power of Google I've stared at 100s of maps and aerial views and river studies.
All errors in time/place/geography/procedure are mine.

Bonus Tracks/Enhanced Content

Fanart:
fish biologist Spencer by aredblush

Fanmix:
Drowning Lessons by kurdt105

Casting a final glance at the murky water of the Columbia river, Spencer sighs and grinds the remains of his cigarette beneath his boot, the straps of his hip waders thwacking against his thighs as he strides across the parking lot. His mouth settles into a line and he shoves up the thick sleeves of his sweater and, barely giving the big black jeep sitting outside the Point Adams Research Center any of his attention at all, he heaves open the lab door. “Hey Bob,” he doesn't even try to feign enthusiasm.

“Hey! So, the dean asked me to come talk to you, again.” Bob stands when Spencer enters the office. His large frame and scowl would be intimidating if he wasn’t flicking his unruly mop of pale blond hair out of his eyes.

Shrugging his shoulders, Spencer tugs off his black knit cap and tosses it onto his desk, “It wasn't my fault.” He scratches at his beard and then holds out a hand, motioning for Bob to sit down again. “Coffee?” he asks, not waiting for an answer before he splashes the thick liquid that's clearly been sitting there for a while into two mugs.

Bob gives a curt nod and accepts the chipped mug Spencer hands him, filled with liquid so potentially noxious it’s almost tar. “Look,” he winces as he swallows a sip, “you can't keep doing this, Spencer. Don't you want to get your doctorate?” He plunks himself back down into an office chair, the stuffing bulging where it's been duct taped.

“Dude, they were laughing like fuckin' nine year olds every time I said milt or reproduction or other fish sex words. And they're in a course on population and community ecology. One of them was totally wearing an PETA t-shirt. Seal huggers can fuck right off.” Spencer leans back into his chair, thumping his rubber booted feet on the desk and crossing them at the ankle.

Giving a long suffering sigh, Bob tries again, “Man, all you have to do is get your teachable hours done and present your research-your really fucking amazing research, by the way-- and the PhD is yours. The department gave you upper level courses because we didn't want a repeat of what happened in your intro to fish bio course...” Bob sets his mug of coffee down on the scarred wooden desk, “And to be honest, freshwater ecology wonder kid with articles published in three journals this year or not, if you can't teach the kids who paid to be in those classes, I'm not sure the department can afford to keep you on.”

Spencer chokes a little on his mouthful of coffee, “Shit, really? Okay, okay. I am trying. And yeah,” He rolls up the sleeve of his sweater and frowns at his watch, “I gotta bail, there's a boat load of rookies waiting for lab assistant orientation.”

“Ah, putting radios in fish bellies again, huh?” Bob chuckles and rubs his thumb across his lip where he's once again burned it on the hot coffee.

“Oh fuck, no!” Spencer raises an eyebrow, “Just seeing if they have their river legs.” He chuckles sardonically and there's a glint of wickedness in his blue eyes.

“Be nice!” Bob claps Spencer companionably on the shoulder and walks out of the office and through the lab with Spencer. Tanks of empty salt water glow and bubble eerily in the dark.

On the way through the long room, Spencer stops at one of the few populated tanks to wiggle his finger along the glass and coo, “Grow my babies, grow,” and follows the path of their slow glide through the water.

“Those things are fuckin' ugly, and those little barbs all over them hurt like fuck. Figures you'd be so in to them.” Bob makes a face and turns towards the tank of white sturgeon fry once he realizes Spencer has stopped.

Spencer stands up again and shrugs, “Yeah, 'cause the shit you need a microscope to see is fuckin' beautiful,” he teases Bob, a specialist in fish parasitology.

Bob just shakes his head slowly, “Smith, you go for the glamor, Jon and I will hold the fort with the real science.” Before Spencer can respond, Bob hops up into his jeep, raising a lazy hand in parting.

Sighing and tugging at the straps of his hip waders, Spencer curses under his breath and heads down to the dock. The Columbia river this close to the Pacific is never still, but at this time of day it looks deceptively calm. Cash, a senior in Spencer's Reproductive Biology class, has the Sculpin-- Port Adams' thirteen foot research vessel-- blessedly moored up and ready to go. Sometimes Cash got over ambitious and drove her into the dock. Other times he got “distracted” and forgot to tie her up.

Spencer was pretty much willing to let it all go because Cash liked to drive the boat and Spencer, for all he loved the fish he'd been studying since he was six years old, and the river system they lived in, hated boats and any and everything to do with them. If he had his way, he'd just wade out into the Columbia and do what he had to do. But the white sturgeon his research money paid him to study liked the deep, tricky water, way beyond wading distance.

As he gets closer to the dock he sees two rather baffled, nervous kids--a boy and a girl--standing up by the boat shed, both of them with their hands curled up into the cuffs of their hoodies. “Hey, you the new recruits?” Spencer tries to alter his voice from his usual terse exasperation into what he hopes is friendliness, accompanied by a plastered on smile.

The girl jumps and turns to face Spencer, her smile wide in her freckled face, “Hi Professor Smith, I'm Cassadee,” She holds out her hand and Spencer mutters, “formal introductions, huh?” before shaking her hand up and down a time or two. She smiles awkwardly for a moment and tries, none too subtly to elbow the boy beside her.

“Oh, um, Alex DeLeon,” he says, swiping the fall of his long curly hair out of his eyes.

Spencer just gives a perfunctory nod,“Okay, DeLeon, you're gonna have to tie back the locks before we get on the boat.” He makes a vague waving motion to take in the way the boy's shoulder length hair is being whipped by the wind. Alex shrugs and takes a knit cap out of his pocket, plonking it onto his head and jamming his hair up underneath. “And you're both gonna have to wear PFDs—that's life jackets in case you're confused. They're stowed on the boat. Follow me.” Spencer turns abruptly and leads the pair down the dock and onto the little boat.

Kicking open a sliding compartment, Spencer says, “Get one, put it on, don't take it off til you're on dry land. If you die, that's extra paperwork for me, and I hate paperwork.” He sounds almost bored, and has to bite down on a smirk when he sees the horrified look that passes between Cassadee and Alex. “Cash is gonna drive...” Spencer is interrupted when Cash yells back to them, “Cash always drives!” and Spencer clears his throat and continues, “He's been a lab assistant for a couple years now, so he'll be the one to show you around. If he tells you to lick, touch, or smell something, please don't do it. Please.”

The two students nod enthusiastically as the little boat sets out on its way. “Okay, before we get into taking samples and levels and all that fancy stuff that I'm fairly sure you've never done in your life,” Spencer waits a beat and sees in Cassadee and Alex's eyes that he's got them pegged, “we're going to go over a little thing called safety.” Alex twists and turns and succeeds in getting the chords for his life jacket twisted into knots. Grinning at Spencer, Cassadee tucks a stand of hair behind her ear and leans over to help.

Once both students have their PFDs securely in place, and the boat is cheerfully putting out into the river, Spencer continues, “First, PFDs, always. Second, always know where your hands and feet are at all times.” Cassadee giggles and Spencer raises an eyebrow at her. “I'm perfectly serious. The Columbia is cold, and deep. And the current is strong. Set your foot on a net,” he stops to kick at a coil of rope, “Or get your hands caught in a line,” he tugs at the thin strips of nylon that run along the gunwales, “and it's game over. I'm not going after you.” The two younger students stand wide eyed. ”But, I will miss you.” Spencer nods to emphasize his point.

They go over first aid certification and the importance of being able to swim—or as Spencer calls it-the ability to not freak out and drown immediately upon hitting the water. Alex heads off to learn the basics of small boat navigation with Cash while Spencer demonstrates how to take dissolved oxygen readings with Cassadee. She's interested and eager to learn and picks it up quickly. Spencer is relieved that he won't have to hand hold at least one of the research students through the semester and might actually get some kind of productive work done. They stay out on the water for a few hours and then head back to the lab.

“So, be here same time tomorrow and we'll recapture the magic,” Spencer nods in conclusion, and then retreats to his office.

***

The next morning, bleary eyed and clutching a giant mug of the motor-oil thick coffee the office machine seems to produce, Spencer heads out to the dock to meet the students, hoping they can set up an actual experiment today. Running an exasperated hand across his beard covered chin, he asks wearily, “Where's the other kid?” when he sees Cassadee standing by herself, flipping through the lab handbook he'd given her yesterday.

Her smile wide, she just shrugs at Spencer, digging the toe of her rubber boot into the muddy grass beside the boat house. “Fuck,” Spencer exhales in exasperation. He gulps a final mouthful of coffee, wincing at the burn, then sets his mug down on an upturned crate. “Well, c'mon then. I told him I don't fuck around, not gonna waste good weather by waiting for him.” They both turn to squint at the yellow-gray sky and the heavy clouds that are gathering over the Pacific. The boat house is eerily quiet.

Spencer hates to admit it but he's grown used to Cash blaring Li’l Wayne as he works away on engines or charts. Frowning, he walks around the empty shop. Motioning with his chin, Spencer gets Cassadee to follow him out to the dock, where all four of Point Adams' research vessels are moored, bobbing in the gentle lapping of the water. “Where the fuck is Cash?”

Closing her binder with a snap, Cassadee shrugs again and says, “How should I know?”

“Right. Shit. Okay, fuck it. We'll go to the lab and I'll get you to—I dunno—feed the fingerlings and clean tanks or some shit.” Even in his anger, Spencer manages to be impressed that Cassadee, unlike most everyone else in her class, refrains from smirking, smiling or snorting when Spencer says fingerling.

Cassadee is bright and cheerful and dutifully follows a glowering Spencer back up to the research station. Her quickness and eagerness to learn extends to the lab and its rules and routines and in no time Spencer has her set up on a cleaning, feeding, data recording schedule. “So, if you need anything, I'll just be...” he flaps a hand towards his office door.

“Sure Professor Smith, no problem.”

“Please call me Spencer,” He runs a hand across the back of his neck and is mentally calculating the kind of verbal ass kicking he'll give Cash when/if he sees him next.

Cassadee smiles wide and says, “Sure thing, Spencer. Oh, these little fellas are so cute, aren't they?” She bends towards the tank of immature white sturgeon and traces a line across the glass with her fingertip, the fish eagerly following it. “Hello darlings,” she coos. Spencer smiles.

This research student thing could work out okay for once after all.

Once safely hidden in his office, and ignoring the by-law enforcement, university endorsed and sanctioned no smoking sign posted in clear visibility on the wall, Spencer lights up a cigarette and boots up his lap top. Opening a program, he reaches for his head set and radio receiver. A month ago Spencer and Cash had caught a few male white sturgeon that were part of the last remaining school in the river estuary and implanted radio signal transmitters under their armored skins. He'd hoped to be able to track them, and in learning about the routes they traveled, learn how to save them. The radio squawks to life, and the gentle pinging of the transmitter fills Spencer's ears.

With the help of some really fucking expensive software and the mathematical know how of some of his colleagues, Spencer had managed to translate the audio signal into a radar like image on his computer screen. He happily watches the little green dots hover along the shore line and opens a spread sheet, labeling it with the day's date and entering the school’s location. Suddenly the comforting ping of the radio signal is interrupted by a high pitched screeching that makes Spencer wince. He frowns, leaning forward to fiddle with the knobs on the central receiving unit. And then, much to his amazement and horror, his ears are filled with what sounds vaguely like Hot for Teacher by Van Halen.

What. The. Fuck?

Lips a narrow, angry line, Spencer picks up the hand held radio receiver and stomps out of his office and through the lab, ignoring Cassadee's confused stare.

* * *

“What the fuck do you think you're doing?” Spencer storms down the beach, shouting. His rubber boots make it difficult to keep his balance amid the rocks and weeds that liter this part of the beach, causing his storming look a lot like intense, clumsy stumbling.

The guy stops, slowly pulling away the towel he’s drying his hair with, and looks up at Spencer. He smiles and holy shit! His smile is wide and bright in his tanned, freckled face, and it makes his dark eyes crinkle at the corners. Spencer actually feels a fluttering in his chest and what the fuck is up with that? “Um...trying to get the salt water outta my ears?” He tosses the towel down beside his long board, and gives a practiced tug to the pull on his neoprene wet suit.

Tripping to a halt when he finally reaches the sand, Spencer's eyes follow the narrow strip of skin as it's revealed beneath the dark blue of the guy's suit, “No, I mean this!” Spencer takes a breath and looks pointedly from the guy's surfboard to the now extinguished fire pit, and then across the beach to where a van full of the guy's buddies is pulling out onto the highway towards Hammond.

“Oh, uh...surfing?” The guy is studying Spencer, now, and while his shoulders are shaking in silent amusement, he's polite enough not to laugh outright.

Spencer crosses his arms over his chest, elbows digging into his thick sweater, “Yes, surfing! You and your friends and your noise and splashing, are ruining my fucking work!” He glowers at the guy and tries to remember how pissed he is that all his stats for the day have been thrown off because some hippie deadbeats decided to have some fun.

Who the fuck surfs in Oregon, anyway?

Aware that Spencer's angry, but clueless as to why, the guy struggles into a t-shirt and lets the wet suit fall to his hips. Running a hand through his hair until it stands up on end, he bites his lip—his incredibly full, kissable lip, Spencer's traitor of a brain supplies, and says, “Oh, uh, okay. Sorry?” But he clearly has no idea what it is he's apologizing for.

“Yeah, right, I'm sure,” Spencer snarls a little, “You have no idea what you've done. I've spent a year tracking a school of white sturgeon and now because of you I can't hear a fucking thing, and you’ve probably frightened them off forever!” He takes the radio receiver from his back pocket and waves it menacingly at the surfer.

Brown eyes go wide as Spencer launches into a speech as loud and heartfelt as it is long, detailing every single thing that the guy has ruined about his work, and his fish, and his life. Spencer pauses to take a breath and is prevented from detailing the ten year decline in white sturgeon in the Columbia river estuary due to human pollutants altering male white sturgeon physiology by a tap to the shoulder. “Oh, hey.” Spencer deflates, jamming his wildly gesturing hands in his pockets and glaring a little sheepishly at Jon Walker, the lab's limnologist and,as of one year five months and three days ago, as Ryan likes to remind him, his best friend's boyfriend.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Jon says, smiling at the surfer in a way that makes it clear he's been on the receiving end of a Spencer Smith rant enough times to sympathize. “You need to sign off on these purchase orders,” he encouragingly wriggles a clip board at Spencer.

Frowning and turning away from the surfer, who shrugs to himself and resumes packing his gear, Spencer swipes the sheaf of paper from Jon's hands and then frowns even harder, his fair eyebrows furrowed. “Jesus, Jon. How big is your grant this year? More software?”

“Dude, I have the biggest grant out of all you guys!” Jon waggles his eyebrows and strokes his beard suggestively. The surfer snorts out a laugh ,and when Jon and Spencer look over he gives them a dorky thumbs up. “I mean who doesn't like a big grant? Am I right?” Jon asks the guy, chuckling.

Slapping a pair of thick black framed glasses onto his face, the guy chuckles back and says, “Grant size matters,” while nodding sagely.

Spencer groans at the lameness of his friend, and thwacks Jon in the chest with the clipboard, his signature a neat scrawl at the bottom. “Here, lameass. Go forth and do the impossible.”

“Hey! I will map the current in that god forsaken river, just you wait!” Jon mockingly raises his fist and shakes it at Spencer.

Spencer chuckles and takes his cigarettes out of his back pocket, lighting up and offering the pack to Jon, “Yeah, because that's worked so well for you these past...what is it now, five years Doc Walker?”

“Oh fuck you, I'm just taking my time and getting it right and at least I managed to get my PhD.” Jon laughs and knocks his shoulder into Spencer, “So, you coming to the big summer session shindig at our place tonight or what?”

Blowing out a long plume of smoke and an impertinent sigh through his nose, Spencer says, “Do I have a choice?”

“Not if you want to continue to be Spencer Smith, best friend of Ryan Ross,” Jon rocks up on to his toes, beach gravel shifting with the movement, and smirks as he lights up his own cigarette

“That's pretty much what I thought. I'll try and get up there.” Spencer would rather pilot a dingy around the world than spend ten minutes with Ryan's pretentious hipster English department friends. Spencer's a biologist, what the fuck does he know about poetry? “Is there a theme?” He winces.

Jon just laughs at him, “Nah, we're going with a bonfire, beer, and burgers. You're welcome.” They both laugh and Jon says, “Oh and bring a date,” which makes him laugh even harder.

“What? I have a date!” Spencer scowls out over the shoreline, taking a deep drag from his cigarette.

“Suuuuure you do!” Jon nods indulgently.

Yanking his knit cap further down his scowling brow and picking at his sweater, Spencer answers petulantly, “I do!”

“Wow, for real? The monk fish has a date? I'll alert the media.” Spencer sort of wants to slap the mocking grin right out of Jon's beard. He'd also like to kill Ryan Ross with his mind for coming up with that stupid nickname, which Ryan had dubbed, 'punny hahahaha'.

Giving a slight nod, Spencer's gaze cuts, surreptitious yet obvious, to where the surfer is making his way along the beach, board tucked under his arm and bag slung over his shoulder. “Dude, seriously?” Jon answers Spencer's waggling eyebrows, and pointedly glances at the rounded curve where the guy's ass fills out his suit. “Niiiice.” And then, much to Spencer's enduring horror, Jon yells at the guy, “Hey! I'm Jon, by the way! We'll see you tonight!”

Spencer watches in slow motion morbid fascination as the guy turns around and gives Jon a quizzical look. “Huh?” he says and comes back to where they're standing. Spencer does his best to will the beach to open up and swallow him whole.

“Spencer here said he invited you to our party up in Hammond tonight?” Jon rocks smugly back and forth in his flip-flops, looking for all the world benignly friendly. But Spencer knows better and can recognize the glint in his eye for the you are so busted that it is, not the Mr Friendly Non-Threatening the rest of the world sees.

Blinking, non-plussed for a second, the guy digs his board into the gravel and then smiles, wide and genuine, “Oh, yeah. Of course Spencer did.” He's doing that silent, shoulder hitching laugh thing again. “I'm Brendon,” he holds out his hand to Jon who shakes it, his expression a combination of wary and confused. “I'm meeting you up at the old lifeboat station at eight, right?” He cocks his head to the side, still smiling brightly.

Spencer stands there scowling and smoking, before he says, “Uh, yeah.”

“Right, so I'll see you then!” He raises a hand in farewell and, still smiling, picks up his board and heads once more down the beach.

After Brendon leaves, Jon stands there just staring at Spencer. Spencer can tell Jon's waiting for him to say something, but Spencer has nothing to say. He's not even sure what just happened, or why. Continuing to study the waterline, Spencer says, “Don't you have data to plug into a program, or more grants to apply for or something?”

***

A faint knock on Spencer's office door causes him to jump in his seat. He stands up, feeling the pop and snap as each and every vertebrae voices their opinion on how long he's been sitting staring at spread sheets, and distractedly twists the door knob.

“Um, hey,” Brendon is standing awkwardly in the doorway, smile wide and a little nervous.

Spencer can't help the way his eyes widen and the staring he does. Brendon. Standing in his doorway. He didn't know it was possible for Brendon to be hotter than he was at the beach, but right now, in black jeans and a dark red button down shirt, he is. He totally, totally is. “Oh, uhn you came?”

Glancing at the wall clock behind Spencer's head, Brendon's forehead wrinkles in slight confusion and he says, “Um, yeah? Eight. That's what we agreed on, right?” He shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Unless you were fucking with me?”

Standing there staring at Brendon and scratching absently at his sweater were it clings just a little to the slight curve of his belly, Spencer manages to shake his head, comically slow-motion slow and says, “No, no. I just...didn't think you'd come?” He finishes lamely.

“Dude! When a hot guy invites me to a party I am not gonna say no!” his grin frames a goofy giggle that scrunches up his eyes.

Blinking dumbly, Spencer says, “You think I'm hot?”

A slow pink blush creeps across Brendon's freckle spattered cheeks and he scratches his nose, shoulders hitching, “Well, your buddy's not bad but...”

“So, yeah, uh just gimme a sec?” Spencer turns away from the door, hurriedly stacking papers and powering down his computer. He blows out a breath, runs his fingers through his hair, tugs his sweater over his head. Fingers smoothing down his t-shirt, he slaps on a smile then turns back to Brendon.

“Ready?” Brendon meets Spencer's forced smile with a not-quite-sure smile of his own. Spencer just nods and grabs his key ring, directing Brendon out of his office with a cautiously light hand to his lower back. “Wow! These guys are awesome! Are they what you're researching?” Brendon stops at the fingerling tank to peer at the tiny silver fish as they glide through the water.

Realizing that Brendon's interest and enthusiasm is sincere, Spencer's smile slides into a more genuine expression. “Yeah, mostly on how pollution in the estuary is affecting male fertility rates in white sturgeon.”

Brendon frowns and then smiles back at Spencer, “That's really cool. The river is so fucked up. It's good to know that someone is interested in saving it and the little critters who live there.”

Spencer waits a beat to see if Brendon is making fun of him. Impressed that he didn't snicker or giggle at the mention of fertility, Spencer nods and says, “Yeah,” before crossing to the lab's exit.

“Shit,” Spencer stops dead before they even reach the parking lot. “I, um, I usually just take the field station's jeep,” he reaches up in a futile attempt to smooth down his hair as the wind whips it around. “But that fucker Colligan—my research assistant—took it without asking first.”

“Oh, well, I have my car.” With a tilt of his chin, Brendon indicates an aging yellow station wagon parked in a visitor spot, “If you don't mind me driving, you can just tell me where we're going?”

Hesitating slightly, Spencer shrugs and thinks what the fuck. “Sure, thanks,” they both plunk down into the station wagon and Spencer inhales; noting the overwhelming sent of stale seawater and sand. He also notes that the car's interior is spotless and wonders whether Brendon is a neat freak or whether he cleaned out the car as some kind of attempt to impress Spencer on their date...or whatever this is.

Brendon smiles a little nervously at Spencer and says, “You can fuck around with my iPod if you want,” and nods towards the car's stereo before turning his head to back out of the parking spot and onto the road leading into town.

Completely unsurprised to find almost all of Jack Johnson's catalog, Spencer snorts and clicks on a Regina Spektor album instead. “So, surfing huh?”

“Yeah,” Brendon taps his hands against the steering wheel, in time to the music as his fingers mime the piano notes that float softly in the air between them.

“I would have thought you'd be down in California or something. Isn't that where most of the surfers are?”

Grin widening, Brendon says, “Oh sure, you can surf there. I started out there, down around Santa Monica. But it gets old fast. Sort of lost interest in doing the same thing as everyone else. I like a challenge,” and Spencer’s can’t be sure he’s not imagining it when for a split second Brendon smirks and casts the most fleeting of sidelong glances towards him. “The current around the shore here is fucked and there are way more rad waves than down the coast.”

Spencer raises a judgmental eyebrow at Brendon's use of the word rad but keeps his opinions to himself. “So, you're from California?”

“Nah man, originally from Vegas, but you can't really surf on Lake Mead.” Brendon chuckles and flicks on his indicator light, angling the aging Volvo down the coastal road that runs the thirty miles into town.

His laugh sounds a little less brittle when Spencer smiles agreeably at Brendon’s Lake Mead crack, “Seriously, and then there’s all those houseboats you’d have to dodge.”

“You been to Vegas?” Brendon quirks an eyebrow at Spencer and takes one hand off the wheel to adjust the stereo’s volume.

“Yup,” Spencer quirks his own eyebrow at Brendon’s expression of surprise. “From there. Lived in Summerlin 'til I came out here for school,” Spencer can't help but deepen his smile when he sees Brendon's expression morph from surprise to delight. “Figures, who else but dudes who grew up in the desert would think that fucking around on the Columbia was a good way to spend time?”

Brendon snorts his agreement, “Yeah even more fucked up, I totally want to surf the North Atlantic--you know, Scotland and Nova Scotia. That shit is supposed to be a fucking rush.”

Just the thought of all that icy cold water closing in around him is enough to make Spencer cross his arms protectively across his chest as he swallows uncomfortably, “Sounds fantastic,” his words drip with sarcasm.

“Yeah well, we all get our kicks somehow, right?” Brendon nods enthusiastically.

“Apparently I get mine by asking guys I just met to come meet my friends,” Spencer laughs.

His smile disappearing, Brendon says, “Um, yeah, so I think maybe I put you in an awkward position--Monkfish?”

Spencer reaches over to turn up the radio and then sinks back into the passenger seat, thinking that maybe being swallowed whole by the Atlantic Ocean wouldn’t be that horrible after all, “Yeah, um my friend Ryan--we’re going to is house--thinks he’s hilarious and likes to give people this nicknames. I just because I haven’t um...dated anyone in a while he thinks I’m...”

“A monk?” Brendon turns to meet Spencer’s embarrassed gaze for a few seconds and then says, “And you like fish so...”

“He thinks he’s hilarious. Which is probably good because no one else does. I mean Jon humors him but...Ryan’s teaches poetry.”

And that’s all the explanation Brendon requires as they finish the drive into Hammond companionably chatting about the university and the sleepy little town and Spencer’s handful of oddball friends, made mostly courtesy of Ryan’s ability to attract people equally as strange as him, but in entirely different ways. Spencer feels it’s only fair for Brendon to know what he’s getting in to.

After a series of directions comprised mostly of complicated hand gestures that Brendon follows with ease, they turn into Jon and Ryan’s street. The road is lined with cars parked on either side “Sorry,” Spencer mutters apologetically at Brendon when they’re forced to park several streets over.

“No worries,” Brendon shrugs and smiles encouragingly back, falling easily in to step with Spencer.

Spencer jams his hands in his pockets to avoid the distraction of his knuckles bumping into Brendon’s every time they swing their arms. As soon as they get to the pathway leading up to Jon and Ryan’s old Victorian house, Spencer feels the eyes of the few couples sprawled out on the wide veranda. He nods in greeting to those he recognizes, and places a hand low on Brendon’s back to usher him through the door.

Years of friendship means that both Spencer and Ryan had long ago abandoned such social niceties as knocking, so Spencer simply opens the front door and, holding his arm out wide, allows Brendon to enter first. Not that anyone could have heard the door bell over the din of the stereo anyway, and before Spencer can do more than push past the guests blocking the front entry way, Jon has sidled up to Brendon and is yelling, “I swear to god, he’s never even heard of Pet Sounds! How is that possible, I ask you? Come with me, we need an impartial third party to convince Ryan the Beach Boys are fucking awesome!”

Brendon turns his head to give Spencer a baffled, amused look as Jon hooks their elbows together and drags Brendon off through the crowd. Spencer makes a displeased sound at the back of his throat, and instead of following after the pair, heads towards where prior experience has told him the beer is. He downs one quickly, then leans against the wall, arms crossed in front of himself, surveying the living room full of people.

Trust the weirdos Jon and Ryan know to arrive at a party early.

Several minutes pass and still Brendon hasn’t returned from where Jon dragged him off to, so Spencer has another beer. And another. His tolerance for chit-chat grows with every beer he drinks and by beer five, or six, he’s actually having a pretty decent conversation about the cinematography in Rosemary’s Baby, with Shane, a guy Ryan met in Avant Garde Film Club--seriously, Avant Garde Film Club--when he finally spies what he’s pretty sure are Brendon’s finger tips waving in the air.

Spencer heads towards the fingers and then stops cold. An impromptu dance floor has taken shape in the space between Ryan’s entertainment unit and his and Jon’s matching barca loungers. And Brendon is dancing. And his hips are kind of hypnotic, and he’s laughing and smiling and his hair is in his face. And he looks like an angel. Okay, so Spencer may have had a shot or two in between beers. And the arm that is not waving over Brendon’s head is wound round the broad shoulders of the man he’s dancing with.

Bob. Bob fucking Bryar. What the actual fuck? Brendon is dancing with Spencer’s boss, whom Spencer is quite sure Jon invited for the express purpose of humiliating him. Spencer stops mid-step and does a tipsy about face.

He makes it to the backyard and is grateful for the cool night air across his bearded cheeks. The yard is full of crabgrass, moss, and lichen and Spencer had spent all last summer building a stone wall beyond the treeline to ensure Jon and Ryan’s dogs stay put, and also to make sure Ryan didn’t pitch over the steep hill that leads down to the highway. He takes a seat on a pile of quickly mildewing lumber Ryan had made Spencer purchase, after Jon started making noises about building a deck back here, which made no sense considering the amount of rainfall this part of Oregon gets.

Sometimes his friends don’t really make sense.

Spencer presses his now mostly empty beer bottle to his forehead and wonders why who Brendon’s dancing with matters so much to him. It’s not like they know each other, or really anything about each other. Sure, Brendon pretty much admitted that he found Spencer hot. And Spencer can fully admit, at least to himself anyway, that he’s attracted to Brendon--who wouldn’t be?---but it’s purely a biological urge.

And that right there is the problem. Superficial attraction has been the basis for every single one of Spencer’s horribly failed relationships.

Fuck biology.

Spencer’s sitting there, slowly moving the now sweating beer bottle across his forehead in the gloomy yard when he hears the telltale creak of the rusty back door hinges. The sky is a deepening velvet grey, and the ever present clouds send long shadows across the yard, so Spencer is safely hidden from the view of whomever has come outside. He sees the orange-red flare of a cigarette’s glow and hears a long, satisfied sigh as the person takes the first drag.

Brendon is leaning against the house, smoking. And he’s alone, “Finally,” Spencer mutters under his breath. He sets the empty Corona bottle down and stands, swiping stray bits of wood and moss from his jeans, and tugs at the hem of his t-shirt. Then, without thinking about it too much, he heads to where Brendon is standing.

“Oh, there you are!” Brendon smiles and exhales a long plume of smoke from the side of his mouth up into the deepening dark of the night sky.

Deftly snagging the cigarette from Brendon’s hand and bringing it to his own lips, Spencer leans against the house and says, “Yep, here I am.”

“I was getting kinda worried that you ditched me,” Brendon’s shoulders shake with a deprecating giggle as he takes another cigarette out of his pack and lights up.

“I dunno, you seemed like you were doing okay,” Spencer takes a deep drag on his cigarette, and immediately exhales to cover up the petulant undertone in his voice.

Brendon’s eyebrows raise in surprise at Spencer’s words, “Oh, like, the dancing? You saw me? Your friends are fun. But,” he ducks his head then, looking up at Spencer through the fall of dark hair across his eyes, “they’re not you.”

Blinking slowly and made bold by the alcohol in his veins and the nicotine in his lungs, Spencer flicks what’s left of his cigarette into the yard, and without further thought leans in to cover Brendon’s mouth with his own. There is nothing gentle about the kiss, Spencer presses his teeth to the fullness of Brendon’s bottom lip, making him gasp. His eyes briefly widen then fall closed as his hands come to rest on Spencer’s hips.

Taking that as invitation, Spencer’s tongue swipes across the bitten skin of Brendon’s lips before slipping between them. Brendon groans and his grip on Spencer’s waist tightens. Returning his groan, Spencer pushes a leg between Brendon’s and pins him to the wall, brick pressing through the thin cotton of his shirt. Spencer’s fingers grip Brendon’s shoulders bruisingly tight, but he still doesn’t stop the insistent exploration of the kiss. Finally, Brendon’s slides his lips across the scrape of Spencer’s beard and onto his neck. Panting hard, his whisper is a harsh stutter of breath against heated skin when he says, “Shit, I’ve been waiting for you to do that all night.”

“Yeah,” there’s a wicked glint in Spencer’s blue eyes. He seems to take Brendon’s words as a challenge for more, ducking his head and finding Brendon’s lips, hands sliding up Brendon’s arms to tangle in the thick strands of his hair. Grunting, Brendon eagerly yields to the force of Spencer’s kiss and moves closer still, his hips shifting against the rough denim of Spencer’s jeans. Their teeth clash when Spencer shoves Brendon roughly against the crumbling brick of the house, and Brendon moves his head away from the probing urgency of Spencer’s mouth to curse, ‘fuck,” as he struggles for breath.

Spencer doesn’t move his hips from where they’re rather forcefully pinioning Brendon in place, “You been waiting for that all night too?” He arches one eye brow in demanding inquiry.

Smirking, Brendon says, “Maybe all day too,” in a low throaty voice that makes Spencer growl and once more press in for a determined kiss, biting away at Brendon's smug expression, and snugging his knee between Brendon's sprawled thighs. Brendon just holds on tighter, arching impossibly closer and whispers against Spencer's lips, “What you got in mind?”

It's Spencer's turn to struggle for breath, and he bites at the arch of Brendon's throat. “I want...” he mumbles against Brendon's heated skin.

“What? What do you want, Spencer?” Brendon moves his hands from Spencer's waist up under his t-shirt. “Ask me. Ask me anything. Everything, just...” he stutters to a stop as another moan escapes his throat at the shift and press of Spencer's knee against his erection.

“I want...this.” Spencer manages to gasp into the sweat-damp collar of Brendon's shirt. “Fuck do I want,” in a daze, he noses the fabric out of the way so he can use teeth and lips to suck angry welts--red blood just under the surface of Brendon's pale skin made almost black by the failing light of approaching night—-across the starkly pronounced rise of Brendon's collar bones.

next

art for bandombigbang by aredblush

cloudlessclimes — Sat, 03 Sep 2011 22:42:21 GMT

I have to admit, when I saw that aredblush had claimed my fic for art, I kicked my feet in glee a little bit. I'd seen her beautiful drawings here and there and couldn't believe my luck that she'd picked me!

And my jaw hit the floor. Isn't it wonderful? I love everything! The color, the effect that makes it look like sun beams on water, the sturgeon that actually look like sturgeon, and Spencer's fierce little face (complete with raised eyebrow).

Isn't it just amazing? I am so grateful. Please leave her some love.

Mix for bandombigbang fic by kurdt105

cloudlessclimes — Sat, 03 Sep 2011 22:37:48 GMT

I love this mix.

01. fisheye - apocalyptica
02. across the sea - weezer
03 .santa monica bay - johnossi
04. the purification of water - rivers cuomo
05. you don't know me - ben folds feat. regina spektor
06. i bet that you look good on the dancefloor - arctic monkeys
07. the kind of dirt you can't wash off - i spy strangers
08. drowning lessons - my chemical romance
09. breathe underwater - placebo
10. better together - jack johnson
11. walls - all time low
12. the ocean - the bravery

I've listened to it over and over, as I edited my fic and on my walk to work and every single song is just great. Every song fit so well. Please down load it here and tell kurdt105 how amazing it is.

bandombigbang Along the Way (Brendon/Spencer) NC 17 Part 4

cloudlessclimes — Wed, 22 Jun 2011 00:23:57 GMT

BACK

As they walk along the street to the El train stop, Spencer notices that Brendon's hobbling a little bit, and so he stops and turns his back to him. “Here. Hop on!”

Brendon laughs and swats at Spencer's shoulder, “Wait. Are you drunk? I would like to arrive home and uninjured so we can have sex, okay?”

Spencer coughs out a breath at Brendon's words and then says, “No dumb ass, I'm kinda tipsy maybe, but if you don't get off your feet soon you're gonna do like, permanent damage to your ankle or some shit.” He crouches a little and waggles his ass at Brendon.

“Okay, okay!” Brendon hops up onto Spencer's back and he's heavier than he looks. Spencer makes a little oof! sound, adjusting his stance before they head off to the El stop. “I love piggy backs!” Brendon laughs enthusiastically as Spencer squeezes his hands behind the bend of Brendon's knees, sliding against the slick material of his boots.

“Don't get any ideas. One time offer, Princess.” They get to the station and Spencer stands up, letting Brendon slide to his feet. “And I don't do stairs.”

Pouting, Brendon grabs Spencer's hand and they haul each other up to the train platform. “You ditched Ryan and Jon again.”

“Yeah, well they're big boys. And probably getting high right now so they won't even notice.” But Spencer takes out his phone and sends off a quick text anyway.

The train comes, and without saying anything once they board, Brendon crawls into Spencer's lap and rests his head on his shoulder. They don't talk at all and there's a weird tension between them that could be anticipation or nerves. Spencer doesn't remember feeling this with Haley. And before that, the first time he ever had sex was at a party in high school where, after deciding he needed to lose his virginity, he'd gotten drunk enough to go up to Ryan's bedroom with a girl that sat behind him in homeroom and was clearly interested. He didn't really remember many of the details, never mind how he was feeling beforehand.

Hooking his chin over Brendon's shoulder, Spencer asks with quiet concern in his voice, “You okay?” Brendon doesn't answer, just swallows and tries to smile before nodding.

“Don't be nervous, we're gonna have fun, okay?” Spencer squeezes Brendon closer, wrapping his arms securely around his waist.

Tracing his thumbnail across Spencer's knuckles Brendon nods again, but the corners of his mouth tilt up in a smile. “Yeah, fun. I just...I guess in my head I've made it into this big deal and I...want to be good, you know?”

“Hey, aren't you the guy who told me you're good at everything?” Spencer smiles and traces his lips along Brendon's cheek, “Look Bee, I know it'll be good. I love you and we'll just go slow and...”

“Wait!” Brendon stretches awkwardly around to look at Spencer, “You love me?” The look in his eyes is so full of hope and wonder and something else so totally inscrutable it makes Spencer tense protectively.

“Of course I do.” Spencer pecks a kiss to Brendon's mouth for emphasis.

“No one's ever said that to me before,” Brendon husks as he deepens the kiss.

Spencer leans back into the train seat and studies Brendon, “What, like aside from your parents or whatever?” he blushes. This really wasn't the way that Spencer had planned to tell Brendon he loves him.

Brendon scrunches up his nose and shakes his head. “Nope. I mean I'm sure they did...do..whatever. But like, I guess I was just supposed to know it or something.” He shrugs self consciously. “Could we not talk about my parents right now?”

“Jesus!” Spencer hugs him tight. “Well, fuck that shit. I love you, so there.”

Reluctant to break the embrace, Brendon burrows his face into Spencer's neck and says, “You love me and we're going to have awesome sex because we're awesome.”

“Yeah,” Spencer chuckles and doesn't bother to see if anyone else on the train is listening to their conversation. He doesn't care. All he cares about is Brendon. “We're awesome.”

* * *

By unspoken agreement they get off at the stop by Brendon's apartment—it's closest to the party and less of a walk once they leave the station. Laughing and touching and stopping every few steps to kiss, it takes longer than it should to go the half a dozen feet from the CTA exit to Brendon's front door.

They finally manage to tumble up the stairs, and as the door slams behind them, Brendon shoves Spencer against the wall, fingers fumbling with the ties of his costume. He roughly rucks down one sleeve until the neck of the t-shirt Spencer's wearing beneath is pulled uncomfortably tight. Spencer draws his mouth away from Brendon's eager kisses and says, “Hey, hey. Relax. We have lots of time, okay?” His voice is soft and fond as he strokes Brendon's arms.

“Sorry,” Brendon pants, leaning his head against the wall beside Spencer's face. Taking a deep breath, he steps back and awkwardly tries to do something with his hands that doesn't involve touching Spencer.

“Don't be sorry.” Spencer cups Brendon's jaw, kissing him into calm. Taking Brendon's hand he gives it a squeeze as he leads them across the short distance from the doorway to the bed. Spencer sits down and with slow purpose, shrugging out of the prisoner's jumpsuit until it's around his waist. He bends over and undoes his shoes, slipping them off, and then shimmies his costume the rest of the way off to pool on the floor. Now in his underwear and t-shirt, he shifts on the bed, leaning back against the wall with his long legs stretched out in front of him.

Brendon has tucked his legs up underneath him and is staring at Spencer from beneath lowered lashes. “I guess I should go take this stuff off, huh?” He plucks at the jacket of his costume.

“You don't have to if you don't want to,” Spencer blurts out. “I mean, like, yeah, you probably want to take off your...” he waves at Brendon's skirt, “Your underwear thing, but like...you can leave the rest on. If you want.” His cheeks flush red and he smooths his t-shirt over his belly.

Brendon's bright laughter fills the small room and he leans up on his knees to kiss Spencer. “Spencer Smith, I am learning so much about you. So much.” He raises an eyebrow, still smiling. “I'm just gonna do this in the bathroom, because wow, it is so not sexy to watch me get out of this thing.” He affects a pained expression and shifts his hips uncomfortably. “I'll be right back, don't go anywhere!” Brendon kisses his fingers and then traces them over Spencer's mouth as he gets up from the bed and heads to the bathroom.

Spencer crosses and uncrosses his legs and his ankles and his arms. He runs both hands through his hair until he's sure it's a mess, and he laughs when he hears Brendon muttering and cursing as things fall off the sink top. “You okay in there?”

“Yeah, yeah, gimme a minute,” Brendon yells back, sounding a little out of breath.

Spencer's smirking laughter dies when Brendon emerges back into the studio apartment's main room--he's taken off the wig and jacket of his cop costume, but kept on the boots, skirt, and make up. He's standing in the middle of the room, arms awkwardly at his sides, flitting glances from Spencer and down to his hands. “C'mere,” Spencer's voice is rough and low as he stretches out an arm, waiting for Brendon.

Brendon sidles slowly up to the edge of the bed until his knees dent the mattress. With precise care, he raises his hands to wind his fingers through the thickness of Spencer's hair. Blue eyes wide, Spencer smiles and sets his broad hands on Brendon's waist, pulling him close and down onto the bed. “You like going slow, huh?” Brendon scratches his fingers through Spencer's beard and smiles into his eyes.

“Usually, yeah.” Spencer playfully bites at Brendon's fingertips, making him laugh. “So, um..I was wondering?” He drags his index finger across Brendon's sternum, making him shiver as he trails downward, fingernail circling the tight nub of his nipple. “Uh...how's your dick doing?”

Brendon hiccups out a laugh. “Um, my dick is just fine, thanks.” He lifts his hips away from where he's pressed to Spencer's side. The outline of his erection is clearly visible against the navy blue material of his skirt. “Happy to be free!” Brendon chuckles obnoxiously.

“Ah, well, that's good. But kinda too bad too,” Spencer watches his hand as he spreads his fingers and drags it across Brendon's chest and lower across his belly, resting at the waistband of his skirt. “I thought I could maybe, you know, kiss it better.”

Spencer is staring intently at the path his fingers are tracing and Brendon laughs, stroking a palm across Spencer's embarrassment reddened cheek. “You really want to?” Brendon suppresses his laughter and his voice has dropped, his eyes darkened with heat.

“Yeah,” Spencer licks his lips. He leans up on one hand to kiss Brendon, while he tries with the other to flick open the skirt's fastener. “I've been thinking about it a lot. Like really, really a lot.” He grimaces and adjust himself where his cock is hard against the seam of his boxer briefs.

“Here, here,” Brendon is panting with urgency once more. He bats Spencer's fumbling fingers away and takes the skirt's hem in his hands, tugging until it's up around his waist. He swallows and closes his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall.

Spencer blinks repeatedly, not sure what he's seeing is real. Brendon's cock is flushed a dark red and bobbing slightly, a few inches from Spencer's face. He licks his lips and says, “Holy shit, Bren.” Brendon is not particularly hairy on a normal day, and Spencer knows that he likes to shave his legs and pits, and complains bitterly that he can't afford laser hair removal. But, in all the times they've fooled around, it never occurred to Spencer that Brendon would sometimes shave everywhere.

“Is it weird? Are you grossed out? I mean, I just really don't dig body hair, you know?” Brendon is fidgeting and babbling, unsure how Spencer will react to his complete lack of pubic hair. “It's a lot of fucking work but sometimes I feel like...”

“Fuck no. No!” Spencer whispers in awe. He lowers his mouth to lick a stripe across the bend of Brendon's thigh. He traces his tongue across Brendon's pubic bone and groans at the unexpected pleasure of nothing but smooth skin against his taste buds.

“Body hair for me, I mean. Yours isn't gross. It's awesome. Amazing.” Brendon's fingers flit along Spencer's beard covered cheek to twist in the hair at his crown.

Spencer doesn't reply, just groans and licks low around the base of Brendon's cock. He can't get enough of Brendon's taste. He's jerked off countless times to the remembrances of Brendon's soft, smooth skin beneath his fingers and tongue, but never like this. He buries his face in the crease of Brendon's hip, inhaling deeply, trying to take in the overwhelming sent of Brendon, everywhere.

He sucks kisses across Brendon's groin and takes a deep breath before gripping the base of Brendon's cock in his hand and flicking out his tongue to taste at his slit. He manages a shaking exhale through his nose, and he can feel and hear the tiny noises of pleasure Brendon's making at the intimate touches. Spencer closes his eyes and starts to move his hand, and, eventually, takes the head of Brendon's cock between his lips.

Spencer's wondered for a long time what it would feel like to go down on a guy. He'd even dreamed about doing this, with Brendon. But nothing could have prepared him for the overwhelming assault on his senses reality brings . His mouth is full of Brendon, his nose is full of his scent, and the hand that isn't slowly jacking Brendon off is stroking reassurance over the jut of his hip bone, hungry for the feel of his skin.

Wanting more, Spencer curls his tongue along the veined underside of Brendon's erection, leaving a spit slick trail as his goes lower, taking more of Brendon in until his lips brush his fingers. With a wet slurping noise, Spencer slides the tight 'O' of his mouth back up to the head, teasing at the slit with his tongue, and lapping delicately at the drops of precome beading there. His breathing is harsh through his nose, and he can't help the hungry whines that escape in a hum around Brendon's cock. Without conscious thought, Spencer's hips start to stutter across Brendon's boot covered thigh, desperate for some relief from the throbbing in his own hard cock.

Brendon whines, and his hands go from Spencer's hair to his shoulders, to the bed and back again; a loop of dazed arousal. Spencer uses the noises Brendon's making, and their volume and intensity as a guide for what he's should be doing. He turns his face, rubbing his cheek across Brendon's hip until he can suck the fragile skin of one of Brendon's perfectly smooth balls into his mouth, all the while still moving his hand up and down Brendon's shaft in a steady, determined rhythm. He can feel the fine tremors shaking Brendon's thigh muscles. The nasal high pitched noises Brendon is making as he sways his hips into Spencer's touch are all Spencer needs to tell him to pull off. There's an obscene popping noise and he wipes at his mouth, grinning as Brendon looks down at him in confusion.

“What did you do that for?” Brendon asks petulantly. “Why'd you stop?”

Brushing a messy kiss just below Brendon's belly button and soothing his hands over the tight muscles of Brendon's calves, still trapped inside the stiff material of his boots, Spencer says, “That's the noise you make when you're going to come.”

“Yeah? So? Aren't orgasms kind of the point?” It's difficult for Brendon to look indignant when he's sprawled almost naked across the bed, flushed a pretty pink and glistening as sweat trails from his hair line and down his chest, the tight tops of his boots digging red marks into his thighs.

Spencer kisses the flair of Brendon's hip, using his teeth to bite a faint red mark in the wake of his lips. “Well, actually, I thought the point was for you to fuck me.” He manages to say conversationally. “And while I'd be happy to spend the whole night sucking your cock,” he tilts his head to lick playfully at Brendon's erection, “I would kind of like it if,” he swallows and his bravado falters as he manages to say all in a rush, “If maybe you came when you were, you know, inside me.”

Brendon blinks and stills. “Oh. Oh, yes! That!” He wraps his hand around Spencer's upper arm, and guides him up the bed. “That's what I want too,” he says and then kisses Spencer, tongue licking at the precome and saliva smeared across Spencer's lips and glistening in his beard.

They kiss for long, drawn out minutes, eventually breaking apart enough to draw breath but still touching-warm hands across warmer skin. Brendon bites his lip and, leaning close to Spencer, confesses, “I'm afraid I'll hurt you.”

Spencer tilts his head to look Brendon in the eye, concerned about the genuine fear he sees in Brendon's expression. “I'm a big boy,” he starts to joke, but then seeing that's not what Brendon needs right now he quickly adds, “Look, you won't hurt me, I know it.” He lays a gentle finger to Brendon's lips as he starts to protest. “And, if I want to stop, I'll tell you. Same goes for you, okay?” He squeezes Brendon's hand in his. “I trust you.”

Brendon nods and exhales loudly. “Yeah. Okay.”

Spencer untangles his fingers from Brendon's grasp and pets reassurance over his arms and shoulders, threading his fingers through the fine hairs at the nape of his neck. “Bren, when you, you know, jerk off or what ever, do you...do you ever use, um...do you ever use your fingers?”

“Um...you mean to,” Brendon raises his hand and makes an obscene, scooping gesture with his index and middle fingers. “No,” he shakes his head emphatically. “Have you?”

Scratching at his nose and chuckling awkwardly, Spencer says, “Well yeah. So, Haley, she got this strap on thing as a joke at one of those sex toy parties girls go to? And it was all funny and hilarious and then holy shit! I guess I'd been thinking about things for a while, and after that happened I just tried...different stuff...”

“You mean you use...more than your fingers?” Brendon blinks in surprise, it's not something he's ever thought about.

“Yeah,” Spencer's laugh is tight and embarrassed. “Just so, what I'm saying is...I don't think you'll hurt me. Okay? I like it. It feels...good.”

Brendon nods, bringing his lips to Spencer and kissing him hungrily. His fingers trail to the hem of Spencer's t-shirt and begin slowly inching it upward. Spencer does his best to haul the shirt over his head without breaking the kiss, making them both laugh. He steadies himself with a palm flat on Brendon's thigh. Playing with the top of Brendon's boot he says, “So, I know you have condoms. You got anything else?” as he pulls out the condom Brendon had hidden there earlier.

“Shit yes!” Brendon says panting and enthusiastic. He leans over Spencer, stretching to reach his make up table. He opens a drawer and takes out a pump handled bottle of lube. “Wet and wild!” he snorts obnoxiously shaking the container at Spencer.

Spencer laughs obligingly, rolling his eyes. “Man, you are so lame.” But his expression is fond and he can't help but reach out and run his hand up the shiny slick material of Brendon's tall boots, over his hip and cupping his ass.

“Yup! Good thing I'm cute, huh?” Brendon laughs again and sits at Spencer's knee. He holds out his hand for the condom, tossing the lube onto the bed beside him and says, with a strange sort of pride, “I've been practicing my moves, Spencer Smith, just for you.” He goes up on his knees, shimmying his skirt down and off from where it's crumpled at his waist. Spencer bites back a groan at how pornographic Brendon looks, clad in nothing but boots that reach his thighs and the dark kohl of his mascara and liner smudged around his eyes. He closes his eyes when Brendon settles back onto the bed and carefully opens the package with his teeth with slow, practiced movements.

“You have moves, huh?” Spencer wriggles around on the bed until he's lying with his head on the pillow instead of across the bed with his head all scrunched up against the wall. He watches closely as Brendon's expression settles into serious concentration. Spencer groans and palms at his erection, still trapped in his boxer briefs. Licking his lips he flicks down the waistband and manages to wriggle them down his legs just as Brendon slides on the condom, and with his free hand reaches out to tug Spencer's underwear down and off, flinging it to the floor, making them both laugh and letting Spencer breathe again.

The laughter dies as suddenly as it had erupted, and Spencer feels his pale skin pinking under the intensity of Brendon's stare. He's naked and the room is bright, and Brendon is fucking staring at him. The knot of anticipation tightens low in his belly, and it seems like time has slowed down or maybe stopped all together, and all they're doing is staring at each other. “Shouldn't you roll over?” Brendon's voice is rough and low when he finally speaks.

“Nah, I wanna see you,” Spencer crosses his arms behind his head and licks his lips.

Brendon doesn't say anything to that, just gives a short nod, then bows his head to focus on coating his right hand with a pump of the lube. “Okay, ready?” He kisses the inside of Spencer's knee and without further warning pushes his index finger into Spencer.

Spencer yelps at the sudden intrusion, tightening around Brendon's finger. Brendon freezes and says “Sorry, sorry,” and then just as quickly withdraws his finger, petting Spencer's calf as he whines.

“Shit. Fuck. Jesus.” Spencer glowers down his body. “Brendon, don't stop.”

Brendon mutters apologies again, but this time he takes a blob of lube and smears it across the tight ring of muscle before easing his finger back in. He curls up around Spencer's wide spread legs and nuzzles at Spencer's hip. Spencer exhales long and slow and he can feel the tension slipping from him as Brendon starts a slow careful rhythm. “You can add another one. Please.” Spencer manages to say around a long groan of pleasure.

“Spence, shit. You're so fucking pretty. So pretty,” Brendon mumbles, circling Spencer's hole with his middle finger before slipping it inside to rest along his index finger. He's brushing tiny presses of lip, barely a kiss at all, to Spencer's hip and belly and holding on to Spencer's thigh for dear life. His hard cock is trapped between his stomach and Spencer's calf, and Spencer can feel the dribble of his precome spreading with the back and forth motion of Brendon's forearm and fingers.

“Shit, shit.” Spencer is muttering nonsense and curses as Brendon's long fingers scissor inside him, brushing his prostate and making his vision white out around the edges with the intensity of the pleasure. He flails out an arm, fingers slipping along the sweat slicked top of Brendon's boot and thigh. “Bren, you need to...now. I need...” With his other hand Spencer has a fierce grip on the pillow beneath his head and he's rocking his hips up to meet Brendon's every stroke.

Much more careful this time, Brendon eases first one finger and then the other out of Spencer. Making a face, he wipes his hand across the quilt and then crawls up the bed, kissing Spencer hard and fast until they're both dizzy. “That was so...you're so...” Brendon brushes sweat dampened hair out of Spencer's eyes and nuzzles at his cheek, flushed skin scraping against Spencer's beard.

“Brendon, please!” Spencer whines, trying to steady his breathing.

“Okay, okay!” Brendon kisses Spencer once more before crawling back down the bed. and Spencer manages to open his eyes just in time to get an amazing view of Brendon's ass as he makes his way to the foot of the bed, the pointed toe of his boots digging into the mattress. Spencer closes his eyes and drops his head back down onto the pillow in an effort to prevent coming right then and there.

Spencer is silently willing himself to relax. He loosens his grip on the pillow, letting his arms fall to his sides. He can feel Brendon's thumbs tracing the shapes of his ankle bones. He waits. And waits. And opens his eyes. Brendon is on his knees, folded cleverly into the space of Spencer's spread legs. He's got the bottle of lube in his hands and is biting his lip, head bowed so Spencer can't read his expression. “Bren?”

“What if I do it wrong?” He says quietly without lifting his head, bouncing the bottle of lube off his pleather covered thigh.

Exhaling a harsh breath, it takes all the patience Spencer has to keep his annoyance from his voice. He's almost out of his mind horny, naked in Brendon's bed, rock hard with his legs spread, begging Brendon to fuck him. “What?” he asks dumbly. Frankly he's amazed he can form any words at all.

“You're all like, experienced and shit.” Brendon looks up at him, scowling. “I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. What if I do it wrong?”

“Jesus, Brendon,” Leaning up to look at Brendon, Spencer frowns, more at his own perturbed tone than Brendon's pre-fuck freak out. “Whatever else I've done, I've never done this before. With anyone, okay? But I'm pretty sure natural instincts count for a lot in this department. How the fuck can you 'do it wrong'? Your dick. My ass. Lots of lube. And go!” Spencer flops back down onto the mattress and purposely opens his legs further, tilting his hips up in wanton invitation, fully on display.

He smiles at Brendon's indignant huff, and closes his eyes when he sees Brendon pick up the lube and fill his palm. At least he now has the good sense to rub it across his fingers until it takes on some of his body heat before circling Spencer's asshole with a generous amount. Spencer opens his eyes again, has to look when he hears Brendon slicking himself up, and he groans as he watches Brendon's hand circling his cock, coating it with the slick lube. It would be hilarious, the condom's a bright pink and Brendon looks so serious, so intent, but Spencer's okay with finding the whole thing stupidly hot.

Brendon makes a few furtive strokes between Spencer's ass cheeks, the head of his cock glancing off Spencer's balls and making him groan. Using hands at the backs of Spencer's knees to guide him, he slips Spencer's legs high under his ribs and slowly slips inside him. “Shit, Spencer!”

Spencer groans at the feeling, and eagerly arches up, wanting more, wanting to feel Brendon's cock fill him, he locks his ankles low against Brendon's back. “S'good, Bee. Keep going. So good.” He's babbling encouragement, his eyes shut so tightly pinwheels and fireworks dance behind his eyelids.

Amazed by the tight resistance, even after having worked Spencer open with his fingers and a ridiculous amount of lube, Brendon stops to breathe. As he exhales he snaps his hips forward, the smooth surface of his boots squeaking against Spencer's reddening skin, and then his cock slips deeper into Spencer, and Brendon relaxes into a slow steady rhythm; rocking into Spencer then pulling back until he's almost all the way out again. He's gripping Spencer's knees and curling his boot covered toes into the mattress to keep steady despite the twist and bend of his every movement.

Reveling in the feeling of being stretched and filled, Spencer's eager, greedy moans are loud in the room and he opens his eyes to watch Brendon fuck him. He makes a high noise that escapes through his nose when he sees Brendon's expression, his features still and determined. He's focused on Spencer, lost in the moment and it's so hot that Spencer grunts, bucking his hips and coming all over his chest and most of Brendon's boots.

Brendon's eyes snap open at the slip-sticky feeling of Spencer's come splashing against his forearm and he stares in open-mouthed awe. “Spencer,” he rasps. He loses the carefully focused rhythm and begins to snap his hips with urgency, all the while cursing under his breath until without warning, he comes with a shocked gasp. Shaking, Brendon manages to ease himself down onto Spencer, the echo of his orgasm pounding in his skull. He sobs for breath against Spencer's chest as Spencer runs his palm down Brendon's spine. Making a face, Brendon pulls away just enough to shuck the condom, carefully pinching it and tying it off before dropping it over the side of the bed.

“Holy shit Brendon, you did so fucking good!” Spencer turns his head in a lazy bid to kiss Brendon's cheek.

Brendon groans his agreement into the pillow and says, awe still evident in his voice, “You must really fucking like that. You got come everywhere."

They both manage weak giggles as Spencer pulls the quilt up around them.

* * *

After, when they're cuddled close and Brendon's even gone and got a wash cloth to clean them both up instead of just falling asleep sticky and uncomfortable, turning out the lights on his way back to the bed, Brendon whispers, “Next time we're totally doing this at your place. Your bed has way more room.”

“Oh yeah? Next time, huh?” Spencer's voice comes out thick and sounding like someone else, strange to his own ears. “I don't think we're gonna get up from here and go to my place any time soon. And I was thinking gimme, like, twenty minutes and I could go again.”

Brendon blinks and stalls his careful petting across Spencer's chest. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Okay, so next next time.” They both laugh likes it's the most hilarious thing that anyone's ever said, and the laughter slowly fizzes out, like soda pop bubbles, until they're sleepy and still.

“I love you,” Brendon says quietly, more to hear himself say it out loud than anything else, beaming wide in the darkness. He hugs Spencer tight, brushing a kiss just above his heart, ready for whatever comes next.

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bandombigbang Along the Way (Brendon/Spencer) NC 17 Part 3

cloudlessclimes — Wed, 22 Jun 2011 00:14:34 GMT

BACK

Scooting down the bed and elbowing between Spencer's thighs, Brendon says, “Well all right then!” and tugs down Spencer's briefs so his erection springs free.

“Um, are you sure? I mean you've never done oral, but I've had, you know, maybe kind of a lot of blow jobs.” Spencer tucks a wayward tuft of Brendon's hair behind his ear.

Brendon pauses, chin resting on the crest of Spencer's hip. “I never thought about that. I guess we could switch after or something. Because I've been thinking about how you taste, all day. And I really want to find out. Tell me if I'm doing something wrong?” Remembering that Spencer likes to be jacked slow and steady, with a lot of teasing, Brendon curls his fist and slides his palm down Spencer's shaft, kissing Spencer's thighs and the jut of his hip. When his tongue slides low under Spencer's naval, Spencer wuffs out a little laugh that makes Brendon smile. “Okay,” he says more to himself more than anything, and touches his tongue to Spencer's already leaking slit. He's tasted Spencer's come before, kissed all over his skin, so this isn't very different. Except it's Spencer's cock.

In his mouth.

He is sucking Spencer Smith's cock.

And it's awesome.

Brendon licks and sucks, changing and adjusting his rhythm and pressure based on the intensity and volume of Spencer's reactions. His jaw is starting to ache and his hollow cheek sucking causes tiny strings of saliva to spill from his lips to his chin and Spencer's dick. When Spencer's hips start twisting up to meet every lick and pull on his dick, Brendon knows he's close. But he doesn't pull off. He's all in, and it's probably gross but Brendon likes how Spencer's come tastes.

“Shit, shit!” Spencer grabs wildly at Brendon's hair and sort of holds his head in place while he thrusts three or four times. It's only when Brendon makes gagging noises that Spencer releases his painfully tight grip on Brendon's hair, and Brendon feels the totally unlike anything else sensation of Spencer's come coating his tongue and the roof of his mouth and spilling out over his lips.

“Wow,” is all Brendon can say, swiping the back of his hand over his mouth and crawling up the bed.

Spencer flops a weak arm across Brendon's chest. “You're sure you've never done that before?”

“Yup. I'm pretty sure I'd remember if I had. I'm kind of naturally good at most things. I guess it's sort of annoying if you're not me.” Brendon lets Spencer kiss at his lips, but he's a little weirded out about Spencer tasting his own come in Brendon's mouth. He'd really like to brush his teeth. Or maybe rinse with some mouth wash.

Spencer's nuzzles at Brendon's ear, “Well I can tell you that it is most definitely not annoying to me...You're turn?” and then he yawns and stretches.

Brendon sighs and gives Spencer's arm a squeeze, “Nah, I'm good for now. I think you'll probably fall asleep in the middle of trying. And dude, you grind your teeth.”

* * *

“So, are you like, ashamed of me?” They're standing at the pancake bar at Stanley's when Brendon blurts out what he's been thinking about for a couple of days.

Spencer is so shocked his blueberry waffles fall into the mashed potato section of the hot table. “What???”

Brendon shrugs and makes a show of picking all the banana pieces out of the fruit salad. “It's just you've met my friends, and you talk about your friends all the time. We've been going out or whatever for a month and I've never met them.” Brendon's eyes are sad when he turns to walk back to their table.

“Hey, hey!” Spencer catches up with him and tugs on his shoulder. “You can't drop shit like that on me and then walk away. Brendon, of course I'm not ashamed of you. You're amazing. And maybe I just want to keep that for a while. This thing...just the two of us. Maybe I don't want to share.”

“Or maybe I'm not good enough for Ryan and Jon.”

Spencer angrily plonks down his orange juice and slides into his seat, “Man, when you meet my friends you will realize how completely impossible that is. I'm sort of afraid for you to meet them. They're kind of douchebags. But, like, loveable douchebags.”

“Is that even a thing?” Brendon focuses his attention on cutting up his waffle into tiny pieces.

“They mean well, they're just...Arts majors who get stoned a lot.” Spencer reaches over the table and takes Brendon's hand. “Look, we're having a jam session band practice kind of thing, which is basically a ninety minute block of time where we drink beers, I occasionally bang the shit out of my drum kit, and Jon and I mock Ryan and his inability to tune an electric guitar, with an electric tuner, in under twenty minutes. If you don't have any music lessons, come. Please?”

“Okay.”

* * *

Jon twines bass strings into a neat coil and says, “So what do I call him? Her? Is he a tranny?”

“Oh my god, the word is transgender and no he isn't.” Spencer is kicking his drum peddle in annoyance.

“So he's a transvestite then? A cross dresser?” Ryan is cramming Doritos in his face and pretending that he's writing down the musical notation that Jon's just dictated.

Twirling one drum stick and voice edging towards irritated, Spencer says, “For Christ's sake, just call him Brendon. Brendon. You got it? If you fuck this up or upset him, that's fucking it.”

Wiggling his toes in his flip flops, Jon says, “Geez, Spence, we're just trying to make sure we don't say anything stupid.”

“That, my friend, is a statistical improbability.” Spencer stuffs his sticks into their holder and twists, stretching out his back. His phone buzzes in his pocket and he takes it out, studying the screen. “Okay, he's here. Please try to keep the douchiness to a minimum.”

Spencer opens the door and Brendon is standing there, bouncing on the toes of his high tops. “Come on in,” Spencer smiles wide, kissing Brendon's cheek. “Ryan and Jon, this is Brendon. Brendon, this is Ryan and Jon.” Everyone waves awkwardly and then Spencer motions for Brendon to take a seat on Ryan's couch. “If the rock and roll boy genius ever gets his act together, we're just gonna run through one more song, then we can leave, okay?” Spencer smiles over his shoulder as he takes his seat behind the kit.

“Sure, sure. Take your time.” Brendon scratches nervously at his nose and sits back in his seat. Ryan signals that he's finally ready to go, and they launch into Daytripper. Ryan had recently heard this amazing brand new band—it turned out it was the Beatles—and insists they learn the entire catalog. Spencer doesn't even try to figure out how Ryan's brain works anymore.

Before he really knows what he's doing, Brendon is tapping his foot in time to the music, and tapping his finger on the glass coffee table. By the second chorus he's singing along. Ryan stops dead and the other two are a beat behind. “Sorry,” Brendon bites his lip and looks in alarm at Spencer, who is beaming. “It's just something I do. If I know a song, I just have to sing along with it. It's probably annoying.”

“Holy shit!” Ryan exclaims, heading towards the couch but being pulled up short by his guitar cable. “Holy shit! You can sing.”

“I told you he can sing!” Spencer yells in annoyance.

Waving a dismissive hand Ryan says, “Yeah, but you're trying to get into his pants, who knows what crazy rose colored glasses type shit you're into.” Instead of fighting with the cable, Ryan lifts the strap over his head and sets the guitar down. “You can really sing!” Ryan lays a companionable arm along Brendon's shoulders.

“Thanks?” Brendon is trying not to laugh.

“Sing the next verse!” Ryan prompts and unable to stop himself or question what the fuck is happening, Brendon does as asked. “Here, can you sing this?” he takes a notebook out of his inside vest pocket and thrusts it under Brendon's nose.

Brendon takes the moleskin and moves it down to a more manageable height. “That's a lot of words.”

“Just cram in what you can, here's the melody.” Ryan waves a dismissive hand and the flips to another page in his notebook. Again, Brendon does as asked without thinking about it.

From the other side of the room, Spencer yells “He also plays guitar and piano!”

“And drums and trumpet and accordion and melodica.” Brendon feels like he's on some sort of hidden camera show. “And I kind of hack at the cello when I'm bored.”

“I have a feeling we're going to get on just swell!” Jon seats himself on Brendon's free side and salutes him with a beer bottle.

Spencer rolls his eyes and mutters, “Awesome,” under his breath.

* * *

Spencer leans against the El train doorway, watching the giant brown box that is Merchandise Mart recede in the distance when his phone buzzes. “Hello?”

“Spencer Smith, I've been avoiding you,” Brendon's voice is solemn in his ear.

To be honest, what with midterms and projects and Brendon's crazy work schedule, Spencer could have probably gone as things were for another month before he even realized that Brendon was not speaking to him on purpose. “Oh yeah?”

“Yes!”

“And why's that?” Spencer winds his ear buds around his ipod and then shoves the whole thing into his pocket.

Brendon clears his thought and then coughs, “Well, see I did some research, right? And um...I don't think I can do, you know it?”

Spencer runs his fingers through his beard, scratching at his chin in confusion. “Brendon, what the hell are you talking about?”

“Sex!” Brendon hisses into the phone, making Spencer sit up straight and pay attention. “I'm talking about sex. I don't think I can do it. I don't think I can be the, you know, the catcher.”

Tired after spending the entire previous night working on a project, and not as patient as he could be, Spencer says, “Do you mean you don't think you can bottom? And what kind of research lead you to this decision, pray tell?” Luckily his train car isn't very crowded.

This isn't a conversation he wants to have in public.

“Yes, that's exactly what I mean,” Brendon hisses. “And I was doing some research, on the internet.”

“You mean you were watching porn, don't you?” Spencer watches the woman across from him, and he knows by the change in her expression that she is eavesdropping. “Because let me tell you, actual sex? Is usually not very much like porn sex.”

There's a very long pause and Brendon says, “Oh well, that's a relief, because it seems sort of terrifying.”

Spencer tries his best not to laugh. “And, who says you have to...bottom, anyway?”

Brendon sputters and hems and haws until he finally says, “Well, no one, I guess. Maybe I thought because you're so...you know and I'm well, I'm so like, me...I thought that's how things were supposed to...”

“Yeah well, fuck that shit,” Spencer has to work to lower his voice, “The best orgasm I've ever had in my life was this one time when Haley used a strap-on on me.” He studiously avoids eye contact with anyone else in his train car but he can hear the eavesdropping woman across from him making strangled noises of shocked surprise.

“Holy shit, straight people do that?” Brendon makes a very similar noise, and Spencer does laugh then.

Holding the phone closer and whispering, Spencer says, “I dunno about straight people, but I do. Listen, I'm coming over okay? We'll talk about...stuff. I don't want to just jump into something without both of us being comfortable, being okay with it. Okay?”

“Okay,” Brendon says in a small voice. “See you soon.”

* * *

“Brendon!” Spencer uses the counter top to boost himself up enough to give Brendon a quick kiss, square on the mouth. The girls working in the store smile indulgently at the two of them, and there might be mumblings of “adorable” that Spencer would never admit to hearing, never mind enjoying.

Brendon sets down the box of tissues he'd been trying to jam into a holder and smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners where they're smudged with a dark purple eye shadow. “Spencer! I don't get off for another half hour, but if you want to hang around I'm sure Cassadee could sell you some of the new metallic liquid eyeliner we just got in.

“No, thanks. I'm sure that between you and Ryan Ross all my manliest make up needs are currently being met. But, I'll hang out and wait for you to finish, if that's okay. Also, I have big news!”

“Yay!” Brendon twirls a sable powder brush against the palm of his hand, “I like big news! Spill it!”

Spencer fiddles with the rows of lip gloss and says, “So, my friends Bill and Sisky, they have these epic parties, right? And they're totally having a Halloween party that's going to be the most epic party, ever. And, you, good sir, are invited!” He beams at Brendon across the glass display cabinet.

Hurrying around the counter and plonking himself onto a stool, steadfastly ignoring the pointed looks of his shift supervisor, Brendon says, “Coolness. I love Halloween. We never celebrated as a kid. I mean, some LDS families do, but mine didn't. We dressed up for other stuff though. It is a costume party, right?”

“It would be kind of weird to have a Halloween party that's not a costume party, don't you think?” Spencer twirls the stool Brendon's sitting on, and Brendon giggles as he spins.

“Oh, I have so many ideas! Are Ryan and Jon coming too?” Brendon flings an arm around Spencer's waist to stop the spinning.

Spencer tugs on a stray piece of hair that has fallen free of Brendon's kind of amazing pompadour. “I was hoping you'd say you had costume ideas. Usually I just buy a stupid Halloween t-shirt from Target or do what ever Ryan says. Yeah, he and Jon, and their girlfriends are gonna be there. But they won't tell me what their costumes are.” Spencer frowns at the long glass window that runs along the front wall of the store, glad he's not caught in the downpour that came out of nowhere.

“I like Ryan, he's hilarious.” Brendon makes a face when his supervisor asks him to ring through a customer's order.

“You know he doesn't try to be funny, right? That's just his personality. But, I am not above laughing at him.”

Brendon hands the woman he's helped her change and says without looking at Spencer, “So, just mill around for like twenty minutes and then we can go, okay?”

* * *

Brendon won't tell Spencer what his ideas for their costumes are. He'd just sent an email asking Spencer for his veto list. Spencer had typed:
-high heels (for me)
-masks (for you and me)
-clowns (please fuck no, does anyone actually like clowns? Stupid fucking Stephen King and Pennywise have fucked up generations of possible circus going children for ever)
-and please for the love of all that's halloweeny no feathers (for me. I'd say ask Ryan and Jon but we agreed to never speak of that again)
So he only finds out when he arrives home early on the day of the party—he'd had to clarify to Brendon that yes, the party is on the 31st, because it's a Halloween party—and finds Brendon waiting for him on the front steps of his three-flat with garment bags, what looks like a hat box, and a backpack that seems even more full than usual.

“Hey, ready to get your Hallloween freak on?” Brendon jumps up and kisses Spencer.

“Trick or treat?” Spencer asks, taking the garment bags from Brendon and herding them inside.

Brendon motions for him to sit on the sofa and he makes grabby hands for the bags. “Okay, are you ready?” He's beaming and tapping his toe a mile a minute on the hardwood floor.

“Ready as I'll ever be,” Spencer drawls, stretching his arms along the back of the sofa, fixing Brendon with what he hopes is an expression of eager interest.

Undoing the zipper with a flourish, Brendon reaches in and extracts the first costume. “Tah dah! For you!” Spencer laughs when he sees it—an old school convict's costume—a one piece black and white striped jump suit and a little round hat. “There's a ball and chain in my back pack—shut up, by the way,” Brendon adds before Spencer can make the obvious joke.

“That's awesome. Looks pretty comfortable, given what you could have come up with. It'll make going to the bathroom a challenge, though,” Spencer catches the costume as Brendon throws it at him, inspecting it closely. There's only a single tie closure, at the back of the neck.

“You're a smart guy, you'll figure it out,” Brendon flashes a grin at Spencer and then pulls his costume out of the bag.

Spencer raises his eyebrow at the blue polyester police officer's jacket. “Cool, that's what I thought, you know after I saw my costume,” he waves one of the convict outfit's pant legs towards Brendon. “But, um...where are the pants?”

“Oh!” Brendon undoes the brass buttons on the front of the jacket and holds up a tiny navy blue strip of fabric.

“Umm...” Spencer is really confused.

Brendon drops the now empty garment bag and settles himself in Spencer's lap, “It's a skirt,” he whispers in Spencer's ear. “Unless...you think your friends won't appreciate drag?”

“Oh shit no, drag is awesome. They won't care. They're pretty open, accepting dudes. And they've been known to wear a dress every now and then.” Spencer brushes his lips across Brendon's and Brendon swivels around until he's straddling Spencer's thighs, arms looped loosely around Spencer's shoulders. “Awesome costumes; convict and the lady cop. Hot too.”

Brendon giggles and, after brushing a few light kisses against Spencer's mouth, says, “Putting lady in front of everything makes it more awesome. Lady cop. Lady doctor. My fav is Lady trucker.”

Deepening the kiss and letting his hands wander up under Brendon's shirt to stroke across the warm soft skin of his back, Spencer laughs and says, “Look out Lady Gaga here comes Lady Trucker,” into Brendon's open mouth, making them both laugh harder.

“I should start getting ready,” Brendon pulls away from the kiss with a wet smacking noise, and lifts Spencer's arm, turning his wrist so he can see the time on his watch.

“Yeah, you should,” but the only move Spencer makes is to trace his teeth down Brendon's neck and tuck his fingertips into the back of Brendon's jeans.

Wriggling, Brendon smacks Spencer's hand away and eventually manages to stand. “We'll be late.”

“So?” Spencer really doesn't see the problem. “It'll take me like, two seconds to get ready. Do you think I should just wear it over my clothes, or like shorts and a t-shirt?” He holds up the costume and shakes it out.

Brendon wrinkles up his nose, thinking for a second and say, “Well, it's polyester, so you'll probably get really hot really fast and you know...you sweat so...”

“Hey! No one is sweatier than you!” Spencer says defensively, then concedes that Brendon's probably right, “Boxers and t-shirt it is then.”

“And I don't sweat. I glisten!” Brendon makes a grumpy face and takes his make up case out of his back pack. Spencer thinks it's sort of hilarious that Brendon's make up case is a tool box. Especially considering he's pretty sure Brendon would be hard pressed to tell a wrench from a screwdriver. “There's the big mirror in the bedroom is you want.”

Brendon scoots on to the floor, his legs flat in front of him under the coffee table, “Nah, this is good.” He takes a terrycloth band out of the front pocket of his backpack and uses it to secure his hair back, fierce concentration in his eyes as he digs out foundation and sponges and a small mirror. He sets out various pallets and pots and brushes, lining them up in neat order. Spencer feels something slide rather painfully to a halt inside his rib cage.

Shit. He can't sit here watching Brendon put on make up without embarrassing himself, he's pretty sure. He exhales sharply through his nose and then, smacking his palms against his thighs, stands. “Guess I should try this thing on and make sure it fits, huh?” He grabs up his costume and then strides towards his bedroom. Brendon briefly looks up, a bemused expression on his face, and shrugs.

Spencer comes back into the living room clad in the prisoner's jump suit, and Brendon stops applying mascara to clap his hands and jump up, circling Spencer in appraisal. “You look hot.” He says with knowledgeable finality.

“Sure,” Spencer snorts out a laugh and then his eyes soften when he looks at Brendon, “So do you,” he says quietly, leaning in to kiss him.

Brendon ducks out of the way, waggling a finger at Spencer, “Dude, I just managed to get this shit to look like it's supposed to,” he makes vague circles around his heavily made up face. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to cover up stubble? Jesus, no matter how close I shave, I was cursed with dark hair. I wish I had the money for laser, seriously.” Brendon pouts and sets about returning his make up to its pouches and cases and then into his tool box.

Lasers anywhere near his face sounds infinitely terrifying to Spencer, but he tries to nod sympathetically. “Well, you look awesome, so what ever you did worked. I mean, not that you don't always look awesome. And man, I have a fucking beard and you never say anything when you slap that shit on my face.”

“Exactly. You have a beard. Also? You aren't dressing up as a lady cop. Lady cops do not have five o'clock shadows.” Brendon punctuates his words with knowing bobs of his head.

“You've never been to the south side...”

Brendon stand up and covers Spencer's mouth with two fingers, “Please do not finish that sentence. I know in my heart you aren't a sexist douchebag, so let's just keep it that way, huh?” He pastes on his sunniest smile and gathers up the rest of his things. “I'll be right back!” he says, sauntering towards Spencer's room.

“Where ya goin'?” Spencer cocks his hip against the living room doorway.

“To change into my costume?” Brendon seems confused that Spencer is asking.

Licking his lips and clearing his throat, Spencer says, his words a rushed jumble, “You don't have to...I mean you can change in here if you want,” he indicates the living room with a backwards flick of his head.

Confusion furrows Brendon's brow for a brief moment. “Spencer, I have occasionally had people offer me money to take off my clothes, but I can honestly say that no one has every invited me to dress for them.”

Spencer crosses his arms over his chest and frowns, “I didn't mean anything weird, I just thought that, you know, instead of having to cart everything around you could just...”

“There's no magic in that,” Brendon shakes his head sadly, “It's like...” he licks his lips, thinking, “It's like a magician, you know?”

“Um, no?” Spencer scratches at his beard and waits for Brendon to elaborate.

Shifting the weight of the bundle in his arms, Brendon leans against the wall beside Spencer. “It's like Gee told me when I first started doing this,” he looks down at the costume. “Got to keep the mystery, you now? Create the illusion? Not give away my secrets.”

“Oh okay!” Spencer smiles and brushes a barely there kiss to Brendon's cheek.

“And alright, mostly it makes me feel self-conscious. Getting pretty is hard work!” Brendon's nose wrinkles as he laughs.

Leaning in again, Spencer kisses Brendon softly on the lips, despite his protests about his make up. “I find that hard to believe,” he says quietly. “You're already beautiful.”

Brendon rolls his eyes and shoves playfully at Spencer's chest, putting some space between them, “Oh get lost,” he laughs. “I'm going to go do my thing now,” and he saunters the rest of the way down the small hallway.

Spencer returns to the living room, the polyester of his costume makes a zip-zip-zip noise with each step, and he laughs, thinking this must be what it's like to walk around in snow pants. He sits on the sofa and does his best to be patient as he waits for what seems like forever. He hears the click of the door knob, and gets to his feet when he hears the clacking of Brendon's heels. Only to sit back down, his mouth hanging open, “Holy shit!” he whispers in awe.

“Tah dah!” Brendon says in a playful voice an octave or two higher than his normal speaking voice. He raises an arm over his head and cants his hip, before winking and walking over to stand in front of Spencer. “Well?” the lightness of his tone doesn't match the wary concern in his eyes.

Reaching out and wrapping his hand around the expanse of bare flesh on Brendon's thigh that's visible between the very short skirt and very high heeled, tall, very black, very shiny, boots, Spencer swallows and says, “Holy shit,” and then he slides his palms up to Brendon's hips, tugging him down into his lap. “Don't tell me to not mess up your make up, you can fix it.” Is all Spencer says before winding one hand in the long shaggy tresses of Brendon's wig—the one he was wearing the night they met—and bringing their mouths together in a hungry, urgent kiss. “You are so fucking hot. Jesus.”

Brendon's smile widens against Spencer's mouth and he giggles through his nose, “If we're late, it's your fault.”

“Fuck those guys,” Spencer mumbles, tasting the fragile skin beneath Brendon's chin, and ignoring the weird chemical tang of the make up there. His hands roam slowly down Brendon's back to his hips and lower to trace the slippery edge of Brendon's boot where it's digging into his thigh. He pauses when his finger tip touches something plastic between the boot and Brendon's skin, and he tugs it free.

“Um,” Brendon's face reddens with embarrassed heat as Spencer stares at the small packet in his palm. “Homage to Pretty Woman?” he tries to laugh but his expression is shuttered by the thick fall of his lashes.

Slowly curling his fingers around the condom package, Spencer tilts Brendon's face up with a gentle finger under his chin, “Bren?”

Brendon sighs and rolls his eyes up to study the ceiling, “Well, you know. Be prepared and all that?” and he pries the condom out of Spencer's hand and tucks it back into the top of his boot.

Spencer secures Brendon in his lap by linking his finger's low against Brendon's back. “So you mean you want...”

Clearing his throat uncomfortably, Brendon sighs and squeezes his eyes shut, but when he says, “Yes,” he's looking directly at Spencer.

“Oh,” Spencer kisses him again, tongue licking and tasting before Brendon opens up enough for him to flit across the inside of his mouth.

Pausing for breath, Brendon leans his forehead against Spencer's and says, “I mean, that is if you...you know, you want to. I guess I should ask that since you're the one who's gonna be...” he trails off and makes an awkward gesture with his fingers.

Spencer barks out a laugh and drops his head to the padded shoulder of Brendon's costume, “Do I want to? You have no idea. No. Idea.”

Brendon smiles, his hand palming down Spencer's chest, making a zipping noise against the polyester of his convict's costume. “I think I might have some idea,” he smirks, and cups the erection currently tenting the lower half of Spencer's outfit.

“You know what else I spend a lot of fucking time thinking about?” Spencer twists and without warning tilts so Brendon lands prone on the sofa beneath him. Delight and arousal shine in Brendon's dark eyes as he shakes his head, the shaggy stands of his wig spreading out over the couch. “Blowing you,” Spencer's voice is almost a growl as he slides down Brendon's body, nosing at his skirt and raising his hands.

Brendon yelps and clamps his knees together. His hands fly up to grab Spencer's forearms and he says a frantic,“Spencer, wait!” while trying to sit up. But, Spencer's hand has already found its way beneath Brendon's short skirt, and is now floundering across the entirely flat plane of Brendon's groin and plucking at the weird, stretchy fabric of Brendon's underwear.

“What the...?” Spencer sits up, confusion clear on his face and his hair sticking up in a thousand directions.

Managing to wriggle up into a semi-sitting position, his legs straddled by Spencer's thighs, Brendon swallows, and looks like he's going to cry, “That's why I went into your room to change. You're freaked out, right? Grossed out?”

Blinking and shaking his head, Spencer says, “Just kinda confused, actually.”

Shuddering out a sigh, Brendon smooths at his skirt and says, “Lady cops don't have dicks, Spence.”

“Ohhhkaay,” Spencer says slowly.

“So, like, when we're performing, and the costume is, you know, tight, we tuck, right?” Brendon still isn't looking at Spencer, just watching his finger nail scratch against the ugly weave of the sofa.

“Tuck?” Spencer winces.

“I'm pretty fucking sure you've seen Ace Ventura: Pet Detective right? Sean Young's character, at the end?” Brendon crosses his arms over chest and tries to move his legs out from underneath Spencer.

Spencer thinks about what Brendon's saying, and when everything clicks into place he makes a pained face, “So it's like a kind of girdle thingie? Shit. Doesn't that hurt?” He gives Brendon's thigh a little squeeze before swinging himself up and off him. He tugs Brendon to sitting and then wraps an arm around his shoulder.

“Well, you know, suffer for beauty,” Brendon snorts out a laugh, still embarrassed. “And man, I've never been, you know...horny in um, full drag before, if you get what I'm saying. It's kinda...not the best feeling ever.” He grimaces, mouth pulled down and nose scrunched up, and shifts back and forth. “To be honest, I sort of always thought I'd be able to get it up for you any time, any where. But maybe not so much,” he scratches at his nose and chuckles low in the back of his throat, “Maybe not so much right now.” He pats Spencer's thigh in consolation.

Spencer smacks a kiss to Brendon's temple and then sighs loudly, “Okay. I get that. So, lets just go to this fucking party; have an ace time. Then, when you've had enough of my hipster douchebag friends, we'll leave and free you from your...” Spencer waves his hands at Brendon, “And see what happens.”

“Well, when you put it that way,” Brendon laughs and kisses the tip of Spencer's nose. “How can I refuse such a romantic offer.”

“Fuck you, I'm just concerned for your...circulation,” Spencer stands and puts on his jacket.

“Aw, always looking out for me!” Brendon laughs and hands Spencer the little round hat that completes his costume. “Let me just go see what kind of state my make up is in, then we can leave, okay?” He heads towards the bathroom and then over his shoulder says, “And I believe I'll be the one fucking </i>you</i>.”

* * *

They hear the party before they can even see the apartment block, and Spencer briefly feels pangs of pity for Bill and Sisky's neighbors before he's drawn back into the ridiculous story about bar patrons Brendon's been telling since they got off the El. The ride across town was uneventful and Brendon had been vocal and affectionate, holding Spencer's hand and at one point when there had only been one free seat, sitting in his lap. In public Brendon's usually tentative and careful with displays of affection, never holding his hand for too long or doing more than brushing a kiss to his cheek, but with the train full of costumed and somewhat drunk Halloween revelers, it seems to Spencer that Brendon feels safe. So he clings more, and holds his hand longer and kisses him for long, dizzying minutes.

Reaching the front door of the ramshackle building, Spencer doesn't knock, just turns the knob and holds the door wide for Brendon, then ushering him through. They're almost immediately swallowed up by the crowd and as Spencer accepts a red solo cup, half full of what tastes like the bottom of the keg, it takes him a minute to cleave the crowd enough to get back to Brendon's side and discover what has him convulsing with laughter. Ryan is standing at Brendon's side, his expression somewhere between a smile and a scowl as he watches Brendon's reaction to his costume.

He's dressed as a banana. A giant, shiny, banana. He's encased in bright yellow polyester, arms and legs free, and his gormless face is peering out from a small round hole. “Keltie's a monkey,” he offers by way of explanation for his costume choice.

“Oh my god! Do not explain to Bee why she calls you Banana Pants. No one needs to know that much about you two,” Spencer spits out in disgust, linking his fingers with Brendon's and leading them deeper into the crowded apartment.

“Holy shit, Ryan is so hilarious!” Brendon giggles into his hand as he follows Spencer, carefully picking his was through the throng of people, avoiding landing a stiletto heel to any hands or feet of the large number of partiers sprawled every which way on the hardwood floor.

Spencer comes to an abrupt stop, and Brendon's boot heels clatter against the bare floor tiles as he tries not to spill the drink he's magically acquired in their journey from the front door. “Bill, this is Brendon,” Spencer holds up their joined hands and nods at a guy dressed as a vampire sitting on the couch, all plastic cape and slicked back hair. He gets to his feet and Brendon has to take a step back to see his face because this guy is tall. “Brendon,” Bill takes Brendon's hand in his and instead of shaking it, turns it over to brush a kiss across the top of his knuckles,“Enchanté, I'm William, your humble host,” he slurs around his plastic fangs.

Brendon gives Spencer an is this guy for real? look before smiling and replying, “Nice to meet you. Great party.” He wriggles his hand free and takes his drink back from Spencer.

“They always are, and the night is young,” William replies confidently, just in time to be tackled by a tiny guy with a crazy mass of blond curly hair. The two of them collapse back onto the couch, laughing and spilling their beer on a disgruntled cat, who hisses and slinks away. “And this, dear Brendon, is your co-host for the evening, Mr. Adam T. Siska, or as he's affectionately known around these parts—Sisky.” William puts Sisky in a headlock and they both start howling.

Rolling his eyes, Spencer begins to pick his way through the crowded apartment, and by way of farewell, Brendon says, “I love your costume, the 80s were the best. I wish I could get my hair to do that.”

Sisky looks down at his oversized basketball shorts and Bulls jersey, then runs his hand through the messy asymmetrical cut of his hair. He's a little confused by Brendon's compliment, because his last minute costume-a white bed sheet ghost, complete with roughly cut out holes for eyes—is wadded up in the hallway underneath Mike. But he just says, “thanks!” with a blushing smile.

“You hungry?” Spencer leans close to yell into Brendon's ear over the din of music and drunk people.

Pausing to give Spencer his best affronted pout, Brendon says, “It's like you don't even know me. I'm always hungry.”

“Of course you are. Silly me,” Spencer kisses his cheek. “They usually have like wings and dip and that kind of shit at these things.” Spencer squeezes Brendon's hip as he guides him through the crowd. Somebody's shoved a long table covered in a cheap plastic tablecloth printed with bats and ghosts and jack-o-lanterns against a long wall, and it's loaded with various kinds of party food and hors d'oeuvres.

As he's piling his plate high for the two of them to share, Spencer hears a high pitched, enthusiastic, “Oh my god! You're Brendon!” just as Brendon is swallowed in a hug by a blond woman in a brown leotard and tights. “You're gorgeous!” she steps back out of the hug, appraising Brendon and his costume. “And, can I just say that has got to be the raddest smokey eye I have ever seen. Did you do your own make up?”

“This is Ryan's girlfriend, Keltie,” Spencer interjects as the two compare beauty school experiences and the merits of MAC's color pigments.

“Oh! The monkey!” Brendon reaches out a hand to tweak the felt ears Keltie has attached to a brown plastic headband.

Keltie snags a baby carrot from Spencer's heaping plate and laughs. “Yup! You see my Banana Pants? Best couples costume ever or what?”

Sighing, Spencer reels Brendon in close, arm tight around his waist. “Please, please, do not scar Bren for life and share the origins of your nickname for Ry.”

Brendon pats Spencer's hand where it rests possessively on his hip, fingers fiddling with the cheap plastic handcuffs Brendon had bought at the dollar store. Ray, the tailor who makes all of Brendon's costumes, had refused to allow him real handcuffs, and Brendon had to admit that was probably for the best. The likelihood of him losing the keys was high. Although when he'd first come up with the idea for their costumes, Brendon he had spent longer than was strictly healthy thinking about what Spencer would look like cuffed to the headboard. “Gee Spence, for someone into dick, you sure spend a lot of time embarrassed at the thought of anyone else talking about it.”

Making a strangled noise at the back of his throat, Spencer says, “Ryan is my best friend. I do not want to spend any time thinking about his cock. Ever.” Several people within earshot smirk and laugh at Spencer's outburst.

Kissing Spencer soundly, and flinging a comfortable arm around Keltie's shoulder, Brendon says “It's kind of hard not to. It's just so there. Am I right?” and he and Keltie giggle as Spencer makes noises of protesting disgust.

“Poor baby,” Keltie smiles in sympathy at Spencer and, filching another carrot off Spencer's plate says, “I better go find my date and make sure we're together when The Butcher starts judging the costumes.”

In the midst of chewing a giant bite of nacho dip, Brendon says, “Oh! There's a costume contest? Spencer Smith! You didn't tell me that!” Brendon's eyes light up at the prospect.

Shrugging before he shoves a handful of nachos into his mouth, Spencer crunches the chips between his teeth and carefully swallows a mouthful of beer before answering, “Didn't know there was. But, if there's a Smoking Fucking Hot award, you are so in.” He says the last words against Brendon's jaw where he mouths at a faint bottle-green vein.

“You sure about that? You haven't seen me and Cassie yet.” Jon comes up and elbows Spencer in the side. Brendon can't hide the giggle that escapes him. Jon is dressed as a hippie—bell bottoms, tie-dyed t-shirt, long wig, and little round glasses. Cassie joins him, handing over a red cup of beer and smiles hello. She's wearing a mini-skirt muumuu, tied at the waist with a macrame belt, daisies in her long flowing hair, and a giant peace sign pendant around her neck.

“Nah, we still win!” Spencer hugs Brendon as he introduces him to Cassie.

“Oh right, you work at MAC. Spencer was telling me I should stop by and you'll hook me up.” Cassie tips her cup towards Brendon, who smiles and tips up his own. “If you're interested and can get out to the burbs, I will totally trade you some pilates classes for some make up, or a make up lesson or something?”

“Really?” Brendon's entire face lights up. “That would be amazing. I took some yoga classes at the Y and really liked them.” Handing his beer cup to Spencer, Brendon does some weird stretching thing that ultimately ends up with him perching on one high heeled foot, the other balanced carefully along the inside of his thigh. “I'm pretty bendy.”

Spencer blinks and swallows and tries to think about anything except how bendy Brendon is, and how much he could possibly enjoy finding out the extent of that bendiness. In his convict's jumpsuit, there is absolutely no way to hide exactly how exciting the prospect of finding out is to Spencer. “Um, hey, I'm just gonna,” Spencer nods his head towards an empty window seat and starts to work his way through the tight knot of people around the food area before he totally embarrasses himself.

As he looks back to make sure Brendon knows where he's headed, he sees that Keltie and Cassie have joined Brendon in an impromptu yoga stretching class. Brendon and Keltie seem to be competing in a 'who's more flexible' contest. Spencer stares at them, growling as he takes a particularly vicious bite of a chicken wing. Eventually, the three of them realize they're in the middle of a party, so they collapse against each other, laughing and hugging before splitting up to find their dates.

“Spencer! Your friends are so great.” Brendon plonks himself down into Spencer's lap, dropping his arm around Spencer's shoulders. He leans over to pick his beer up and Spencer is hypnotized by the dip and flex of Brendon's thigh muscles beneath the tight layer of his blue polyester skirt.

“You seem surprised,” Spencer mumbles in a low, distracted voice. He bows his head to trace the tendons in Brendon's neck, nipping at them with his teeth then soothing the sting with his tongue.

Giggling at the sensation, Brendon presses his hands palm flat against Spencer's chest to get him to ease up. “No, not surprised, really.” He shrugs and wrinkles up his nose. “It's just I guess I've managed to surround myself with freaks and losers like me I feel comfortable around, so I never thought normal people would be...”

Spencer rests his head against Brendon's shoulder, squeezing his hips and bobbling him on his lap to a more agreeable position. “Dude, if you think these guys are normal you don't even know...” He cuts his glance to where Travie and Mike are doing some improvised version of beer pong with paper plate paddles and votive candle holders.

“They don't care that I'm...that we're...” Brendon takes Spencer's face between his hands and kisses him gently.

Spencer scowls. “Of course they don't. They're my friends. You make me happy. I told you, Bee, not everyone's an asshole about this shit.” He hugs Brendon close, pressing his lips to Brendon's temple.

They sit wound around each other in the shallow recess of the window seat, and Spencer points out people he knows and how they know each other, and Brendon laughs at the stories he tells of parties past. It feels right and good, and Spencer feels the kind of happy he guesses is what people mean when they say they're content. It spreads out from his bones and makes it possible to think that holding Brendon close like this is all he ever wants to do. Eventually their conversation drops away. Brendon hums along to whatever Bill and Sisky have blasting through the stereo and Spencer occasionally raises a hand in greeting as someone he knows walks by. He always introduces Brendon, but other than that they just sit there quietly, enjoying each others' company.

“Uh oh,” Brendon holds up his empty cup and shakes it sadly, “Why is the beer always gone?”

Spencer laughs, “Take it easy, Princess. If you get off me, once feeling returns to my legs, I will go get you more beer.” He shakes his knees back and forth and Brendon laughs, slow-motion falling onto the padded cushion of the window seat bench.

“My Hero!” Brendon bats his long eyelashes up at Spencer and squeezes his hand before pressing the empty cup into it.

Crossing to the kitchen, where the keg is located, takes forever. Spencer can't count the number of people who are pressed close in the apartment, but it makes getting anywhere near impossible. Not only is navigating through the bodies a problem, every time Spencer runs into someone he knows, they drag him into conversation. By the time he reaches the keg, The Butcher is closing the tap and rolling the whole thing off to the back door. “Bad timing, dude. Grab some cups and the new keg will be ready in a few. You try my mom's meatballs?”

“Uh, yeah. I think so? They were good.” Spencer holds up the two cups he's brought with him, letting The Butcher know that he'd come prepared, and leans against the counter. More people make their way into the kitchen and a line starts to form as Spencer listens to The Butcher give a long detailed soliloquy about the lengths he's gone to to get his mother's meatball recipe. Finally the line is hooked up to the new keg, the tap is running and after a few foamy cups, The Butcher holds out his hands for Spencer's solo cups, returning them full.

By the time Spencer makes it back to where he started, Brendon is no longer in the window seat—two giggling drunk girls he's never seen before in his life are—and the wide, carpeted area in front of the window has been adopted as a dance floor. It's packed with bodies flailing and gyrating, and Spencer stands there for a few seconds trying to figure out what the hell happened in the fifteen minutes he was in the kitchen. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Jon and Ryan pressed against the wall so he heads towards them.

“You were right, Brendon does have an amazing ass,” Jon says in a matter of fact way, half turned towards Ryan.

Any thought of asking his friends if they've seen Brendon disappears with what he's overheard, so Spencer says, “Okay, so, not that I'm not in one hundred percent agreement with you, but a)why are you looking at my boyfriend's ass? and b)Ryan, why have you been talking about my boyfriend's ass? and c)you two have finally got up to the Kinsey scale in sociology class, haven't you?” Spencer's scowl falters when he follows Ryan and Jon's gazes to see Brendon doing a mean mash up of the funky chicken with what he's pretty sure his dad told him had once been called the Melvin.

And yeah, okay, Brendon's ass is totally amazing but, really.

Ryan has the good grace to look sheepish, and says, “Yeah, so we're just trying to be supportive. And the Kinsey Scale is totally interesting.” It's all the explanation Spencer's going to get, so he just shakes his head and laughs.

“Man, you better go break that shit up. Poor young Sisky seems quite smitten with your fella, and I'm pretty sure he hasn't actually figured out the fella part, yet.” Jon tips his cup towards the couple and Spencer growls, low and possessive. Sisky is gazing adoringly up at Brendon while his hands roam lower and lower down Brendon's back, his fingers stretching out to stroke over the high swell of Brendon's bottom.

“Dude, what the fuck are you doing to my boyfriend?” Spencer intentionally steps close into Sisky's personal space, arms crossed and glowering.

When Sisky stops cold and manages a gob smacked “Boyfriend?” Brendon swats Spencer on the shoulder and says, “Dancing, silly. You left me all alone!” before affecting an exaggerated pout.

“I went to get your beer!” Spencer holds the cup out and Brendon takes it, swallowing an enthusiastic gulp, wiping delicately at the sweat on his upper lip, and then hooking his arms over Spencer's shoulders.

Sisky's all but forgotten as they start to sway with the music; a slow song that's cleared out some space on the dance floor. “Hi,” Spencer whispers, carefully holding his cup against Brendon's hip as he reels him in close. He kisses Brendon's nose, making him smile, and presses his lips softly against Brendon's mouth.

“Hi,” Brendon smiles beneath the kiss. “I missed you. I think Ryan and Jon were checking me out. That's weird, right?”

“Shh, don't ruin the moment,” Spencer says, but he's chuckling under his breath. “There is not enough time in the day to talk about how weird Ryan and Jon are. Let's just dance, okay?”

Brendon sways his hips across Spencer's and hums agreement under his breath. He rests his head on Spencer's shoulder as they continue to move in gentle time with the music that's filling the space in the room that's not occupied by the buzzing chatter of party goers. Spencer thinks about what Brendon told him earlier, that his friends are awesome. And they are. He's never worried what they think of him; how they'd react to his coming out, or bringing Brendon around.

And here he is standing in the middle of the room dancing with a guy, kissing and touching a guy, and no one cares. It's no big deal. Everyone's been really sweet to Brendon, and happy for Spencer. He's lucky--and he never even knew it until Brendon had brought it up. Spencer frowns a little when he wonders what's happened to Brendon that his positive treatment at the party has come as such a surprise to him.

He's shaken from his revery when Brendon says, very quietly, just a soft brush of air against Spencer's ear, “I think I'm ready to go now, Spence.”

Spencer stops dancing and backs up a little so he can look at Brendon. “You tired?”

Brendon gives him a sweet smile and shakes his head back and forth, the long hairs of his wig brushing his cheeks. “Your foot hurt?” Spencer asks, concerned as he's petting down Brendon's arms.

“No, I'm just...I think I'm ready to...you know. To go home.” Brendon stammers and blushes and looks at his hands where they're still resting on Spencer's broad shoulders.

It takes a minute for Spencer to parse exactly what it is Brendon is trying to tell him. But when it does, all the breath leaves his lungs and he manages to husk out, “You mean you want to...”

“Uh huh,” Brendon licks his lips and toys with the ties at the back of Spencer's neck.

Cupping Brendon's cheek in his palm, Spencer asks quietly, “Are you sure? I mean you're not like, drunk or anything are you? I don't want you to do something you're not ready for just because you think I want to...”

Brendon licks his lips in confusion, “No, I'm not drunk. You want to...you know...don't you? With me?” He sounds small and uncertain and Spencer's not exactly sure how that happened.

“Shit, yes,” Spencer's voice is raw as he leans his forehead against Brendon's.

“Well okay then,” Brendon smiles and kisses Spencer. He slides his hand carefully into Spencer's and leads them through the party and to the front door. “I want this Spencer. I want this, with you.” He says with finality as he opens the door and steps out into the street.

NEXT

bandombigbang Along the Way (Brendon/Spencer) NC 17 Part 2

cloudlessclimes — Tue, 21 Jun 2011 03:42:00 GMT

BACK

* * *

“Hey! Sorry, sorry!” Brendon calls out to Spencer as he runs down North Sheffield. Spencer has been standing in front of the Vic, aka The Brew & View, for almost twenty minutes, and he's checked his email about a dozen times and had pretty much convinced himself he's gotten the time and place wrong right until he'd seen Brendon's bright red hoodie bouncing through the crowd. Brendon comes to a stop in front of Spencer and the weight of his backpack slamming into his makes his hug a little more emphatic than Spencer thinks he means. “I'm sorry I'm late. My stupid cheap ass phone died and...”

Spencer cuts him off with a light kiss. “I was beginning to think you stood me up. But now you're here, so it's all good.”

Brendon's eyes widen in alarm behind his black plastic framed glasses. “Dude, never, ever would I do such a thing.” He nods solemnly. “It's just, Chelsea Jenkins, she finally got a key change right and she wanted to do it over again from the top so...” Brendon stops for breath, idly running the zipper on Spencer's hoodie up and down.

“Piano student?” Spencer raises an eyebrow and takes Brendon's hand, steering them towards the box office before it's too late.

Brendon nods, and fumbles with one of his backpack's straps. “Yeah, she's eight and amazing. She's only been taking lessons for a couple of weeks but she has this awesome sense of what she should be doing and she's so intuitive, you know? Sometimes I like to just sit and watch her.”

Helpfully holding on to the backpack so Brendon can unzip the small compartment on the front, Spencer says, “You like kids huh?”

Brendon grins and extracts a ziploc bag stuffed with small bills. “Love 'em. I have, like, a million nieces and nephews,” he pauses and something darkens his expression before he can shake it away and force a smile. “But, they're in Vegas and I'm here now, so...” he shrugs, smiles and stuffs a handful of ones and fives into the front pocket of his jeans. “One day I'm gonna have, like, a million kids of my own.”

“A million, huh?” Spencer takes out his wallet and steps up to the ticket booth as Brendon's putting away his money and zipping up his backpack.

“Hey!” Brendon scowls and hip checks Spencer out of the line. “I invited you on a date and I'm gonna pay 'cause I'm a motherfuckin' gentleman. Your money's no good here.”

“Okay, okay!” Spencer laughs at Brendon's fierce expression and doesn't make any further attempt to intervene when Brendon slaps down a wad of bills and says “Two please!”

Brendon hands Spencer his ticket and heads to the bar, where he orders and takes some bills out of his pocket, smoothing them out on the polished wood before handing them to the bartender. “So, yeah. Eventually I wanna adopt my very own Rainbow Tribe. Go all Josephine Baker.”

“Who?”

“Oh, dude. Josephine Baker—she was, like, one of the first African American movie stars. And when she got tired of Hollywood's racist bullshit she moved to France, became an international cabaret star, adopted a dozen kids from all over the world, and lived in a castle.” Brendon raises his can of MGD, pointing the way into the theater.

Spencer has no preference as far as seating choices, so he just follows Brendon, who heads up into the balcony. “Wow. How do you know all this stuff?”

Once seated, Brendon takes Spencer's beer and balances the pizza on his knees so Spencer can sit down. “Well, when I first started working at the Kit-Kat I had no idea what the fuck I was doing, right? Then Gee—you met her right? She works the door at Cobra. Anyway, she sort of took me under her shiny, sparkly wing and showed me the ropes. And then I did a little on line research, you know, on cabaret and the kind of performing I'd be doing. And well. Josephine Baker was the shit.”

“Fair enough,” Spencer tilts his beer towards Brendon in salute. “While I have no doubt you'll be an awesome dad, please don't move to France. I'd miss you.”

Brendon grins and takes a gulping swallow of his beer, “You really think I'd be a good dad?” And then takes a bite of pizza, greasy sauce and cheese sticking to his lips.

“Uh, yeah. Sure. Eventually, I mean. I'm not ready, to like, have your babies. Yet.” Feeling awkward, Spencer sips from his beer, “ So, what movie is this again? It seems really popular.” He looks around and sees that the theater is filling fast.

“Blazing Saddles,” Brendon says licking sauce from his fingers. Taking in Spencer's blank look, Brendon sets his beer on the floor by his seat and shoves the pizza at Spencer. “Seriously? Are you telling me you've never heard of Blazing Saddles? One of the funniest movies of all time?” Brendon's voice rises in incredulity.

Pulling a face, Spencer looks around the theater and says, 'Um...no?”

“Jesus, were you raised in a cardboard box or something? Mel Brooks made Blazing Saddles in 1974, and it's fucking hilarious. So hilarious it's number 6 on AFI's all time funniest movies list” Brendon sniffs with affronted finality and grabs the pizza back from Spencer, shoving the end of another slice into his mouth. “You do like comedy, right?”

Spencer squawks at Brendon's outburst and says, “1974! My dad was like, 5 in 1974.”

“Please tell me you know who Mel Brooks is.” Brendon leans over to retrieve his beer, and Spencer can't help but stare at the broad slice of Brendon's back that's revealed when his shirt is hiked up by the movement.

Feeling rather affronted Spencer huffs, “I'm not an idiot, you know. Of course I know who Mel Brooks is. Robin Hood: Men in Tights, right? And my mom and grandma totally went to see The Producers when it played at The Paris.”

“Oh man, with the Hoff?” Brendon is curled in on himself and giggling. ”And dude, this movie beats the shit out of Men in Tights, just saying. Jesus.”

“Are you sure you were born in the 1980s and not the 1880s? Do you actually like any movies made after, like 1975?” Spencer peevishly takes a slice of pizza and faces the stage where the movie screen has been lowered.

Patting Spencer's leg, Brendon says, “For your information I think Jackass 3D is genius. So is Once. And anything by Wes Anderson owns my soul. So there.”

Spencer is prevented from saying anything else by the lowering of the lights and the flickering of images on the screen. He has to admit, when he read Brendon's email and found out they'd be going to see a movie, his first though was all the groping he'd get in. As both the groper and, hopefully, the gropee.

The fact that Brendon would be sitting with his eyes glued to the screen, mouthing dialog along with the characters while braying loud donkey laughter didn't ever figure into his plan. He's trying not to be pissed off. He's eaten all the pizza and gone back to the bar for more beer, and sort of rubbed his palm over Brendon's denim clad thigh, and still Brendon is not picking up what Spencer's throwing down. He moves in closer and actually goes for the arm stretch into arm over shoulder thing.

But Brendon just snorts out a laugh, smiles at Spencer and leans his head on Spencer's shoulder. It's not even that the movie's bad--It's sort of actually pretty stupid and hilarious, and exactly the kind of thing Spencer finds funny—it's just the whole thing is very very frustrating. Eventually Spencer abandons his plans for movie theater make outs and watches the film, Brendon's hand held in his.

It's only when Spencer turns to lower his mouth to Brendon's ear to ask a question that he realizes that Brendon is fast asleep. Head lolling and mouth slightly open, his chest rises and falls in a slow even rhythm, and Spencer smiles, brushing Brendon's hair from his face and taking the beer out of his hand before it spills. Eventually, the end credits roll and the house lights come up, and as people try to step over them to get out of their row, Brendon wakes up.

He gives Spencer a drowsy smile and stretches his arms over his head. “Shit, how long was I out?”

“Not long,” Spencer lies, wiping at the tiny circular wet mark on his shirt where Brendon had drooled a little. He takes Brendon's hand and tugs him to his feet, gathering their coats and shuffling him out of the theater and on to the street. “So, awesome idea.”

Yawning and scrubbing his hands across his cheeks, Brendon laughs self-consciously. “So, maybe Slurpees in 7-11 parking lots is a pretty good first date after all.” He scrunches up his nose and makes an apologetic face.

“Nah, it was fine.” Spencer threads his fingers with Brendon's as they walk down Sheffield to Belmont. “It's just...it's kinda hard to talk at the movies you know?”

Brendon laughs and says, “So that makes it a perfect first date!”

“I like talking to you,” Spencer looks at Brendon, blue eyes full of sincerity. “I like listening to you, too.”

Brendon laughs so hard he has to stop walking, “Oh man! Are you serious?” He sees Spencer's confusion and laughs harder. “Oh my god! Spencer Smith, I can honestly say that no one has ever said that to me before. I think consensus is that I talk too fucking much, all the fucking time.”

Spencer frowns and draws Brendon in close, wrapping his arms around Brendon's waist. “I think consensus means everyone agrees. And in case you're confused, I'm not everyone, and I don't fucking agree.” He kisses Brendon, a firm press of his lips, to emphasize his point. “Also, if I'm gonna be hanging out in the dark pressed up against you, it would be cool if there was more, you know, groping and kissing and touching and shit.”

Making a low noise at the back of his throat, Brendon threads his fingers through Spencer's hair and pulls him closer, nipping at his bottom lip. “Shit. Wasted fucking opportunity. I'm a moron.”

“You're a moron with a boyfriend who lives close by, just saying.” Spencer smiles and swipes the pad of his thumb across Brendon's cheekbones.

Brendon goes from crestfallen to gleeful in the time it takes for Spencer to blink once, “Okay, boyfriend. I like how you think. And I'm super excited to see how the college half lives!” Brendon smacks Spencer on the ass and they both laugh as Spencer changes direction from the L and back down Belmont.

They fill the walk to Spencer's triplex with chatter about the movie, and the Vic, and some of the bands they've seen there. And when they walk up a flight to the middle floor and Spencer unlocks his door and flicks on the light, Brendon is rendered silent. “Holy Shit! Spencer are you secretly rich or something?” He takes in the wide living room, with actual grown up furniture, and has to lean against a small bookcase inside the front door, he's so shocked.

Spencer tries to see his apartment through Brendon's eyes. He thinks about the shitty one room bed-sit that takes so much of Brendon's money. “Um...I have a scholarship and my parents pay most of my bills. They want me to get good grades, and I tried the dorms in freshman year and it was a disaster; so much noise and distraction. So, I made my case for living on my own. Luckily I'm pretty responsible and I know it's my parents' money so it's not like I'm milking it. It's a nice neighborhood, but not a great one. Luckily the landlord and my dad were in the same frat or some shit, so the rent's not too bad.”

“Don't tell me you're a frat boy!” Brendon kicks off his sneakers and flops down onto the sofa, his hands roaming over the fabric.

“Shit, no!” Spencer spits out in disgust. “Much to dear old dad's disappointment, I have like, zero interest in any of that Greek pledging bullshit. I think I got off the hook for fulfilling family frat obligations when I came out to my parents and my mom figured out she could join PFLAG instead of Phi Beta Whatever boosters.”

In the midst of shrugging off his sweater, Brendon stops and stares up at Spencer, “Wait, you're parents know you're into dudes?” He takes Spencer's hand and tugs him down beside him.

“Well, yeah? I mean it took forever for me to figure it out. Once I did, I didn't see any point in hiding it.” Spencer just shrugs like it's no big deal.

Spencer can't read the expression in Brendon's eyes when he stares at their still joined hands and says, “That's so awesome. And your parents...they still love you and stuff?”

Gently, Spencer presses a kiss to Brendon's temple, “Yeah, Bee. They still love me. Not everyone's shitty.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Brendon stretches and yawns and, slapping his palms against his knees, stands. “So, do I get the tour of the Smith mansion?”

“Come on,” Spencer rolls his eyes and heads across the living room. “Breakfast nook,” he says in a bored voice, making air quotes. “Or the place where my practice kit lives. Too bad the neighbors are bitches and freak out whenever I play.” He watches as Brendon strokes an approving hand along the snare and cymbals, flicking his thumb and forefinger at it so it makes a metallic pinging noise.

“Fucking love drums.” Brendon murmurs.

“You play?” Spencer doesn't know how this had never come up.

“Oh yeah, drum core in high school. Jazz band, all that shit. But there' s no room for a kit at my place, and I can't afford one anyway so...” Brendon trails off and then turns a look of forced cheerfulness towards Spencer. “Drummers are hot.” He adds.

“Yup, we are!” Spencer smacks a kiss to Brendon's cheek and then slaps him on the ass, squeezing a little. “Any time you want to play, come on by. Fuck the neighbor's wrath!” He shakes a raised fist towards the ceiling and then continues with the tour. “Through there's the kitchen. Don't even bother looking in my fridge. I think there's some cold cuts of indeterminate age, some cheese slices, and maybe what used to be a tomato. Also some milk. You know, for the cereal.” Spencer points a finger to the top of the refrigerator where a row of boxes perches.

“I'm Brendon Urie, and I approve of the cereal diet!” Brendon laughs and follows Spencer out of the galley kitchen and down a small hall.

He twists the doorknob and holds his arm out like a game show spokesmodel. “You will be shocked to know that the room with the toilet is the bathroom.”

Spencer's not really prepared for Brendon to push past him and stand in the middle of the ugly green tiled room with his arms spread wide. “It's like you can see into my dreams,” he whispers, stroking the edge of the bathtub. “You have a tub. An honest to god bath fucking tub! Spencer, you have no idea how dedicated I was to Mr. Bubble. We used to get up close and personal, like, three times a week, no joke. He was the shit. Now all I have is a stupid broken shower stall, so we had to break up.” Brendon's pout is so over the top Spencer laughs and ruffles his hand through his hair.

“Dude, my tub is your tub.” Spencer only realizes what he's said once the words are out of his mouth. “I mean, any time you want to use it you totally can, like my drums, right? Um...I'm not much of a bath guy...” he finishes stupidly.

Brendon's shoulders shake with silent laughter at Spencer's awkwardness. “Okay, I'm ready for the big finish. Spencer, show me where you rest your pretty little head.”

Hustling to the next door, Spencer says, “Okay, bedroom. End of tour. Now we make out,” and herds Brendon into the room, tugging on his t-shirt and winding a hand into his hair. Brendon grunts out a laugh when Spencer frog marches them though piles of laundry and textbooks, over to the bed, hitting it with his knees and tipping down onto the mattress.

Giggling as Spencer trails kisses across his cheeks and chin and neck, Brendon fidgets until he's stretched out prone, arms and legs wide, and says, “Spencer Smith, you must be an angel, because your giant fucking bed is heaven!”

“C'mere, dork.” Spencer whispers, tugging Brendon close and kissing him slow.

Brendon strokes his palms over Spencer's chest and, watching the path of his fingertips across Spencer's collarbone, says, “I'm sorry the date was so lame, and that I don't have any money to do more actual fun stuff. Sorry it's just hanging out with me.”

“Nah, don't be dumb, man. It was fun, and hanging out with you is the best part, anyway.” He gives Brendon a squeezing hug of reassurance.

It seems to work, Brendon smiles and relaxes. He melts into Spencer as they continue the unhurried exploration of each others' mouths. “If you'd let me pay, we could do other fun stuff sometimes, though,” Spencer says as he traces his palms across the ladder of Brendon's ribs.

Stopping, Brendon simply says, “That wouldn't be fair. I don't want to owe anyone anything.” But, he doesn't pull away from Spencer's embrace, and he doesn't seem angry.

Hands drifting to Brendon's hips, Spencer says, “It wouldn't be taking advantage. It's fun stuff; stuff I want to do. And you there with me would make it even better.” He leans his forehead against Brendon's.

“I just can't, okay?”

Sighing melodramatically, Spencer says, “Okay, I guess I can just suck it up and spend all our time together...hanging out.” He waggles his eyebrows and makes Brendon giggle. “Bren? Can I ask...”

Brendon rolls his eyes and gives Spencer's shoulder a little shake. “If you're going to ask me if you can ask me something, the answer is yes, dude. Ask away.”

“Okay,” Spencer nods, slowly choosing his words. “I don't mean this in any judgey,mean way. I'm just curious. So, like, you have four or five jobs, right?” He pauses until Brendon makes an agreeing noise, his eyes narrowing as he tries to figure out where the conversation is going. “And, I mean, I've seen your apartment. So I guess...I guess I don't get why you don't have the money to do, uhn...stuff.” They're lying with their heads on Spencer's pillow, so close Spencer can see the nerve under Brendon's right eye twitch and feel his breath across his cheeks.

Licking his lips, Brendon takes a deep breath and launches into his explanation, “Well, job one—cabaret at Cobra Starship—isn't actually much of a job. I lucked into it when I was busing tables there and Gabe, the manager, heard me singing along to what the DJ was playing. It's a couple nights a week and it's suppose to get me exposure according to Gabe, whatever the fuck that means. I get paid in tips and a bar tab.” He holds up two fingers, “Job number two—the drag show at the Kit-Kat Club—is, you got it, pretty much for tips. They're pretty good in the summer when the patio's packed—not so much any time else. And we all split tips. And the economy sucks and it's near a student neighborhood, and most of the money I make there goes back into costumes and make up.” Brendon's smile lights up his face. “It sure is fun though.”

“And you're really good at it.” Spencer inches forward, his nose nuzzling Brendon's.

“Thanks!” Brendon's smile is genuine, and he pecks a kiss to the freckled tip of Spencer's nose. “So, that brings us to job number three: music lessons.” He yawns and takes off his glasses, bracing his hand on Spencer's hip to lean over and place them carefully on the night stand. “You may have noticed, I don't have an actual piano. Most moms want their kids to learn piano, and some aren't willing to make do with a keyboard. So, sometimes I go to the students. Although, my guitar students are fucking awesome, too. But, anyway, most of my students, for whatever reason, live on the South Side. And, okay, they can't always pay, in cash anyway. But their parents make me dinner. And just because they're poor doesn't mean they don't deserve to learn. Music is for everyone, despite what the fucking board of education has to say about that.” Spencer is charmed by the fierce conviction in Brendon's eyes. “So, that leaves part time, minimum wage at MAC to pay the bills. I suppose they could have made me a key holder or a shift supervisor by now, if I didn't call out all the time, and give too many make overs without selling enough product.”

Spencer tugs on Brendon's belt loops until they're lying half on top of each other, “Fuck, you have no idea how amazing you are.” Brendon's shirt is rucked up almost to his armpits and Spencer slides eager hands down the long line of his spine.

“I'm really not,” Brendon buries his face in Spencer's shoulder and mumbles, “Spencer I'm afraid to tell you how very not awesome I am. You'll hate me. And I don't know if I can take that.”

Spencer sits up and cuddles Brendon to his side. “I'm pretty fucking sure that there's not much anyone could do to make me hate them. Especially, you. Like, right here? Right now? You could totally tell me your new hobby is drowning puppies and I'd be all meh—everyone has issues.” He can tell his attempt at levity hasn't helped by the horrified expression on Brendon's face.

“Don't joke,” Brendon says sullenly, fidgeting away from Spencer and pulling at a loose thread in the hem of his t-shirt. “I stole okay? I stole money!” He flings out his arms and his voice is loud. “There I said it.”

Alarmed at the tears welling in Brendon's eyes, Spencer pulls him into his lap, stroking his face and kissing his cheek, “Hey, hey, I'm sure you had a reason. It's okay, Brendon.” He smiles.

A shaky sigh escapes from deep in Brendon's chest, “It's really not. I stole. I stole money from my fucking parents, okay? I needed to get the fuck out of Vegas. And I got accepted to cosmetology school in Arizona, so I filled out some forms and got my college money...”

“Wait,” Spencer interrupts in confusion, “So, you used your college fund, for...college? How is that stealing exactly?”

Brendon twists his fingers in the cotton of Spencer's shirt, “It was for BYU. They wanted me to go up to Idaho, like my sister Kyla. And I...didn't want that. But they wouldn't listen. So I figured out how to get the money. And...” he stops and gulps, swallowing down a sob. “And then I took all the money out of the bank account that they were putting towards my mission. Because I realized I didn't believe in God and didn't want to be Mormon and just had to get the fuck out of there. So..I took my parents' money and went to fucking beauty school, and ran away to be gay in Chicago.”

“Brendon...” Spencer rests his hand lightly on Brendon's neck, “That money was for you, for your education, to help you with getting started in life I don't understand...”

With an angry, narrow-eyed glance Brendon interrupts, “No, you don't understand. I was supposed to be this perfect Mormon son. I was supposed to do all the things my brothers did, just the way my parents wanted. But I didn't. And I took the money anyway. So, I'm paying them back. I send them a check every month. With interest.” He stares down at his fingers, twisted in the fabric of Spencer's shirt.

Brendon's on the verge of tears and Spencer feels something painful and bright puling beneath his ribs, so he just wraps his arms around Brendon in what he hopes is the biggest warmest hug he's ever had. “You are amazing, okay? Don't argue, I know. You're brave and it's okay, Bee, it really is.”

“Yeah, well, your parents still love you...”

“And yours love you,” Spencer ducks down to look in Brendon's eyes, “Maybe not the way you need them to, or want them to, right now, but they do. They're your parents. They won't stay assholes forever, I promise.”

Smile wobbling dangerously towards tears, Brendon says raggedly, “They're not assholes, they're really not. They're good people. And god, I let them down so many times, over so many things.” He gulps and wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand.

“You were just being you. I'm sorry that wasn't enough for them.” Spencer strokes slow patterns up and down Brendon's bare back. “No one can hate you Brendon, don't you see that?”

Brendon shrugs and snuggles in closer, trying and failing to stifle a jaw-crackingly wide yawn. “I'm really tired, Spence. Maybe I should just go home?”

Spencer runs a finger nail across the shiny cotton of his duvet cover. “Um, if you want you can stay here. Like, if you don't want to sleep um, with me, I mean in the same bed as me, Ryan calls my sofa the narcolepsy couch because it's so awesome to sleep on.”

“I like sleeping—just sleeping—with you.” Brendon yawns again and laughs. He tugs his shirt over his head. When they've both stripped down to their underwear, Spencer folds back the duvet and holds it out for Brendon to crawl into bed. “Oh my god, warmest, best sheets ever,” he mumbles, thumping the pillow and squirming around to get comfortable.

Spencer sighs, spooning against Brendon's back and holding him tight, “Sleep well,” he says quietly and brushes his lips across the nape of Brendon's neck.

* * *

Jon smacks two venti cups full of black coffee onto the tiny cafe table and then flips one of the cane backed chairs around to straddle it. “So, who is the sweet young thing who's stolen away all of our Spencer's time and attention?”

Ryan snorts, grabbing up one of the coffees and taking a gulp. “Holy shit! Hot!” He coughs and sputters and wipes at his mouth with the tails of the purple paisley scarf knotted around his neck.

Rolling his eyes at both his friends, Spencer takes a long pull at the straw in his iced mocha and says, “Brendon, his name is Brendon.”

“Tell me more about this Brendon,” Jon steeples his fingers on the chair back and stares indulgently at Spencer.

“What the fuck man, this isn't Loveline. His name's Brendon, he's awesome, we've been hanging out.”

Smacking Ryan's hands out of the way before he can take another scalding sip, Jon dumps a generous dollop from a carton of half and half into the cup. “I'm just interested, okay? Your happiness is totally important to me. Also, you missed band practice, like twice, so it must be twooo wuv.”

“Yeah, Spence, tell Jon how you met!” Ryan smirks and takes a tentative sip of his coffee, smiling to find it the perfect temperature.

Spencer scowls and sets his plastic cup down on the table, twisting the straw in the ice cubes. “Fuck you both, very much.”

“Okay okay, I can't take it! I'll tell you,” Ryan sits up, waving his large hands around in excitement. “Dude, Brendon? Is totally the dude from the Kit-Kat Club, you know the drag place Kelts took us to, and then Spencer fucked off without so much as a good night?”

Smirking from behind his cup, Jon says, “Oh really? The hottie sailor chick, um dude? Tell me more.”

Spencer is silent and glowering at his friends but Ryan will not be stopped, “The best part? Is that Brendon is totally the “girl” ol'Spence got his panties in a bunch about finding hot during his big hetero freak out last month.” Ryan crows.

“Wait. So, the hot girl, is a hot guy, and Spencer's dating the hot girl...guy...er person?” Jon gazes from Spencer to Ryan and back again, unsure whether he's followed along correctly.

“Yeah!” Ryan smacks Jon in the arm and takes an annoyingly loud slurp of his coffee. “And? Dude is from Vegas! Spencer actually applied to his high school for band but didn't get in. He believes it's all fate and shit and they're MFEO.”

“I repeat; fuck you both, very much. Sideways. With a two by four.” Spencer is hunched over the table, blinking into his cup.

Jon raises his hand, “Dude, high five!” Spencer raises an eyebrow and taps his hand to Jon's. “If you gotta blow off band practice, getting laid is a totally valid excuse.”

Spencer blushes so intensely pinky red streaks heat his neck and chest. “Oh shit,” Ryan brings his hand to his mouth, muffling his laughter. “You and Brendon still haven't fucked? It's been, like weeks. Is he deformed? Missing parts? Religious?” Ryan is staring at him agog and Spencer knows his best friend cannot fathom any kind of dating that does not involve fucking. “Spencer, when two boys love each other very much it's perfectly natural to get naked and..”

“Well...not that it's anyone's business,” Spencer quickly cuts Ryan off, “but we're taking it slow,okay? Figuring shit out.” Spencer harrumphs and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Wait. Wait. You and the sailor girl-dude haven't experienced the joy of er...manly love?”

Shoulders hunched, Spencer says, “I am going to assume you're not trying to be an asshole. I'm not sure why it's any of your fucking business, but no, we haven't had sex...yet. Brendon's never...been in a relationship before and we're just...just dating and having fun okay?”

“Aww, you're waiting 'til it means something. That's adorable.” Jon reaches across the table to muss up Spencer's hair. Spencer growls and smacks Jon away, carefully smoothing the flat ironed strands back across his forehead.

Spencer drains his cup and throws it towards the trash bin, where it lands jauntily perched on the very top of a heap of paper cups. “Can we please talk about something else? Or better yet can we just go practice now? I have to go soon.”

“Oh yeah, it's date night, isn't it? Or isn't every night date night in the Spencer and Brendon show?” Ryan sounds almost bitter as he works on his fingerless gloves and picks up his cup. Jon zips up his hoodie and holds the door open for everyone.

Climbing the stairs to the El station two at a time, Spencer looks behind him and says, “Brendon's performing tonight at the Kit-Kat, if you want to come.” He's really only being polite and hoping that his friends say no.

Jon and Ryan exchange glances, and what looks like to be abortive retching motions, and Jon finally says, “Uh, nah. We have to work out those loops Ryan made earlier today.”

“Yeah, you know, charting that shit takes forever.” Ryan jumps through the train doors and flings himself across two seats.

Kicking Ryan's tweed trouser clad legs out of the way, Jon flops down beside him and says, “Especially when the rock and roll boy genius can't read or write music.” and hooks a thumb towards Ryan, making Spencer snort a laugh out through his nose.

“Hey!” Ryan frowns, “Lots of musical geniuses can't read or write music, so there!” He glowers at Jon.

“Oh yeah?” Spencer swings from the train's center bar, “Like who? And are you actually calling yourself a genius? Because dude, I've heard some of your 'hooks'.”

Still frowning and kicking the point of his wingtip into the side of Jon's sneaker, Ryan thinks for a second and says, “Lionel Ritchie.”

“What?” Spencer and Jon squawk at the same time.

Sitting up straight, Ryan tosses his head a little and says, “I saw it on VH1. Lionel Ritchie can't read or write music.”

Jon can't stop laughing. “That's your rock and roll musical genius? Dude, did you Dad ever listen to anything that wasn't on LITE FM when you were growing up?”

“What? The Commadores are really good!” Ryan defends passionately.

“Sure they are, Penny Lover. You and Jon have a good time working things out, All Night Long.” Spencer's shoulders shake with laughter and he can barely hang on to the pole as the train takes a corner, he's laughing so hard. Jon is laughing equally as hard and slaps Spencer's palm in a high five.

“What?” Ryan stares at them both in confusion.

* * *

Spencer gets to the Kit-Kat club early enough to get a table, but he's by himself so he settles for the bar. He briefly thought about going back stage to say hi to Brendon, but wasn't sure if that was okay. So, he just sits at the bar nursing his dirty martini and people watching. It's a small but interesting crowd tonight, everything from what appears to be a bachelorette party to a smattering of gay couples, to a few power suited guys in the big corner booth, and a non-plussed Cubs gear clad family who seem to have accidentally wandered around the corner from Wrigleyville. The bartender plunks a plate of calamari down in front of him, and Spencer realizes how hungry he is.

The first diva to perform is someone Spencer's sure he's heard Brendon refer to as Patrick. She works the room in a beehive and feather and rhinestone covered cocktail dress, shaking and shimmying and lip synching to a medley of R&B hits, and the crowd eats it up. Spencer's seat at the bar is in front of the sparkly silver curtain that the club uses to section off the hallway to the dressing rooms, so on her way by, Patrick gives Spencer a big grin and squeezes his arm. “I'll tell Brendon you're here,” she says softly as she flits behind the drapes.

When the house lights dim and the follow spot appears on the sliver curtain, Spencer feels his stomach swoop, and he's pretty sure it's not from the ¼ of the martini he's actually swallowed. Brendon had said he wanted to try out something new tonight, but refused to say exactly what. The DJ gets the crowd going, introducing the act and then shouts “Surrender Dorothy!” as the curtains part.

The crowd seems a little confused. The Kit-Kat is known for sexy disco divas and pop impersonations of Madonna and Pink! and Lady Gaga. The bachelorette party looks at one another in confusion as the opening strains of Somewhere Over the Rainbow blasts through the sound system and the tornado scene from The Wizard of Oz is projected on one long white wall. And then, Brendon appears. He's wearing a very short blue gingham dress, braided pig tails with matching blue bows, lace trimmed ankle socks, and the most amazing ruby slippers Spencer's ever seen--his sister Crystal was Dorothy for Hallowe'en one year, okay? He even has a little stuffed dog in a basket that he loops over his arm as he starts to work the room.

He lip syncs perfectly, over emoting and faux warbling along with Judy as he sashays between tables and flirts with patrons. Eventually, the crowd warms up, enthusiastically tucking bills into the dog basket or handing them to Brendon, who tucks them into the elastic cuff of the starched white pantaloons he wears beneath his dress. And by the time Brendon's curtsying and bowing by the curtain, they're hooting and hollering and whistling.

Before ducking out of sight, he leans over and husks, “Gimme a few minutes and come back to my dressing room, okay?” in Spencer's ear, planting a crimson kiss to his beard.

After calculatedly nursing his drink for ten minutes after Brendon disappears behind the curtain, Spencer takes the swizzle stick, pulls all three of the olives off with his teeth, and stands. While he finishes chewing, he fishes his wallet out of his back pocket and slaps a generous tip down on the bar. Squaring his shoulders he licks his lips and heads down the hallway to Brendon's dressing room.

The door is barely open before he has his arms full of Brendon. Spencer's back slams into the wall just beside the doorway and Brendon reaches out a hand long enough to flick the lock, then returning it to insistently grope Spencer's hips and ass. “Holy shit Spencer, you look so fucking good.” Brendon slicks his eager mouth across Spencer's. He's removed most of his make up but his eyes are still lined a smudged black, giving him a smoldering appearance. “Did you do this yourself, for me?” He traces the pad of his thumb across Spencer's brow bone. “Copper looks fucking fierce with your blue eyes.”

Ryan, it seems, is going through a thing. He's decided that make up on dudes makes things more interesting, and like everything else Ryan has set his mind to, he has decided to be the best at applying make up. When he heard that Spencer was meeting Brendon at the Kit-Kat, he had stopped band practice so he could 'do Spencer's eyes'. He'd lined the upper and lower lids, applied mascara and then dabbed bright copper shadow from a tiny pot onto Spencer's lids. He'd felt self-conscious and stupid, but now, seeing Brendon's reaction, he's glad he let Ryan talk him into it.

“Yeah,” he husks against the point of Brendon's chin. “Bren? What...” Brendon stops trying to inhale Spencer's face and tangles their fingers together. He leads Spencer over to a worn green velvet sofa and pushes until Spencer sits down, only to crawl into his lap.

Spencer's hands roam Brendon's bare back. He's taken off most of his costume with the exception of what Spencer guesses are called bloomers; frilly short underpants that are secured at the thigh with tiny blue ribbons. “I dunno man, I'm just all fuckin' keyed up. That went awesome, did you see? Audience ate that shit up. And I'm like, way over tired and you just look so fuckin' hot.” His fingers fumble with the tiny buttons on Spencer's dress shirt and he mumbles into Spencer's mouth. “Fuckin' adrenaline, man. I just...I want...I need...”

“Yeah, yeah,” Spencer tips his head back to rest against the wall as Brendon scrapes his teeth over his throat and sucks bruises on his collarbones. Spencer's long fingers slip beneath the waistband of Brendon's undergarment and he cups his ass in the palms of his hands. Brendon pants and bucks his hips, straddling Spencer's thigh and grinding back and forth. “Jesus, you're so...”

Brendon sucks on Spencer's bottom lip before scraping it between his teeth. Spencer whines and arches his hips up, frustrated by the feeling of his rigid cock, still trapped inside his jeans. “Can we...can you,” Spencer takes one of Brendon's hands away from petting through his hair and lowers it to his crotch, carefully watching Brendon, hoping it's okay.

“Shit yes,” Brendon brings their mouths back together in a messy clash of teeth and lip, and slides his fingers across Spencer's erection, popping the button on his dark jeans and then stroking the backs of his fingers low across Spencer's belly.

Squeezing Brendon's ass, Spencer's voice is a low rumble in his chest, “You gonna get serious?”

Brendon laughs and leans his weight more against Spencer's chest. They're still both sitting up, and he's grinding against Spencer's thigh. He reaches into Spencer's boxer briefs and gives his cock a tentative squeeze. “It feels just like mine,” he says, slightly awed.

“What the fuck did you think it would feel like?” Spencer looks at Brendon from where he's licking stripes up and down the tendons in his neck. “Puppies and sunshine? Skin's skin for fuck's sake.”

Brendon snorts and rests his forehead against Spencer's shoulder, “I dunno, I never really thought about it, I guess. The feeling, I mean. Because I totally dream, like ten times a night about jerking you off. Feels good. Better than good.” He closes his eyes and thinks back to Spencer jacking off beside him in his apartment. Tries to remember what Spencer did, how he liked it.

Brendon swallows and swirls his thumb over the head of Spencer's cock. Spencer gives an appreciative whine and thrusts up harder into Brendon's hand. Brendon licks his lips, and steadying himself with a hand on Spencer's shoulder, starts a slow, squeezing rhythm, his fingers clutching and sliding against Spencer's sensitive skin.

Spencer grunts and lowers his hands to Brendon's hips, steadying him as his twitching and grinding against Spencer's thigh amps up. He leans forward to lick at the sweat pooling between Brendon's collarbones and then is stunned by the speed with which Brendon jumps up. “Shit, I need to take these off.”

“Huh?” Spencer opens his eyes and watches Brendon comically hopping around trying to take off his pantaloons.

“I don't have the money to have them dry cleaned and...I'm gonna wreck 'em if I don't take them off. Now.” Having finally undone the ribbons, Brendon shimmies his narrow hips tugging on the rough cotton until they drift over his calves, pooling on the floor. “Okay, okay,” He's wearing y-front briefs and he adjusts himself in them before climbing back on to Spencer. “Sorry.”

“S'okay. But just...” Spencer pointedly looks down his body and to Brendon's hand. He catches on quickly, resuming the slow teasing rhythm of his fingers on Spencer's hard cock. The cant of his hips echoes the movement of his hand, and soon he's back where he was; hard and panting and bumping his forehead against Spencer's shoulder. “Bren, you close? I'm so fucking close.”

“Uhhn,” Brendon says as he slides his cock, still covered by the cotton of his underpants, along the crease where Spencer's hip bends. He shudders hard, makes a pinched whining noise that escapes slowly between his teeth, then slumps forward. Without realizing it, his fingers have slowed their stroking and are simply squeezing Spencer's cock in a tight fist.

Spencer makes a coughing, hacking noise and curls forward, his arm around Brendon's lower back the only thing keeping them both from sliding to the floor. Slippery ropes of comes slick between Brendon's fingers and fill his cupped palm. “Holy shit,” Spencer says weakly as he slumps back onto the couch.

“I came in my pants,” Brendon makes a face, leaning over the edge of the sofa to pluck tissues from a box set on a low table.

Spencer can barely keep his eyes open. “Then take 'em off,” he rolls his shoulders and curls his legs up onto the sofa when Brendon stands up. He's laying flat on is back, zipper still open and hands resting low on his belly. His breathing is starting to slow, and Brendon thinks he's just about asleep.

Brendon figures what the fuck, and drops his shorts in the middle of his dressing room floor. Scooping them up he uses them to clean himself up as best he can before firing them by the elastic waistband onto the pile of his street clothes. He takes a short dressing gown, a deep red and covered in embroidered Japanese fans, off of a peg by his make up table, wraps it around himself, then strides over to the sofa. He wriggles against Spencer until there is room for him to lie down.

Sighing happily, Brendon closes his eyes.

* * *

Wednesday nights aren't good for much. Spencer has an early econ lecture on Thursday mornings, and Brendon has to open at MAC, so they usually just hang out at Brendon's when he gets off from the Kit-Kat Club, eat toasted peanut butter sandwiches, make out, and watch movies. They haven't really progressed from the events in Brendon's dressing room the week before--was that second base? Spencer's not sure how that analogy is supposed to work-- so they spend a lot of time groping each other and kissing and cuddling. And Spencer is fine with it.

Really, he is.

So what if Jon keeps making jokes about Spencer's eyes not being the only blue part of his anatomy?

It'll happen when it happens. Which doesn't look like tonight, at any rate. Spencer is reviewing for a test, and Brendon is chattering away about a gorgeous bride who is bringing her entire bridal party into to MAC on the week end, and he gets to do their make up. He's also giving himself a speedy manicure and pedicure. His fingernails are painted a purple so dark it's almost black,and he's currently slicking the same color across his toenails. Spencer has been pretending to read the same page in his text book for the last five minutes, but he's really watching Brendon.

“You can try it, you know,” Brendon says without looking up from his task.

Spencer's stomach flips a little when he realizes he's busted. Is it weird to spend so much time staring at your boyfriend? He's not sure and he doesn't really have anyone to ask. “Hmm?” He sets his textbook down on the bed and smiles at Brendon.

“I can give you a mini-pedicure if you want. Like, with clear polish if the colored stuff freaks you out.” Brendon twists at the waist, reaching behind him to his cramped make up table and waving a bottle of transparent nail polish at Spencer.

Brendon leans forward and tugs at Spencer's sock covered big toe. “C'mon, I bet your toes are just as hot as the rest of you. And lots of guys get pedicures, trust me.” Something unreadable is glowing in the dark depths of Brendon's eyes.

Since he met Brendon, Spencer's gotten comfortable with wearing eye make up so, what the hell, why not? “Sure,” he sits up, tugging at his blue argyle socks and then dropping them onto the floor by Brendon's bed.

Happily wriggling his own toes against the quilt that covers the foot of his bed, Brendon extricates himself from his awkward crouch on his make up stool. “See?” He takes Spencer's heel in his hand, “I knew your feet would be beautiful.”

“Who has beautiful toes? That's weird, man.” Spencer is staring down at his own feet. To him they just look like, well, feet. They get him from point A to point B, and provide a damn good excuse to spend a lot of money on cool as fuck shoes.

Gathering up the tools he'd been using to fix up his own pedicure, Brendon sets them on the bed and runs his thumb along the inside arch of Spencer's right foot. “Are you telling me you've never heard of foot fetishes? There's this guy who comes by the Kit-Kat sometimes and he buys our old crappy shoes. I know he's not a drag queen, you get what I'm saying?” Brendon contorts his face into a cartoon leer.

“Eww. I did not need to know that. Um...do you have a foot fetish?” Spencer is more interested in Brendon's reply than his casual tone belies.

“Nah. But look, I know good feet. And your feet are great. No corns or bunions or hammer toes or like nail fungus,” Spencer throws Curious George at Brendon's head. He ducks it laughing. “And like you don't have weird monkey toes, or like hairy hobbit feet or anything. You could be a foot model. Which is totally a real thing, by the way,” Brendon finishes before Spencer can even ask. “You don't have a foot fetish, do you?”

Spencer wrinkles up his nose and smiles, “No. I just...I like how yours look, with the polish on and stuff. Your hands too.” Why the hell did he just admit that out loud?

“Yay! Because I like how it looks, too. Now, let's see if we can make your pretty feet beautiful.”

He might not have a foot fetish, but Spencer wonders if it's possible to have a watching Brendon work fetish. He'd noticed it when they'd first met and Brendon had applied his eye make up. Brendon, who is always full tilt mile a minute, slows down and is careful and precise and still when he's working.

Spencer never knew he could find something like that hot.

But now, watching Brendon set out lotions and creams and nail files and emery boards and cotton batting, Spencer cannot deny that he has a Brendon Doing His Thing thing. He closes his eyes, and schools his breathing, and prays that his cock will co-operate and not embarrass the shit out of him while Brendon is massaging some kind of sweet, slippery cream into his feet.“Your skin's a little dry, so this shea butter should help,” Brendon say, kneading his knuckles along the bottom of Spencer's foot.

Spencer has his eyes clenched tightly closed and is focused on breathing in and out and in and out. He sneaks glimpses of Brendon through narrowed eyelids and he can't get over how weirdly hot it is to watch Brendon work, carefully explaining everything he's doing, and feeling how fucking good a pedicure feels.

He had no idea.

“We should go to a salon and get actual pedicures, because they are way more awesome than anything I can do here,” Brendon pushes his glasses up with his index finger and smiles widely.

“I kind of doubt that right now,” Spencer can't help the low, dirty groan the feeling of Brendon's fingers kneading at the fleshy ball of his foot causes to spill out into the room.

Brendon just chuckles low and continues on with his work. Spencer closes his eyes once more and gives in to the floating sensation spreading through him, and only jerks his feet a little when Brendon scrapes and files and trims. He opens his eyes and looks down his prone body to watch Brendon apply the clear nail polish with a steady, professional hand. He shifts, his erection pressing uncomfortably into the seam of his jeans. “You almost done?” Spencer asks, trying to mentally calculate how much longer he can hold off without coming in his pants. Or else he'll have to go jerk off in the bathroom. Or maybe he can think of every disgusting thing he's ever seen heard or smelled and talk himself down from the edge.

Except that is the exact moment he feels the strangest sensation which, upon opening his eyes he sees is Brendon fucking Urie fucking blowing on his toes. Before he can stop himself he makes a short, loud huh noise and jerks, his foot flailing out. “Whoa mule!” Brendon catches Spencer by the heel before he gets clipped in the face. “Sorry. Ticklish, huh?” He kisses the bump of Spencer's ankle and sets his foot back on the bed. “All done anyway. Just don't move so they can dry.” Brendon pats Spencer's knee and sets about tidying up.

“Uh Bren?” Spencer's voice sounds rough and foreign to his ears.

“Yeah?”

“Could you...could you come here?” Spencer's skin feels like a thousand heated blades are being dragged up his arms and legs.

Brendon throws the emery board and cotton pads into the garbage and gives Spencer a strange, questioning look. “Sure?”

Spencer's arm snakes out, and he wraps his fingers around Brendon's wrist, pulling him down on to the bed beside him. “Hi,” Brendon laughs. He's still laughing when Spencer kisses him, rough and wet. “Okay, so maybe not a foot fetish, but a pedicure fetish? Everyone has a thing Spencer Smith, I'm totally not judging you.” Brendon laughs against Spencer's mouth.

Just as Spencer goes to roll them over on the bed, trapping Brendon underneath him and against the wall, Brendon sees a small swath of pink plastic peeking out of the top of Spencer's messenger bag. “Hey, what's that? And watch your toes, they're not dry yet. You ruin my work, no more pedicures—which is not a euphemism for anything.” Brendon wags a finger at Spencer before rolling off the bed and snagging the shopping bag.

When Spencer's brain catches up to what Brendon is saying, and when his dick gets over the fact that Brendon is no longer pressed up against him, Spencer says, “Oh yeah. I uh...I bought you something. But then I wasn't sure you would like it, so I wasn't sure about giving it to you so...” Spencer trails off self-consciously.

“A present? For me!” Brendon does a modified Tigger hop, favoring his still tender ankle and bounces back onto the bed, bag in hand. “It doesn't matter what it is, all presents are awesome.” He pecks a kiss to the place on Spencer's cheek where beard gives way to smooth pale skin. “Oh!” Brendon spills the contents of the bag into his hands, then holds it up, studying it. “Oh Spencer, it's gorgeous.” The dim lighting from the bare overhead bulb makes the deep red fabric of the tunic shine .

Spencer hooks his chin on Brendon's shoulder. “Do you really like it?” He asks softly. “Because I saw it in a store window and I thought it was pretty, and that the color would look good on you. But then, I didn't know if it's something you'd like, or want to wear or whatever.”

“It's perfect! Thank you,” Brendon turns to awkwardly brush a kiss to Spencer's mouth.

“If you want to put it on, maybe we can go out and do something fun? Shake up Wednesday night?” Spencer returns the kiss and smiles, secretly pleased with Brendon's enthusiastic reaction.

Brendon stands up, holding the top against him and twisting to and fro, watching the fabric billow and shift with his movement. “Okay! We can go dancing. I mean, if you like dancing.”

“I do,” Spencer smiles. It's true, he does. Ryan says that one of the first things that should have tipped Haley off to the fact that Spencer might not be entirely on Team Hetero was how good a dancer he is and how much Spencer likes to go out to clubs and just dance.

Brendon grabs the top and his make up kit and heads for the bathroom, “Okay so you just lie there and let your little piggies dry,” he flaps a hand towards Spencer's feet, “and I'll just go slip into this and put on my face. Won't take me ten minutes.”

“You don't have to,” Spencer says quietly.

“Huh?”

“Put on your face, I mean. I mean, you're pretty just the way you are...” he trails off and feels embarrassment heat his face and neck. Brendon gives him an inscrutable look, blows him a kiss, and heads to the bathroom.

True to his word, nine minutes later Brendon emerges from the bathroom, new dress on, and just a little make up—eye liner, lip gloss and some strange shimmery power strategically placed. Spencer's not really sure why Brendon didn't do his make up at the table at the foot of the bed like he always does. But, Spencer's kind of glad, given his brand new realization that he has a thing for Brendon Doing His Thing and how incredibly close he came to embarrassing himself and coming in his pants during the whole pedicure thing. He's not sure how well watching Brendon putting on make up would have gone. “You look beautiful,” Spencer crosses the tiny room to kiss him.

“You have good taste, Spencer Smith!” Brendon twirls, plucking at the perfectly draped fabric. “And clearly you are a shopping genius and you pay attention to shit, because this thing fits perfectly.” Brendon reaches into a small chest of drawers and finds a pair of leggings, shimmying into them. “Now if I can find my flats...” poking under his bed with his toes he eventually extracts a plain black pair of ballet flats. “All right! Just need to grab a sweater and we're ready. You ready to go?”

“Sure,” Spencer shrugs and picks up his coat.

“Do you mind walking? I know it's getting kind of cold, but I love fall and it's a nice night.”

“If you're sure your ankle is okay, then sure, let's walk.” Spencer holds his arm out to Brendon, who giggles and slips his hand to Spencer's elbow.

They head up Belmont, taking in the crowd, because even if it's early October, and even if it's Wednesday, Boys Town is always hopping and there's always something to do. Spencer is checking out the window in a now closed store when Brendon tackle hugs him so hard the both almost topple into the street. “Whoa, what?” Spencer looks down to where Brendon's face is buried in Spencer's wool coat.

“Just, thanks!” Brendon tilts his face up to kiss Spencer's chin. “Most people, they wouldn't have bought me something like this. They'd buy me like, a garter belt or some shit like that. Something for them. And it feels like maybe you meant this to be something for me.”

Spencer takes Brendon's hand and continues their leisurely stroll. “I'm not most people, remember?” He laughs at Brendon's giggle, “And I gotta say, I'm kinda relieved you like it. I mean I thought I remembered you saying that you wore dresses and stuff, that you liked to feel pretty, and it isn't always a work thing. But then I thought maybe I got that part wrong...”

“Nope, you got that part exactly right.”

When they reach Cobra Starship there's a small but not insubstantial line up stretching a few storefronts away from the building. Zack, Brendon's friend and neighbor is bouncing and when he sees Brendon he just nods and waves them on, winking at Spencer. Once they're through the front doors, Spencer holds his hand out for Brendon's sweater. “I'm going to do coat check. Do you want to head upstairs or wait for me?”

“Oh, I'll wait.” The knowing smirk that's been on Brendon's face since they came within sight of the club grows wider.

The coat check line isn't very long as most Midwesterners cling stubbornly to non-weather appropriate outerwear well into November. Spencer's back in a flash and he and Brendon head up the stairs. “You want a drink?” Spencer tilts an elbow towards the bar and raises a questioning eyebrow. Brendon shakes his head and points to the dance floor.

The find a spot that provides at least a little room for two people to dance in the midst of the throng, and as they move to the pulse of a house mix, Spencer sees the moment of delight on Brendon's face when he realizes that Spencer isn't just another tragic white boy faking his way through a shuffle step, but can actually keep the beat and isn't afraid to move. He pulls Brendon close and they both laugh, faces raised to the ceiling.

Spencer's never seen such a mix of people. His entire gay social scene thus far has involved the GSA and the LGBT students groups at the university, and the few times that he and Brendon have been to dinner or drinks in Boys Town. There's button down straight laced guys and guys in leather and guys in drag and people and bodies writhing and moving to the ever present beat. He feels a weird sense of unironic pride that Brendon's impressed by Spencer's lack of freak out. And really, with the music pumping and Brendon here with him, Spencer feels like he belongs.

He hugs Brendon and laughs and laughs.

After a solid hour of dancing, Spencer needs a break, and he gets Brendon's attention and motions towards the bar. “Hey Pete!” Brendon yells and then holds up two fingers. Before Spencer's even settled, elbows braced on the bar rail, Brendon is dangling a bottle of water in front of his face. He takes it, kissing Brendon on the cheek.

Spencer watches the beads of sweat rolling from Brendon's hairline, down his throat, and disappearing into the neckline of his tunic. He's suddenly aware that he very much wants to lick the trail of those drops. So, he leans over and does. Brendon jerks in surprise at the feeling of Spencer's tongue on his skin, but then smiles and kisses him. They lean against the bar people watching and holding hands until Spencer says, “I gotta go to the restroom,” and takes off towards the men's room.

“Wait! Spencer! You should use the staff restrooms!” Brendon tries to snag Spencer's elbow, but he just waves off any concern and continues on his way. Not thirty seconds later he comes back towards the bar in something that is a little more than a quick walk, but not quite a trot. “Holy shit!” He yells when he's back within Brendon's earshot. “There are dudes in there full out fucking!” Spencer's blue eyes are the size of dinner plates.

Brendon laughs and says, “I tried to tell you to use the staff restrooms.”

“I'm totally listening to you next time. Damn.” Spencer hugs Brendon from behind and sways in time with the music. “I mean I'm down with going with what feels good. But those guys were like, bare ass naked in the middle of a public bathroom.” He shudders and makes a face. “That can not be sanitary.”

Still laughing, Brendon turns in his embrace, “Had enough big gay adventure for one night?”

“Maybe? Are you mad?” Spencer takes Brendon's empty water bottle and hands it to the bartender.

“Nah,” Brendon chuckles and pats Spencer's arm. “We both have to be up early tomorrow. And we need make out time before you lapse into a coma from your trauma.”

Spencer nods enthusiastically “Hell yes! Please, help me erase the memory,” He murmurs against Brendon's ear and walks them towards the stairs.

By unspoken agreement, they get a cab back to Spencer's apartment and Brendon is leaning heavily on Spencer as they head up to his flat. “Seriously, why the fuck do sprains take so long to heal?” He grouses.

“Maybe they're just bitter that they don't get all the attention of broken bones so they're taking their anger out?” Spencer keys the door open and they head towards his bedroom. He's already got his sneakers and jeans off and is pulling his sweater over his head before Brendon's even got one shoe off.

He holds his arms out and Brendon comes over to Spencer's side of the bed and steps easily into the embrace. And maybe he's secretly a little thrilled they have their own sides. “Thanks for tonight,” he sways a little, brushing absent, ill aimed kisses across Brendon's forehead. “It was really fun.”

“It was. And you totally held your own with the Cobra freaks and geeks. Except for that nasty bathroom incident. But at least you got that out of the way?” Brendon laughs and pulls the tunic over his head, folding it carefully and setting it on Spencer's desk chair, then stripping off his tights and doing the same.

Spencer turns off the bedside lamp and they find each other in the dark. They kiss and touch and whisper until Brendon says in a careful, almost frightened voice, “Spence? I've been thinking...”

“Nother date?” Spencer laughs into Brendon's hair, his hands roaming low across Brendon's back.

Brendon's breathing is loud in the dark, and after several deep in and out breaths, he says, “I've been thinking...I want to blow you. I want to know what it's like to suck your cock.”

Whatever Spencer thought Brendon was going to say, that isn't it, “Oh yeah?” His voice has gone up at least an octave and he's suddenly aware of how hard he is, and how close Brendon is.

“Would that be okay?”

Brendon sounds so young and unsure, Spencer pulls him close and kisses across the places on Brendon's face that, even in the dark, he knows are dusted with freckles. “Bren, I just want you to know, if you say you want to blow me, my answer will always be an enthusiastic yes.” He manages to keep his voice neutral, with a slightly teasing tone.

NEXT

bandombigbang Along the Way (Brendon/Spencer) NC 17 Part 1

cloudlessclimes — Mon, 20 Jun 2011 22:05:44 GMT

Title: Along the Way
Author: cloudlessclimes
Wordcount: ~35 500
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Brendon/Spencer
Summary: Continuation of All I Want, but it's not necessary to read that one to know what's going on here, anymore than anyone in the story knows what's going on, anyway. (although I would never discourage you from doing so)
A sort of college AU.
Definitely a tale of good friends, cheap beer, cross dressing, falling in love, and figuring out what that means. No matter how much Spencer's friends may mock him, at least he and Brendon are doing it together, eventually.
Warning:Brief mention of past bullying, brief mention of past transphobic violence, brief use of transphobic language, cross dressing.
Disclaimer:I own no one I know no one. All made up. Please don’t sue me.
Notes:Many thanks to the bandombigbang mods for organizing this whole thing. Thanks also to my beta and hand holder, ohnoscarlett, and any and all who had to hear me prattle on about this for years.
Title comes from the song of the same name by the awesome Tyrone Wells. Cut text is also lyrics from the same song.

Please check out the wonderful mix saint_vee made for me here

Also, while you're at it you can see the beautiful art look_alive did for me here.

Both are perfect and amazing and I am blown away to be the recipient of such wonderful works of art.

The sun shines in through the tiny window over the sink, and Spencer closes his eyes against the glare. "Mmm," he murmurs, slicking his tongue across the fullness of Brendon's bottom lip and smiling at the sweet, sleepy, encouraging sounds Brendon makes. He pulls Brendon almost impossibly closer, and if he had to he could use the tininess of Brendon's twin bed as an excuse.

But, by the way Brendon's fingers tangle in the sleep-messy stands of Spencer's hair, he doesn't think he needs any excuse at all to teasingly ghost careful finger tips down over the arch of Brendon's all too prominent ribs, resting to cup his hipbones. Spencer spreads his legs wider and encourages Brendon to sprawl on top of him. "So good," Spencer's voice is a low scratchy whisper as he tilts his head back, allowing Brendon to kiss, hot and open-mouthed, along the straining tendons of Spencer's neck. His hands slide from the sharp gulls wings rise of Brendon's hip to the flat of his belly, and his fingers tease beneath the stretched elastic of the pj pants Brendon must have changed into sometime during the night.

"Spence," Brendon's voice is tight and distracted and Spencer feels him freeze beneath the gentle, questing touch. Brendon shifts from where his entire body is pressed across Spencer's and with a small, almost-smile, wraps his fingers around Spencer's wrist, moving the exploring hand to a safe place flung across Spencer's own chest. "Sorry, I'm sorry," Brendon whispers in a shaky huff of breath. He rubs at his eye and bites at his lip.

Spencer realizes that Brendon's scared.

Spencer runs both hands through his hair and scrubs at his beard. "Shit Brendon, I'm sorry. Just got a little carried away," he smirks and hopes to relieve the fear in Brendon's eyes and the tightness across his shoulders. "But you have nothing to be sorry about, okay?" Leaning back on one elbow he reaches his other hand over to cup Brendon's cheek, smoothing at Brendon's frowning mouth with the pad of his thumb. His smile widens a little and he shrugs, but he won't meet Spencer's eyes, "Okay?" Spencer leans in close and tilts Brendon's chin up.

Shrugging again, Brendon mumbles "Okay," but he's twisting his fingers in his lap, and digging his toes into the wrinkled sheets.

"Okay?" Spencer reaches across the mess of quilt and blankets and grabs Curious George, making the stuffed animal do a stupid dance in front of Brendon's face. Brendon yips out a startled laugh, but the corner of his eyes crinkle adorably. "Okay?" Spencer flings the monkey across the room and gently tweeks the tip of Brendon's nose, making him laugh harder. He smacks a quick kiss to the corner of Brendon's mouth and then jabs his finger into Brendon's belly, making him squeal. "Okay?"

Spencer turns to full out tickling now and Brendon is curled up on the bed, clutching at his chest as he dissolves into uncontrollable giggles. "Okay okay okay!"

"Good!" Spencer gives one short emphatic nod, and then lies down beside Brendon again.

Brendon's hand is tentative as he reaches to trace the nonsense pattern of the freckles that fleck Spencer's collar bone. "It's just," he sighs out the breath he's finally caught and chews on his lip, "I don't want you to think I'm a tease or, you know, whatever." He screws up his face in a fussy, unimpressed way.

Kissing Brendon softly, Spencer pulls him into a hug and says, "You aren't a tease Brendon. I mean, we just met, right? And we're figuring, you know stuff out. We can take it slow, if you want."

"Okay," Brendon says, and then snorts out a laugh at the number of times that word has been repeated in recent minutes.

Spencer sighs and slumps to rest his head on Brendon's shoulder, "Can I ask you something?" he says to Brendon's earlobe.

"Sure, I guess." Brendon raises an eyebrow and twists awkwardly in Spencer's arms to look at him.

It's Spencer's turn to look nervous and unsure. Color climbs high on his cheekbones, and in a whoosh he says, "So what have you done?" He motions awkwardly between them, "With, you know, guys. I mean."

Blinking slowly, Brendon opens his mouth to speak and then closes it again. He groans in embarrassment and turns to bury his face in the pillow. "Uh, yeah, I get what you mean." He scrunches up his face and scratches at his nose, like he's thinking, "Kissing mostly, I guess." He licks his lips, and Spencer is distracted by the wet shine of his tongue across lips that have been kiss-bitten a deep red. "And like, maybe a little groping," he giggles and runs his hands through his hair, "And dancing at Cobra which is," he arches up off the bed, swiveling his hips to illustrate his point. "So, a lot of groping, I guess." He turns and meets Spencer's eyes, his breath fanning out across Spencer's chin as he laughs.

Spencer laughs too, but it's nervous and tight. He watches his hands stroke over Brendon's flannel clad hips. "Yeah," he finally manages, not sure at all what he's saying yeah to.

"So, uh, now you tell me." Brendon winds his arms around Spencer's neck and smiles sweetly.

"Um, with Haley I like, did pretty much, you know, everything." The embarrassed heat in Spencer's face is slowly creeping down his neck and chest. "But, with guys. Well, guy, I guess. I got a blow job in a bar once."

"In a bar!" Brendon sits up and looks at Spencer with barely hidden shock.

Frowning, Spencer takes Brendon's hand, gently tugging til he settles back down beside him. "Yeah," his smile is a little sad as he scoots over to lay his head on Brendon's pillow. "I'd just broken up with Haley because I finally figured out the real reason an awesome girl like her didn't make me happy was because she wasn't an awesome guy like her." The strands of Brendon's hair slip across the cotton of the pillow case as he nods in encouragement. "So Ryan and Jon--my best friends..."

"Are they the guys you were at the Kit-Kat with?"

"Yeah, them--anyway, they decided that I needed to drown my sorrows in some manly gay bar or some shit?" Brendon giggles at the horrified face Spencer makes. "So we go, and Ryan Ross, who is very very straight and Jon Walker who is also very very straight spend the night fending off all kinds of advances."

"Yeah, they're hot!" Brendon supplies helpfully but then shuts up when he sees the blue steel death glare Spencer directs at him.

Spencer can't hold the expression very long and it dissolves into a small, somewhat sheepish smile. "So I pounded back the brewskies." Brendon has to physically clamp his hands over his mouth to prevent the giggles Spencer's choice of words elicit. "And got really fucking drunk and really fucking angry. So there was this guy, who seemed interested enough in me--I can't even tell you his name or what he looked like--so we went into the bathroom and he started to blow me and I may or may not have freaked out and run out the emergency exit with my jeans unzipped."

"Holy shit! You did not!" Incredulous, Brendon slaps at Spencer's shoulder.

"True story. I fell asleep," Spencer raises his hands to make air quotes, "In Ryan's car and the next day I woke up and was convinced I had, like, seventeen different STDs so I went to the clinic." Spencer is laughing at himself now.

"That's very responsible of you," Brendon pecks a kiss to Spencer's cheek and Spencer laughs harder.

Through his laughter he manages to say, "I was, of course, fine."

"Of course!" Brendon finishes brightly. "So I guess we are the two twenty something gay dude exceptions that prove the rule, huh?"

Turning his head to brush his nose along Brendon's jaw, Spencer smiles stupidly, "Yeah. So, slow is good, right?"

"Slow is fucking awesome," Brendon agrees heartily, then tilts his chin up, kissing Spencer.

They kiss and doze until Brendon's stomach growls obnoxiously loudly, making Spencer laugh. "You gotta work today?"

"Dude, I gotta work every day. How d'you think I manage to stay living in the lavish lap of barely scraping by?" Brendon flings out an arm to encompass the tiny room and its few belongings.

Spencer takes hold of Brendon's hand and threads their fingers together. "Too bad," Spencer tries pouting, making Brendon grin, "I was totally gonna buy you breakfast."

Squinting at the monkey on a surfboard wall clock above his make up table, Brendon says, "Most people call the meal around noon lunch."

"I told you I'm not most people," Spencer sits up and yawns, scratching at his belly. "So-- brunch. Every place in the city has all day breakfast, so what the fuck ever."

Nodding enthusiastically, Brendon replies, "You are correct sir. And I'm working at Cobra Starship so I have hours free." He waggles his eyebrows and then lies back down, wrapping his arms around Spencer's neck. Spencer pulls him close and is just about to show Brendon what they can do with those hours when Brendon's stomach again loudly makes it's empty state known.

"Food?" Spencer sighs and sits up, but Brendon doesn't let go, just slides his arms down to wreath Spencer's waist.

"Food," Brendon agrees, and then in a flurry of flung blankets and pale skin gets to his feet, bending to search under the bed for the t-shirt he'd discarded earlier that morning. "Hey, so I'm working at MAC tomorrow. If you have classes you could come by and keep me from killing spoiled rich girls from Hoffman Estates."

Spencer freezes, fingers stilled as he retrieves his shoe from where it's wedged between the bed and the wall. He turns to look at Brendon and his blue eyes are wide with wonder. "You want to see me tomorrow?"

Huffing out an annoyed breath, Brendon flicks Spencer's black henley at him and says, "Of course I want to see you tomorrow, dumb ass." He takes the shoe from Spencer's hand and flings it to the floor with a thump. Kneeling on the bed, Brendon takes Spencer's hand and with a small, quiet smile says, "Tomorrow, and the day after that. And the day after that, and the day after that."

The two of them stay where they are, awkwardly kneeling on Brendon's bed, staring stupidly at each other as the afternoon sun shines bright through the tiny, dirty window.

* * *

"Okay, that's it. I've had enough, I'm going home!" Ryan sits up from his sprawl on Spencer's sofa and begins to purposefully jam his books into his backpack.

Looking up from where he's murmuring into his cell phone, Spencer makes a confused noise of protest and then says into his phone, "I'll call you back." He tosses the phone onto a pile of old magazines and moves his feet from the arms of the battered chair he's sitting in to the floor, "I thought we were studying?" He's clearly at a loss to explain Ryan's exasperation.

Crossing his thin arms across his argyle sweater-vest clad chest, Ryan huffs, "Well, I'm trying to make research notes for my Post Modernity and the Sublime paper. You are mostly making gross baby talk noises to some guy on the phone."

"It's Brendon, he's at work and he's bored. I wasn't making baby talk noises!" Spencer glowers.

Hand still holding onto his Norton Anthology, Ryan glowers back, "Dude, you were on the phone for a fucking hour with a guy you just spent the whole night and morning with. Some guy you ditched your friends to hook up with at a bar!"

"We didn't hook up!" Spencer crosses the living room to flop down on the sofa and tugs on the straps of Ryan's backpack, trying to get him to sit back down. "We just hung out and talked and watched movies and fell asleep." He pauses and smiles, scratching his beard covered cheek, "And okay, there might have been some making out but..."

Ryan is quick to interrupt with a halting wave of his hand, "I do not need details." He sighs then, shifting the heavy text book from hand to hand. "You called him Boo." He wrinkles up his face like he's tasted something awful.

Instead of being angry or defensive, Spencer laughs, "Shit, did I?" he rubs his palm across the back of his neck, still smiling.

Ryan nods so quickly it knocks his fedora crooked, "Yes. Yes you did. You called that kid Boo multiple times. It was gross."

This does make Spencer frown, "Yeah, because I never had to hear you make kissy noises at Keltie on the phone."

"You were never like that with Haley."

Angry now, Spencer hops up and paces in the narrow space between the couch and the coffee table, making Ryan curl up in the corner of the couch. "Is that what your problem is? That I'm excited to be with a guy?"

"Oh Jesus Christ, you know that's not what I fucking meant. I don't care if you want to fuck girls, guys, or farm animals--although if the last one is true please never tell me, and if you get caught and go to jail please do not waste your one phone call on me. Because I am going to leave your freaky ass in the slammer." Ryan juts a long leg out to rest his heel on the glass coffee table top, blocking Spencer's route. "I just meant, you never go all...goofy," he affects a ridiculously besotted expression and makes kissy faces at Spencer.

Quick to anger, and just as quick to let things go, Spencer laughs and pushes his palm into Ryan's face. "Yeah, okay, whatever." He sits down on the couch again. "It's just...Brendon's so..." he spreads his arms wide and shrugs.

"You're really gone for this guy, huh?" Ryan squeezes Spencer's knee and looks at him carefully.

Spencer blushes and snorts, "Yeah, I mean I guess so? It just feels...right." He scratches his nose and watches Ryan's fingers uncurl from around his knee cap. "Ry, do you believe in fate?"

"I dunno. I mean I change my mind all the time. I can never decide if, as a misanthrope, I should definitely, or should definitely not believe that everything happens for a reason. Why?"

“Well, um, you remember that uh, that girl I met? That I helped?” Spencer is smiling awkwardly and his embarrassment is pinking his cheeks.

Ryan opens the Norton Anthology and it flips easily back to the pages where he'd made notes in the margins, “Oh yeah, that chick you helped and then got your panties in a knot 'cause she made you wet and threatened your sexual identity or some shit.” He picks up a pen and chews the cap between his front teeth.

Raising an eyebrow, Spencer says, in a dry tone, “That's not exactly what happened, but yeah—her. Um, so Brendon—he's kind of her, right?”

“Are you high? What you just said makes no fucking sense.” Ryan stops chewing on the pen cap and lobs it at Spencer.

“Eww,” Spencer makes a face and brushes the chewed up pen cap off his lap where it had fallen after plinking off the side of his face. “Okay,” he scratches at his nose and sighs, “Let me explain this better. So Brendon, the guy I left the club with? He was the guy...girl...you know what I mean...in the drag show. Like, in the sailor outfit?”

Ryan's eyes go wide and he does a poor job of holding in his laughter, “So, you were attracted to a guy dressed like a girl? Why Spencer Smith I never knew you were so kinky!” Realizing what he's said, Ryan's expression slides quickly into one of horror and he says, “I never wanted to know you were so kinky. Geez.”

“It's not,” Spencer stops, searching for the words to explain what he feels, “It's not kinky. He's just. It's. He's really pretty.” He finishes kind of stupidly.

“Spence, look. You're attracted to who you're attracted to. I said it before, and I mean it. You deserve to be happy and as your best friend I want you to be happy. Even if I don't exactly get where you're coming from, or you know, share your um...tastes.” Ryan is speaking slowly and carefully in a low monotone, clear proof that he is trying to be sincere.

Reaching across the sofa, Spencer squeezes Ryan's hand and smiles, “Thanks. So yeah, I met him that night, then met him again at the Kit-Kat Club, and that has to mean something right? So then I talk to him and he's from fucking Vegas, man.” Spencer can't help the smile that forms as he talks.

“Seriously? Well, yeah, that's kind of...” Ryan once more picks up his pen and starts underlining sentences in his book.

“Right? He went to Palo Verde. And he's smart and funny and has a seriously hilarious laugh and his ass is kind of amazing.”

Ryan winces at the last part of Spencer's declaration but takes a breath and, searching for something to add to the conversation, says, “And um, he looks really good in short skirts?”

Chuckling low and poking at Ryan's knee with his toe, Spencer readily agrees, “Yeah, he does. This feels good, you know? Different. When I was with Haley, I really liked her, and she was a great girl but it always felt like, I don't know. Maybe like I was trying too hard.”

“And this doesn't feel like that?” Ryan wraps his long fingers around Spencer's toes, stilling them.

“Not at all. Last night and this morning just felt like it was meant to happen.” Spencer's shrug makes it clear that he knows how ridiculous it sounds.

Mirroring Spencer's shrug, Ryan says, “Well then that's all that matters. So we gonna study or what?

“Maybe. But I need to call My Boo back first.” Ryan groans and throws a couch cushion at Spencer's head.

* * *

Clutching a paper bag in one hand and a drink tray in the other, Spencer casts a quick glance up and down the street before darting across. He picks up his pace when he catches sight of Brendon's dark hair. He's sitting on a bench not far from the MAC store, head bent low as he types on his phone.

“Hey,” Spencer says, coming to a stop in front of Brendon.

Brendon smiles, studying Spencer's shoes and then slowly raising his glance until he and Spencer are smiling at each other. “Hey.”

Spencer feels something warm and bright spread through his ribcage as he smiles into Brendon's upturned face. His full lips are shiny and pink and his eyes are lined a deep black, but the thing that draws Spencer's attention is the metallic green-blue shadow Brendon has swept from lash to brow. “Wow, you look really pretty!”

“Thanks!” Brendon giggles and pats the empty space on the bench beside him for Spencer to sit down. “Helps to sell the product if you model the product,” Brendon says sagely. “Unfortunately I spend too much time make-overing and not enough time selling.” He takes a less than enthusiastic bite out of his sandwich—a thin layer of peanut butter and jelly between two white bread crusts.

Seeing his opportunity, Spencer plonks the paper bag in Brendon's lap and snatches away his poor excuse for a sandwich. “Man cannot live by PB and J alone.”

Before he can school his expression into indifference, Brendon cast a longing look at the white Jimmy John's bag and inhales deeply. “Nah, man. It's fine. Got the peeb, got some chips,” he picks up a ziplock back and waggles it at Spencer.

“Look, I already bought enough for both of us,” undeterred by Brendon's attempts at protest, Spencer hands him one of the drinks and then continues to unpack the sandwiches from his bag. “Everybody knows that a Jimmy John's sub could feed a small family, so you can't expect me to eat more than one.” He plonks the sandwich into Brendon's hand. “And really, these sodas are ridiculous. Like kiddie pool sized ridiculous. My kidneys would explode or something if you made me drink both of them.”

“Well,” Brendon smiles affectionately at Spencer, “I wouldn't want you to lose your girlish figure now would I?” His once over of Spencer stops at the hips and Spencer gives a quick shimmy and then flips him off. Brendon laughs, re-wrapping his sandwich and chips and carefully placing them in his backpack, and then takes a big bite of the sub. He makes a dirty noise low in his throat and affectedly rolls his eyes back in ecstasy.

They sit in companionable silence, punctuated with the occasional shift of ice in their cups as they drink. “How long's your break?” Spencer tugs on the strings of his hoodie, leaning into Brendon.

“Fifteen minutes,” Brendon sighs melodramatically. He wads the sub wrappings into a ball, then tosses them towards the trash can, missing by a wide margin. “I've already been gone twenty. Good thing I'm cute, huh?”

Spencer stand, stretches, and then picks up the trash from where Brendon had thrown it, easily tossing it into the bin. “Yeah, really good thing.” He traces the line of Brendon's bottom lip with his finger before he sits down again. He stretches and drapes his arm across the back of the bench, and it's all the hint Brendon needs to shuffle incrementally closer until they are pressed side to side.

“Tomorrow night, if you're not busy, I mean, you could come to Cobra?” Spencer hates to see how unsure Brendon is, like at any time Spencer could decide that he's had enough of Brendon and be gone. Spencer's not sure he could ever get enough of Brendon.

“Oh yeah? I thought you said Cobra Starship was super gay and they'd feed me to the sparkly rainbow vultures,” Spencer stands again, and wipes his hands off on the seat of his jeans.

Brendon stands up with him, laughing and looping an arm through Spencer's, “That's pretty much true for dance nights, but tomorrow is cabaret night. Gabe, the manager lets me do my torch song piano rock thing. And I doubt you'd ever let anyone feed you to the vultures—sparkly or otherwise-- you're a tough guy, Spencer Smith.”

“The toughest,” Spencer snorts. “And I'd love to come hear you sing, Brendon.” Spencer's voice is soft with sincerity and he squeezes at Brendon's waist. “Gotta dip my toes into the shiny sparkly gay pool some time, right?”

Eyes shining with happiness, Brendon says, “True story. Shit, I gotta go.” A woman, jet black hair cut in a chic, severely angled bob, opens the door of the MAC store and scowls down the street in Brendon and Spencer's direction. ”Text me to keep me from dying from the dumb. It's contagious you know.” Brendon pecks a kiss to Spencer's cheek and then does a little hobbling run back to the store, his black apron flapping in the breeze.

“See you tomorrow!” Spencer yells after him, then turns to head back to the student center to meet his stats study group.

* * *

Spencer hates being late. And he's really late right now. He blames Victoria and Greta and their inability to stay on topic enough to finish the chapters they have to present on in Theories of Financial Management. He's doing a panicked jog along the road, glancing at the address on the scrap of paper he's clutching so hard his knuckles ache. Blinking, he comes to a dead stop. How the fuck did he think he'd ever miss that?

Actually, how had he never noticed it before? Cobra Starship is lit up like some kind of neon purple acid trip. The marquis features a cartoon cobra sinking it's teeth into a UFO and Spencer's quite sure the entire monstrosity could be seen clearly from outer space. He's also pretty sure if he was some kind of intergalactic space traveling alien, the sight of this club alone would be enough to make him take a pass on a visit to Earth. Crumpling the scrap of paper, Spencer shoves it into the front pocket of his jeans. Smoothing his hair back from his face, Spencer steels himself and opens the door.

Zack, Brendon's large, scary, and protective neighbor is standing in the entry way. "Um hi." Spencer squeaks out.

"Upstairs," Zack hooks a thumb towards a narrow stairway lit with yellow lights. As he climbs the steps, Spencer looks at the photographs that neatly line one wall. They're all stills from various 1950s Hollywood B Sci Fi movies, and Spencer laughs and shakes his head, wondering exactly what he's gotten himself into. There's a woman at the top landing, dressed in what appears to be a black skirt and corset made out of PVC or maybe rubber. When she sees Spencer reach for his wallet, she smiles, revealing a row of tiny teeth, and scrunching up her heavily lined green-gray eyes. "Oh honey, no cover for you. But hurry, he's already started." Spencer's mouth opens and closes several times in rapid succession, but he doesn't make any kind of noise that could be called language.

"You're Spencer, right? Brendon said you were pretty, but he didn't tell me how pretty." She stands and holds out her hand, "I'm Gee." Oh. Right. Gee. The drag queen Brendon told him about--who showed him everything she knows.

"Yeah, um thanks. Nice to meet you. I'm just gonna..." Spencer trails off, motioning to the long hallway leading to the interior of the club. Gee nods and waves and takes her seat again. The club is tiny and packed with groups of people sitting at round, white cloth covered tables and Spencer has to admit that he's surprised to find it so tasteful. There's no actual stage to speak of, but there is a space at the front of the room that's been cleared and a piano and microphone have been set up.

It should be ridiculous. It should be hilarious and awful and cheesy. But it's not. It's beautiful. Brendon is wearing a purple hoodie emblazoned with the Cobra Starship logo and singing Dust in the Wind, and it's the most beautiful thing Spencer's ever heard in his life. The rest of the audience seems to agree with Spencer; they're watching Brendon play and sing in perfect silence. When he finishes the song, he giggles and shoves his glasses up his nose. "Hey! Thanks!" he says into the microphone over the burst of wild applause. Brendon stands and makes an awkward little bow before the MC comes out to introduce the next act.

"You came!" Before he knows what's happening, Spencer's arms are filled with an enthusiastic Brendon.

"Hi," Spencer laughs and smiles down at Brendon. "Sorry I'm late. But shit man, you're amazing." He feels a thrill zing down his spine when Brendon kisses him soundly and directs them towards the bar.

"Hey, everyone, this is Spencer!" Brendon bounces up and down and waves his and Spencer's joined hands in the air between them.

The crowd at the bar greets Spencer enthusiastically with knowing smiles. "Uh, hey!" Spencer is a little embarrassed and uncomfortable at all the attention. He focuses on untying the growing knots in his stomach and remembering to breathe as Brendon works his way through the throng of his friends, introducing them with a breathless, “GabeAlexFrankBob,” and Spencer dutifully shakes each and every hand, and hopes he’s not called on to address any of them by name any time soon.

The two biggest—Gabe and Bob? Spencer thinks—dedicate a lot of time to glaring at Spencer. Brendon, unaware of Spencer's unease, is cheerfully chattering away to a tiny guy covered in tattoos about some awesome product or other than will help his hair, which is, to Spencer's untrained eye, something of a greasy unruly mess. Shoulders hunched to his ears and nursing the can of PBR that had magically appeared not long after he and Brendon had found stools and sat down, Spencer raises his eyebrow in questioning challenge to the two men “What?”

“You hurt him, you die, right Gabe?” the blond guy—Bob--says without blinking an eye. The other guy—Gabe, crosses his arms over his chest and amps up his glare.

Spencer takes a large, fortifying, gulp of his beer and then says, “Jesus, why the fuck does everyone automatically think I'm gonna hurt Brendon?” He's honestly puzzled at the frosty reception he's gotten by these two, added to Zack's aggressive posture the night Spencer had met Brendon.

“Bee...he's nice to everyone, you know? And maybe people, they haven't been so nice to him.” Gabe sits down beside Spencer and wraps an arm around his shoulders, but Spencer is aware that there's no friendship in the hug. Gabe leans past Spencer to stare pointedly at Brendon, who is laughing and trying to fix the little guy—Frank's—eyeliner.

An unaccustomed fiercely protective feeling shoots through Spencer's veins and he says, “I would never hurt him!” Spencer's scowl deepens and he shrugs free of Gabe menacing embrace, “I'm a fucking nice guy!”

Brendon stops mid-sentence to beam at Spencer, then leans over and smacks a kiss to Spencer's beard covered cheek, “He is a nice guy, boss man!” Brendon waggles his eyebrows at Gabe. “The nicest.”

Whatever Spencer was going to say is lost in the crowd's sudden rise in volume. Brendon hooks his index finger through one of Spencer's belt loops, pulling him off the bar stool and towards the tables, “Ohhh...Amanda's starting the finale, we don't want to miss her!”

Spencer can honestly say he never even knew a genre of music called Cabaret Baroque Punk—helpfully supplied by a man sitting at their table-- exists. He watches in drop-jawed amazement as the woman performing shimmies and shakes and sing songs about death and dismemberment, accompanying herself on ukelele or accordion. And he can't for the life of him think of a better way to describe it. It's certainly nothing like any of the bands he and Ryan had snuck out to see back home in Vegas. “Isn't she amazing?” Brendon gives Spencer's arm a little shake and then, giving a happy sigh, leans his head on Spencer's shoulder.

“Amazing, yeah.” Spencer's answer is soft as he brushes his cheek over the top of Brendon's head.

The show ends and the crowd thins, and a group of Cobra Starship employees, clad only in skin tight jeans, start tearing down the tables. Spencer is charmed when he sees Brendon's cheeks turn a delicate pink as Amanda Palmer strolls through the room, toweling sweat off her face and winking right at him. Brendon manages a besotted, wiggly finger wave in return.

“You kinda like her, huh?” Spencer elbows Brendon in the side and holds his coat, retrieved from Gee, out to him.

Brendon scratches at his nose and then smiles when Spencer helps him on with his coat. “Yeah, she's just, so cool, you know? Like, so unafraid to be who she is, and fuck the haters.”

Buttoning up his own jacket, Spencer tilts his head a little, giving Brendon a quizzical look. They trot down the stairs in tandem and he finally says, “I dunno, I think you're pretty okay being who you are.” He takes Brendon's hand in his and together they slip out into the crisp Chicago night.

Licking his lips and wrinkling up his nose with a wry laugh, Brendon says, “Maybe I'm just really good at pretending I'm okay with who I am. You know, now that being me gets the shit kicked out of me...less regularly.”

Coming to an abrupt halt beneath the soft yellow light of a street lamp, Spencer drops Brendon's hand and ghosts his fingers over the faint bruising and cuts on Brendon's face. He swallows, and his voice is thick when he says, “Brendon, nobody has the right to hit you, for any reason, ever,” in a gentle but firm tone.

“Ah yeah, well, guess you should have told that to half my high school.” Brendon tries to laugh it off, his shoulders shrugging as he struggles to muster a genuine smile. “At least the guys who made me their own personal punching bag went on to become UFC champs? I feel I was an integral part of their training.” His smirk is forced and the laughter that slides out from between his teeth is more bitter than amused.

“Jesus!” is all Spencer says, before wrapping Brendon's slight frame into a tight hug. Brendon pats consolatory hands across Spencer's back, and when they pull apart, Spencer is relieved to see that Brendon's smile has morphed into something soft and genuine. Raising his fingers to trace the corner of Brendon's wide mouth, Spencer very firmly says, “I wish I could go back in time and beat the shit out of those assholes. Seriously.”

They stand with their arms wound around each other, blinking under the street lamp's glow, for long slow minutes. Brendon turns his head to brush a kiss across the tip of Spencer's gently stroking finger before winding his arms around Spencer's neck and pulling him in and slanting their mouths together. “My Hero,” he says softly.

The strange tension of the moment recedes when Spencer mumbles, “I always knew Palo Verde was full of douchebags,” causing Brendon to giggle against his beard. Rocking back onto his heels, Brendon hooks his arm through Spencer's and they continue the short walk from the club to Brendon's apartment.

“No burritos tonight?” Spencer raises an eyebrow as they pass the storefront Brendon lives over.

“Nah,” Brendon shakes his head, “Not tonight. I ate before my shift at Cobra. Unless, I mean if you want to we can grab something but...I'm tired and I think I just want to go home?” Brendon slips his key into the lock and the door to the stairwell swings open.

Shit, Spencer had forgotten that Brendon not only worked all night at Cobra Starship, he'd also worked all day at MAC. And he was still favoring the ankle he'd twisted the week end before. “Oh, no of course, I was just kidding.” He shoves his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and follows Brendon through the doorway and up the stairs.

The door clicks shut behind them and they're awkwardly standing in the middle of Brendon's tiny studio apartment, just as neat and tidy as the last time Spencer was here. “Um, wanna give me your coat?” Brendon holds out his hands and Spencer shrugs out of his coat, handing it to Brendon. “Have a seat,” Brendon motions to the bed, “Um...do you want a glass of water or something?”

“Sure,” Spencer perches carefully on the edge of the bed, watching as Brendon sets Spencer's coat and his own hoodie down on his make up table and then walks the few feet over to the sink, running the water before getting two glasses out of the cupboard and filing them.

Licking his lips, Brendon bounces down onto the bed, water dripping over his fingers as he hands Spencer a glass and then drains his in one steady stream. Spencer watches the long line of Brendon's throat as he swallows. “You were...you were uh, really great tonight.” Spencer finally says.

“Thanks!” Brendon says brightly, setting his now empty glass on the floor and turning towards Spencer. “I was so excited you came. I hope you don't mind that my friends were sort of...super interested in you. I guess I talk about you a lot and, you know, they got to see that you're not imaginary,” Brendon giggles, bringing his legs up onto the bed and crossing them at the ankle.

“Nope, not imaginary,” Spencer smiles and rubs the rubber edging of Brendon's sneaker with his thumb. “Seriously though, you were awesome. Have you always been able to sing like that?”

Brendon looks slightly embarrassed, “Uh, sure. I mean, I guess so. I've always liked singing, anyway.” He shrugs his shoulders dismissively. “Only thing about school that didn't suck was choir.”

Spencer stops worrying at the tiny rip in the rubber of Brendon's high top. “Does your foot still hurt? Maybe you should take your Chucks off?” He doesn't wait for an answer, but starts to untie a battered sneaker. He's rewarded with a happy sigh and Brendon wriggling his toes, so Spencer does the same with the other one, and then takes both of Brendon's feet into his lap, his thumbs digging into the arches.

“Oh god I'm gonna keep you!” Brendon groans blissfully as Spencer increases the pressure. “Why the hell do sprains take so long to heal anyway?”

“Dunno,” Spencer shrugs and then starts to peel away Brendon's socks. He smiles when he sees Brendon's toes are painted a bright pink to match the polish on his finger nails. “Maybe if you laid off the high heels it would get better?”

Brendon laughs and obligingly bends to roll up the cuffs of his jeans so Spencer's strong, steady stroking can work at his injured ankle as well. “Yeah, well, you can't wear the sparkly gowns with sensible shoes, dude. That's not really part of the magic.” Safe behind the thick fall of his lashes, Brendon watches Spencer trace the lines of the fragile bones in his foot.

“So, Spencer Smith, now that we've established that my high school career was pretty much an entire season of Degrassi, tell me, what were you like in high school? The star of Cimmaron Memorial, or what?” Brendon digs his big toe into the thigh seam of Spencer's jeans.

Spencer bites his lip and thinks for a minute. He pauses to take a sip of water and sets it down safely on the floor by the bed. “No, not really. I mean no one tried to kill me or anything. And I wasn't bullied or whatever,” his blue eyes are sympathetic and apologetic as he shifts back on the bed and leans against the wall, not coincidentally closer to Brendon. “Like, normal, I guess. I'm pretty sure that no one knew who I was. Besides Ryan I mean.”

“Your best friend, right? One of the guys you came to the Kit-Kat Club with?” Brendon extracts his feet from Spencer's lap and twists around so they're dangling off the edge of the bed.

“Yeah, him. My other friend, Jon, the dude with the beard? We didn't meet til me and Ryan moved to Chicago. I guess Ryan was kind of my only friend in high school.” Spencer shrugs, smiling when Brendon snuggles into his side. “Can we stop talking about high school now? That shit is fucking depressing.”

“Hells yes!” Brendon nods enthusiastically. “Do you want to listen to music or something?”

Spencer licks his lips and grins, “Or something.”

“Huh?” Brendon looks up from where he's dangling off the edge of the bed, trying to retrieve his laptop without actually moving from his spot next to Spencer. He sees the heat in Spencer's eyes and blushes, “Oh!”

Laughing—a nervous little burst of sound—Spencer tugs on the hem of Brendon's t-shirt until they're once more pressed close against one another. “Hi,” he says, and then brings his mouth to Brendon's in a soft, curious kiss.

Brendon hums happily beneath the gentle pressure, then opens his mouth for Spencer to slick his tongue inside. Brendon's fingers slide into the belt loops at Spencer's hips, holding on for dear life.

Spencer's hands slide through the thick strands of Brendon's hair, stroking at the tendons in his neck and across his shoulders, until he's petting at the goose flesh of Brendon's upper arms. He shifts slightly, his weight tipping them back onto the bed so they lie with their feet tucked up in Brendon's pillows. Spencer can't help the grin that forms when he opens his eyes to see Brendon sliding his mouth free of Spencer's lips to peck small kisses across his bearded cheeks and chin.

“Holy shit, you're a good kisser, Spencer Smith!” Brendon tilts his mouth away from Spencer to make his awe struck declaration, then draws a shaky breath and swipes his forearm across his mouth. His hair is a mess and his glasses sit askew on his nose before he takes them off and sets them with care beside the bed.

He knows it's cheesy as hell, but Spencer doesn't really care right now, so he says, “I'm really good at kissing you,” and then smiles as he brushes away that strands of hair that have fallen across Brendon's forehead.

Nuzzling at Spencer's palm, Brendon winds his arms around Spencer's neck and pulls him down until they're touching all along their lengths. “Good! So, now more kissing, please!”

Spencer laughs but doesn't hesitate to suck Brendon's full bottom lip into his mouth, nipping it between his teeth. The kiss deepens, Brendon's tongue sweetly insistent as it slicks between the seam of Spencer's lips. Spencer traces the line of Brendon's jaw, biting playfully at a freckle just below his ear and secretly hoping that the redness will bloom, a reminder marking Brendon the next day.

Their feet tangle together and Brendon's breathing stutters in his chest. Spencer wriggles one arm between them, rucking up Brendon's t-shirt to trail lazy, teasing fingers across the inviting skin of Brendon's belly. “Shit, Spence...” Brendon rasps as his hands twist in Spencer's hair, mashing their mouths together.

“Bren? This okay?” Spencer pulls away, leaning back on his elbows and looking down with concern at Brendon's flushed face.

Swallowing a whine, Brendon flits a palm across his face and shakes his head a little, trying to focus on Spencer's words. “Huh?” is all he can manage.

“I mean...you said you're tired, right? And I don't want you to feel like you have to...” Spencer trails off and waves his arm between the two of them. He's developed a sudden and all consuming interest in the bright yellow, blue, and red squares of cloth that make up the quilt covering Brendon's bed.

Scowling in adorable confusion, Brendon tugs on Spencer's hand until he's lying back down beside him. “Yeah, making out with you is such a hardship, dude. Jesus,” Brendon takes Spencer's face in his hands and kisses him emphatically. “But I know what you mean. I'm not a scared virgin, I promise. Yes, this is okay. No, I'm not too tired. Yes, I will tell you what isn't okay. Okay, you big dumb ass, can we get back to the making out now?” He reaches behind Spencer and yanks his stuffed Curious George out from underneath Spencer, tossing it across the room and causing Spencer to tip forward just enough to roll half on top of Brendon.

“Okay.” Spencer stays perfectly still for a heartbeat or two; so close to Brendon that their noses press together and he can see the flecks of gold and cinnamon that dance in his brown eyes. They kiss, slow and sweet, eyes open and careful. The weight of all he's feeling causes Spencer to finally close his eyes, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses to Brendon's chin, until he makes a muffled, grunting noise burying his face in Brendon's neck.

Brendon squirms beneath Spencer's weight, shifting and craning his neck to try and see Spencer's face. “What?”

Flopping onto his back, Spencer stares at the water marked ceiling and says, “Can I ask you something?”

Running a soothing hand across Spencer's chest, Brendon says, “So I thought that maybe we knew each other well enough now for you to figure out that you don't have to ask me if you can ask me something. You can just ask.” He shrugs and kisses Spencer's cheek, trying to be reassuring when Spencer gives him a nervous smile.

Coughing again as his face and neck go a delicate shade of pink, Spencer says, “I know you want to go slow, right? And that's cool. But, it's just...I have this, you know, this idea.” Brendon continues his petting, waiting for Spencer to spit out what he's trying to say. “Um...doyoujerkoff?”

“What?” Brendon's hand stills against the warmth of Spencer's shirt and he scoots up on the bed to stare at Spencer in dumbfounded surprise. “Are you actually asking me if I masturbate?”

“Yes?” Spencer's face is now an alarming red and he looks like he might cry.

Crossing his arms and frowning, Brendon replies, “Look, I know I told you I'm a virgin. But, that does not mean I'm some sort of asexual freak. Of course I jerk off! Dude, anyone who says they don't is totally lying, okay?” He considers his outburst for a second and then lies back down, resuming his stroking low across Spencer's belly. “Um...that is unless you don't...you know. And that's totally okay and not weird and you're not a freak at all.” Brendon turns his face to Spencer's and pecks a prim kiss to his heated cheek.

Spencer laughs self-consciously and says, “No, no dude, I do. I totally do. It's just I had this idea, you know?” Brendon doesn't drop his gaze from Spencer's face, his interest piqued. Swallowing audibly loud, Spencer gropes blindly for Brendon's hand and then threads their fingers together. “I though maybe since I jerk off and you jerk off that maybe we could...jerk off together or something? Forget it. It's stupid...”

“No!” Brendon says enthusiastically, giving Spencer's wide palm a squeeze. “It's not stupid, at all. Man, I am totally a world class masturbator. Like, if there was a self-love Olympics? I would totally challenge for the gold, you know?” He rolls onto his side, tugging Spencer closer with the free hand that's still draped across Spencer's midriff. “And, if you really wanna know, I have been totally rubbing one out every night since we met. And not like, met-met all proper with names and everything, but like, that night in the alley when you totally scared off those frat boy assholes?” Brendon playfully tilts his hips up against Spencer's, swaying back and forth.

Spencer kisses Brendon then, his lips are dry but Brendon's are slick, and their tongues tease against each other until they're both breathless. “Me too,” Spencer rasps against the delicate shell of Brendon's ear.

Suddenly bouncing up into a sitting position, Brendon claps his hands together and says, “So, how you wanna do this? Should we get naked? Circle jerk? Maybe do like 69? Well not 69 'cause that's blow jobs, but you know what I...”

“Jesus, Brendon!” Spencer's eyes go comically wide and he makes a whining noise at the back of his throat. “So much for going slow...” he mutters under his breath.

“Well, okay, there's only two of us so that circle jerk thing is doomed to fail...”

“Would you just,” Spencer sits up and plants a palm in the center of Brendon's chest, giving him a push, “Lie the fuck down for a second?”

They lie side by side, breathing in tandem, their hands resting loosely on their bellies. “This is your plan?” Brendon says, bemused.

Spencer chuckles and elbows Brendon. “Okay, well, I said I had an idea, not like, a step by step guide.”

“We should take our pants off,” Brendon says with confidence.

Nodding, Spencer sits up and shuffles towards the edge of the bed, “Yeah, let's do that.” Without another word he stands up, toes off his shoes and socks, then shoves down his jeans, jiggling first his right foot and then his left until his pants are lying in a messy heap. He bites his lip and crosses his arms over his chest, feeling sort of idiotically exposed in his gray boxer briefs and t-shirt.

“Well, that was...expedient,” Brendon blinks and stares at Spencer.

Kneeing his way back onto the bed, Spencer scowls and says, “You think you can do better, be my guest.”

Brendon smirks, raising an eyebrow and getting to his feet. He goes to his make up table and drags the pink Disney Princesses stool out to the middle of the room. He licks his lips and gives Spencer a cheeky smile and wink, making sure he has his full attention. Humming a little under his breath, Brendon slowly perches the toes of his right foot on the stool, swaying his hips in time to his own tune, and slowly rolling his white sports sock down his leg. Spencer thinks that would be pretty fucking funny if it wasn't so damn hypnotic. When the sock on his left foot has been peeled off, Brendon flings it towards the bed, making Spencer laugh and dodge it, as Brendon blows him a kiss. He does the same thing with the other sock, and then ever so slowly and carefully, runs his hands up the thighs of his tight jeans until they're resting on his belt buckle. Spencer swallows loudly, and holy shit how the hell did Spencer forget that Brendon's a performer for god's sake?

Spencer's mouth goes dry when Brendon turns his back to the bed, the dip and sway of his hips intensifying, and Spencer can't draw his eyes away from the generous curve of Brendon's ass. He's hard in his briefs, and he licks his lips, trailing his sweaty palms across his own thighs, mirroring Brendon's slow, sinuous movements. Careful and slow, Brendon drags his jeans down, revealing ridiculous yellow briefs, their waistband sitting low over the pronounced cut of Brendon's hip bones. He's still humming and swaying when he turns back around, his eyes locked with Spencer's as he peels the denim down his legs with great care. Brendon stoops, folds his jeans, places them on the stool, and then puts the stool back in its place in front of the make up table.

Spencer feels like he should clap or something. Grinning, Brendon does a belly flop onto the bed, wrapping his arms around Spencer's knees and brushing a kiss to his thigh. “That, good sir, is how it's done.”

“Shit yes,” Spencer growls, wrapping his hands around Brendon's biceps and hauling him up the bed. “Holy shit, yes.” Brendon's breath stutters across Spencer's bearded chin and he mashes their mouths together. Whatever levity had been between them has been replaced with heavy expectation, and Brendon shudders when Spencer's fingers trail low across his belly, flirting with the waistband of his underwear.

“Do it, Spence.” Brendon rolls his hips away from Spencer, trailing his fingers in a slow drag scratch along the veins of Spencer's arm until he takes Spencer's hand in his own. Spencer's breath catches in his throat when Brendon's fingers wrap around his own, a gentle, insistent guide to the rigid length of his cock. “What do you think about when you touch yourself?” Brendon's voice is a low rumble in Spencer's ear.

Spencer's panting, and he can feel beads of sweat rolling from his temples into his hairline; either from the heat of the tiny room or the body heat Brendon's throwing off like a furnace. He brushes his cheek over the thin pillow and groans into it, then flicks back the waistband of his boxers, finally taking hold of himself with a relieved sigh.

He's rock hard and leaking and not sure how long he'll last like this. The white noise of impending orgasm is already fizzing through his brain. But, if Brendon will just keep whispering dirty things low in his hear, he's not sure he cares. Smearing precome along his length, Spencer sets a slow twisting rhythm, and he finally answers Brendon's question; “You,” he rasps before he has to bite his lip and gulp down air. “Your eyes, your mouth. Jesus, your soft fucking skin.” His hips are bucking up to meet his curled fist and he whines a little when he sees Brendon slowly drag his own hand back up Spencer's arm and then away to fumble with his own underwear.

“Shit Spencer, you have no idea how fucking hot you were that night. So fierce. All sweaty and protective, with your fucking blue eyes that I swear to god could kill a man.” Brendon's voice has taken on a high, breathy pitch and Spencer is hypnotized by the frantic, speedy grip Brendon uses to jack himself. His cock is still hidden inside his ridiculous sunny yellow underwear, but the rough susurration of skin on skin is so tantalizing, Spencer cranes his neck, wanting to see more. “And now you're actually here, for real, and you're so fucking beautiful—like I could never imagine.” Brendon pants, his fingers slowing a little as he scrabbles across the quilt with his free hand to take hold of Spencer's. “God just...just look at you.” Brendon rests his forehead on Spencer's shoulder. He licks his lips and watches with hungry eyes as Spencer continues the intentionally slow, studied drag and pull on his erection.

All the lights in the room are on, and Brendon is staring right at him, and he's never done anything like this before, but Spencer isn't the least bit embarrassed. Instead, he's more turned on than he's ever been in his life. Raising their hands, he shoves away the hair that's fallen into his face, kisses Brendon's knuckles, then lets their joined hands fall back down onto the bed. Closing his eyes, but still so very aware that he has Brendon's attention-- and even more aware of what the soft woofing noises Brendon's making under his breath mean-- Spencer grins, full and bright. He lets himself relive all the filthy thoughts he'd had about Brendon after their first meeting; the feeling of Brendon panting beneath him, imagining what Brendon's hands or, oh god his obscenely plush mouth would feel like on his dick. He gives one more twisting pull, arching up into the sensation before barking out a tight, pained noise and coming all over his hand and t-shirt, viscous drops dotting his belly where his shirt has rucked up and his boxer briefs had been pulled low.

“Holy shit!” Spencer opens his eyes to see Brendon is still watching him. A warm, sleepy smile curves his lips as he further slows down, jerking himself through the aftershocks of his orgasm. Brendon is staring at Spencer in open mouthed awe. He giggles and leans forward, swallowing in a kiss the few shallow breaths Spencer can manage.

Groping lazily at Brendon's forearms, Spencer feels the wound-spring tension that's curling through his entire body. Without thinking about it, he trails barely there finger tips through the slippery mess on his belly. Breaking the sloppy kiss, he holds his fingers up to Brendon's lips. Brendon blinks in surprise, but his tongue darts out to taste. He purrs low in his throat and sucks Spencer's fingers fully into his mouth, tongue lapping and swirling. He rocks his hips up and squeezes his cock through his tight fist, echoing the rhythm of his lips against Spencer's fingers.

Spencer's hand muffles the grunting whines escaping Brendon as he arches up from the bed and finally comes. He's shaking and whining and still sucking on Spencer's fingers. Spencer pulls Brendon close, easing them both back to lying on the bed, and pets at his hip and back soothing him as he jerks and hiccups through the comedown. They lean heavily against each other and murmur nonsense as they both try to steady their heartbeats and breathing. “Spencer, you have the best fucking ideas, ever.” Brendon says finally, hugging Spencer tightly around the waist.

“Sometimes,” Spencer chuckles. He thinks that maybe, if Brendon had the energy his declaration would be heartfelt and enthusiastic, but the yawn in the middle of his sentence kind of killed it. But, Brendon has just come all over himself, so Spencer's willing to cut him some slack.

“Seriously fucking awesome ideas,” Brendon kisses at Spencer's shoulder through the cotton of his shirt, and then yawns even wider. “You're awesome, Spencer Smith. So's your dick.”

Spencer laughs harder and scratches his fingers through his beard before stroking a palm over his belly. 'Ugh, you know what's not awesome? Dried come.”

“Mmm...we should clean up,” Brendon says slowly, nodding his head but unwilling to move.

“Mmm...later,” Spencer feels the insistent tug of post-coital sleep.

Brendon nuzzles at Spencer's neck and manages to mumble, “Yeah, later, totally,” before his breath evens out and his hold on Spencer loosens.

* * *

Spencer's in the library, trying to put together some kind of research for his Political Imagination course. Stupid Handmaid's Tale. Seriously. In what world is Spencer some kind of English major? And stupid Ryan Ross. A best friend, especially an English Lit major best friend, would totally volunteer to write shit like this paper right here. But noooo, Ryan had to go have morals.

Okay, so Spencer's also a little extra bitchy because he hasn't seen Brendon for three days. Because Brendon is a crazy person with like eighty jobs that very rudely overlap with the time Spencer's not in class. And no, the constant texts and emails and phone calls do not count. It's enough to make anyone grumpy, really.

He's just about finished mentally constructing a proof for Margaret Atwood is a crazy hippie communist when his phone pings with a new text. Spencer blames too many hours in the library, and too many hours of trying to wrap his brain around what the actual fuck dystopian societies are for his inability to at least try to hide the besotted smile on his face when he sees the message is from Brendon: u busy? :))) He's barely finished typing nope when his phone blasts 18 and Life, the ring tone Brendon had picked out for himself. “Hey Bren.”

“Hiya stranger! Oh my god it's been years since I've seen you.” Brendon's voice is chipper in Spencer's ear.

“Right? I feel like I've been in this fucking library for years!” Spencer leans back in his chair, stretching his legs out beneath the work table. He mouths an apology at the girl he accidentally kicks in the ankle and rolls his eyes at the guy who is scowling at Spencer's cell phone.

Brendon laughs, loud and breathy, “So, ol' Mrs Atwood still giving you a hard time?”

“For real. I mean I'm a business major for fuck's sake. I can do math like a motherfucker and have so far managed to avoid any and all Lit classes. What the fuck is this lit class impersonating a politics course bullshit?”

Tutt-tutting into the phone Brendon says, “Awww, poor baby. But, you're awfully cute when you're whiny.” And then pulls the phone away from his mouth to say something to someone Spencer guesses is a co-worker.

“I'm not whiny!” Spencer whines, sitting up and then slumping down again when he gets shushed by the librarian at the circulation desk “Stupid library,” Spencer mumbles. “M'not whining, I'm stating a fact.”

Brendon murmurs some consolatory noises and then says, “Hey, so my eight o'clock piano lesson canceled.”

Scratching at his beard, Spencer grins again and tries to sound bored, “Oh? Yeah?”

“So, I was thinking....”

“Uh oh,” Spencer tries his best to chuckle as softly as possible.

There's a pause and a laugh at the other end of the line. “Shut up! You're not the only one with awesome ideas.”

Spencer blushes at the memory of his last awesome idea and its results. “Okay genius, I'm game. What's your awesome idea? And does it end with nakedness?” His cheeks heat further when he realizes the girl he'd kicked in the ankle is listening to his conversation and making squeaking noises into her hand.

There's a long pause and the rasp in Brendon's voice lets Spencer know that he's not the only one thinking back to his awesome idea. “I'm taking you on a date! Our first date! How awesome is that?” Brendon laughs in triumph and then says in a low, affected voice, “And if you're very good there could be some kinda naked involved.”

“We've never been on a date? Really?” Spencer is so focused on the first part of what Brendon's said he doesn't even hear the last. His brow furrows as he mentally reviews all the time they've spent together in the few weeks since they met.

“Not a real one,” Brendon answers with great authority. “Slurpees in the 7-11 parking lot don't count.”

Scratching his nose, Spencer smiles into his phone as he starts to pack up his books, much to the relief of the other students sitting around him. “I dunno, I thought that was pretty good, but tell me what you've got in mind.”

Brendon huffs and says, “It's a surprise! Check your email.” And before Spencer can say anything else, Brendon's hung up and the line is dead. He stares at his phone for a second and then shrugs, storing it in his hip pocket. He shoulders his backpack and heads out of the library, giving up on handing his paper in on time, and very carefully not listening for his iPhone to make the sound indicating a new email.

NEXT

bandombigbang mix by saint_vee

cloudlessclimes — Mon, 20 Jun 2011 21:43:03 GMT

I adore this mix. It's like saint_vee was in the room listening to my itunes while I wrote my fic. Seriously, any mix that has not one but two songs by The Cure owns the key to my heart. It's so happy and delightful and absolutely the soundtrack to two idiots falling in love. Best. Ever.

And? The cover art? Features the photo that I had in mind when I started to write All I Want (the fic that comes before my bigbang).

Everything about it is perfect and I have listened to it approximately 1 million times since I downloaded it.

You should too!

The tracklisting is as follows:

1. I Only Want to Be With You by Dusty Springfield
2. All Yr Songs by Diamond Rings
3. I Want You by Cee-Lo Green
4. You! Me! Dancing! by Los Campesinos!
5. Dance With Me by The Sounds
6. You've Got the Moon by Josh Ritter
7. Friday I'm in Love by The Cure
8. Might Tell You Tonight by the Scissor Sisters
9. I Want You So Bad I Can't Breathe by OK Go
10. Oh, It Is Love by Hellogoodbye
11. Lovesong by The Cure
12. The Night Starts Here by Stars

Download it here and then go and tell saint_vee what an incredible job she's done.

bandombigbang art by look_alive

cloudlessclimes — Mon, 20 Jun 2011 21:30:54 GMT

The incredibly talented look_alive did 2 amazing drawings for my fic. I can't believe how lucky I am.

I do not have words for how amazing this is! I mean...lookit! They are so in loooooooooove. All the details are just incredible; the shading and texture of their clothes (the buttons on Brendon's leggings <3 ), the fact that Brendon is on his tiptoes and Spencer is scrunching down, their hair, their noses, and omg their nailpolish and eyeliner. But mostly, how they're looking at each other and how happy they are. This just is the Brendon and Spencer I wrote...the way that Brendon is wearing a tunic top and ballet flats but is still a dude. It's exactly how I imagined it.

I am seriously so in love with this I have looked at it every day since I got it and have made everyone I know look at it too.

I just can't say enough thank yous to look_alive for her wonderful work. So, have a look and then tell her how amazing she is!

look_alive said this 2nd piece was "just silly". If by that she meant awesome, amazing and adorable than she is totally correct. Their little socked feet! I can't even! *flails*

Do make sure to click on the art so you can enlarge it and see all the awesome details.

When ohnoscarlett and I were talking about what scenes our artists might pick, I said that I would love it if they picked the scene where Spencer gives Brendon a present (his tunic top) or else some part of the opening scene, although I had no idea how they could do that. I was sort of prepared for a pic/drawing/manip of Brendon in drag because that seemed the most obvious, but in my heart of hearts I hoped I would get something like look_alive chose, but had no idea it would be so very amazing.

I am so very lucky.

Thank you so much look_alive! You make my day every time I look at these <3

Frank & Brendon Walk Into a Bar... PG

cloudlessclimes — Mon, 21 Feb 2011 17:18:46 GMT

Title:Frank & Brendon Walk Into a Bar...
Author:cloudlessclimes
Wordcount: 1871
Rating:PG
Pairing:Frank Iero/Brendon Urie
Summary: pretty much what the title says, unfortunately
Disclaimer:I own no one I know no one. All made up. Please don’t sue me.
Notes: wrtten for random_bandom thanks to ohnoscarlett for looking it over <3

Stupid fuckin' Spencer Smith. Brendon sulks into his pint glass, hip canted against the long bar at the back of the club. The first sign of perky tits, long blond hair, and an is that a skirt or a belt? kinda cupcake, and Spencer had disappeared. So much for Brendon’'s (apparently misguided) belief that his best friend, the best friend he's had a crush on for a whole fuckin' year, had finally finally!asked him out, like on a date!.

Wrong!

But really, if it wasn't a date why the fuck would Brendon have agreed to see some lame ass band he'd never heard of? Judging from the cds in Spencer’s car (Coldplay! *shudder*) Brendon's expectations were, well, low. But he'd hoped, oh how he'd hoped, and he'd agreed and now he's here alone, again.

So he's standing by himself, like some lame ass, dorktastic loser, watching the crowd. Lots of teenage Hollister girls, travelling in packs that Brendon's always found confusing and slightly terrifying. Almost as terrifying as being at an all ages show. Honest to God; the things he let Spencer and his pretty eyes, and adorable smile, and ohgodIwannarunmyhandsthroughit so soft hair talk him into. Brendon's pretty sure any indie street cred he'd ever had died the moment he got a hand stamp at this all ages show. He sipped at his watered-down beer and tried to tell himself it could be worse. He could have paid good money to see The Fray for fuck's sake. And then he silently prays that isn’t what he’s just done.

And, well, he could leave. He really could. Spencer had (with one hand down the back of the blond’s skirt, and the other not so stealthily groping her boob in her tiny, barely there top). But, fuck it--if Spencer could get lucky, so could Brendon. Couldn't he? He tugs self-consciously at his button down shirt, and then raises an index finger to shove at his perpetually slipping glasses. Then he continues to survey the room while the house lights are still up, and there's just the crackle of canned tunes over the PA.

And oh! Well. Now. Brendon bites his lip and tries not to stare at the guy at the other end of the bar.

The guy at the other end of the bar. By himself. At least Brendon thinks he's by himself. Something in the way he's standing, leaning back on his elbows, braced on the bar, legs extended, crossed at the ankles, seems like he's trying to look like he doesn't give a fuck.

But, maybe he's waiting for his girlfriend and her pack of equally girl-esque friends. But, maybe not. Not in the way his eyes dart around, leaping from face to face, trying not to look too long in any one place. And those eyes just happen to be behind frames more of the nerd variety than even Brendon's. And, the kid's wearing a Morrissey t-shirt. Brendon considers what he once heard his older brother discussing with his friends: It's okay for a dude to like The Smiths 'cause they're cool, right, but the only dudes who ever openly admit to digging Morrissey are faggots, what with all the gladiola throwing and that shit. So, um, Bingo? Brendon thinks--maybe? Definitely worth closer inspection anyway.

Also worthy of closer inspection; the kid's dark brown hair, pale skin, wide mouth, and brows that arch in permanent bemusement over the fucking hideous glasses. Oh! And, and, lip ring! And nose ring! Brendon tries for subtlety as he weaves his way through the be-zitted couples, and girl-packs, and occasional Abercrombie board shorted dudes that dot the bar area. Sweet Jesus! Look at his tattoos pleasebegay pleasebegay please please. Brendon's gaydar--as could be noted in the year long waste of time that was his attempted seduction of Spencer Smith--sucks. Brendon tries to console himself with the fact that even if the tattooed and pierced hottie turns out to be distressingly hetero, at least he'll have some scenery to compensate for whatever musical atrocity he is about to endure.

He takes his time, attempting suave; if one can be suave in high top sneakers that had passed tattered five or so years ago, jeans that were and always would be just that much too long, and a thrift store polyester shirt that would not have looked out of place in his grandfather’s wardrobe. Whatthefuckever. Affecting nonchalance, Brendon sidles up to the guy, places his empty beer glass on the scratched bar surface, and assumes the same posture as his ~~conquest his future hook up~~ the guy.

Moss green eyes dart to Brendon's face and then away again, so Brendon takes a chance and says "So, like, what's the deal with this band?"

* * *

Frank's tired. Over tired, even. His nerves are jittery, he's twitchy, and his skin itches. There's just no damn way he can crash as fast and as hard as the other guys. So he went for a walk. But having zero sense of direction and being in L fucking A when you're an East Coast kind of guy, and being off your ass tired means that straying too far could be a big mistake. So he looks up and sees a bar with a band on the bill and decides what the fuck?, might kill enough time 'til he's ready to meet the sandman.

So he's nursing his drink and trying to figure out where on the scale of Lame to Fucking Totally Radical (ie Hinder to Black Flag-original line up, of course) this band falls based on their crowd. And the crowd makes no sense. But he isn't exactly sure what he expected, because nothing in La La-land makes any fucking sense. Teenage debs in their Ugg boots, and music execs in their Armani mix it up with scene kids and surfers. But who was he to judge? These days nothing that happens outside an Econoline van, or off the grid of blue spiderweb Interstate markings across a wrinkled and faded road map make any kind of sense to Frankl.

But music is music, and he’s always open to something new. Even if these guys don’t turn out to be Glassjaw or The Gallows, at least they’re something to do. And see. And Jesus he wants to sleep. He rubs self-consciously at the rough scrub of his hair, reaching out of habit to tug at his recently shorn dreads. Lowering his hand to scratch at his nose, Frank thinks maybe high school isn't so far behind him after all because, fucking hell is it some kind of law of biology or some shit that everyone in Los Angeles has to be, like Perfect and blond and beautiful?

Fuckin' plastic.

Except. Oh,except! Frank is too tired to control his involuntary brain functions, and the part of him that puts the Bi! in Bi-sexual is maybe a third of the way to a lumbering stand at attention. There's a kid, at the other end of the bar, all creamy skin and hipster-geek cool. And he's sporting a scowl that angles his gull wing brows together over his ridiculous Ray Bans, and tugs down the corners of his fuckin' perfectly pink lips. He looks like he'd rather be anywhere else but here.

Shit, man. Stop checkin' the dude out.

Frank smirks into his rum and coke and fidgets, scratching at the scrawl of inked stars across his elbow, and chewing industriously at his lip ring. If one more of the Barbie-stick insect girl-tribes hits on him, he might scream. Or run. Or both. He wonders how hard he has to pray to the (fabulous!) Patron Saint of teh Gay to get the kid, who thus far seems pissed 'cause he's here by himself, to come and rescue him from this special Estrogen fueled hell.

Look to the left 1-2-3-4. Look straight ahead 1-2-3-4. Look to the right no not at HIM fucktard 1-2-3-4.

Shit. The hot kid (the hot kid? wtf, Frank, wtf?) wasn't there anymore. Frank sighs and leans back onto his elbows, feigning interest in the direction of the stage.You win some, you lose some. Sometimes you had nothing to lose in the first place.

"So, like, what's the deal with this band?"

"Uh, I dunno." Frank's tongue darts out, licking across the space between his lips before his mouth cleaves in to a broad, bright grin. He shrugs his shoulder, sheepish, "I just kinda wandered in, I guess."

"Me too!" Brendon returns the grin and amps it up with a startling burst of giggles.

Momentarily distracted by the thickness of Brendon’s eyelashes and his awesome full-lipped grin, Frank's own brand of high-octane giggle is a beat behind. WTF, man, that's not funny. But he's fucking adorable. Please don't let him be drunk. Cuz hitting on drunk hot kid is NOT cool. "Yeah, we're, I mean I'm...I'm stayin' at the Travelodge across the road..with...with my band, and uh, got bored...so..."

Brendon’s eyes widen behind his glasses before he blinks several times in rapid succession. "Band?" Fuck. Pleasebegay. Are my palms sweaty?

"Uh, yeah. We're from Jersey. Kiinda, um, hardcore. I dunno maybe punk-ish?" Punk-ish? Punk-ish? Way to rack up the cool points there, Iero. "I'm Frank. Frank Iero by the way." He extends his hand and amps up his smile, the inevitable giggle following on its trail.

"Brendon Urie." Brendon states matter-of-factly, and firmly returns Frank's handshake.

Turning to more fully face Brendon, Frank says, "So, you think the band's gonna start, like, soon? 'Cause I'm totally dying for a smoke." He withdraws his pack from the back pocket of his jeans, and directs the blinding, full force of his grin directly at Brendon.

"Shit man, me too." Brendon grins and nods towards the fire exit. The two lope side by side through the crowd of beautiful people and out into the close, smog tinged Summer night. Frank pulls out a cheap plastic lighter, and the flame flares bright in the dingy alleyway. He lights up his Marlboro and sighs contentedly before holding the lighter out to Brendon, who has taken out his own pack, puts the cigarette to his lips,and leans in. He meets Frank's gaze, and smiles around the filter between his lips.

"You have amazing eyes." They both say, at the same time. Which causes them to giggle, at the same time. Which causes them to sputter and cough and outright guffaw as the smoke from the cigarettes exits their lungs. Laughter dies and smoke curls skywards and they give each other whythefucknot looks, and then lean in, pressing their mouths together.

cloudlessclimes — Tue, 06 Jul 2010 03:08:18 GMT

Title: The Sun Always Shines on TV
Author: cloudlessclimes
Rated: PG 13
Pairing:Brendon Urie/Gerard Way
Disclaimer: This is purely a product of my diseased mind and has no bearing on reality what so ever, I own no one, I know no one.
Summary: Oh God. Ages ago I started writing Beach Music, the summary of which is: Brendon Urie is and has always been a girl. She meets Gerard Way. Things happen. And, well, I haven't abandoned it, exactly. Life, it gets in the way sometimes, you know? So anyway, enter hc_bingo and so I thought this might be a good way to get back into writing. This is written for the prompt alcoholism and is set not too long after part 8 ends.
Feedback: Is a wonderful thing.
Notes: Recovery is a personal, individual thing. No two people go through it the same way. Alcoholics Anonymous is a wonderful organization that has helped so many people, and I absolutely do not mean to take away from the great good work they and other 12 step programs do for alcoholics, addicts and the people who love them. The only research done for this fic is my own experience and reading a few interviews where Gerard Way talked about his own experiences.

Brendon's voice is a sleepy mumble from the kitchen doorway as she calls, "Gee?" She can see him, silhouetted by the street light, slumped over in a kitchen chair.

He jumps a little, and then says softly, "Oh, hey. What are you doin' up?"

Shuffling into the room, self deprecation evident in her voice and the small shrug of her shoulders, Brendon sighs and says, "Had t'pee. You weren't next t'me. Came lookin'." She stands beside him, fingers stroking through his hair.

"Sorry, didn't mean to worry you." Gerard mumbles, not looking up from his lap. Glancing down, Brendon blinks as the faint light from the small window glints off the glass bottle Gerard is holding between his palms.

Biting her lip, trying to think of what to say, she exhales a soft, “Oh,” and then, gently, “Did you?” as she gestures weakly towards the liquor with one hand.

Gerard turns the bottle of vodka over and over in his hands. “No. Not yet. I thought about it. I've been thinking about it a lot.”

Brendon tilts her head and narrows her eyes, the tease of a smile giving her lips a slight curve. She reaches down and takes the bottle from Gerard; her fingers tracing around the cap to feel the seal still intact. Plunking it onto the table she slips a leg over Gerard’s thigh and wriggles into his lap. Leaning close, her breasts brushing against his chest, Brendon kisses him--spit slick and messy--and then whispers, “I can give you something else to think about,” And shifts her hips in a gentle sway against his.

“Shit Brendon, would you stop?” Gerard’s voice is loud and angry in the stillness of the kitchen. His hands shove roughly against her hips, stilling them and putting space between their bodies. “You can’t fix everything with fucking!”

Shocked, Brendon’s mouth opens and closes, and in a small voice she says, “I just... I don’t know what to do. What else can I do?” She drops her glance and stares at her hands. “I’m sorry.”

“Fuck,” Gerard exhales and runs his hand across Brendon’s back, hugging her to him. “No, honey, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled. I just…I’m…fuck, I dunno what I am.” He squeezes the tensed muscles in Brendon’s neck and brushes a kiss to her down turned lips.

Brendon drops her head, resting her cheek against Gerard’s shoulder as she swings her legs a little, toes skimming the tiled floor. “I wish I could do something to help. Do you need to go to a meeting or something?” She relaxes into him, breath skimming Gerard’s collar bones, arms wrapped loosely around his shoulders.

“Uh, no.” Gerard chuckles--a low, knowing sound that rumbles in his chest. “I went, a couple times, ‘cause Greg, my shrink said it would be a good idea, anonymous and all that, right? So, I went. And I mean it obviously is what a lot of people need, right? But, I had the stale donuts and the shitty coffee, and stood at the back of the room and tried to wrap my brain around all the trippy twelve step voodoo and mostly thought about comics, you know?” He presses his lips to her temple and continues to pet softly along her spine.

Brendon sits up and exclaims, “Oh man I know! I mean, I even believe in God, right? All that higher power stuff sort of scared the shit out of me. I mean, when we were looking at stuff, for Ryan...for his Dad...”

“Yeah,” he huffs out a soft laugh and nuzzles at her hair with his cheek. “So, mostly I guess I just try to muddle through on my own, you know? And if it gets really bad, I mean if I feel like I’m going to monumentally fuck up, I usually talk to Mikey or Brian..."

“But now you can’t. Because of me.” Brendon bites her lip and her lashes twitch shadows on the pale skin beneath her eyes.

“No honey, it’s fine. I’ll be fine, I just...”

“Sit in the dark and stare at a bottle of vodka,” Brendon meets his eyes, but there’s no pity in her expression, just gentle concern and a little sadness.

Gerard sighs and shifts beneath Brendon’s weight and knocks his forehead to hers in a familiar gesture of affection. “I’ve had it for a while. I bought it on the way back from taking you to the airport. When you were going to Vegas to...when I thought you were gonna...fuck, I wanted a drink so damn bad. I still do.” His palm rests flat against Brendon’s abdomen and there's something about his tone that smacks of self loathing.

Cupping Gerard’s cheeks, Brendon angles her face to his and kisses him fiercely. “But I didn’t do it! And I’m not gonna.I just can't. And we’re okay, right? This is gonna be okay. Are you...you said you’re okay with this, right?”

Returning her kiss with a little more desperation than passion, Gerard hooks his finger under one thin strap of Brendon’s cotton nightgown, “Yeah, of course, Bee. Of course. I’m so glad you didn’t...I mean, I’m happy, just really fuckin’ scared, too. Good scared. And who the fuck knew that could even happen off a stage?” He kisses the light dusting of freckles on Brendon’s nose.

Sighing in relief, Brendon again brings her head to rest against Gerard’s shoulder, and she hugs him tight saying, “Yeah, who knew?” She smiles a little wobbly, and adds in a hitching whisper, “I’m scared too." She drops her arms down from their embrace to thread their fingers together across her still flat stomach. “I think it’s okay to want to drink. I think it’s okay to fuck up, maybe. But you have me. And I won’t let you. I won’t!”

Gerard smiles against her hair at the fierceness in her tone. They sit in silence for a long while, listening to the middle of the night sounds of the house around them, until Brendon says, hesitantly. “Did you...did you love him?”

Pausing midbreath, Gerard lifts his head and looks down at Brendon. “Did I love...? Oh! Bert?”

“Yeah.”

He scratches at his nose,trying to find the words for his thoughts, "I think I wanted to. I think I thought so. But man, I was so fucked up, and so was he. I guess he made me feel, like, normal, maybe, if that makes any sense.” Brendon nods, sleepy and warm in Gerard’s arms and he continues. “And when I got sober, he didn’t. And he was everything I didn’t want to be, anymore. I hurt him, I guess...” Gerard shrugs and his voice trails away into the darkness.

Brendon slowly traces her fingers up and down Gerard’s bare forearms. “Do you ever think that maybe if you’d never met him that you’d never...” She stops, trying to figure out what she wants to say, and how to ask it. Gerard’s always been open and honest about his past, but they’ve never talked about this before, and Brendon never knew that she wanted to talk about it; never knew that she wants to hear what Gerard has to say.

“If I’d never met Bert, I’d never have figured out that white lines blow my mind?” Gerard’s laugh is sharp in the darkness.

Brendon kisses the corner of his mouth, brow furrowed in concern, “Don’t joke.”

Gerard replies, sighing, “Honey, I was so fucked up and taking so many fuckin’ prescription meds by then, I’m sure it was just a matter of time before I decided coke and more booze were what I needed to get through the day, no matter who dangled the magic little baggie in front of my face. Shit, I was taking something to sleep, something to wake up, something to pick me up, and something else to bring me down. I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing, and I never found a drug to make me care that I was hurting everyone else in my life, never mind what I was doing to myself. I thought drinking gave me a personality.” He untangles their limbs and wriggles his fingers, doing a jazz hands wave in front of Brendon’s face.

Catching his hands in hers, Brendon kisses at the tips of Gerard’s fingers and murmurs, “I like your personality just fine the way it is.”

“Me too.” Gerard’s smile is soft and genuine.

Biting her lip, Brendon gives a little nod and then scrambles out of Gerard’s lap. She stands and stretches, and then grabs the bottle of vodka off the table. Her bare feet slap lightly against the tile as she stalks over to the sink. She turns on the tap and then, with a determined grunt, snaps open the bottle’s seal.

“What're you doing?” Gerard’s eyes widen in surprise, watching as Brendon upends the bottle over the sink, holding it high as its contents glug down the drain.

Brendon’s shoulders hitch when she says, “Well, the way I see it, you can either sit here in the dark beating yourself up,” she turns her head, giving Gerard a pointed look over her shoulder, “or, we can just remove temptation, and then we can go to bed. I figure that’s a better choice, for everyone.” She sets the empty bottle on the counter and squirts a dollop of dish soap into the sink, trying to rid the room of the sharp scent of alcohol.

Crossing to her, Gerard wraps his arms around Brendon’s waist and kisses the back of her neck. “You’re a smart lady, Queen Bee.”

“Course I am,” Brendon snickers. “I’ve got it all, man. Looks, smarts, personality!” Her snicker becomes a snort as she swishes water around the sink and then turns off the tap.

Lips still pressed to the bumps of Brendon's spine, Gerard mumbles, “I dunno what I ever did to deserve you.”

Brendon turns to face him, slipping her arms around his neck. She pecks small kisses across his chin and then traces their shapes with the pad of her thumb, “I think we deserve each other.” And she closes her eyes and presses her lips to Gerard's, soft and sleepy. “Let’s go back to bed.”

“Mmm hmm.” Gerard agrees against Brendon’s mouth. He takes her hand and they trail slowly from the kitchen.

Brendon curses under her breath and huffs, “But first, I have to pee. Again,” She rolls her eyes.

Gerard laughs, kissing her in front of the bathroom door before heading down the hallway to their bedroom.

clearly i am a glutton for punishment

cloudlessclimes — Mon, 07 Jun 2010 22:56:55 GMT

To add to the list of things I've signed up for, I went and got a hc_bingo card. Hopefully I can actually complete it, unlike the other things I've signed up for that are still sitting forlornly in my WIP folder.

Anyway,

grief	muscle strains and spasms	pneumonia	plane crash	severe / life-threatening illness
drug addiction	head trauma	homelessness	poisoning	alcoholism
burns	fear of clowns	WILD CARD	de-age (mental)	imprisonment
cages	unexpected consequences of planned soulbonding	possession / mind control	claustrophobia	hunger / starvation
agoraphobia	undiagnosed, mysterious illness	insanity (always there)	mutation	bullying

So far the only ones I have an inkling of an idea about are 'fear of clowns' and 'alcoholism' lol. So, any suggestions are welcome. I'm actually kind of excited.

My Brendon/Spencer mix for the onetruemix thingie

cloudlessclimes — Sun, 14 Feb 2010 16:34:26 GMT

In my brain, this is sort of the soundtrack to Panic! During the break up/divorce/creative differences/whatever you want to call it. In the process of realizing they can be a band together, Spencer and Brendon figure out they can also be more, together. I love that they have their long history of friendship and interact with such open affection and are so comfortable in each others' spaces.

huge huge huge thanks and hugs to Sarah for making this for me. I am a graphics moron and was scared to death at the prospect of having to do it myself.

Love is Good a Brendon/Spencer OTP Mix

01 I Wanna Be the One-fun. It's totally an obvious choice, but how could I not put a fun. song on here? Spencer blew Brendon wide open with his discovery of the band, after all. And...twitter brought them together to work on music. Gimme those songs Panic!+fun.
-for all the steps you'll take and all you'll overcome I wanna be the one to put in a song

02 Two of Us-Neil & Liam Finn So, another no brainer. It's The Beatles, they're singing about two people taking on the world. You tell me how I could not put that on a mix for Brendon and Spencer!
They're friends, they're inseparable. They belong together.
-you and me Sunday driving, not arriving on our way back home. We're on our way home...

03 Weed Party-Band of Horses Do I really have to spell out why this is on here? Brendon and Spencer, I am sure, enjoy....herbal remedies.
-I got you arrested...

04 Somewhere Over the Rainbow-Ingrid Michaelson Both Brendon and Spencer appreciate female singers, musicals, covers, and sweet sad hopeful little ditties. This just seemed to fit.
-the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true

05 Happier-Guster This? Is quite possibly the best, most cheerfully upbeat “Fuck You” song ever. I mean okay, they say the split was because of creative differences, but still there has to be some hurt feelings there, you know? Brendon comes off as affable and live and let live most of the time, but I think he can be pretty snarky when he wants to be.-Say goodbye, lose your friends, make them go, don't need them around
This is the perfect blame Ryan Ross song!
And it features really cool percussion. I feel Spencer Smith would appreciate it.
-one more inch you son of a bitch you'll be a waste of my time, always

06 California-Copeland Brendon and Spencer live together! Spencer says stuff in interviews like 'When I moved in with Brendon.' They live their happy little domestic lives surfing and being ridiculous and awesome with their dogs and Spencer sometimes misses Brendon so he tweets stupid pics of their dog!
-You know I won't mind if you monopolize all my time I won't say a thing at all I won't say a word

07 Stripped-Shiny Toy Guns This song is like sex for your ears. And if your ears are having sex, your brain could be thinking about Brendon and Spencer having sex. It's just hot. Like Brendon and Spencer. And it sort of speaks to the burgeoning co-dependent relationship they're building.
-we'll lay on the grass and let the hours pass

08 Let Go-Boys Like Girls I was endlessly amused and charmed by Brendon and Spencer fanboying Imogen Heap at each other. This song is about letting go of what you can't change and doesn't matter in the long run. Good advice for anyone, never mind two people whose band as they know it went kaput. They still have each other, though. And I really enjoy a good, unconventional cover.
-it gains the more it gives and rises with the fall

09 For Your Entertainment-Adam Lambert I have to admit, this is on here because the thought of Brendon Urie singing it is endlessly amusing to me. Also, thinking about this being the dynamic of Brendon and Spencer's new found romance is kinda hot. And, Spencer thinks that Adam Lambert looks good in guyliner. Brendon thinks he looks really really good.
-Baby, don’t be afraid I’m a hurt ya real good, baby

10 The Lucky One-Au Revoir Simone A kinda weird, kinda quirky sweet song about finding the right person at the right time and making everything all right.
-a dream of togetherness turned into a brighter mess

11 Be Gentle With Me-Boy Least Likely To A funny little anthem for people who are cautiously dipping their toes into the relationship pool.
-I guess I've always needed to be needed by someone. It's a comforting feeling to be under someone's thumb

12 The First Day of My Life- Bright Eyes The sound of what it's like to find The One, I think. Well, at least if you've always perceived yourself to be some kind of hopeless loser, anyway.
-So if you want to be with me
With these things there’s no telling
We just have to wait and see
But I’d rather be working for a paycheck
Than waiting to win the lottery
Besides maybe this time is different
I mean I really think you like me

13 The Bare Necessities-Louis Armstrong The simplest, best things, are right beside you, you just need to look and you'll see.
-And don't spend your time lookin' around
For something you want that can't be found
When you find out you can live without it

14 I Melt With You-Sugarcult Happy bouncy 80s nostalgia for finding the one person you're meant to be with! Yay!
-the future's open wide

15 With a Little Help From My Friends-The Beatles I know, you're shocked that this is here. Not really? Yeah, well, it's the Beatles, talking about how important friendship is. I think Brendon and Spencer can get behind that.
-What do you see when you turn out the light?
I can't tell you, but I know it's mine

16 All We Are-Matt Nathanson A quiet, hopeful song about taking every day as a chance to start over.
-Every day's the start of something beautiful, something real

All I Want Brendon/Spencer R 2/2

cloudlessclimes — Wed, 18 Nov 2009 03:52:49 GMT

Brendon thwacks him in the shoulder then leans over the seat to give the driver his address. In the rear view mirror, Spencer can see the annoyed look on the guy's face, and looks at Brendon who shrugs and gives an apologetic smile. The driver puts the car in gear and Brendon sinks back into the seat. “So,” he says, smiling at Spencer, "you don't sound like you're from Chicago.”

“That's because I'm not.” Spencer watches as the 7-11 disappears, their empty slurpee cups left abandoned in the lot. His long fingers drum a rhythm against the upholstery.

“Spencer! I am trying to start a conversation here! You are not co-operating. Let's try that again,” Brendon pouts and shifts so he's turned towards Spencer, “So, Hi Spencer Smith—where are you from, what brings you to Chicago?”

Snorting out a small laugh, Spencer licks his lips and says, “Hi Brendon Urie, I am currently a junior, majoring in business at DePaul and I am originally from Las Vegas,” in his best anchorman voice.

“Oh my god! Shut up! Seriously?” Brendon's eyes widen in surprise.

“What? Seriously, I'm from Vegas. What's wrong with being from Vegas?” Spencer feels stupidly defensive of his home town.

“Nothing's wrong with Vegas! I'm from Vegas! Summerlin!” The grin on Brendon's face threatens to split his face.

“No way!” Spencer exclaims and points at himself, “The Hills, South,” smiling at Brendon.

“Dude! Dude! The Vistas!” He points at himself and then squeezes Spencer's hand, threading their fingers together on the seat between them. “What High School did you go to?”

“Go Spartans,” Spencer says blandly, raising his free arm and doing a lackluster fist pump.

Brendon makes a face, “Cimmeron-Memorial?” he shakes his head sadly, “Jock central.” He smiles again and makes a peace sign, “Panther Power!”

“Palo Verde, right? You guys had a really good drum corps.” Spencer says thoughtfully, and then stops talking when the cab comes to a stop under the El tracks. They haven't even been in the car five minutes. He raises a curious eyebrow at Brendon.

Shuffling through his bag, Brendon takes out a twenty and foists it at the driver, flapping a hand for him to keep the change from the five dollar fare. “Dude, you insisted we take a cab.”

“To the El?” Spencer sounds baffled.

“No, I live here,” Brendon nods out the window as he slips the straps to his pack over his shoulders and gets out of the cab.

Spencer opens the door and stretches his long legs before standing on the sidewalk, looking up at the tracks and then at the storefronts. “Okay,” Spencer shrugs and stuffs his hands in his pockets.

As if on cue, Brendon's stomach growls loudly making them both laugh, “C'mon Spencer Smith I am about to introduce you to El Burrito Mexicano, or as I like to call it Taco-Burrito Number Three, and your life will never be the same again!” The glass door to the shop is beaded with condensation as Spencer holds it open with his palm, allowing Brendon to walk through first.

“Number Three huh? What happened to One and Two?” Spencer is shaking his head and laughing as they join the small line along the counter.

Brendon affects a comically sad expression, “They were crushed by the sheer weight of Number Three's awesome.”

“Ah, of course,” Spencer nods as if that's a perfectly reasonable explanation. He squints at the huge menu board behind the counter, trying to decide what he wants to eat.

“Hola Senorita Brendon!” a short chubby man calls from where he's filling tacos with chicken and salsa and other tasty things. He swipes his arm across his sweaty forehead and then wipes his hands on the white apron that's tied securely around his wide middle.

Brendon and Spencer are next to order and Brendon hops up onto the counter. Ignoring the skinny kid at the register, Brendon holds his arms out, “Hola Miguel!” and giggles as the cook leans over to give Brendon an enthusiastic hug and peck on the cheek.

“The usual?” Miguel wipes his hands on his apron once more and goes back to prepping food.

Brendon says, “You know it!” and gives a coy wink. “Oh, you better make it a double.” He adds, hooking a thumb over his shoulder at Spencer.

“Brendon,” Miguel pouts and shakes his head sadly, “you are trying to break my heart?”

“Nah,” Brendon waves dismissively, “man, you know you will always hold the burrito and guac shaped key to my heart!” He grins wide, and Miguel rolls his eyes and gets busy preparing their order.

Opening his mouth to make his own order, Spencer is stopped short by Brendon taking his hand and pulling him outside, “So, you and me and Vegas, talk about fate.”

Spencer laughs and leans against the brickwork, listening to the clack-clack-clack of the train passing above their heads. “I dunno. I mean I never really thought about it before.”

“I looked for you,” Brendon admits quietly.

“What?” Spencer turns to face Brendon where he's come to lean against the storefront, sliding his fingertips along the glass.

Brendon's lashes flutter, “Um, after, you know...that night? I thought okay, he's a jogger. Joggers are pretty set with like, schedules and routes and that shit, but you weren't there.”

“Um, yeah. Not a jogger. Not really, anyway. Sometimes I get stuck on a problem set or whatever, and I go for a run. Clears my head,” he shrugs.

“So, I guess you don't get stuck all that much, huh?” Brendon extends a finger to trace the metallic line of Spencer' s coat zipper. “But, two days later, I'm sore and sad and thinking maybe I'll just go home instead of doing my stupid little show for the tenth time and...there you were! See? Fate,” Brendon nods and watches his finger go up and down up and down.

“Yeah. Maybe. Maybe, I want to believe in fate,” Spencer's voice is low and rough when he circles Brendon's wrist with his fingers, stilling his slow, hypnotic movement. They stand there in the glow of the store light, so close they can feel every one of each other's breaths.

The quiet is interrupted by the bell over the door as the skinny kid from the front counter holds a giant paper bag out to Brendon. They jump apart quickly, and Brendon almost shouts, “Gracias!” and Spencer takes the bag, smiling his thanks.

They turn away from the restaurant and Spencer shifts the bag to his hip, aware that the grease is seeping through the paper and slicking his hands, “So, you know you didn't pay for any of this, right?”

Rolling his eyes, Brendon shrugs and says, “Miguel loves me. He loves to feed me. Seriously I think he's one of those, what are they called? Feeders or something?” He stops and digs around in the pocket of his back pack, extracting a giant fluffy, sparkly ring of keys. “Besides,” he says, twirling the keys around his fingers, “He knows where I live,” smiling brightly, he turns to the door beside the Mexican place and puts a key in the lock.

“Oh,” Spencer seems to be spending an awful lot of this night feeling sort of stupid and like he doesn't know what's going on. Brendon opens the graffiti covered door and heads inside. “Uh, so how come you left Vegas?” he asks to Brendon's back as they trudge up a small, dark, steeply pitched set of stairs.

Smiling over his shoulder, Brendon answers, “Vegas has no romance. Also? A one way ticket to Chicago was as far as I could afford to flee with the money from my piggy bank.” He stops when he reaches the landing.

Spencer looks up and has three thoughts in rapid succession: Wall, Tattoos and I Am Going to Die. Standing at the top of the stairs, blocking their way, is a large man, heavily tattooed arms crossed over his wide chest, and he's glaring daggers at Spencer.

“Everything okay, little man?” The guy asks Brendon, his eyes never straying from where they're boring into Spencer.

Brendon fist bumps with the guy and says, “All things go, Zack. This is my new friend, Spencer Smith. Spencer this is Zack Hall.”

Spencer does his best to smile and takes the guy's hand, trying not to yelp as his fingers are crushed between two meaty paws. “Nice to meet you,” he grits out between his clenched teeth.

“Same,” Zack says, but he's still staring at Spencer like he's imagining what his head will look like on a spike.

“Zack is a bouncer at Cobra Starship,” Brendon supplies helpfully. “And Zack, Spencer is the very nice man who defended my honor when those frat boy assholes tried to get more than they paid for the other night.” Brendon hooks his arm through Spencer's and beams.

Zack's expression softens when he looks at Brendon, “Ah, cool. Good to know someone's looking out for you, Bren.” He raises fingers to his brow in salute and then turns to go back into his apartment.

Brendon takes out his keys again and opens his own door, “Home sweet hovel,” he says, ushering Spencer into the apartment with a wide sweep of his arm. It's little more than a room, really. Impossibly tiny with a single bed pushed up against one wall and a counter under a dirty window. There's a microwave and a toaster oven on top of the counter, and a bar fridge in beneath the sink. Everything is neat and tidy.

As Spencer looks around the room he takes in the amazing array of instruments tucked in at one end of the bed; acoustic guitar, electric guitar, a bass, a cello and a keyboard are all either stacked or leaning against the wall. At the other end is a tiny make up table, filled with brushes and cotton swabs and pallets of eyeshadow and blush. Hooks on the wall are spilling feather boas and slinky sequined dresses. “Make yourself at home, and I'll get us some plates.” Brendon squeezes Spencer's arm and takes the paper bag from him.

Spencer brushes his fingers over the quilt covering Brendon's small bed. Bright squares of yellow,red and blue fabric have been sewn together with careful stitches, and it makes Spencer smile, as does the old and almost unrecognizable Curious George that's perched on Brendon's pillow. He stands in front of the make up table and stares at the Disney Princesses stool for a second and then says, “So, when did you know?”

“Huh?” Brendon turns from tearing paper and foil off the burritos to see what Spencer's doing. “Oh, well, you know, it's not like I'm a woman trapped in a man's body or something.” Brendon giggles nervously, licking his fingers as he places the Mexican food on mismatched plates. “Not that there's anything wrong with that. I'm just a guy who likes to wear make up and dresses every once in a while.”

“Dude looks like a lady?” Spencer's mental filter seems to be irreparably broken. He's blaming the super strong pot Jon had scored earlier in the week.

But Brendon just laughs and grabs knives and forks, bringing the food over to the bed and motioning for Spencer to take a seat. “Something like that. I mean I'm the youngest of nine, right?” Brendon pauses and smirks as Spencer's eyebrows hit his hairline. “And my older sisters, they liked to dress me up in their little doll dresses and doll make up and whatever.” He gestures back at the make up table before scooping up some guacamole with a tortilla chip and shoving the entire thing into his mouth.

Spencer picks up his burrito, staring at it for a second, “I have two little sisters,” he says by way of sympathy.

“Yeah?” Brendon nods, crunching down on another chip. “So, I guess it was okay for them to dress me up. Wasn't supposed to like it, though.” Brendon takes a bite of his own burrito, chewing methodically, and wiping his wrist across his mouth.

Spencer's mouth quirks up, but the look in Brendon's eyes, shuttered and flat, keeps him from smiling. “So you...I mean...why do you like it?”

Brendon shrugs, shredding the top of the greasy paper bag the tortilla chips are in. “I dunno. I mean, I guess it makes me feel pretty?” He dumps a handful of chips onto Spencer's plate. “It sounds stupid, but like, who doesn't want to look pretty, you know? And it definitely helps to pay the bills, which allows me to live in the style to which I've become accustomed.” Brendon's smile is real, reaching his eyes as he take another huge bite of food. “You'd look awesome with some eyeliner and mascara.”

Choking a little on his mouthful of food, Spencer nods gratefully when Brendon hands over a paper towel and thumps him on the back a few times. “Really? You think so?” He swallows and just stares at Brendon.

“Totally, man. Make those freaky husky dog eyes of yours pop!” Brendon fans his hands around Spencer's face, wriggling his fingers. “You wanna try it?” There's a challenge in his dark eyes.

Blinking stupidly for a beat, Spencer says, “Um...I dunno I never really thought about it before...” Something about the hopeful look on Brendon's face makes Spencer's stomach clench around his partially eaten dinner.

Brendon sets his plate down and bounces up onto his knees, leaning forward and brushing Spencer's hair out of his eyes. “Oh man, it'll be awesome, trust me. I am a fully licensed cosmetologist, thank you very much Maricopa Beauty College.”

“Seriously?” Spencer ducks away from Brendon's touch, laughing.

“Hey, beauty is serious business, mister!” Brendon tugs on Spencer's plate, setting it on the floor beside his own, and the poking and generally annoying Spencer until he stands up. He allows himself to be plonked onto the pink stool, and laughs as Brendon stands in front of him, appraising.

He taps a thoughtful finger to his his chin, and then says slowly, “Okay, I think I got it,” and then Brendon sits himself down in Spencer's lap, legs dangling on either side of Spencer's hips.

“Hey!” Spencer exclaims on the breath of air that is knocked from his lungs when Brendon takes a seat.

Scowling, Brendon says, “Dude, what do you want from me? If I sit on the end of the bed, you're totally blocking all my shit. And if I stand I can't really see what I'm doing. Trust me, a liner pencil to the eyeball is no one's friend.” He stretches and leans over, picking up some things from the table top. Spencer's hands come out to steady him and he squirms a little when the pads of his thumbs skate across the slippery silk material of Brendon's underpants, which Spencer had almost forgotten about.

“Just do what I tell you and we'll get along fine!” Brendon says brightly. “Jesus, will you sit still?” Brendon wiggles his ass and frowns at Spencer. “And hold these,” He grabs Spencer's wrist and shoves some brushes and tiny containers into his hand. “Now, let's get down to business. Close your eyes.”

Huffing out a breath, Spencer mumbles “Fine,” rolling his eyes and then closing them. Brendon shifts his weight, shuffling minutely closer until his knees are bracketing Spencer's hips. Spencer swallows hard at the feeling of Brendon's warm breath ghosting across his chin. The warmth of Brendon's hand against Spencer's cheek makes Spencer light headed and he feels dizzy.

Brendon strokes a reassuring thumb across Spencer's brow bone, “Hey,” his voice is pitched low and close to Spencer's ear, “Relax, okay?” his finger slides from Spencer's eyebrow along his nose and across where his beard covers his cheek bone, “Trust me.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Spencer smile is nervous, and he tries to still his twitching. He feels Brendon's fingers, gentle on his brow and eyelid, and the alien feeling of what he assumes is the eyeliner tracing over his lash line.

Brendon sits back on Spencer's knees and says, “Okay, now open your eyes.”

Exhaling a long breath and slouching slightly, Spencer blinks his eyes open, to see Brendon's wide brown eyes so close he can see the swirls of light cinnamon and gold flecks around his pupils. “Uh...” Spencer says.

“Look up,” Brendon directs softly, resting one hand on Spencer's shoulder. “No no no, not tilt your head up,” he laughs and puts his hands just below Spencer's ears, angling his head back down, “Look up.”

Spencer frowns for a second, his heart beating loudly in his ears at the gentle touch of Brendon's fingers over the sensitive skin of his neck, then he rolls his eyes upwards. He tries not to flinch or squint when he sees Brendon bring the dark pencil to his lower lid. Brendon shifts a little and Spencer's hands grip harder at his hips, the movement causing Spencer's fingertips to slip from the waistband of Brendon's underwear and onto his back. They both freeze for a second, and then Brendon shakes his head, biting his lip when he smiles, and starts to line the lower lid of Spencer's other eye.

“Okay,” Brendon sits back a little, surveying his work so far. He squints and tilts his head from side to side, “Next,” he lowers his hand from Spencer's face and trails it playfully down Spencer's arm. “Spencer, you gotta let go.” His voice is amused but patient as he tries to ease Spencer's right hand from its death grip on his hip.

Brendon manages to open Spencer' fingers, take the tube of mascara out of his sweaty grip and replace it with the liner pencil. “Shit, sorry,” Spencer ducks his head and stares at his hand where Brendon has replaced it at his hip. “Where'd you get all this stuff anyway, Walgreens?”

Stopping cold, mascara wand raised half way to Spencer's face, Brendon looks scandalized, “Are you serious?”

Shrugging his shoulders and tightening his grip on Brendon's waist, Spencer says, “Dude, my idea of beauty supplies is like, Head & Shoulders and Irish Spring, okay?"

Brendon laughs at Spencer's disgruntled expression, “Head & Shoulders is very flamboyant,” Spencer snorts and Brendon laughs and pats his arm reassuringly, “Anyway to answer your question; I work at the MAC store on Armitage. No way would I be able to afford all this shit, otherwise,” he busies himself wiping excess mascara off the brush and onto the mouth of the tube, “You should come visit me,” he says softly, shrugging like it's no big deal.

“Dude, my girlfriend would love that!” Spencer tries to open his eyes really wide without moving his head or opening his mouth like a gasping fish. He's afraid he'll look stupid. But then he thinks about where he is and what he's doing, and a quick dart of his eyes to the mirror beside him is totally worth the whack to the arm Brendon gives him because it confirms that basically, he'll look stupid no matter what.

The mascara wand pauses at the very corner of Spencer's eye, and he tries not to wince. Brendon freezes, licks his lips, and asks, 'Girlfriend?” His voice rises at the end of the word and he swallows thickly.

“Shit,” Spencer pets his hand against Brendon's back and stills him from where he's trying to scramble out of Spencer's lap. “Ex-girlfriend. My ex-girlfriend, Haley. We broke up a while ago because I finally figured out that I'm...” he waves a hand at himself and blows out a breath. “Anyway, she loves MAC is all I was trying to say,” he shrugs, a small nervous gesture, like his shirt is too tight across his shoulders.

“Oh,” Brendon chuckles and scoots forward, his thighs dragging against Spencer's, “Cool. Um, okay. Tell her to come by and I'll hook her up.” He twists the wand back into the container and stares at it in his hands. “I'm not...” he starts and takes a deep breath, “I don't think I want to be anyone's experiment,” he says quietly.

The hurt Spencer sees in Brendon's eyes before he ducks his head makes all the blood rush from Spencer's face. “Brendon, that's not why—I'm...you're not—I'm not experimenting. I promise,” he leans over to set the brushes on the make up table and runs his hands up Brendon's arms. “I promise,” lifting Brendon's head with a finger under his chin, Spencer looks Brendon in the eye when he speaks, “The only experimenting I'm doing here is with color palettes or whatever the fuck that shit you're putting on my face is called. Okay?”

Brendon reaches over to pick up the brushes Spencer discarded, “Okay,” Spencer can't see his face at first, his hair has fallen forward to cover it, but when he turns around and resettles himself in Spencer's lap, his smile is bright and honest. “I just wanted to put that out there."

“Fair enough,” Spencer gives a one shouldered shrug in acknowledgment. “So, like are we almost done here? My knees are kind of falling asleep.”

Brendon snorts through his nose, bringing the mascara wand to Spencer's eye again, “Fuck you, I'm as light as a feather,” but he schools his expression into something that clearly reads as getting down to business and commences swiping the brush through Spencer's lashes with careful strokes.

“More like a hundred and thirty pounds of feathers,” Spencer bobbles his legs from side to side, pretending to buck Brendon off.

Giggling, Brendon squeezes Spencer's shoulder with one hand and waves the mascara wand around with the other, “Hey! Dude! I could have blinded you. And we'd be done by now if you'd stop fucking around!”

Spencer glances warily at the mascara brush out of the corner of his eye and licks his lips, “Shit, seriously? Okay.” He smiles and then goes perfectly, passively still.

“That's more like it,” Brendon's face smooths into a mask of seriousness as he carefully draws the brush through Spencer's long lashes and lightly drags the tip of his little finger along the previously drawn line of kohl, smudging it slightly. “Okay, now, lemme just...” He says more to himself than Spencer as he shuffles around on the table top, snagging a clear plastic tube.

Spencer blinks and tries to dart away from Brendon, who just crowds up closer to him, brandishing the tube, “Wait, wait, is that shit like strawberry scented or something? We never said anything about lip gloss.”

“Seriously? You're drawing the line at motherfucking lip gloss? And we never drew any lines, man. Besides, does this look like your sister's lip gloss? This, Spencer Smith, is very manly, very clear, very unscented lip gloss. Think of it as...flamboyant chapstick.” Brendon is amused by his own genius. Spencer is considerably less amused, but sighs and sits back, waiting for Brendon to finish.

Brendon squeezes a dollop of the gloss onto his fingertip and leans forward to dab it carefully across the fullness of Spencer's bottom lip. He's very very close, right there kind of close. It's very...distracting. And he's touching Spencer's lip, feather light and precise and that's...distracting too. So Spencer tries to even out his breathing, and think about dank decaying disgusting things so Brendon. who is sitting very very close, and in Spencer's lap. won't be able to tell how very very distracting he is. And finally, after what seems to be a small eternity, Brendon sits back, closes the lip gloss tube and claps, looking self satisfied and accomplished. “So pretty,” he sighs, cocking his head to one side.

“Yeah,” Spencer scoffs, but turns to look at himself in the mirror. His entire life, people have fawned and cooed over his blue blue eyes and to be honest, he's never really seen what the big deal is. Everyone in his family has blue eyes and it's always just been the way it is. But now, eyes rimmed in dark liner, and his normally light lashes tinted black, and hell, even the shine of his lips surrounded by his neatly trimmed beard, well yeah, Spencer can admit he's sort of maybe a little bit hot. “Huh,” he says, one eyebrow raised in surprise at his own reflection, “Not bad.”

“Not bad?” Brendon asks, incredulous, “You're so pretty, Spencer, for real. I know from pretty, okay?”

Spencer just laughs, “Yeah, okay I'm a pretty princess. Now can you get the fuck off me? I'd like to be a pretty princess who can walk.” He shoves Brendon a little, and Brendon just goes with it, sliding off Spencer's lap onto the floor.

“You just wanted someone to gaze up at you adoringly,” Brendon says, making his eyes comically wide and bringing his folded hands to his chin while sighing exaggeratedly and fluttering his eyelashes.

Reaching out and shoving at Brendon with the toe of his sneaker, and trying to rub away the pins and needles in his thighs, Spencer says, “No, what I want is for someone to bring me my burrito.”

“Oh, shit! Yeah, I'll reheat them. You can,” Brendon flaps a hand at the DVDs and CDs in a small pile at one corner of the make up table, “Like, pick a DVD we can watch on my laptop, if you want.” Brendon picks up their plates and crosses the room to the microwave.

Spencer asks, “What's Singin' in the Rain?” as he squints to read the title along the DVD's spine.

Finger poised to set the microwave timer, Brendon stops to stare open mouthed at Spencer, “What's Singin' in the Rain?”

“Yeah, it's not some freaky fetish porn or something is it?” Spencer snorts and picks up the case.

“Oh my God!” Brendon quickly hits start and then hustles over to the bed, flopping down beside Spencer, “Oh my actual God, Spencer. You did not just say that to me!” He grabs the DVD out of Spencer's hands and hugs it to his chest. “Singin' in the Rain is one of the best movies, ever! There's singing--in the rain, even-- and dancing, and Gene Kelly is hot, and Donald O'Connor is hilarious, and Debbie Reynolds is Princess Leia's mother, for your information. Jesus, how can you not know what Singin' in the Rain is?” Brendon pets the box and mutters “Fetish porn, oh my God,” under his breath.

Spencer blinks slowly, trying to take in every word of Brendon's tirade. “Um, my mom's favorite movie is Die Hard, okay? So, we gonna watch it, or what? Get me all educated in the ways of the musical?” He elbows Brendon, “I thought Barbara Streisand and um, what's her name, the chick who played Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, were more popular amongst our people?”

“I'm going to ignore that our people crack, and your frightening need rely on stereotypes. Instead, I'm going to give you my laptop,” Brendon leans over the edge of the bed and roots around beneath it for a few seconds, before hoisting his Macbook and plunking it into Spencer's lap. “And you're going to get the DVD started. I'm gonna get the food,” and just as he finishes talking, the microwave starts beeping.

Brendon carefully sets the plates on the tiny counter and reaches into the fridge, “Spencer, I must really, really like you,” his cheeks pink and his smile widens when he talks, “I have a grand total of two beers here, and I'm going to share one with you, out of the goodness of my heart.” He smiles and hands Spencer the bottle, then plops back down beside him, back leaning against the wall, mirroring Spencer's posture.

“Thanks, I...I like you too,” Spencer's smile is as wide as Brendon's, and they stare at each other, leaning close. Spencer licks his lips and Brendon bites his and then they both startle apart when the familiar lion roar over the MGM title booms out of the computer's speakers. “Uh, cheers,” Spencer laughs lamely and clinks the neck of his bottle with Brendon's.

Spencer can't help the smile that is straining his cheeks as he listens to Brendon spout facts and trivia about the movie they're watching. Well, supposed to be watching. Spencer is mostly watching Brendon. He has counted all the freckles that are spattered across Brendon's nose. He's memorized and calculated the exact angle at which a jagged scar slants through his right eyebrow. He's frowned at the dark scab on his lip and mottled bruising on Brendon's cheek. As Brendon talks, head turning from the laptop screen nestled between them to look at Spencer, hands waving as he makes a point, he manages to move closer and closer, until they're touching from hip to ankle. Spencer wriggles a little and manages to slide his hand between the wall and Brendon's waist, and it might be a little like the old yawn and stretch in the movie theater move, but Brendon's still smiling so Spencer isn't even a little bit sorry.

It seems to be the cue Brendon had been waiting for, because he snuggles in, hooking his arm through Spencer's and leaning his head against Spencer's shoulder. He sighs, a happy little sound deep in his chest, and Spencer's hand comes up to thread through Brendon's hair.

“Okay, I guess I see why you like this movie. It's actually pretty good.” Spencer's voice is a sleepy rumble.

“Mmm hmm. You know, I know he's totally old or dead or whatever, but I would totally give up my V-card to Gene Kelly, man.” Brendon tilts his head back into Spencer's touch and then freezes.

Spencer's hand falls to the back of Brendon's neck, playing idly with the tag at his collar. “Um, V-card?”

Brendon is silent for long, painful seconds. Spencer watches the rise and fall and rise and fall and rise and fall of his chest. “Um, yeah so, surprise!” Brendon holds his hands up to his face, giving Spencer his best spirit fingers, “I'm totally a big gay virgin who can't drive.” He tries to make a joke but his eyes are nervous and imploring, and his uncomfortable giggle peters away to nothing when he folds his hands in his lap."Twenty one years old and never been fucked."

Without saying a word, Spencer sets the laptop onto the bed. He quirks an encouraging eyebrow at Brendon and says, “Yeah, I kinda got that.”

“So, like I know people think I'm...” Brendon raises a shoulder towards the make up table and costumes, “Sexy and flirty and stuff. But it's an act, right?” He scratches is nose and looks at the laptop and the movie scene. “I'm actually kind of a loser.”

“You are!” Spencer exclaims, “Um, sexy and flirty, I mean,” he corrects when he sees Brendon's eyes turn flat and cold. “You're totally sexy and flirty.” Spencer leans forward and takes Brendon's hand in his, “Okay?”

Brendon spends a long time looking at their joined hands, "Okay," he says.

They sit in silence, and Spencer watches Brendon nervously pick at stray threads in the quilt. "Um, so can I ask you something?"

"Sure," Brendon shrugs and finally looks at Spencer.

Spencer licks his lips and swallows, "So um, like," a tiny, nervous laugh escapes through his nose, "is there, you know any reason why you..." he squeezes Brendon's fingers.

"Stubbornly cling to my maidenly virtue?" Brendon's smile is wide and insincere and his jaw is set at a defiant angle.

"Look, it was just a question I didn't mean..."

Brendon sighs and brings his knees up to his chest, setting their joined hands against his thigh, "Nah, nah, it's cool. Mostly? No one was interested. I really was a loser. A total hyper spaz who annoyed the shit out of everyone. My sister was basically my only real friend, but then she graduated," he shrugs nonchalantly, "Seriously, I got no play in high school."

"I really don't get why anyone would want to go to their high school reunion. Seriously, anyone with a brain wants to get the fuck out and never look back, right?" Spencer smiles encouragingly, knocking his shoulder into Brendon's.

Nodding enthusiastically, Brendon takes a steadying breath and continues, "So, I graduate, I get into beauty school, R.I.P. Mormon band geek."

"And then you moved to Chicago?"

"Yeah," Brendon rests his cheek against his raised knees, "And well, people want to fuck that," he motions with his chin towards his make up table again, "Not the real me, you know?"

Confused, Spencer raises an eyebrow and untangles their hands to scratch thoughtfully through his beard, "But, all that stuff," he echoes Brendon's movement, indicating the make up and costumes, "Isn't that a part of you, too?"

"Kind of? Maybe," Brendon reaches for Spencer's hand, tangling their fingers again, "But, like, no one's ever been interested in all of me, I guess? So, it just got easier to, you know...not..."

"Yeah." Spencer bites his lip, feeling like maybe he's made Brendon admit something he wasn't ready to admit.

Brendon snorts and says, "Someday, my prince will come. And in the meantime I get the satisfaction of knowing my parents think I'm a big giant hobag, but I'm stubbornly virginal." Spencer wishes he knew what to say, but he just looks between them, at the way their fingers fit together against the bright colors of Brendon's quilt. “Can we just forget this conversation ever happened?” Brendon asks over-enthusiastically, settling the laptop onto his thigh, but not letting go of Spencer's hand.

“Totally. I need to find out if Don ever gets his head out of his ass and realizes he's in love with Kathy.” Spencer smiles at Brendon, squeezing where they've got their fingers threaded together.

Brendon smiles back, a little wanly, then swallows, hitting play, “They totally do, it's Hollywood, Spencer—-happily ever after and all that bullshit.” He snuggles back into Spencer's side, and smiles when he feels Spencer's cheek against his hair.

Spencer is trying not to roll his eyes during the ridiculous love song that is being played out on the laptop's screen, so he yawns and says, “Hey so, me too.”

“You too, what?” Brendon turns to blink owlishly up at him.

“Um, you know, what you said about the V-card.” Spencer squints at the laptop, pretending to be entranced by Debbie Reynolds' warbling.

Eyebrows creased in confusion, Brendon slowly asks, “You'd have given it up to Gene Kelly?”

“No, you moron! I mean...I like, still have mine, too.” Spencer's entire head goes an alarming shade of red. “Well, with dudes anyway. And also? I can drive. Just sayin'. There, now we've both embarrassed the fuck out of ourselves can we just,“ He circles his pointed finger back at the movie.

“Yeah.” Brendon hugs Spencer hard and wriggles until Spencer drapes his arm over his shoulders, pulling him even closer. "Maybe you're just waiting for your prince to come," he whispers.

* * *

“Good morning! Good morning! It's great to stay up late...”

Some one is singing, soft and low, and directly into Spencer's ear. Eyelids still heavy with sleep, he licks his lips and wakes slowly. His face is mashed into the fuzzy, threadbareGeorge which is all that's left on the front of Curious George. And there's an arm around his waist. And a hand, palm flat against his belly. Brendon, he remembers suddenly. “Mmm, fell asleep,” he mumbles, swiping his cheek against the stuffed animal.

“Good morning to you!” Brendon's voice is a soft, comforting whisper in Spencer's ear and he squeezes Spencer in a hug. They'd curled close in sleep, yet now they're awake, neither of them move.

Spencer yawns and scratches at his beard, “What time's it?” He finally rolls over to face Brendon, raising a hand to knuckle at his eyes, belatedly remembering the make up there.

Brendon's smile is soft and unguarded with drowsiness. He raises a torpid hand and thumbs a mascara smudge off Spencer's cheek. “Late. Early. I dunno,” he answers, voice pitched lower than when he's fully awake.

Slowly, Spencer reaches up to cover Brendon's hand with his own, leaving them on his cheek and stroking his thumb over Brendon's knuckles. “Bren,” he says softly, wide awake now. In the purple-gray light he watches as his breath ruffles the dark fall of hair across Brendon's forehead. He swallows hard, struggling to find something more to say.

“Yeah,” Brendon says, like he knows it's the right answer to a question Spencer hasn't asked. He's so close, so very close. One hand is warm on Spencer's hip, the other teasing at the soft hair of Spencer's beard. He moves closer still, angling his hips forward, knocking their knees together. “Spencer?”

“Yeah?” Spencer's mouth is dry, and blood is roaring in his ears. He moves his free hand from where it's clenching the quilt and drags it slowly up Brendon's arm.

Spencer watches as Brendon blinks sleep from his eyes and then asks quietly, "Will you stay here? Like this, with me, I mean."

"Just like this," Spencer husks, pressing his forehead to Brendon's.

Brendon bites his lip and his lashes twitch against the smooth skin beneath his eyes as he blinks. “You could...I mean if you wanted to...it would be okay...” he takes a deep breath and says in a rush, “If you wanted to kiss me, I wouldn't mind.”

“Yeah?” anticipation ricochets around Spencer's ribcage as his smile blooms warm honey slow. He tilts his head, just the slightest bit, just enough to bring his mouth into contact with Brendon's.

“Yeah,” Brendon smile is a sigh against the fullness of Spencer's lips, his hand sliding to Spencer's neck, slipping into his hair, tugging him close.

All I Want Brendon/Spencer R 1/2

cloudlessclimes — Wed, 18 Nov 2009 03:38:04 GMT

Title:All I Want
Author: cloudlessclimes
Rated: R
Pairing:Brendon Urie/Spencer Smith
Word Count:~14 500
Beta: queen_geek
Disclaimer: This is purely a product of my diseased mind and has no bearing on reality what so ever, I own no one, I know no one.
Summary:A sort of college AU, definitely a tale of good friends, slurpees, mistaken identities and not-quite-damsels in distress. In which Spencer might not have it all figured out, after all.
Notes:Many, many thanks to all and sundry who poked, prodded, encouraged, and suggested: disarm_d, ohnoscarlett, sunsetmog, and wordsalone, you are awesome and amazing. Thank you.
Title comes from the song of the same name by Toad the Wet Sprocket for no other reason than it was playing when I finished writing. Also, it's a good song.

Spencer should really be concentrating on Monday's calculus test, but instead he can't stop thinking about the drum rhythms from yesterday's band practice. He bailed early from the party at Jon and Ryan's crappy student apartment to come home and try and make some sense out of the precise limits of functions as X approaches a constant. He'd tried, he really had, but not much making sense seems to be his only constant. After an hour of staring at his problem set and getting increasingly nonsensical texts from Ryan, he'd texted back don't drink the bong water, and tied on his sneakers.

Usually, when he was stuck or confused with his homework, going for a run helped clear his head. But not tonight. The more frustrated he got with himself the faster he ran, hoping the pounding of his feet and the burn of his lungs would do the trick. He'd left his iPod at home--music was the reason he couldn't focus in the first place--which is the only reason he hears what sounds like a scream.

Spencer slows to a stop as he rounds the corner. “Shit,” he mutters under his breath. He hears another short, sharp scream and now he can see where it's coming from. He leans forward for a second, catching his breath, hands braced on his knees. Then, in a loud voice he shouts, “Hey! Leave her alone!” and runs across the street.

Half hidden in the shadows of the sparse street lights, a woman is struggling between two men. Each has one of her arms, but she's tall and struggling hard, “I said let go!” Spencer yells. He's a few feet away when they do just that-- drop their hold on the woman and run. In the wake of being released, the woman bobbles on her incredibly high heels and clatters to the ground. Spencer is torn between running after the fleeing pair and staying to see if the woman's okay.

“Thanks,” she sniffles and smiles up at him, brushing her hair out of her face.

Spencer looks down at her, and even with smudged eyeliner and mascara, and a thin trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth, she's quite possibly the prettiest girl Spencer's ever seen. She turns her attention back to stuffing the spilled contents of her purse back into the giant shoulder bag. Kneeling down beside her to help, Spencer says, “You're bleeding,” as he hands her a small, cracked compact.

She flits her tongue out to trace along the fullness of her bottom lip, shrugging, and makes a face, “People get hit, they bleed. C'est la vie.”

It's Spencer's turn to wince, and he hands her a ridiculous clump of fuzzy, glittering, clanging key chains with a couple of keys attached. He stands and wipes his hands on the ass of his track pants. “Shouldn't we call the police or something?”

Her laugh is sad when she looks up at Spencer with big, solemn brown eyes; a little scared, a little amused. “And tell them what? The mean boys made me cry? I think they have more important things to worry about.”

“But it's not right!” Spencer doesn't realize he's shouting until the words bounce and echo down the alleyway and the woman shies away from him, fear in her eyes. “Why were they trying to hurt you?” He asks softly, helping her to her feet, his hand steady on her forearm, and his thumb involuntarily stoking over the piano keys she's got tattooed there.

She just shrugs again and starts to laugh, a low chuckle, “Because they can.” Her laughter ends in a hiss as she tries to put weight on her right foot.

Spencer catches her around the waist before she falls again, and he's a little surprised at how easily his hand spans her lower back and hip. “S'not right,” he mutters, swallowing against the flipping in his stomach when he sees the velvet red of her bra peeking out from the tight black lace of her top.

Leaning heavily against Spencer, she kicks off her spike heels. “My Hero,” she says softly, a small genuine smile curving her lips as she peeks up at Spencer through her bangs. Keeping a steady hand on the woman's hip, Spencer quickly ducks down to pick up her shoes and hand them to her. “You can't walk,” he blurts out, feeling stupid at stating the obvious.

“What you gonna do about that?” Using her free arm, she hugs her leopard print pumps to her chest. Despite being in what Spencer figures must be rather a lot of pain, the glint in her eye and the playful challenge in her tone makes it clear to Spencer that she's flirting with him.

Licking his lips, Spencer flits a nervous glance between the woman and the street. “Get you a cab,” he moves them out of the alley and more fully towards the busy night traffic. No sooner has he said it and raised his arm to hail a taxi, then one appears at the curb. Blinking, the woman looks from Spencer to the car and back again. She frowns in confusion, biting her lip and then hissing at the sharp jolt of pain from the cut there. “Fine,” she huffs, stepping out of Spencer's careful embrace and making her way in a painful shuffle-hop to the cab.

He manages to get there before she does, opening the back door for her. She throws herself down onto the seat with a huff, and Spencer is far too aware of the curve and flex of her thigh beneath the tight denim of her very short skirt. He jolts his head up, meeting her eyes when she says, “Um...”

She's taken a Minnie Mouse coin purse from the bag hooked possessively over her the crook of her elbow and she looks sheepish --her cheeks pink with embarrassment-- when she says, “I don't have...”

“Oh!” Spencer's eyes widen as he fumbles in his pocket before extracting a crumpled twenty. “Will this...?”

“Yeah, yeah,” her cheeks are still pink and she won't meet Spencer's eyes, but she reaches for the money and their fingers, warm and a little sweaty, briefly meet. “Thanks, Hero.” Spencer chooses not to pay any attention to the way his belly clenches at the feeling of her fingers against his skin, or the way she smiles when she talks; secret and soft.

The cabbie coughs and says, “You getttin' in or what, kid?” The girl raises one dark brow at him and it's only then that Spencer realizes he's been standing there clutching the handle of the open door. He shakes his head no and hip bumps the door closed. She gives him another of her secret smiles and a wiggly fingered wave as the taxi pulls away. Spencer stands there, blinking under the street lights until the cab and the girl in it are nothing more than tiny cat's eyes in the distant dark. He shakes himself, mutters “weird,” under his breath and then continues on with his run.

***

"Okay, okay, we get it. You're the most chivalrous dude in the history of chivalry! Can we please change the topic or at least shut the fuck up until I get this thing tuned?” They've stopped practice for the third time since they started an hour earlier, because Ryan bought his guitar for its color and shape more than its ability to hold standard tuning.

“You're missing the point!” Spencer says as petulantly, “She's a girl.”

Frowning in confusion, Jon carefully sets his bass down on the sofa and crouches near Ryan, “Man, it's an electric tuner. Just keep turning the pegs and strumming til the light goes green.”

"How many arts majors does it take to tune a guitar?" Spencer deadpans from behind his kit.

“Thank you, guitar genius,” Ryan rolls his eyes and shoulders Jon out of the way. “Anyway, Spencer, you're right, I don't get it. You helped someone who needed help- you don't have to be a freak about it.” Satisfied that his guitar is finally in tune, Ryan stands back up, raising an eyebrow at his best friend.

Exasperated, Spencer stretches in is seat; drumsticks braced behind his neck, “Yeah, I helped her. And she flirted with me and I was attracted to her. I thought she was hot.” He sounds miserable.

“Maybe you were just... appreciating beauty,” Jon suggests while plunking out a few random notes on the bass he'd picked up again when it looked like Ryan was ready to restart.

Spencer snorts in annoyance and Ryan says, “Okay, I always knew you weren't normal. Most people have big gay freakouts. Are you seriously having a big hetero freakout?"

“No!” Spencer glowers.

“Look,” Ryan adjusts his fedora and starts playing notes over-top of what Jon's started. “As shocking as it may seem to you, it's not like you have to check a box somewhere and be that,” he explains awkwardly, “I mean you were with Haley for a long time, right?”

“Yeah. And we broke up because I. Am. Gay.” To emphasize his words Spencer steps on the bass drum peddle and the loud thump-thump-thump reverberates through the tiny room.

“You can be bisexual, you know. Do you need me to draw you a Venn Diagram, or whatever the fuck they're called?” Ryan shrugs and sighs, taking his hands from the strings, admitting defeat. He's pretty sure that practice is over now, and has turned into some kind of amateur analysis hour instead.

Just as Spencer opens his mouth to speak, Jon says, “Seriously? I mean isn't that more a chick thing?”

Ryan and Spencer both stop short, glaring at Jon. “What?!”

Jon bites his lip and scratches at his nose. “I mean, way more girls say they're bi, don't you think?” Ryan and Spencer just continue to glare at him and he stumbles on, “Tom says that guys just say they're bi until they're ready to embrace the fact that they're into dick.” Jon pauses, waiting for Spencer or Ryan to chime in. But the silence just stretches on under the weight of their twin stares. “Um,” Jon coughs awkwardly, winding his cable around his forearm, “He says that once a guy has, you know, publicly committed to dick, he can't, uh-you know-he can't go back.”

“Oh my God! That is—that's just fucking offensive!” Spencer looks deeply unimpressed.

“You should probably stop talking now,” Ryan tells Jon helpfully. “Tom's dedication to lesbian porn doesn't make him an expert on anyone's sexuality, for the record.” Ryan stumbles, stepping on an effects peddle, resulting in the loop he'd recorded earlier filling the room. The noise is joined by a muffled banging and cursing on the wall behind Ryan's head, “Yeah! Yeah! Mrs Mazurski, ” Ryan turns and shouts. “We're done now! Sorry!” He takes his guitar off his shoulder and sets it down against the arm of the sofa.

“Look, Spence,” Jon flops down on the couch beside Ryan, “Just because a hooker made you hard, it's not really a reason to doubt, you know,“ he shuffles his feet in his rubber flip-flops, “your sexual worldview or whatever.”

Spencer narrows his eyes at Jon, “I never said she was a hooker.” He can't deny the second part, though. He'd tried to keep jogging, but the mental image of her lips and eyes and legs and hips had played over and over in his mind as he ran. Before he knew what he was doing, Spencer had found himself back at his apartment with his track pants around his knees, jerking himself off hard and quick thinking about the fullness of the woman's mouth wrapped around his dick and how the stretch of it might open up the cut in her lip again. And then he thought about the blood slicking her lips as she blew him, and Spencer had come harder and faster than he ever had in his life.

“Whatever,” Jon shrugs and picks a beer can up from the coffee table, swirling it a little and then lifting it to his mouth, draining the contents. “So, looks like we're done for the night, huh?” He smirks and inclines his head towards the shared wall their octogenarian neighbor had just been thumping on, and taps Ryan's shockingly in tune guitar with his toe.

Ryan sighs defeatedly and puts his feet up on the coffee table, shoving the mess of empty Starbucks cups, packages of strings, and old essays aside. “So, which one of you losers is gonna come to Midway with me to pick up Keltie?” Spencer suppresses a snort and instead mumbles about a killer amount of calc homework.

Which leaves Jon, who stares at Ryan with a deer caught in the headlights expression before he shrugs in defeat and says, “Fine.”

“I'm driving,” Ryan says with an air of finality as he digs into Jon's pocket, fishing out the keys to the beat up Toyota they all share. “And you!” he points a long, bony finger at Spencer, “Tomorrow night, Keltie wants us all to go out for martinis at some place she read about online. You are totally not allowed to bail and hurt my girlfriend's feelings.” Spencer opens his mouth to argue but is cut off by Jon.

“Dude, Cassie says it's on Halstead, like, around the corner from your place. No excuses.” He crosses the room and squeezes Spencer's shoulder, smiling into his eyes.

Jamming his sticks into their holder and zipping up his hoodie, Spencer says, “Fine, fine. You win. But I can't stay out too late.”

“Jesus, when did you become such a Grandma? Live a little, Spence!” Ryan tugs on the brim of his fedora and winds an obnoxiously loud paisley scarf around his neck, coming to stand beside Jon.

Pouting slightly and feeling ganged up on, Spencer snaps, “About the same time you started dressing like my Grandpa,” he makes a point to take in Ryan's tweed suit, from toes to shoulders. Jon barks out a laugh and hi-fives Spencer. “Unlike some photography or lit majors I know, business majors actually have a shit ton of homework.” Spencer stands and twirls his key ring around his forefinger as the three of them leave the apartment together.

“And that's why God invented the extension,” Ryan trots down the narrow staircase ahead of Jon and Spencer. “Oh!” He stops short and Spencer runs into Jon who flings out a hand, clinging to the banister so he doesn't knock them down the three flights. “Um, I forgot,” Ryan is staring at Spencer's shoulder, which is a total tell that he didn't forget anything at all, “Kelts invited Haley to her shindig tomorrow. That's okay, right? You're friends, right?” He bites his lip and fiddles with his scarf.

“Cassie's comin' too,” Jon supplies helpfully.

Sighing and rolling his eyes, Spencer says, “Yeah, it's fine. Totally fine. We're totally friends,” He shoves past the others and takes the stairs two at a time until he reaches the landing, shoving the door open with both hands and gulping autumn air once he's out on the street. Spencer's only seen Haley a few times since they'd broken up and it's been awkward every time. He hopes it will be totally fine, he really does.

***

"Hey, I thought you were picking Keltie up?" Spencer sets his pencil down, rubbing at his eyes.

Ryan sighs into his phone and says, "Yeah, flight's delayed."

"Shitty," Spencer sympathizes, swinging back and forth in his desk chair, drumming his pencil off the cover of his Macro Economics text book.

There's a pause, and Spencer can hear people talking, and the disembodied voice of an announcement, "So, you okay?" Ryan asks.

"Yeah, sure, why wouldn't I be? Just doing readings for Monday," Spencer takes a sip of his cold coffee and makes a face at his iPhone.

Ryan takes the phone away from his mouth and yells something that sounds suspiciously like a hot dog order to Jon before answering Spencer, "Dude, you were way freaked out at band practice, and that's not really like you so..."

Spencer is silent for a long second and says, "I dunno Ry, maybe it really is like me, you know?"

"I totally get why you're freaking, a little. I mean you and Haley broke up, what, four months ago?" Ryan says around a mouthful of food.

Making a groaning noise, Spencer fires his mechanical pencil across the room and answers, "Yeah. Day before her Prom..."

"Look Spence, you called it quits with her because you felt like you were lying to her. I know you like to take care of people, like to do the right thing or whatever, but you need to give yourself a break."

"Maybe I made a mistake," Spencer says quietly.

"Okay, dude trust me, any guy who beats off to Anthony Bourdain on the cover of some cooking magazine," Ryan snickers and Spencer can hear Jon laughing in the background, "is gay."

Sputtering coffee, Spencer squawks, "Once! That was once! And I seriously was freaking out then!" Spencer swipes at his beard and the front of his t-shirt, "And you promised you'd never mention that again," he grouses.

Ryan makes a short, frustrated noise in the back of his throat, "Spence, I'm just saying that it's been forever since you and Haley were, you know you and Haley, and in all that time you haven't been attracted to anybody, so this is like a huge step for you, right?"

"I hurt her," Spencer says quietly.

"And not breaking up with her; staying together because you didn't want to hurt her feelings? That would have been the right thing to do?" Spencer can tell by Ryan's breathing that he's walking, now. "Dude, Jon was right--don't die of shock--you can be attracted to people and not have it mean anything, you know? You broke up with Haley because your feelings changed, you were ready for something else, and that's totally okay."

Spencer stands up and crosses his bedroom, and tucks his phone between his chin and shoulder before picking up his pencil from where it had fallen between his garbage can and his bed. "Ry, you gave me this pep talk already...It's...complicated."

"Just...give yourself a break, man. Life's complicated. It's okay to want things that might not make other people happy. Sometimes, you need to do what makes you happy. Fuck expectations." Ryan's deep voice rises ever so slightly, "And maybe then you'll be spending your Saturdays with someone who is not your own right hand." Ryan chuckles, and Jon laughter bubbles through the phone, and Spencer can perfectly picture the high five they're exchanging.

Spencer flops back down into his chair and grudgingly opens his textbook, "Yeah, yeah, whatever you say. You are the king of relationship advice," but he's smiling as he says it, "Later, loser." He ends the call and tosses his phone down onto his desk, bending over the page of equations.

* * *

“Oh my god! You have to try this mango martini!” Keltie exclaims after her first sip, then presses the glass to Haley's lips. “It's made with fresh pureed mango and it's like an orgasm in my mouth, I swear!”

Jon frowns, “It tastes like jizz?”

Haley only narrowly avoids spewing her mouthful of martini all over the group at the table with a well timed hand to her mouth, smothering her laughter. “I think she means it's good," Haley smiles helpfully at Jon.

“Real good,” Spencer is openly laughing a him.

“Baby, why don't you flag down the waitress and get another round?” Cassie pats Jon's arm comfortingly.

Just as Jon raises his hand to get their server's attention, the lights dim and a spotlight shines on the sparkly curtain by the bar. Spencer raises an eyebrow at Ryan, who is sitting across the table from him, and Ryan just shrugs and turns to smile at Keltie, who is clapping enthusiastically along with the rest of the crowd.

The sound of tinpan alley piano music blares from the PA, and the curtain parts just a little as a leg clad in a seamed stocking pokes playfully into sight. “Ladies and Gentleman please give a warm Kit Kat Club welcome to Miss Honey Bee!” a voice booms as the music swells and the curtains part, “If you're a fan of her work, please let Mr Washington, Mr Lincoln, or if you are so inclined, Mr Benjamin Franklin speak for you!”

There's a smattering of applause, and Spencer's jaw drops and he lifts his drink to his mouth to cover his surprise. It's her. The hair is different, a short dark bob instead of the wild mane of chocolate brown hair, but he's sure it's her. Knows it even before her garish tattoo is visible as she raises her arm over her head. She's wearing a ridiculously short, blue satin sailor dress, and insanely high red heels that tie with ribbons. Her hip is cocked playfully as the music switches to something with a jaunty tempo, and then she opens her mouth to lip sync along to the Betty Boop version of I Want to be Loved by You.

She starts to move through the crowd of cocktail tables and booths, the follow spot making the satin of her costume shine. She stops at one couple, flinging an arm around the man's shoulders and almost sitting in his lap. Her lips are stained a dark crimson and tilted up in a playful smile as she sings “boop boop be do” into his face, flicking his tie and running her finger along his nose as the woman with him laughs so hard she's crying.

It shouldn't be hot. It really shouldn't. Spencer hears Haley and Keltie coo about how adorable she is. She works the room, flirting with men and women who laugh and blush, and hold out tip money for her to take, which she coyly secures in the cleavage of her costume. All Spencer can see is the way her short skirt and the seams of her stockings emphasize the play of muscle and tendon in her legs. Ryan and Jon burst into laughter, and the girls applaud and whistle when she finally makes her way to their table. Spencer feels the blood rise in his cheeks as she sits herself fully in his lap, legs kicking in the air along to the beat of the song. Keltie holds out a five dollar bill which is enthusiastically, and with much ceremony, secured in a blue silk garter.

Recognition flashes bright in her eyes, and Spencer looks away, coughing into his curled fist. She takes the little sailor hat from atop her own head and perches it on Spencer's as Cassie snaps photo after photo on her little point and shoot. Jon is laughing so hard he's slapping the table and Ryan's rare, braying laughter fills Spencer's ears before she leans in, kissing him on the rise of his cheekbone and then, in a single graceful movement, springs from his lap and back to the bar just in time for the music to end. She bows coquettishly to the enthusiastic clapping and catcalling of the audience, gives a familiar wiggly fingered wave that makes Spencer's belly clench, and disappears behind the curtain.

“I totally forgot they do drag shows here!” Keltie's voice is loud over the fading applause.

Spencer's fingers dig into the edge of the table, “Drag shows?”

"Yeah, a couple of times an hour a performer comes out and works the crowd! Isn't it great?" Keltie answers, enthusiastically swirling the dregs of her martini in her glass.

“Dude! Dude! Your face!” is all Ryan is capable of saying. Jon reaches over and punches Spencer in the shoulder while Haley hugs him reassuringly, her arm warm across his back. Their waitress comes by and Jon orders the next round. When she brings their drinks, she drops an extra cocktail napkin in front of Spencer.

Everyone is busy with the new round of drinks so Spencer moves his glass and flips the napkin over, taking it into his lap. In the dim light he can clearly make out the hastily scrawled My Hero! Come say hi? :) <3 Spencer darts a glance at Ryan and Keltie, who are, arms entwined, sharing another mango martini, and at Haley, who is laughing at something Cassie and Jon are arguing about. His gaze shifts to the narrow hallway beside the bar, and after taking a large gulp of his plain vodka martini he stands and excuses himself.

The cocktail napkin is wadded up in his hand when he approaches the bartender, “Um, hi,” he says, coughing a little to clear his throat. Not really sure what to say, he uncrumples the napkin and holds it up, smiling weakly. The bartender sets down the highball glass he's been toweling dry and squints to read the message. Rolling his eyes, he inclines his head towards the hallway. “Door way down at the end,” he says.

Spencer nods his thanks and looks back at his table, making sure that everyone is engaged in conversation and not paying him any mind before he heads down the hallway. When he gets to the very end, he can see light spilling out from underneath a door and, taking a breath and exhaling slowly, gives a tentative knock.

“Door's open! C'mon in!” is the cheerful, if muffled reply.

Swiping his hands nervously on his jeans, Spencer bites his lip and turns the doorknob. “Uh, hi.” He says uncertainly.

The guy plunks his wig on a styrofoam form and smiles wide at Spencer's reflection in the make up table's mirror. “Well hey, never though I'd see you again.” His own hair is short and dark, matted to his head from sweat and the wig, except where it stands ridiculously on end at the crown.

“Yeah,” Spencer coughs to clear his throat, “Weird, huh?”

Still smiling the guy stands and slips off his shoes, wriggling his toes with a sigh. Raising one foot to rest on the stool, he begins rolling the stocking carefully down his leg. Shaking it out, he folds it slowly and then changes feet to repeat the process on his other leg. He shrugs and says, “Weirder things have happened.”

Spencer swallows thickly and tries to school his breathing. He doesn't answer, he can't think of anything to say, really. His brain is currently occupied with taking in all of the smooth pale skin that is currently on display in front of him.

“So, Hero, you got a name?” Now he's carefully peeling the fake lashes from his eyelids and placing them in a container on the make up table. Not that it makes much difference, his eyes are still wide and dark and his lashes are still thick, fanning against his freckled skin when he smiles.

Biting his lip, Spencer jerks his head up to meet the guy's eyes in the mirror. “...yeah...”

Waiting a beat, the guy rolls his eyes and then turns, crossing the short distance to stand in front of Spencer. They're so close Spencer can feel the guy's breath against his chin. Every muscle in his body goes rigid when the guy leans in close, and sticks his hand in Spencer's back pocket. Extracting Spencer's wallet in one deft move, he flips it open and looks at his driver's license. “Spencer Smith?”

“Oh, yeah.” Spencer nods, feeling embarrassed and stupid.

The guy just smiles wide and slides the wallet back into Spencer's pocket, shoulders hitching in amusement. He takes a step back and holds out his hand, “Brendon Urie,” he says. Spencer stares at his hand for a second and then takes it in his, shaking earnestly.

“Nice to meet you,” Spencer says, ducking his head in a small nod.

“Again,” Brendon says, smiling and looking down at their clasped hands as Spencer continue to pump them up and down in a business-like handshake.

Briefly horrified at his own idiocy, Spencer drops Brendon's hand and cringes. “Again,” he says.

With his hand freed, Brendon turns his back and announces with a sashay of his hips, “Okay Spencer Smith, now that we're friends—unzip me!”

Spencer swallows loudly and says, “Oh, okay.” Eyes narrowing in concentration, he steps forward and places a careful hand on Brendon's left shoulder and raises his right hand to the zipper. “Okay,” he says, more to himself than Brendon, and begins to unzip the dress with a slow, hesitant tug. “Okay,” he says a third time, mentally slapping himself at the way his vocabulary has evaporated. The soft, almost delicate material of the dress has separated and Spencer's hands come to rest at the flare of Brendon's hips. Spencer can't stop staring at the freckles that dot his shoulder blades.

“Hey, Hero?” Brendon turns his head to look at Spencer over his shoulder, the gentle ripples of his laughter buzzing against Spencer's fingertips.

“Yeah?” He wants to tell Brendon he's not always this stupid. He wants to tell Brendon he is in fact quite capable of multi-syllabic responses; whole sentences in fact. But he can't get his brain to work, can't move beyond the feel of Brendon's warmth and the blue satin dress beneath his hands.

“This get up is much easier to take off if you unhook the top, right?” He raises an eyebrow and bites his lip, trying not to laugh out loud at Spencer.

“Oh, right sorry.” Spencer reaches up to Brendon's neck; takes in the rigid pull of his skin against the vertebrae there and fumbles with the hook and eye faster. It takes longer than it should and Spencer is feeling clumsy and dumb when the fastener springs free and Brendon's dress pools around his waist.

Sighing in happy relief, Brendon swivels his hips, tugging his costume the rest of the way off. He walks over to a small wardrobe, puts the dress on a hanger, and stows it there. Smiling, soft and small, he turns around to look at Spencer, one hand on his hip.

“You're a guy.” Spencer says stupidly. That? Was not at all what he meant to say.

Brendon barks out a little laugh and looks down his body, the line of his cock clearly visible in the tight confines of the blue satin tap pants. “Yup.”

Spencer hunches his shoulder and scratches at his beard. “I thought you were a girl.” It sounds more like an apology than any kind of accusation, and Spencer would be more than thrilled if his brain and his mouth would get it together and stop spewing nonsense and embarrassing shit.

Brendon's mouth curls a little unhappily as he sits down in front of the make up table. “That happens,” he shrugs. There is something hard and unreadable in his expression as he once more catches Spencer's gaze in the mirror's reflection.

Sliding his palms into the back pockets of his jeans, Spencer bounces up onto his toes and then back onto his heels. “I, uh, I was,” he licks his lips and stares at the floor, “I was attracted to you.” His voice is low and slips further into an apologetic tone.

Brendon stops swiping make up remover across his cheeks and chin and swivels in the chair. “Yeah,” he snorts bitterly, “that happens too.” He crosses his arms over his chest and without the thick theatrical make up, the cut scoring his bottom lip and a bottle green bruise on his cheek are clearly visible in the hard fluorescent lighting of the dressing room.

Spencer's eyes widen when he realizes what Brendon's saying. He takes a step forward and says, sounding shocked, “Is that why those guys...?”

“You pays your money you takes your chances,” Brendon's laugh comes out small and sad as he stares at his hands, now folded neatly in his lap.

“Pay?” Spencer sounds confused and he looks from the dark red of Brendon's finger nails to the bruise on his cheek. He shakes his head, not understanding.

Brendon frowns and his eyes are angry, “Look, Spencer,” he sighs, standing, and it's clear he's trying to keep from shouting, “It was just a stupid expression, I didn't mean anything. Yeah, I put on dresses and ham it up for a living that doesn't make me a whore. I invited you back here to thank you for sticking up for me the other night, but if you came back here to try some fucked up shit, just leave now, okay?”

“No! No! I didn't mean...I mean...” Spencer shakes his head and frantically tries to apologize. Which comes out as, “I'm gay.”

Brendon stops short, whatever he was about to say lost in the opening and closing and opening and closing of his mouth. He sits back down and snags his jeans. Slowly pulling them up his legs, he says, “Uh, congratulations?” and then lifts his hips, hiking his pants up over the blue satin shorts.

Spencer shakes his head from side to side, his hair flopping over his eyes, and he laughs, long and loud. “Jesus, I swear I'm not usually this big a fucking moron.” He blows out a breath, ruffling his bangs and then he crosses the room to stand beside Brendon.

“Nah, it's cute.” The warmth returns to Brendon's eyes, and he looks up at Spencer, his posture relaxed once more. “You're cute,” he says, quickly pulling his t-shirt over his head so Spencer can't see the embarrassed flush of his cheeks.

“You are too—-cute I mean.” Spencer really does slap himself then, and he can't hide his embarrassment from Brendon, whose entire face scrunches up with the force of his laughter. It dies abruptly as their eyes meet, and he and Spencer just stare at each other.

Slowly, Brendon circles Spencer's wrist with his thumb and forefinger, tugging until Spencer's hip comes to rest on the edge of the make up table. “Do me a favor?” his voice is low and he looks up at Spencer through his lashes.

Spencer blows out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and shrugs, “Sure?”

Still holding Spencer's wrist, Brendon ducks down and shuffles through a back pack with his free hand. He finds what he's looking for and sits back up, holding his hand out to Spencer. Frowning a little, Spencer wriggles free of Brendon's hold on his wrist and takes the rolled up tensor bandage offered to him. He raises an eyebrow and Brendon smiles, biting his lip and swiveling on the stool to face Spencer. Lifting one leg he drags his pant leg up a little and waggles his foot at Spencer.

“Oh, shit. Yeah. How's your ankle?” Spencer sets the tensor bandage on the make up table and cups Brendon's heel, swiping his thumb across the top of his foot.

Brendon twitches beneath Spencer's light touch. “Well,” he sighs melodramatically, “No tap dancing for me.”

“Oh shit!” Spencer gives Brendon's foot a little shake. He can't take his eyes off Brendon's toes, the nails painted the same crimson as his fingernails. “Is that part of your act?”

“Nah,” Brendon manages to keep a straight face for a few seconds, “I couldn't tap dance before, either.” They both dissolve into hysterical laughter at Brendon's ridiculous take on the I'll never play piano joke.

Still chuckling, Spencer begins to wrap the bandage around Brendon's puffy ankle. “Man, that was bad!” He says, shaking his head and smiling.

“Now you know why I never went into comedy.” Brendon grunts when Spencer gives the tensor a tug.

Spencer stops, lightly resting his hand on Brendon's braced foot. “Sorry, too tight?” he winces, his blue eyes full of sympathy.

“Nah, it's fine, it's good. I can never get it tight enough on my own.”

As he starts wrapping Brendon's foot again, he snorts and says conversationally, “That's what she said.”

“Dude! Dude, now that was truly bad. We should never, ever take our show on the road.” Brendon snorts and wriggles his toes experimentally when Spencer finishes with the bandage and affixes the clip. “Thanks though, that's great.” He takes his foot from Spencer's braced thigh and pulls a pair of white tube socks from his bag.

“No problem,” Spencer leans back against the table, and scratches at his bicep. His eyes follow the dip of Brendon's spine and rest on the thin strip where his t-shirt and jeans don't quite meet and the satin of his underpants peeks through.

Gingerly tucking his injured foot into a high top sneaker and tying the lace, Brendon looks up at Spencer, “So I guess I owe you, huh?”

Spencer stops fiddling with the make up and brushes on the table, “Owe me?”

“Yeah, you know, cab fare the other night? I didn't expect to not walk home, but it was way less than the twenty bucks you loaned me, so I owe you, right?” Brendon bounces to his feet, wincing a little at the soreness in his ankle.

“Oh, no! No that's okay!” Without thinking about it, Spencer leans forward and places a steadying hand at Brendon's arm. “Seriously, I don't mind. You don't owe me anything.” He squeezes a little to emphasize his point, the pad of his thumb glancing over the soft skin at the crease of Brendon's elbow.

Glad to rest against Spencer, Brendon smiles and looks up at him, “Oh. Okay. But can I buy you a drink? Patrick's up next, so I'm done for the night.” He runs his teeth across his bottom lip.

“Yeah,” Spencer grins, “yeah that would be great.” His eyes roam over Brendon's face, taking in the freckles splashed across his nose and cheeks, and the way that eyeliner clings stubbornly in the smile-creased corners of his dark eyes.

“Awesome!” Brendon's grin widens and he bends down, snagging his back pack and hoodie. “Let's go!” He flings an arm out towards the door and hooks his elbow with Spencer's as they head back out into the club.

Spencer stumbles slightly when Brendon drags him past the bar. He frowns when Brendon slows at the table full of Spencer's friends only long enough to grab his jacket from the back of his chair. Brendon returns Haley and Ketlie's bright smiles, salutes when Jon gives him a thumbs up, and Spencer returns Ryan's lackluster scowl. Confused, Spencer stops short just outside the Kit-Kat's doors when Brendon foists his jacket at him, setting his bag down and shoving his arms into his own hoodie.

Carefully zipping up his coat, Spencer stares at the fastener for a second and says, “I thought we we gonna get a drink?”

“We are!” Brendon shoulders his back pack and once more slips his arm through Spencer's as he starts to walk again.

Raising an eyebrow at Brendon, smile crooked, Spencer says, “Wouldn't it make sense to stay in the bar if we're gonna have a drink? Since it's, you know, a bar?”

Before answering, Brendon chuckles, his nose wrinkling as he makes a face, “Dude. I work there. I don't actually have to pay for anything there. How is it even sort of like repaying you if it's free?” He untangles his arm from Spencer's to give him a little hug, and then well, if his arm stays there, sort of wrapped around the warm wool of Spencer's coat where it stretches across his shoulders, so what?

Tilting his face up to the Fall night sky, Spencer laughs too, “Well, I guess you have a point.” He shoves his hands into his coat pockets, but he doesn't shrug off Brendon's arm. They're walking really close together, and not that Spencer would every say so, but it feels....nice. He turns to smile at Brendon and, realizing where they've stopped, he laughs long and loud. “You sir,” he doffs an imaginary cap at Brendon, “are an evil genius.”

“Aye the Slurpee, laddy! They put an addictive chemical in their drinks that make you crave it fortnightly!” Brendon affects a terrible Scottish accent and herds Spencer across the parking lot and into the bright lights of the 7-11.

They ignore the bored teenage girl flipping through a magazine behind the counter and head to the drink machines at the back of the store. Spencer tugs two Big Gulp cups from their holder and hands one to Brendon. He shoves his cup under the Cherry Dr Pepper and watches the thick liquid fill his cup. “Excellent choice!” Brendon beams and waits for Spencer to be done. He sets his cup in place and then pouts outrageously when there's a sputter of brownish ice in the bottom, and a fine spray of clear, bubbly water starts to fill the Big Gulp. “Hey!” He frowns.

“Denied!” Spencer laughs and takes a pointed sip from his straw.

Brendon stands staring into his cup forlornly. “It's my favorite,” he says in a sad, small voice.

“Oh geez,” Spencer sighs and holds his cup out, replacing Brendon's with his own, and tossing it into the trash. “Here, far be it from me to deny you the last meat ball.” He takes another cup from the stack and shuffles Brendon out of the way, setting his cup under the Coke nozzle.

The look of abject disappointment on Brendon's face is quickly replaced by glee, “You sir, are a gentleman and a scholar. Not just anyone could pick up that Disney reference you threw down there.” He takes a long satisfied swallow of his slurpee and then tilts his cup towards Spencer in appreciation.

Spencer's still chuckling when he tosses a straw into his cup and they both head towards the cash. “Yeah? So, who's the Lady and who's the Tramp?” He waggles his eyebrows.

Brendon laughs and says, “Well man, I get paid to wear dresses, just sayin',” He takes Spencer's cup and sets it on the counter. Unzipping the front pocket of his back pack, Brendon takes out a baggie full of change and crumpled dollar bills. He extracts a few, smoothing them on the counter top before handing them to the clerk. Smiling his thanks, Brendon hands Spencer his drink, and links their arms once more and they head out of the store.

“So, what's the plan now?” They stand in the parking lot, sipping their drinks and watching the flow of traffic and pedestrians.

Shrugging and licking his lips—stained a deep red from the slurpee—Brendon snickers a little and says, “Well, I could take you to The Cobra...”

“The Cobra?” Spencer's fingertips are freezing where they're wrapped around the cup. Jesus, he's standing in a parking lot drinking a slurpee in October. When did this become his life?

“Yeah,” Brendon shuffles a little, trying and failing to be stealthy at leaning into Spencer's warmth. “It's where I work, my other job I mean. Cobra Starship. It's this kind of club-thing.” He stops and scratches at his nose with his free hand. “It's hard to explain. But, there's this old Queen there—Gee. Well, I guess she's not really old, maybe thirty or something. Anyway, she taught me everything I needed to know before I took my show on the road.” He angles his chin up the road towards the Kit-Kat Club. "And Gabe, the owner? I guess he sorta digs me or something. He lets me sing on cabaret nights.”

“I get the feeling a lot of people might sorta dig you,” Spencer says, his cheeks heating with embarrassment in the cool autumn air. “You sing?”

Brendon laughs and gives Spencer's shoulder a little squeeze, “What can I say? I am too much for mere mortals to resist, right? And yeah, I sing.” Brendon sits down on one of the concrete parking bumpers. “Without all the sparkle and shine, even.” He waves his hand up and down his body. Spencer folds down beside him and their sneakered feet knock together. “I get to be a real boy. It's awesome. Maybe too awesome for the likes of you.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Spencer is snapped out of the reverie created by being so close to Brendon.

“The Cobra? Is a gay club, Spencer Smith. A sparkly, shiny, very very gay club. I think you've probably had more sparkly and shiny tonight than you ever have before in your life. So, like multiply that by about a zillion and you might get what Cobra Starship is like, on an off night.” Brendon pats Spencer's hand reassuringly.

Drawing his hand back quickly, Spencer wraps it around his cup, sucking at his straw, “I'm gay,” he sounds like a petulant child.

Brendon laughs then, a high pitched giggle that crinkles his eyes and wrinkles his nose and shakes his shoulders. “Dude. I?” he stops to point at himself, taking in his pink high tops, girl jeans and purple hoodie, “am a great big flaming homo. You?” he slowly brings his hand down in front of Spencer, motioning at his dark wool jacket, black jeans and black Chuck Taylors, “are Not Heterosexual.” He shakes his head in mock sadness. “Cobra Starship could scar you for life, no joke. You're probably studying to be an accountant or some shit, right?”

Spencer growls in the back of his throat, “Why does everyone think that? I don't want to be a fucking accountant,” he spits out. “And anyway, there are gay accountants and I'm gay, and why the fuck are we even talking about this? Gay is gay.” He sets his cup down, and folds his arms across his chest, glaring at Brendon.

“Yeah, Spencer Smith,” Brendon flaps a hand at Spencer, “Libarace,” he flaps a hand towards the empty space right beside Spencer, “I get you two confused all the time.” He nods emphatically and gives a satisfying slurp to his straw.

“What?” Spencer sets his drink down and stills Brendon's flapping hand. “I can be...flamboyant...or whatever. I just don't think it matters.”

Sharply yanking his hand back from Spencer's touch, Brendon shoves it into his hoodie pocket. His mouth is set in a line and his eyes go hard and unreadable for a second, “It matters, believe me.” He snorts and his mouth twists around the bitterness. “To most people, it matters,” he says this softly, his attention focused on sliding his straw up and down through the cup lid, making an annoying squeaking sound.

“Maybe I'm not most people,” Spencer says just as softly. He doesn't know what happened to Brendon to ever make him react like this, but Spencer can't stand the way he's all folded in on himself. Slowly, he reaches out his hand and slips it into Brendon's hoodie, tangling their fingers together. They sit there, neither of them speaking, and Spencer watches as Brendon runs his feet over the bits of gravel that litter the lot. Clearing his throat, he lets go of Brendon's hand and stands, “Okay, so no Cobra Starship. Is there a plan B?”

Brendon stares up at Spencer, squinting against the brightness of the streetlight. “I dunno, you got something in mind?” He yawns, jaw-cracking wide, and gets to his feet, wincing as the pain from his ankle shoots up is leg.

Before he can think about it, Spencer hooks his arm around Brendon's small waist and doesn't pull away when Brendon rests against him, closing his eyes and smiling. “Shit, I never even thought, it's late and you've been working all night, right? Your foot must be killing you. We should probably be in bed by now.”

There's a joke there, some smart ass remark, but Brendon can see the alarm in Spencer's eyes, and feel it in his tensed muscles. “Nah man, it's fine. I can walk. You wanna walk me home, Spencer Smith? Carry my books?” His eyes are wide and he bats his lashes, smothering a laugh against the fabric of Spencer's coat.

“No. I mean, you shouldn't be walking. We'll get a cab.” Spencer nods like it's a done deal and heads to the street, arm extended to hail a taxi.

Knowing there's no use arguing, Brendon sighs and hobbles over to where a yellow cab has pulled over to the curb. “You're sort of frighteningly good at that.” Brendon says as they get into the back seat. “Whenever I try, I stand there for like, an hour, waving my arms like a moron.”

“That could be part of the problem,” Spencer smirks.

NEXT

You Got a Face With a View, bandombigbang, Jon/Brendon Mix #2

cloudlessclimes — Mon, 15 Jun 2009 14:26:08 GMT

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I really like the laid back, take it as it comes feel of this mix. My fic is from Jon's p.o.v. and he's very much that kind of guy. This is gentle and a little sad yet hopeful, which is a perfect fit. I think the Missy Higgins track is a stand out for me and the Robert Plant/Alison Krauss track is a perfect way to end the mix, and the fic. Thank you so much for your hard work!

Fanmix by kate_the_great7

Tracklist:
1. Crazy For You by Adele
2. Everywhere, An Ocean by Alive in Wild Paint
3. Headlights Look Like Diamonds by Arcade Fire
4. I'll Follow the Sun by The Beatles
5. Late by Ben Folds
6. Penny On the Train Track by Ben Kweller
7. First Day of My Life by Bright Eyes
8. Close to Home by The Get Up Kids
9. Warm Whispers by Missy Higgins
10. Yes, I'm Cold by Chris Bathgate
11. These Bones by Dashboard Confessional
12. Us by Regina Spektor
13. Please Read the Letter by Robert Plant and Alison Krauss