Like riding a psychotic horse toward a burning stable

shenanigans! at the empire

themoononastick — Thu, 05 May 2011 14:49:12 GMT

So, last night I went to see Panic! At The Disco, mostly as an excuse to hang with my gig girls - emma_took and strongplacebo - who are awesome and hilarious and I love them a lot. I swear I haven't laughed so much as I did last night in a long, long time. I keep remembering random moments and giggling to myself &my gig girls;

The highlights of the night, IMO, were a really rather good cover of How Soon Is Now by The Smiths, and Nearly Witches, which I've had stuck in my head since I woke up. I'll leave the full-on concert report to someone else (as I am sure there will be many posts about it), if you follow me on twitter then you know my thoughts were mostly 'Ian! \o/' based.

I took a LOT of photos as is my want, and these are they.

Or they will be, first have a random shot of an empty tube station, and one of the only good thing about the support band - their bassist, who was hot. Why yes, I am the shallowest, thank you for noticing.

Holland Park Underground station.

Hot bassist. The support band were comically bad, to the point where I feel like they must have been some kind of wacky social experiment. No really, SO SO bad.

Aaand these are the photos of Panic! We were sitting in the back row of the first level balcony so some of them are just a tad grainy due to distance and lighting effects, etc.

It was really hard to get decent pictures of Dallon because he was furthest away and his side of the stage was really dark, but I tried :D?

Very grainy but I like the look on his face, so.

In other news: UK people, if you haven't done already, go out and vote! It doesn't matter if you're pro or anti AV, you should make your choice known.

Fic: Ghosts in the Machine, Pete/Mikey, PG13

themoononastick — Sun, 01 May 2011 16:28:32 GMT

Title: Ghosts in the Machine
Pairing: Pete/Mikey
Rating: PG13
Summary: Killjoys in space! An AU of an AU, in which Pete runs the bar at the end of the universe.
Word count: 5500
Notes: Thanks to cmonkatiekatie for the beta, and to turps33 for the encouragement and for brainwashing me into loving h/c. ♥ to you both.

Warning: Discussion of and reaction to (implied) character death. This is quite a dark fic in places and some may find it triggery so I've posted a more detailed warning here (contains major plot spoilers). Please check that post first if you need more information before reading this fic.

Mikey’s always leaving.

When Pete thinks of Mikey, the first image that pops up in his mind isn’t of Mikey’s smile, or Mikey’s eyes, or even the way that Mikey stands knock-kneed and awkward but oddly graceful at the same time, it’s of Mikey’s back, his spine curled forward and his head bowed as he sits on the end of Pete’s bed and pulls on his boots.

And every time it happens, every time Pete sees that all too familiar sight, he has to clench his fists into his sheets to stop himself from reaching forward and grabbing a hold of Mikey’s shirt to tug him backwards and ask him, beg him, to stay.

Pete tried it once, in the dark of simulated early morning after the first night they’d spent together. He reached out and pulled Mikey back into the fading warmth of his bed and asked him to stay just a little longer. Back then the desperation to keep Mikey with him, to keep Mikey safe, hadn’t yet taken hold; Pete just wanted to prolong the good feeling he had bubbling up in his chest, keep the inevitable at bay for maybe an hour or two more.

But the look that Mikey had given him as he shook his head ‘no’ and muttered something about responsibilities and plans and places he needed to be was enough for Pete to know Mikey’s answer would always be the same, no matter how many times or how many ways Pete asked him.

Mikey’s always leaving and Pete is always wishing he would stay.

**

Pete runs the bar at the end of the universe. That’s not its real name, it’s just something Gabe called it once that stuck in people’s memories until its actual name was all but forgotten. Pete doesn’t mind really, there’s a certain cache to being the guy who stands at the last stop on the line and welcomes travelers with open arms; he just wishes he’d been the one to give it its new name.

The theory of Gabe’s name doesn’t ring true either. The universe doesn’t end beyond the bar’s gravity field. There’s no sudden drop into nothingness, no invisible wall for unsuspecting ships to fly into, there’s just the vast darkness of uncharted space. But the bar at the end of the known galaxy doesn’t have quite the same ring so Pete lets it be.

What the bar is, though, is far enough out on the fringes of the zones that it’s classed as being in neutral space. BL/ind doesn’t bother patrolling out this far as there’s no economic reason to do so, no minds to shape and no worlds to concur and exploit. And that’s where the bar’s real name comes in to play.

Clandestine, as the glowing sign that lights up the space around it proclaims, is the place where people come to meet up and exchange information. The few Dracs that make it out this far always have something to trade, be it access codes or secret plans in exchange for a safe haven away from BL/ind’s reach, or prisoners, rebels BL/ind has captured and is willing to return in exchange for stolen tech, or one of their own.

Being so far out on the edge of the furthest zones does present one major problem - Clandestine is too far outside of the main supply routes to receive regular shipments. But Pete worked out a way around that long ago. No money ever changes hands at Clandestine, instead people pay for their stay and the food they eat with whatever goods they have to spare.

Pete gets paid in home grown veggies from zone two, whiskey from the stills in zone four, fish from the water moon on the edge of zone three, caught fresh then dried in an engine room so they taste faintly of smoke and oil when cooked in a stew. And if travelers don’t have any goods to spare, they pay Pete with their time. A shift behind the bar for a good night’s sleep, a day or two in the kitchens cooking up food for other weary travelers, or down at the dock fixing ships when they limp their way in.

Pete knows that every single person who requests permission to dock and come aboard is looking for a place to hide out and recharge, somewhere they can put their life on pause for as long as they need to feel whole again, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Pete’s life has been on pause for years now and he still hasn’t found the strength he needs to start moving again.

**

The next time Pete sees Mikey he looks too thin and too tired, haggard Pete’s brain helpfully supplies, and Pete wants to pull his blaster from beneath the bar and destroy every single person who made Mikey look that way.

But he doesn’t, because it’s not his place to do so and it’s not like his blaster would work anyway; the bar doesn’t like violence and weapons always refuse to keep a charge inside its walls. What he does is pour Mikey a shot of the good stuff he keeps hidden from view and watches as Mikey walks the short distance from the Dracs who dragged him in here still gagged and bound, to the safety of his brother’s arms.

Mikey has bruises on his face, dark lines around his wrists, and a scorch mark that shows through the rip in his jacket’s shoulder. He still looks like the best thing Pete has ever seen.

Later, much later, when the Dracs have gone and Gerard is finally convinced that Mikey is mostly returned to him in one piece, Mikey whispers secrets into Pete’s skin under the cover of darkness.

“One day I’ll walk in here and I won’t be me.”

Pete holds Mikey a little tighter, whispers, “You’ll always be you.”

“No,” Mikey says, “no, I’ll look like me, I’ll sound like me, but I won’t be me. I’ll look at you but I won’t know who you are.”

Pete thinks there a terrible kind of irony to the rebellion using clones as its public face. Cloning technology is at the heart of everything BL/ind does, it’s everything the rebellion is supposed to be fighting to eradicate, and yet Pete knows that somewhere hidden far away in the depths of the rebel controlled zones there are countless versions of Mikey and Gerard and Frank and Ray, all perfect copies of the original Killjoys who started the fight so many centuries ago, ready to step up and take their place if any of the current versions are ghosted away.

Mikey is silent for a moment and Pete waits, knowing what comes next, they’ve had this conversation a million times. “You should forget me.”

Just as Pete knew what Mikey was going to say, he knows his reply by heart and just like always he says it with the same fierce conviction, the same certainty that it’s the absolute truth.

“I’ll never forget you.”

That should be the end of it, the final statement of the conversation that plays between them over and over again, but this time Mikey breaks the rules and carries on, surprises Pete as he says, “I don’t want to die.”

For once, Pete doesn’t know what to say.

**

Sometimes Pete thinks Clandestine is alive. Sometimes he knows it is. At night when he can’t sleep he walks its halls trailing his fingertips along the walls and watching the way they light up with lines of color in his wake.

He doesn’t know why it accepted him, why he was allowed to stay and make a home here when so many others have failed in the past. He thinks maybe it’s because the place recognized something in him that it wanted to keep. He thinks maybe Clandestine was as lonely as he is.

Pete isn’t the only person to fall under Clandestine’s spell. There are other people who came to the edge of space looking for a home, even if they weren’t ready to admit it at the time.

There’s Jon who arrived in a ship that was barely functioning, held together by sheer force of will and a hell of a lot of luck. Jon doesn’t talk very much and socializes even less, preferring the company of gears and levers and dials deep in the engine room in the centre of the station. But he never seems to mind when Pete appears in the dead of night and spends a few hours sitting out of the way watching him work.

And then there’s Ryan, who stowed away on a Drac ship traveling to Clandestine for a trade, the metal of his implants glinting from beneath his ragged clothes when he crawled out in to the light. Ryan monitors the communication channels so Pete always knows what’s happening in the zones, his cybernetics allowing him to slip around firewalls and into the very heart of BL/inds operation without them knowing he’s there. Ryan doesn’t talk about his past or how he came to be the way he is and Pete doesn’t make him, some things are best left unsaid.

Clandestine, Pete thinks, is like the sirens from the ancient legends, her song echoing out through the zones and pulling in the sad and the weary, the lonely and the dispossessed. She offers them a home and in return they tend to her needs, a perfect example of symbiosis in an imperfect universe.

Pete just wishes that Mikey weren’t so immune to Clandestine’s call.

**

In the moments before the news comes through, before Ryan is standing there in front of him his face blank and his eyes serious and sad, Pete is happy. That’s the thing he remembers most when he thinks back on it days later. How one minute he was laughing so hard at Gabe’s tales of his latest escapades that his face was aching with it, and how in the next minute it felt like his world was falling apart.

Pete thinks he was probably still smiling when Ryan started talking, his grin stuck on his face like rictus as his brain struggled to accept what Ryan was saying. Most of Ryan’s words are a blur, lost in a fog of incomprehension and disbelief, but Pete can remember Ryan saying a message was being broadcast on all channels and how Korse looked triumphant as he gave his speech. He can remember Ryan’s final words and the way they pierced into him like shards of jagged glass.

“They’re gone, Pete. All of them.” And then softer, Ryan’s voice dropping to nearly a whisper. “Mikey’s been ghosted.”

Days later Pete can still feel the phantom glass-sharp pain.

**

For the first twenty four hours after the news breaks Pete has Ryan scanning all of the rebellions most secret frequencies almost continuously, convinced he’ll receive a message that never comes.

Mikey once told him that ‘ghosted’ doesn’t always mean death. That sometimes the rebellion uses the term to talk about clones who have opted out of the fight; retired due to injury or illness and living a new life behind the scenes. Ghosts in the machine, Mikey called them, and Pete clings on to the idea, praying that Mikey made it and will be in touch soon to let Pete know that he’s okay.

After forty eight hours with no word, Pete is getting desperate; chasing rumors he once heard about an old man with Fun Ghoul’s face and Fun Ghoul’s laugh living wild out in the zones with nothing for company but a misfit pack of dogs, anything that will prove the rebellion’s ghosts truly do exist. But all his searching comes to nothing. If the ghosts are out there then they’re well hidden, and Pete can feel his hope beginning to fade.

Two days later and still no word and Pete finally has to admit to himself that he’s clinging to a false hope, that Mikey is gone and no matter how much Pete wishes it weren’t true, he won’t be coming back. It’s like hearing the news all over again and the grief hits Pete like a punch to the gut, taking his breath away and making him curl into himself and shake with the force of it. He spends the day in bed, unable to find the energy or the will to face the day.

Five days after Korse’s message is broadcast throughout the zones the Killjoys make their triumphant return. Pete knew it would happen sooner rather than later, knew that the rebellion wouldn’t waste too much time in grief before activating a new set of clones to spread their message through the stars. The fight has been going on too long to stop now, and the cynic inside Pete knows that there’s more money to be made from war than there is from peace.

But it still makes his stomach churn when he sees Kobra Kid standing shoulder to shoulder with the others, Mikey’s words - I won’t be me - echoing through Pete’s head as he watches the feed.

They’ll be coming to Clandestine soon, these new Killjoys, the rebellion sending them out to make their presence known in all the places where their return will be noted and word of it spread to the out of the way corners that the feeds don’t reach. And Pete knows he can’t be there when they arrive. The pain of losing Mikey is still too raw for him to cope with seeing the new version in the flesh.

For the first time since he arrived on Clandestine, Pete feels the need to leave.

But he doesn’t. He leaves Gabe and his crew in charge of running things and retreats down into the depths of the station. He spends so much time in the engine room watching Jon work that he expects to be kicked out for getting in the way. But instead, Jon just sighs, put upon and distracted, and then starts to show him how to keep things running and how to tell if the pressure is right in the coils just from the sound they make.

Ryan visits twice a day, bringing food and water and tales of Gabe’s first shaky steps toward almost honest employment. His stays become longer once Jon realizes that Ryan can talk directly to the station’s systems and point them in the direction of the most urgent repairs. It’s hot and cramped and dirty with the three of them working side by side, but feeling the pulse of Clandestine’s heartbeat beneath his fingertips is just what Pete needs.

**

Pete doesn’t know how long he spends hiding away down in the engine room. Without the artificial pretence of day and night it’s hard to keep track of the passing of time. But he knows it’s long enough for him to start feeling guilty about relying on others to do all the things he used to do for himself, and long enough for the pain of losing Mikey to recede to a dull ache.

And it’s long enough for Jon to start shooting him worried looks and then tell him, “You need to start living again or else you’ll end up alone like me.”

Pete wants to say that Jon isn’t alone, that he’s got Pete and Ryan by his side waiting for him to open his eyes and see them for the friends they could be, but he knows that isn’t what Jon wants to hear right now. And no matter how much easier the deflection from his own troubles might be, he owes it to Jon to listen to what he has to say.

Instead he says, “I know, it’s just...I’m not ready yet.”

Jon rolls his eyes and says, “Hiding is the cowardly option and you’re not a coward. The longer you stay down here, the harder it will be to step back into the world again. You’ll forget how to talk to people, how to trust them, how to let them in, and I’m not willing to sit here and let you make the same mistakes I’ve made.”

It’s the most Pete’s heard Jon say since he arrived on the station and it makes him want to ask what Jon’s mistakes were and why he’s as closed off as he is. But Jon looks determined and ready for a fight and Pete can tell he won’t get the answers he wants, not today.

So Pete takes a deep breath, holds his questions in, and says, “I’ll try, just not today. I need a little more time.”

Jon nods, seemingly satisfied, and says, “You’ve got one day.”

**

In the end, Pete gets less than a day. Ryan shows up barely an hour later looking tense and nervous but also a little bit pleased, like he has a secret he wants to share but doesn’t know how to tell it.

Ryan pulls Pete away from the instrument panel he and Jon are working on, saying, “You have to go up to the bar. There’s someone there you need to see.” And then refuses to say anymore, no matter how Pete tries to persuade him.

Pete does his best to argue that he’s needed where he is but the combination of Jon’s silent but firm encouragement and Ryan’s growing impatience is too strong for him to fight against. Eventually he throws up his hands in defeat and follows Ryan up through the maze of corridors that lead to the public parts of the station.

When they get to the door to the bar, Ryan pauses, one hand holding the door partway open, the other on Pete’s back as though he’s about to push him through. Pete waits and watches as Ryan bites at his lip and looks at the floor, at the walls, anywhere but directly at Pete.

“The Killjoys are here.” Ryan says, his voice quiet and unsure. “I thought you should know before you go inside.”

Before Pete has a chance to react, Ryan pushes him through the door then turns and walks away leaving Pete staring, wordless in betrayal, at his retreating back. Pete considers following him, making a retreat of his own but it’s too late because Gabe is calling to him from the bar, face split with a grin like Pete hasn’t just been thrown unprepared into the one scenario he’s been avoiding for what feels like weeks. Pete drags in a shaky breath and takes a moment to compose himself, then with a fake smile firmly fixed in place he turns and takes in the scene.

Gabe is walking slowly toward where Pete is standing with his arms outstretched, like he thinks Pete is going to spook and try and run any second and is ready to catch him if he does. Gabe has good instincts, Pete thinks, because the urge to turn and walk away is strong enough that it’s taking all of Pete’s strength to resist it.

Over Gabe’s shoulder Pete can see the bright red shock of Party Poison’s hair and that more than anything is what’s keeping Pete rooted to the spot, because for all that Pete thought he was okay with the rebellion’s use of clones, it’s a whole different feeling seeing a new version of a man he used to know in the flesh. Pete can’t find a word to describe the mix of emotions welling up inside him, the odd mixture of sadness and anger and maybe a little fear as well. Suddenly the rebellions insistence on continuing a fight that should have ended long, long ago doesn’t feel so harmless, not when the myths being perpetuated involve people Pete has come to think of as friends.

Pete stares, trying to find the ways that this Party Poison is different from the one he knew. Party Poison’s hands fly through the air as he gestures as he speaks just like they always have and Pete wonders if he gets close will he see the faint silver of a scar tracing Party Poison’s cheek, if the rebellion match the little details when they activate a new clone or if they just start afresh. As Jet Star joins Poison at the bar Pete sees an achingly familiar smile pass between them and he wonders if other people who knew the people these impostors who aren’t impostors have replaced feel the same way he does. He can’t imagine a world in which he could truly call these new Killjoys friends, just like he can’t imagine ever being able to call the man at the bar Gerard. It would feel too much like a slight against the memory of his friend, of Mikey’s brother.

At the thought of Mikey, his Mikey, Pete’s stomach lurches and the urge to run finally outweighs his inability to look away from Party Poison and Jet Star and their conversation. He starts to turn back towards the door but doesn’t get far, because suddenly Gabe is right in front of him and Pete is caught up in a crushing hug that lifts him off the floor.

“Pete, bro, welcome back.” Gabe is laughing as he speaks and Pete can feel the way Gabe’s chest vibrates with the sound. “You look like shit.”

Pete rolls his eyes at Gabe’s idea of a welcome and then gasps out, “I love you too, dude, but you’re crushing me. Put me down, I need to breathe.”

“Breathing is for the weak. I gave that shit up years ago.” Gabe replies, but he loosens his grip enough for Pete to settle his feet back on the floor, even if he doesn’t let go entirely.

“Yeah, well,” Pete says as soon as he gets his breath back, “we can’t all be as hardcore as you.”

“Damn right you can’t.” Gabe grins but then his features settle in to something that Pete would call concern if he didn’t know better. “Seriously, though, man, how you doing?”

Pete shrugs not willing to lie and say he’s fine when he knows Gabe will just see straight through his act. “Right now I’m thinking of asking Jon to reprogram some of Ryan’s cybernetics to get the fucker back for convincing me to come up here.”

“Oooh, that’s cold. I like it.” Gabe is grinning again which makes Pete feel like things are back on a more even keel. “But you might want to put a hold on your revenge fantasies until you see why he did it.”

“It better be something pretty spectacular is all I’m saying.”

“Oh but it is, my friend, it is.” And with that Gabe drapes an arm firmly over Pete’s shoulder and starts to lead the way over to a table in the corner of the room.

As soon as Pete sees who is at the table he understands why Gabe’s grip is so firm and why he’s watching Pete’s every move for signs of flight. Because sitting on one side, directly under the overhead light like he’s using it as a personal spotlight is Fun Ghoul and next to him, hunched over in a way that Pete knows only too well, is Kobra Kid.

“Fuck no, I’m not ready for this.” Pete pushes at Gabe, trying to escape from the arm that’s tightening around him, holding him in place. “If this is your and Ryan’s idea of an intervention then you’re shit out of luck, I’m not talking to him.”

“Pete, come on, calm down, we wouldn’t do that to you.” Gabe’s voice is low and serious, like he’s trying to tell Pete something important. But all Pete can think of is his need to get far away from the impostor sitting at the table wearing Mikey’s face.

“You have to let me go, I can’t do this.” Pete is close to hyperventilating and he knows he must sound weak, pathetic even, but he doesn’t care.

Gabe spins them round so Pete’s back is to the table he so desperately wants to avoid any contact with, one hand on each of Pete’s shoulders and his head ducked down so he can look Pete direct in the eyes.

“You need to breathe and then listen to me.” Gabe waits a beat and then nods seemingly satisfied that Pete is breathing somewhat evenly again. “The Kid isn’t who you’re here to see and he’ll leave if you want him to, if that’s what you need. But before you make that decision take another look over there and see who they’re talking to.

Gabe doesn’t say or do anything else and it takes Pete a moment to realize that Gabe is waiting for him to make the next move. Pete closes his eyes and focuses on breathing, trying to push down the feelings of panic that are threatening to overwhelm him. For all that Gabe’s public face is that of a trickster willing to do anything to anyone in pursuit of a good time, Pete knows damn well that underneath it all Gabe is a solid friend, loyal and trustworthy and not the kind of person who would purposely bring genuine harm to a friend. If Gabe wants him to go over to that table then there must be a damned good reason, and it’s that knowledge that finally convinces Pete to take a deep breath and then nod that he’s okay with Gabe’s plan.

Gabe doesn’t give him a chance to change his mind, before Pete has even opened his eyes he’s been spun round so he’s facing the table again. Eyes open, he looks over, noticing first the way that Fun Ghoul and Kobra Kid are very pointedly not looking in his direction, and then taking in the man sitting opposite them.

The man is thin, too thin, Pete’s brain supplies, with dark hair and Pete can see that he’s wearing shades even though the corner of the bar he’s sitting in is not at all well lit. There’s something about him that seems so familiar, his build, the round of his shoulders as he sits hunched at the table, the way his fingers are constantly tapping out a beat on the table top. It takes Pete a moment to figure it out but then he’s shrugging off Gabe’s arm and hurrying toward the table because everything about this man is a mirror of Kobra Kid sitting opposite him and that can only mean one thing.

“Mikey?” Pete stops just short of the table and he can hear the way that his voice is shaking as he speaks, hoping against hope that the voice inside of him screaming that this is Mikey, his Mikey come back to him is correct.

The man turns round to look at him and then Pete’s heart stutters in its beat as Mikey levers himself to his feet, slowly like it hurts him to move too fast. Mikey crosses the last bit of space dividing them with a smile on his face until Pete can reach out and pull him close, vowing as he wraps his arms around him that he’s never letting him go again.

“I thought you were dead.” Pete is talking into Mikey’s chest and he thinks his voice sounds a little wet, knows his eyes definitely are, but he doesn’t care because Mikey’s sounds just the same when he answers.

“I came close,” Mikey says, “we all did. They got us out before the ship blew but we were all pretty fucked up.”

Pete takes a step back, his hands still clutching Mikey’s arms unwilling to let go, and takes in the way Mikey is holding himself stiffly, his weight pushed to one side like he’s favoring one leg over the other, and the vivid scar, still angry and red, that runs from his right temple and disappears under the frames of the sunglasses that are hiding Mikey’s eyes from view.

Pete reaches out and traces a finger down the raised edge of the scar, smiling when Mikey leans into his touch but becoming serious again when Mikey takes off the glasses. Pete can see the glint of cybernetics and how Mikey’s right eye is not quite the same color as his left.

“You should sit down.” For all that Pete wants to stand in the middle of his bar with Mikey in his arms for a long, long time, he knows that isn’t what Mikey needs.

“I’d love to act like a tough guy and disagree.” Mikey says with a self-depreciating smile, “but, yeah, I kind of should.”

Once they’re sitting down, Mikey with the back of the seat and the wall beside him for support and Pete tucked in close beside him, Pete can’t help but ask the questions that have been plaguing him.

“What happened? Why didn’t you contact me?”

Mikey looks so guilty that immediately Pete wants to take his questions back, but before he can say anything Mikey speaks.

“At first I was too badly hurt to do anything but lie in a med center bed and focus on remembering how to breathe, and then when I was getting better I just assumed someone else had got a message to you. I was so fucking pissed when I found out no one had.”

Mikey pauses, directing a glare across the table at Kobra Kid and Fun Ghoul who remain silent but hold their hands up in unison like they’ve already said their apologies and know there’s nothing more they can add.

“Then we started hearing rumors about how you’d vanished and Gabe was running Clandestine and I knew sending a message wasn’t good enough, I had to come see you myself.”

“The med team told him it was too soon to leave the base but he’s a determined little fucker when he wants something badly.” It’s Kobra Kid talking now and Pete blinks unable to quite parse the dissonance of someone else speaking with Mikey’s voice. “The only reason we agreed to bring him here was because he convinced us you’d take care of him.”

“Of course I will,” all confusion gone, Pete makes sure his voice sounds as certain as he is. “For as long as he needs.”

“Yeah, well you better.” Party Poison appears at Pete’s side, staring at him like he’s daring him to disagree. “He may not be my brother but I’m still his. Kind of. I think.”

“Good job on making sense there, Poison.” Fun Ghoul laughs at the annoyed look on Party Poison’s face and raises his glass in salute when Poison rolls his eyes and mutters “Fuck you.” under his breath.

Pete ignores them as they start to bicker and turns back to Mikey, running a hand through Mikey’s hair noting how it feels the same even though it looks so different.

“Why the new color?”

Mikey smiles, small and secretive, then leans forward to whisper. “Plausible deniability.”

“I don’t get it.”

Mikey smiles again this time a little wider. “Rebellion rules, if I want to live outside of the base I have to look different enough from him,” Mikey points to Kobra Kid for emphasis, “that I can pass as a relative or something.”

Pete matches Mikey’s smile, hope blooming in his chest as he asks, “Do you want to live outside the base?”

“I don’t know, maybe?” Mikey teases before becoming serious as he says, “If you ask me, I’ll say yes.”

Pete knows he’s grinning like an idiot but he doesn’t care, not bothering to drag the moment out any longer as he leans forward and asks, “Stay with me?”

Mikey leans forward closing the last sliver of a gap between them and placing a kiss on Pete’s lips before pulling back again, saying, “Yes. Okay.”

**

When Pete thinks of Mikey, the first image that pops up in his mind isn’t of Mikey’s smile, or Mikey’s eyes, or even the way that Mikey stands knock-kneed and awkward but oddly graceful at the same time, it’s of Mikey’s back, his spine curled forward and his head bowed as he sits on the end of the bed and pulls on his boots.

Every time it happens, every time Pete sees that all too familiar sight, he reaches forward and grabs a hold of Mikey’s shirt to tug him backwards in to the warmth of their bed.

Mikey always laughs, rolls his eyes and says, “We can’t lie in bed all day, someone has to run this place.” Or sometimes “There’s a shipment due in this morning and one of us has to be there to receive it.”

And Pete always answers, “Jon can take care of it, he’s got Ryan to help him, he’ll be fine.” And then when Mikey frowns at him, fond and amused, he relents and says, “Just five more minutes, I’ll make it worth your while.”

And every single time it happens, every time the same conversation plays out between them over and over, again and again, Pete knows he will win.

Mikey always stays.

themoononastick — Sun, 01 May 2011 16:20:55 GMT

Detailed warnings for Ghosts in the Machine.

Pete receives news that Mikey has been "ghosted" and a large portion of the story deals with Pete's reaction to the news and his grief at the loss of Mikey.

S
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However, in this universe "ghosted" doesn't always mean dead and Mikey is revealed to be alive and is returned to Pete by the end of the fic.

Where there's a Will

themoononastick — Sat, 23 Apr 2011 13:06:49 GMT

Happy Shakespeare Day, flist! In honour of this day that marks both the birth and the death of the great Bard of Avon everyone should post their favourite snippet of Shakespeare. I'll go first.

Mine is a monologue from Romeo and Juliet, a play which, oddly enough, is one of my least favourite of Shakespeare's works but which contains one of my favourite of his characters, Mercutio, whose monologue this is:

O, then I see Queen Mab hath been with you.
She is the fairies' midwife, and she comes
In shape no bigger than an agate stone
On the forefinger of an alderman,
Drawn with a team of little atomies
Over men's noses as they lie asleep;
Her wagon spokes made of long spinners' legs,
The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers;
Her traces, of the smallest spider web;
Her collars, of the moonshine's wat'ry beams;
Her whip, of cricket's bone; the lash, of film;
Her wagoner, a small grey-coated gnat,
Not half so big as a round little worm
Pricked from the lazy finger of a maid;
Her chariot is an empty hazelnut,
Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub,
Time out o' mind the fairies' coachmakers.
And in this state she gallops night by night
Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love;
O'er courtiers' knees, that dream on curtsies straight;
O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees;
O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream,
Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues,
Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are.
Sometimes she gallops o'er a courtier's nose,
And then dreams he of smelling out a suit;
And sometimes comes she with a tithe-pig's tail
Tickling a parson's nose as 'a lies asleep,
Then dreams he of another benefice.
Sometimes she driveth o'er a soldier's neck,
And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,
Of healths five fathom deep; and then anon
Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes,
And being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two
And sleeps again. This is that very Mab
That plats the manes of horses in the night
And bakes the elflocks in foul sluttish hairs,
Which once untangled much misfortune bodes.
This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs,
That presses them and learns them first to bear,
Making them women of good carriage.
This is she!

Alternatively, you can watch Harold Perrineau, the very prettiest of all Mercutios, perform an abridged version of the monologue here

And as a bonus, here's my very favourite stage actor, the fabulous Rory Kinnear, performing a brief snippet of Hamlet.

Now you post yours!

and never go home

themoononastick — Fri, 25 Feb 2011 18:40:09 GMT

I’ve been trying to post this for a couple of days but LJ has been being most unco-operative. Stupid LJ.

Anyhoo, on Tuesday I jumped on a train and went to Newcastle to meet up with turps33 and see My Chemical Romance. It was awesome.

turps33 posted an excellent recap here so if you haven’t already read it you should go do so. Mine is likely to be a lot less detailed and a lot more rambly, as is my want.

My journey up to Newcastle started out with me, typically, running around my house packing an overnight bag in the half an hour before I had to catch a train for London. Because I am the least organized and most easily distracted person ever. To the point where I almost had to run to catch said train. But I made it with about thirty seconds to spare. Go me.

London achieved, I made my way across town to Kings Cross and then promptly took a wrong turning away from the overground station and towards the Piccadilly Line because I’d mentally slipped back in time to my Uni days which I mostly spent going back and forth from Holloway Road to Liverpool Street via Kings Cross. Luckily I had enough time to spare that my little sidetrip into nostalgiaville wasn’t a problem.

I finally found the right area of the station and my train and, omg, East Coast trains are the most comfortable trains ever. No really, it was luxury compared to what I am used to, but then I am used to a service that uses trains so old they should be in a museum, so. I spent my journey listening to my ipod and becoming increasingly nervous about meeting turps33 because I am so so bad at social interaction. This is the most likely reason for my sudden need to perform good deeds for my fellow passengers – I swapped seats three times so people could sit together and bought a lady sitting opposite me a cup of tea because she didn’t have enough change and she looked like she really needed one – I think I was attempting to store up some good karma for my trip!

And it worked because turps33 is adorable and lovely and she and her hubby are so funny and easy to talk to that it wasn’t awkward or weird and pretty soon we were hanging out, sitting in the car chatting about random nonsense while waiting for the doors to open.

As soon as we saw the queue vanish inside we headed on in and, wow, the Metroradio Arena is the most civilized venue I have ever been to. There was no wait to get in, hardly any queue for the toilets, and once in our seats there were people wandering around selling coke and bags of sweets and popcorn. So very different to what I’m used to in London! A++++ for customer service, Newcastle.

The first support was Lostalone who were musically very tight and were obviously so happy to be on the tour. Their enthusiasm was all kinds of infectious. Also, they had amusing hair.

The second support was The Blackout who, again, were tight and clearly very comfortable playing in a large venue. But the points they won for their sound they lost with some obnoxiously faily banter. I was not impressed.

Then it was time for the pre-show slide show on the big screens which started off to the sound of Jane’s Addiction on the PA which made me ridiculously happy as Jane’s are and will always be my very favourite band, so the combination of them and pictures of the Ways fighting back to back gave me the biggest heart eyes ever.

And then My Chem came on stage and I forgot all about Jane’s Addiction, because, ugh, BAND. They are just such an amazing live band. It’s so awesome to watch performers who genuinely seem to love what they’re doing and that take such joy in seeing and hearing the crowds reactions to their songs. The amount of beaming smiles and laughter on stage was just such a delight to see. turps33 has much more detail about the show in her post, but for me the highlights were the little things like Mikey taking pictures of the crowd and his band in between songs, and Gerard’s little speech about watching Rob Zombie videos on the bus turning into an impromptu performance of my favourite White Zombie song – Thunder Kiss ’65, and Destroya, because I adore that song so much (hint: it sounds a lot like Jane’s Addiction!). Also Gerard and his Gerardness and Mikeyway and his everything. And Frank and Ray as well of course, but I maybe have an issue with remembering there is anyone but Mikey on stage at times *g*

Also, there was a lady sitting in front of me with her two children – a girl who was maybe around 8 and a boy who looked a little younger. The kids were both decked out in Killjoys t shirts and bandanas and they were so excited when My Chem came on stage, they were singing and dancing and pointing things out to their mum and when MCR played Welcome To The Black Parade the little girl was singing her little heart out. It was so awesome to see.

The most adorable moment of the evening came right at the end when they were going off stage and Mikey threw his plectrum out into the audience. Or at least he tried to. What actually happened was he wound up for a big throw, let go of it and it travelled about a foot and landed just beyond the stage at the feet of a security guard who promptly cracked up laughing. But Mikey fist pumped in victory anyway. &Mikeyway;

Then it was all over and it was back to turps33’s house for tea and late night chatting, and on the way there I got to be hopelessly touristy and be all excited at seeing Newcastle’s bridges in all their lit up glory and The Angel of The North standing beside the motorway. Newcastle is a gorgeous city and I definitely want to go there again and take some time to look around and see all it has to offer.

Wednesday started with more tea and chatter about fannish things and writing and all things Mikey Way based. I also attempted to impress upon turps33 the importance of comfort in the h/c equation but I think I just ended up encouraging her evil side. Oh well, at least I tried! And then all too soon it was time to head back to Newcastle so I could catch my (super comfy omg) train home and I headed off back to London with MCR on my ipod, wishing I could have stayed longer.

Here, have some (not especially great) photos.

Sadly my camera had a really hard time focusing due to the light show and the relative distance of the stage so these are the best of the bunch.

The most civilised arena in the world!

The crowd waiting for MCR to take the stage

I don't know what I like best about this photo - Mikey's pose, or the blur of Frank's arm in the background

When my camera did manage to focus it was on Mikey. I love my camera!

These next few are super blurry but I'm including them because they amuse me

Frank on his knees >:)

What is that pose, Gerard?

Smiling Mikey! :]

Smiling Mikey with bonus smiley Frank - this was when they were playing Thunder Kiss '65 by White Zombie \o/

And have a few random shots of Newcastle for good measure

Park Lane metro station in Sunderland - I just really liked the colours and the lighting

The Angel of The North as viewed from the train

Graffiti just outside Newcastle Central Station that summed up my feelings pretty much perfectly

In short: MCR are awesome, Newcastle is gorgeous, and turps33 and her family are wonderful, lovely, funny as hell and I really did not want to go home.

I had a secret I've been dying to leak

themoononastick — Tue, 15 Feb 2011 21:01:51 GMT

I’m pretty sure that everyone on my flist with any kind of connection to bandom has done this already (if you haven’t, DO IT NOW!), but if everyone outside of bandom who sees this could please go to the link below and give Empires five stars it would be super awesome.

http://www.rollingstone.com/choosethecover/artists/empires

Empires are an amazing band who tour, record, release, and promote their music completely on their own terms without any kind of record company backing or support and they so so deserve to get the kind of recognition their talent demands. A Rolling Stone cover would go a long way to getting them that. Please vote ♥

Inception ficlet - Arthur/Eames - 1600 words - PG

themoononastick — Mon, 24 Jan 2011 01:53:13 GMT

After the thrill has gone ~ Arthur/Eames (Inception) ~ 1600 words ~ PG

For cmonkatiekatie because it's her birthday and I love her a lot A LOT. Thanks to foxxcub for the super fast beta. No warnings apply.

The problem, Eames thinks, is that the thrill of the chase doesn’t lie in the chase itself, but in the belief that at some undetermined time, usually when the perfect balance of exhaustion and alcohol consumption is mutually achieved, the chaser will be victorious and able to claim his prize. Or, as the case may be, be claimed by his prize, depending on matters of personal taste, preference, size, etc.

Where the thrill most certainly does not lie is in a chase with no end in sight. That, in Eames’ estimation, is simply running without a destination. Like, say, jogging in circles round a park on a cold, grey winter day; tedious and boring and only really likely to leave one tired and in need of a stiff drink.

The truth of the matter is that thrill of the chase is gone and Eames is bored. Hopelessly, painfully, utterly bored. He no longer feels any joy in the all too blunt cut and thrust of his flirtations with Arthur. And, while it pains him to admit it, it is undeniably true that the spark they had kindled has been extinguished long before it had a chance to burst into glorious flames.

It’s a disappointment, yes, because Eames had plans, plans that involved shameful acts of depravity of such depth and wickedness that they were likely illegal in most of the civilised world. But if Arthur is not willing to play his role properly and allow himself to be caught then there’s nothing Eames can do but give in, give up and move on.

It’s a sad state of affairs and one that Eames is determined to wallow in for a while. He has after all thrown a lot of time and energy into pursuing Arthur and for it all to come to nothing is a situation that deserves an appropriate period of mourning.

It’s lucky then that Eames has time on his hands to devote himself to self-pity teamed with just a hint of annoyance. In fact, he has all the time in the world.

God, Eames is so bored.

Eames is aware that perhaps it is more the situation they find themselves in and less Arthur’s spectacular failure to succumb to his charms that’s causing him to feel quite so melodramatic. If there’s one thing Eames hates it’s doing nothing and that is exactly what they’ve been doing for the past four days. Stuck in this hotel room waiting for Saito to throw enough money around that they can leave without the local authorities descending and making an example of them via a hastily assembled firing squad.

And, yes, there was a time not all that long ago when Eames would have relished being stuck in a hotel room with only Arthur for company. But that was before he realised that Arthur was simply playing along with his games out of habit rather than desire to see an outcome and now Eames is sure he has found the very definition of Hell. Or maybe purgatory, he didn’t pay a lot of attention during religious instruction so he can’t really be sure.

Eames considers his options. He could take a nap to pass some time, except that when sleep is work and work is sleep it sucks all the joy out of casual napping. So with that off the menu it leaves rereading the one book he has in his luggage or working his way through the minibar until he’s drunk enough not to care about Arthur and his infuriating fantasy-shattering ways.

He’s read the book twice already this week, so the delights of the minibar it is.

Eames is halfway through his second, not very good, scotch when Arthur stands up, stretches, then starts digging through his bag. Eames ignores the urge to stare at his arse, he might as well get used to not doing that kind of thing as soon as he can.

Arthur turns his head so he’s looking over his shoulder and says, "I’m going to take a shower."

Eames nods his head in a non-committal way, still carefully avoiding looking at Arthur’s arse, or the long plains of his back, or his mouth, especially his mouth, and wonders if the gin will taste any better than the scotch.

Arthur straightens and turns, looking at Eames with the tiniest of frowns on his face, like he’s trying to work out the pieces of a particularly tricky puzzle. "Are you okay?"

"Perfectly so. Why do you ask?"

Arthur takes a step forward, then another until he stops at the foot of Eames’ bed. "You haven’t asked if I want you to join me, or offered to scrub my back."

Eames takes a sip of his really not at all pleasant scotch and then tips the glass in Arthur’s general direction. "Ah, well, I’m sorry to inform you, darling, but the thrill is gone."

"Really."

"Yes really. I’m bored." Eames drains the last of the actually quite unpleasant scotch, pushes himself up and off his bed and heads for the minibar. "I am no longer a slave to your indifference."

Arthur steps in front of him, blocking his way. "You’re bored."

"Yes."

"With me."

Eames is also bored with being unable to get to the minibar so he feigns a step to the left and then cuts right when Arthur matches him, raising a fist in triumph in his head when his rouse works. He peers at the choices on offer trying to decide between the gin and the rather cheap looking brandy until he spots some vodka hiding at the back and picks that instead.

He closes the minibar door and then leans back against it, using the tiny bottle of vodka to point at Arthur. "Well I still enjoy you on a casual level, but on a deeper, more meaningful level, yes."

Arthur says nothing for a moment but then a smile breaks out on his face. "Oh thank God, I thought you were never going to give up."

Eames is a little hurt. "I have to say I’m a little hurt, Arthur, if I’d known my attentions were so repugnant I would have stopped earlier."

"Oh, Mr Eames, what am I going to do with you?" Arthur’s smile is slowly twisting into something that Eames would swear was just the tiniest bit promising, if only they weren’t discussing what they are.

"I think," Eames says, feeling the need to point out the meaning of Arthur’s recent words, "you’ve made it perfectly clear that you’re going to do absolutely nothing with me."

"No, I haven’t."

Arthur’s smile is definitely, definitely both interesting and interested. Also a little predatory. Eames thinks it’s entirely possible that he’s lost not only the thread of the conversation but control of the situation as a whole. In short: Eames is confused.

"You haven’t?"

"No."

"Oh." Eames really wishes Arthur hadn’t chosen today to become a man of mystery and very few words. "Would you care to explain yourself, I think I’m a little lost."

Arthur’s smile ratchets up to full-on dirty as he stalks, actually stalks over to where Eames is still leaning against the minibar. Stopping only when they are quite literally toe to toe. "I don’t like playing games."

Eames is fairly sure that’s exactly what they’re doing right now, but he thinks it would probably be rude to point that out. "You don’t?"

Arthur shakes his head. "I prefer a more direct approach, it’s simpler and more mature than pulling pigtails and playing kiss chase."

"If that’s the case," Eames raises an eyebrow, because, really, "why didn’t you say something earlier?"

Arthur nudges at Eames’ legs, moving forward when Eames gets the hint and spreads them wide enough for Arthur to fit in between. "You were enjoying yourself, I didn’t want to ruin your fun."

Eames puts his vodka carefully down on the table beside them and then fits his hands over Arthur’s hips. "It’s not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment but really, Arthur, we could have been having so much more fun if you’d only..."

"Shut up, Eames."

Eames would protest but Arthur is kissing him, all firm pressure and hand cupped around the back of Eames’ head and just the perfect hint of tongue and there is nothing on Earth that would make Eames interrupt this moment. Not even the possibility of showing off his witty repartee. So he stores his reply up for later and concentrates on kissing Arthur back, learning the feel of his lips and storing away the contented little noise that slips out when he runs his hands up Arthur’s sides.

Arthur pulls back and Eames quickly and very carefully schools his expression away from dazed and back into casual indifference.

"Still bored?" Arthur asks, in a voice that’s just teetering on the very edge of smug.

And that won’t do. There’s no way Eames can allow Arthur to think he has the upper hand. Even though he quite obviously does.

Eames shrugs and affects a sigh. "A little."

"Really." Arthur affects a little sigh of his own, matching Eames pretence for pretence. "Do you have any plans in mind for how we can fix that."

Oh, Eames has plans. Many, many plans. He even has diagrams for some of them sketched out on napkins and scraps of paper and carefully tucked away in the inner breast pocket of his jacket.

Eames leans forward, crowding into Arthur’s space until his lips are just brushing the shell of Arthur’s ear, and proceeds to tell him, creatively, vividly and in great detail, all of the ways that Arthur can help chase his boredom away.

Ficlets - Pete/Mikey, PG13 & Mikey Way, gen.

themoononastick — Fri, 12 Nov 2010 20:52:39 GMT

Reposting some comment fics as I am hopelessly anal and like to have everything in one place for Master List purposes. These were originally written for crowgirl13's Comment Fic Free-For-All which can be found here and which I urge you to check out as it's filled with all kinds of shiny awesomeness.

No warnings apply.

Untitled Pete/Mikey, PG13, 650 words

Pete’s in the middle of explaining his theory of why a flipped coin will always do the exact opposite of what you want when Mikey very deliberately slides his sidekick closed, places it safely on the ground beside them, leans over and shuts Pete up mid-flow with a kiss.

It takes Pete a second or two to fully grasp what’s happening. He has a tendency to get stuck within the cycle of his own thought processes at the cost of everything around him. Patrick calls it self-absorption but Pete likes to think of it as proof of his own very special brand of creativity.

At the moment of the kiss Pete is mulling over a series of ideas that starts with ‘flipped coins are tricky things’, moves on to ‘Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were totally gay for each other’ and, after stopping at a whole variety of mis-matched and unconnected points along the way, ends with ‘!!!!!!’ and ‘holy shit! Is that Mikey’s tongue?’.

Mostly Pete blames the delay of his brain catching up with what his body is doing on the shock of Mikey being the one to lean in and do what Pete has been thinking about doing for a week or so now. Pete was totally convinced that he was the seducer in their nascent relationship but, as it turns out, he’s the seducee.

Once the second or two of confusion has passed, Pete gets with the program and kisses Mikey back. Twisting his fingers into Mikey’s hair and moaning just a little when Mikey leans in closer and changes the angle so they’re perfectly positioned to end up horizontal on the ground. Pete is so totally okay with that eventuality.

When they break for air, Mikey pulls back leaving Pete momentarily flailing for balance, his equilibrium thrown off both by the sudden absence of Mikey to lean on and the reason for the leaning in the first place. By the time Pete has found his center and is no longer in danger of falling, except in the metaphorical sense, Mikey is typing away on his phone again, the corners of his mouth curling up into a tiny but undeniably smug smile.

Pete suddenly finds that he feels uncomfortably exposed. Like maybe he’s shown too much of himself to Mikey by kissing back so enthusiastically. Because what if Mikey only kissed him for a dare and the texting he is engaged in now is Mikey reporting back that he’s kept his side of some prankster’s bargain. Pete’s torn between wanting to know and not wanting to find out.

Mikey looks up from his phone and his smile turns into something secret and a little shy. "Gerard told me I should just man up and kiss you. I was letting him know he was right."

Mikey drops his phone on the ground again and looks at Pete like he’s waiting for an idea of what their next move should be. Pete decides bravado is probably the safest route.

"Can you not talk about your brother when I’m trying to think up ways to get you naked."

Mikey frowns. "I don’t do naked on a first date."

"Is that what this is? A date?" Pete can feel a grin starting to spread across his face.

"Well if it is it’s a shitty one." Mikey arches one perfectly sculptured eyebrow. Pete kind of wants to lick it. "We didn’t even get anything to eat."

Pete lets his grin blossom into something wide and toothy and pulls a Snickers bar from his pocket. It’s completely misshapen and almost certainly more than a little melted but he hands it to Mikey anyway, saying, "Only the best for you, MikeyWay."

Mikey rolls his eyes and mutters something that sounds a lot like "idiot" under his breath. But as Mikey takes the Snickers bar, leans in and kisses Pete again, Pete figures that’s more than okay.

Mikey Way, gen, Killjoys 'verse, prompt = the last bullet, 850 words

It’s been thirty two hours since they threw Mikey into this prison cell. He knows this because the guards outside change every eight hours and when they do they open the little window on the door to check he’s still alive. It’s opened four times and four times eight is thirty two. The one good thing about this bullshit homogenized everything by the fucking rules society is it makes it easy to tell the passing of time.

Thirty two hours in the cell, maybe another five or six on top of that since they captured him. Mikey figures it’s been nearer to forty since he last had anything to eat or drink. His mouth feels as dry as the desert he can’t wait to get back to and his stomach aches from being empty, but being hungry and thirsty is nothing new, Mikey is used to dealing with both of them.

He also used to a lack of sleep so thirty three maybe thirty four hours since he last closed his eyes is nothing. He passed out for a while when they were working him over so at least there’s that. Right now, Mikey will take rest any way he can.

The cell is five by five. Not big enough for him to lie down on the floor flat out but plenty big enough for him to sit propped up against the wall with his legs stretched out in front of him. The walls are stark white as is the floor and the ceiling, all lit by an ultra bright light that flickers and strobes at random intervals. There’s white noise pumped in from a speaker up in the ceiling, a hum that rises and falls in volume and pitch, constant and unrelenting like the worst kind of tinnitus.

Mikey knows it’s all designed to break him. Make him offer up secrets as he begs for it to stop. But fuck that, he’s the goddamned Kobra Kid, it’ll take more than some old fashioned parlor tricks to get him to spill his guts. Mikey will take his secrets to the grave if he has to, and he’s not afraid to die.

And anyway, it’s not like he’ll be here for much longer. He figures it’ll be one more guard change at the most before the others come busting in with rayguns blasting to inject a little color into this drab and dreary world. Korse told him they were dead, showed him picture of bodies laid out in the desert sun, but Mikey doesn’t believe him. He can spot a tricked up picture when he sees one and Korse didn’t even bother to make decent fakes.

The lights start to strobe again as the door to the cell opens. Mikey looks up expecting to see the flash of Gerard’s hair, but it’s Korse, standing impassive in the doorway flanked by a couple of Dracs with their guns leveled at Mikey’s head. Mikey gets the message – no sudden movements, don’t try anything or you’re dead, so he doesn’t, just matches Korse stare for unblinking stare.

Korse looks away first and Mikey smiles to himself, chalking up a point for Team Killjoy. Korse sneers in response then pulls out a raygun, pressing a switch on the side to drain the charge then throws it on the floor so it lands halfway between Mikey and the door.

Mikey ignores it. There’s no point in making a dive for it so he can use it on Korse. The Dracs would take him down before he got so much as a fingertip to the barrel. So he waits Korse out because there’s no fucking way that Mikey is going to be the one to speak first.

Korse looks at the gun and then at Mikey, his lip curling into a sneer again as he says, "There’s one shot left in it. Once this door closes it won’t open again until you’re dead, I suggest you make it quick."

Mikey doesn’t respond, just shows Korse his middle finger and goes back to staring at the wall, not even looking up when the cell door closes again.

Once he’s alone, Mikey stands and walks over to the gun and picks it up. He checks the charge meter and, yeah, for once Korse was telling the truth, there’s enough power left for one shot and one shot only. Mikey considers his options then raises the raygun and carefully takes aim.

The light in the ceiling explodes when the blast hits it, sparks raining down as the cell is plunged into darkness. The noise stops as well just like Mikey was hoping it would, he’d figured the speaker was part of the same fixture when he was pacing the cell earlier trying to listen out for where the sound was loudest.

Mikey curls up on the floor in the corner furthest from the door and waits for Frank and Gerard and Ray. He reckons he’s got about eight hours or so until they get here and at least now he can get some sleep.

I've missed using this tag

themoononastick — Thu, 28 Oct 2010 20:18:22 GMT

Today did not start well. I woke up nearly two hours later than I am supposed to on a work day and then when I did finally drag my ass to the station there were no trains because someone stole the overhead cables (again). So I had to get an unbelievably crowded and uncomfortable 'rail replacement' bus for half the journey then wait half an hour for a train to finally show up a few stations down the line. I eventually got to work roughly four hours late. And my day went downhill from there :(

Anyways, I saw Black Cards last night at The ICA in London. The sound was pretty shitty but they were tons of fun. Bebe is gorgeous and adorable and super bouncy and entertaining, and Pete was smiley and happy and dancing around and enjoying himself and that was awesome to see. I didn't really realise how much I'd missed seeing his face until he stepped on stage &Wentz; Also, I maybe got a little teary-eyed during his 'depression beard' speech but we're just going to blame that on PMT and move on, okay? Okay.

Plus I got to hang with strongplacebo which is always awesome, and we saw jess_darkwater and lovinspike247 as well (although I didn't get to chat with them much as I had a friend from work with me who found the whole black walls, ceiling and floor thing The ICA has going on to be hugely claustrophobic and uncomfortable).

I took a bunch of photos

shut up and sing it with me

themoononastick — Sun, 24 Oct 2010 17:01:15 GMT

Flist, it is effing freezing and my heating does not work and, unless I win the lottery, will not be working any time soon. Please to be sending warm thoughts my way. Also blankets. Brrrr.

Anyhoo, last night I went to see My Chemical Romance with emma_took and strongplacebo and it was AWESOME. It was seriously one of the best gigs I have been to in aaaaages, MCR were amazing AND I got to hang out with two of my very favourite people and spend most of the evening laughing so hard it hurt &my gig girls;

I'm too lazy to write a lengthy recap as I am sure there are a bunch of those around already, but the highlights of the evening included: 3000 people singing Na Na Na so loudly you could hardly hear MCR, Gerard rapping during Planetary (Go!) (LOLOLOL! No, really, LOLOLOLOLOLOL!), and...yeah just the whole show. And my thoughts for the evening can be summed up thusly: HOLY FUCK! MIKEY FUCKIN' WAY *____________*

I didn't take that many photos because a) we were standing virtually at the back of the venue and b) I was too busy enjoying myself. But here are the few I did take

Every time I look at this picture I start singing Acceptable In The 80's in my head. I kind of think that should be Mikey's theme song right now. Alternatively, the barriers between universes are really thin in Hammersmith and this is actually a picture of Mikey Way, bass player for a New Romantic pop band from the mid-80's, that I managed to take when his reality bled through into ours.

And lastly, this is my favourite picture I took all evening. I think it sums up the current gig going experience perfectly.

And on Wednesday I get to hang out with strongplacebo again (but sadly not emma_took :( ) and see Black Cards \o/ p.s. I still have one, possibly two, spare ticket(s) if anyone wants them :D?

Black Cards, writing, and other stuff

themoononastick — Mon, 18 Oct 2010 21:08:20 GMT

Hello, livejournal. I have been mostly absent for, ooh, a while now. This can be blamed almost entirely on work being crazy busy and me not having the energy to do much more than collapse on the sofa in front of Eastenders when I get home (on the iplayer, because, lol, do not get home early enough to actually watch it most nights :|). But I shall try and be a bit better about keeping up with my flist, etc, from now on. Honest.

UK flisters - I have two spare tickets for the Black Cards show at The ICA in London on October 27th. Anyone want them? Or, alternatively, anyone know someone who might want them?

Also of (potential) interest to UK types - I saw THE most brilliant production of Hamlet on Saturday at The National Theatre. Seriously the best production of the play that I've seen (and I have seen it far too many times!) with some really interesting takes on both the characters and the overall setting/atmosphere of the play. I'm not sure how long it runs for or even if there are tickets available but I really recommend seeing it if you can.

In other news: I have signed up for mini_wrimo. I am hoping it will be the spark that I need to start writing again, because I kind of miss it.

ETA: I finally beat the last level of Plants vs Zombies! My overblown sense of achievement, let me show you it \o/

MCR ficlet: Anaesthetize - Frank/Mikey - NC17

themoononastick — Sun, 19 Sep 2010 21:15:47 GMT

Anaesthetize - Frank/Mikey (Fabulous Killjoys 'verse) - 1000 words - NC17

For turps33, just because. Big thanks to cmonkatiekatie for the quick and dirty beta. No warnings apply.

The vending machine shakes against Frank’s shoulder as Mikey hits it again and again, the force behind the blows increasing as Mikey’s frustration grows.

Frank ignores it for now, more intent on reading the latest bullshit misinformation being spread about them in the paper. He knows Mikey wants something to hit as much as he wants what the machine holds, maybe more, and Frank isn’t about to take the opportunity to vent some anger away from Mikey.

Finally spent, Mikey kicks at the dirt muttering curses under his breath and then leans his forehead against the vending machine. For a moment all Frank can hear is Mikey’s ragged breathing, loud in the sudden silence, but then in the distance he hears the low V8 rumble of the Trans Am’s engine and he knows that’s his cue.

Frank folds the paper and stashes it away in his back pocket – because piece of trash it might be, but it makes a good fuel to start a fire – then carefully aims and kicks back at the machine, just once, right where he knows the mechanism that drives it lies. There’s a metallic groan as gears and cogs are shocked into life, then a whir and a series of hollow thunks as it starts spitting its contents out into the dust at Mikey’s feet. Frank grins to himself as Mikey mutters, “smug little fucker” before pushing away from the machine and bending down to pick up his ill-gotten gains.

Frank turns so he’s looking down at Mikey, takes a moment to let his eyes rake over the lines of Mikey’s back then says, “You can thank me later.”

Mikey doesn’t bother straightening up, just turns his head so he’s eye level with Frank’s crotch and licks his lips deliberately slow and teasing. “Later, yeah.”

Frank doesn’t get a chance to specify when and where because the Trans Am slides to a halt beside them in a cloud of dust and Gerard yells at them to get in, his eyes fixed on the horizon and his fingers drumming an inpatient rhythm on the roof as he revs the engine.

*

Later turns into much later with a side of maybe never when they run into an ambush and Ray takes a raygun blast that catches him high on the leg. The rest of the day turns into a mad dash across the desert in search of a safe house with a medic inside. Gerard driving like a maniac with a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel as Mikey calls out directions from the passenger seat.

Frank crouches in the back, tying the bandana tourniquet ever tighter around Ray’s leg to stop him bleeding out on the leather seat, trying to keep the fear out of his voice as he urges Gerard to drive faster, ever faster.

The dark shape of the diner in the distance, growing bigger and more distinct as they race towards it, is the best thing Frank has seen all day.

*

Hours later, maybe even days, Ray’s sleeping safely in the room hidden beneath the diner with Gerard keeping watch at his side and there’s nothing more Frank can do for now. Frank must have lost track of time somewhere along the way because it’s a surprise when he steps outside to get some air and finds the desert bathed in orange light as the sun sets gold and red on the horizon.

It’s still hot but Frank pulls his jacket tighter around himself, part in readiness for the sharp dip in temperature he knows comes with the night and part as an act of comfort against the residual fear of the day. He leans against the side of the Trans Am and pulls a cigarette out of his battered pack, watching the cacti and scrub bushes slowly turn from something alive and colourful into shadows black against the skyline as the sun continues to sink.

He’s nearly done with his cigarette when Mikey appears beside him, his hair glinting yellow in the fading light. Frank opens his mouth to say something, maybe ask how Ray is, but Mikey doesn’t give him a chance, crowding Frank back against the car, hands scrabbling at Frank’s belt a he kisses him hard and desperate.

Frank tastes blood as the kiss turns brutal, all teeth and tongue, mouths clashing harsh against each other and panting breaths, before Mikey pulls away and sinks to his knees, dragging Frank’s jeans down with him.

The metal of the car is still hot from the sun and Frank finds himself trapped between the heat of it against his skin behind him and the wet heat of Mikey’s mouth as he leans forward and sucks Frank in. Frank’s hips buck forward and Mikey draws back for a second, choking before he pushes Frank back against the car and holds him there with his arm, his other hand occupied between his legs.

It’s fast and desperate, no finesses, no clever tricks to drag things out and make it last, not today. Frank tangles his hands in Mikey’s hair and tugs him forward, holds him in place when he feels his cock hit the back of Mikey’s throat, only letting him pull back when he feels the flutter of Mikey trying to gasp for breath. Mikey doesn’t complain, just let’s Frank take what he wants how he wants it, and Frank knows there’ll be payback in his future for that but right now he doesn’t care.

Right now, right this very second, all the fear and drama of the day is forgotten, all thoughts of the future and what it may bring ignored. Frank’s world has narrowed down to the gritty-soft feel of Mikey’s hair between his fingers, the wet heat of Mikey’s mouth surrounding him, and the look in Mikey’s eyes as he stares up at Frank from his knees.

Frank knows there’s no place for ‘I love you’s’ in the life they lead, but as his hips buck against Mikey’s hold one last time, he says it anyway.

who says family doesn't kiss

themoononastick — Fri, 17 Sep 2010 21:08:56 GMT

I saw The Like play the The ICA in London on Wednesday. They were awesome and I want to see them again asap.

I took a bunch of photos - they're not the greatest because my camera is not the biggest fan of dark places

They're mostly of Z and Laena because Annie and Tennessee were too far away.

Interesting fact for those who collect canon info: Z announced that it was her and Tennessee's 9 year anniversary on Wednesday, which means they met on September 15th 2001.

Fic: and I feel fine (Mikey/Ryan, Gen)

themoononastick — Fri, 19 Feb 2010 19:20:42 GMT

So, ages ago I asked people for ficlet prompts and I actually have a bunch of them half-finished and at the top of my to do list, but I maybe should have mentioned at the time that I'm the slowest of all slow writers to ever be slow.

In said long dim distant past turps33 asked for 'Mikey and Ryan being friends' and because she's awesome and it was her birthday yesterday I thought I'd make an attempt at getting hers finished in time to post it as a b'day offering. Um, it should probably also be noted that I suck at deadlines /o\

Anyways, all that aside... Happy (belated) Birthday, turps33! ♥♥♥

Title: and I feel fine.
(vaguely implied) Pairing: Mikey/Ryan
Rating: Gen
Word count: 2180
Summary: After the apocalypse, Ryan meets a new friend.
Warning: Post-apocalypse fic. Non-graphic mention of the offscreen death of a minor character. If you would prefer to know who dies before you read the story please highlight the following text: Alex Greenwald.

Thanks and all the cuddles in the world to cmonkatiekatie for the beta.

Ryan stopped trying to keep track of the days two weeks after the power flickered out and never came back on again. It seemed somehow trivial to know whether it was a Tuesday or a Sunday when it was more important to know if he could scavenge enough food to survive in the empty apartment block or if he’d finally have to venture outside into the now unfamiliar streets.

He wasn’t sure how much time passed as he sat there wrapped in blankets to ward off the chill of a slowly dying city, listening to the rough rhythm of Alex’s breathing as he coughed and wheezed and muttered in his sleep. Outside the windows smoke hung in the air like fog, creeping thick and heavy from fires that went unattended because there was no one left to put them out. Ryan fell asleep at night to the sounds of screams and crying, and woke up the same way.

The morning that Ryan woke up to silence was the morning he knew it was time to leave. He picked up the case he’d packed a week ago and the backpack full of what remained of his scavenged food, then walked out of the apartment and down the stairs to the street without looking back. He had a feeling that if he did he would lose his nerve and never find it again.

~

Ryan had a half dozen sets of car keys that he’d picked up from bowls by doors and from kitchen tables as he’d hunted through the apartment block for food. Each one had a little square of plastic attached with a button in the center to turn off an alarm. He’d never paid much attention to what cars Alex’s neighbours drove but he figured he’d know which was which by the flash of the headlights and the beep of the disengaging alarm.

He worked through them one by one, standing on the steps of the building, pointing the little squares in every direction until he was sure there was no car nearby that would answer the invisible call. He was on to the last one, the step beneath him littered with discarded keys, almost resigned to having to walk his way out of Manhattan, when he heard the beep of an alarm echo loud in the too silent street. He turned to look in time to see the last flash of headlights on one of those too large SUVs he always thought looked ridiculous crawling through the downtown traffic. But it didn’t look ridiculous now, it looked like shelter and a bed for the night and escape all rolled in to one shiny black package.

Ryan grabbed his bags, took one last look at the street and hurried to the car. He didn’t know if the noise had attracted attention or if it had what kind, and he had no intention of hanging around to find out.

~

Manhattan’s streets were clear and empty. The end had been slow and stealthy, no sudden event to cause a mass exodus that would have ended in a gridlock of abandoned vehicles. By the time people had begun to realise how bad things were, travel was already restricted and the curfew was in place. And by the time the survivors realised there was no one left to enforce the restrictions there was nowhere left to go.

Ryan tried to see that as a positive thing, tried to focus on how it made getting out of the city easier than he feared it might have been. He kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead of him and very carefully did not look at the stores and cafés and apartment blocks as he passed them by, or think about the people lying dead inside them.

And as he made his way across the Washington Bridge he tried not to think about how much gas he had left or what he would do when it ran out. He figured he’d just find another car and then another after that. Make his way across the country by hopping from one ride to the next, like hitchhiking but without the company.

~

Ryan talked to Alex as he drove, even though he’d left him far behind; laid out like a sacrifice to an absent god on the cold metal of a fire escape with pennies resting on his eyelids.

"Carrion for the crows." Alex whispered in his head, "Sounds like a lyric, man, you should write that down."

Ryan snorted and rolled his eyes even though there was no one to see him do it. He felt less alone with Alex whispering to him all the time. More crazy sure, but right now Ryan was willing to take crazy over the wave of isolation that was threatening to overwhelm him.

And anyway, Alex had never stopped talking in life, so it made sense that he wouldn’t now he was dead.

~

He met the guy on the forecourt of a cheap motel just outside of Newark.

Ryan had been aiming for the gas station a little further down the block but the engine had started spluttering and cutting out before he could get that far. He’d pulled in thinking he could maybe find a hose and steal some gas from one of the cars that still sat parked neatly outside of the motel’s rooms.

The guy was walking towards one of the rooms, his hands full of plastic bags from the convenience store across the lot. It looked so normal, so mundane, that Ryan blinked a few times just to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating.

"Dude's hot, in a geeky kind of way." Alex whispered in his head.

Ryan muttered, "Shut the fuck up, asshole." under his breath, and then moved to lean against the hood of the car to get a better look.

Alex laughed. "Oh man, the world's in its final death throes and you're still thinking with your dick."

Ryan ignored him.

The guy didn't notice him at first, too lost in his own world to see anything outside of it. It gave Ryan a chance to take in the little details, like the way he walked with an awkward kind of graceless gait like he was one step away from tripping over his own feet. Ryan couldn't help but smile at that, he recognised the signs of someone who'd been hit with a growth spurt before he was ready for it and had never really managed to fully regain his balance. Ryan knew that feeling all too well.

It was that, the tiny shared connection, that made Ryan move away from the relative safety of his car and plaster his best 'I'm mostly harmless' smile on his face when the guy finally noticed him and stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes open shock-wide and his bags swinging by his sides like they hadn't noticed the lack of forward momentum.

Ryan lifted a hand in a half-hearted wave and said, "Hi." It wasn't the greatest of openers but Ryan had been alone for a while now and he'd kind of forgotten how to have a conversation that wasn't in his head.

"Hi." The guy made an equally abortive attempt at a wave then nodded his head in the direction of Ryan's car. "That yours?"

"Yeah, but," Ryan shrugged his shoulders, "I'm out of gas."

"Where're you headed?"

"L.A." Ryan said, "via Chicago"

The guy nodded again and said. "Me too. You have family there?"

"Friends. In both places. You?"

"Friends in Chicago, brother in L.A. I need to know if…" The guy paused like he was searching for the right way to say what they were both thinking. Eventually he just sighed and said. "I just need to know."

Ryan understood that, the urge to find out if the people who meant the most were dead or alive. He needed to know if Jon was holed up somewhere with his cats and his dog, and maybe, hopefully, Tom to keep him company. He needed to know if Spencer was alive and sitting on a beach in L.A. waiting for the perfect wave.

Ryan tried not to think about how the last time he spoke to Spencer it ended in an argument that they never had time to resolve. The thought of Spencer never knowing he didn’t mean any of the stupid spiteful things he’d said in the heat of the moment was too hard to even consider.

The guy was staring at him, his head tilted a little to the side, like he was sizing Ryan up and trying to make a decision about him. Ryan had the sudden urge to stand a little straighter, or maybe raise his hand like a kid in gym class and shout out, "pick me! pick me!" He managed to not do either, but it was a close call.

After what seemed like hours but was probably more like the span of a few seconds, the guy seemed to make up his mind, because he pointed towards the motel and said, "This place has a back-up generator that still has some power in it. I was going to heat up some food if you're hungry."

Ryan thought about his backpack full of dried out crackers and half-eaten bags of stale potato chips and tried to remember the last time he'd eaten hot food.

"Ask him if there's a movie to go with the dinner date." Alex whispered.

Ryan hissed at him to shut up. Then realised he must have said it aloud because the guys' eyes flared wide.

"No, not you. I was telling my friend Alex to shut up." Ryan flailed his hands a little as the guy arched an eyebrow in question. "He's...not here. It's just I. I talk to him sometimes. In my head."

The guy smiled a little and shrugged a shoulder. "I talk to Gerard all the time. My brother. The one who lives in L.A." Then he gestured towards the motel again. "So. Food. You coming?"

Alex sniggered, Ryan ignored him. Instead he nodded and said, "Yeah. Please."

~

The guy's name was Mikey and he was from New Jersey. He'd been due to fly out to Chicago with some friends to visit another guy they all knew but he'd been delayed and they'd gone without him. He'd planned to take a later flight but the travel restrictions had been imposed and he'd been stuck waiting in the motel while the world fell apart outside the doors. He'd been alone ever since.

Mikey was kind of quiet, but Ryan didn't mind that, he was pretty quiet himself a lot of the time. Mikey also had a wicked, dry sense of humor, and he was happy to share his stash of microwave meals and cans of soda with Ryan. Most importantly he revealed that he'd used to work in a gas station part time back in High School and he knew how to work the manual pump that meant Ryan could fill up his tank. The only reason Mikey was still stuck at the motel and not out on the road was that he hadn't been able to find keys for any of the cars outside and hotwiring was a lot harder than it looked in the movies.

Ryan figured there was only one decent thing to do to repay Mikey for the food and the company, so he said, "Chicago's like a twelve hour drive from here, right?"

Mikey nodded in agreement.

"If we share the driving we could make it in a day."

Ryan waited while Mikey thought his suggestion over.

"I could be a serial killer for all you know." Mikey said, completely deadpan like he was going to be testing Ryan on his reaction.

Ryan considered the evidence for a moment then said. "So could I."

Mikey smiled and said, "Fair point." Then he added, "We should wait till the morning to leave, though, it's getting kind of late and we haven't had dessert yet."

Ryan looked at the packet of Twinkies Mikey produced from one of his bags and smiled back.

"Dessert's pretty important."

Mikey's smile grew wider. "It really is."

~

In the morning, once they'd packed Mikey's things into the car, pushed it to the gas station and managed to fill the tank and a couple of spare gas canisters they found in the gas station store, they flipped a coin for who would take the first driving shift.

As he settled himself behind the wheel, Ryan turned to Mikey and said, "For the record, I'm not a serial killer."

"Shame." Mikey said. "It would have made for a more interesting trip."

"Hey!" Ryan said. "Are you saying I'm boring?"

Mikey smiled. "Nah, from what I've seen so far you're anything but."

In Ryan's head Alex started laughing, but Ryan just smiled and said, "You're not so bad yourself."

Fic: I want to spend the rest of my life everywhere...

themoononastick — Thu, 10 Dec 2009 21:35:01 GMT

Title: I want to spend the rest of my life everywhere, with everyone, one on one, always, forever, now.
Pairings: Ryan/Spencer. Ryan/Alex, Ryan/Z, Ryan/Jon.
Word count: 17,200
Rating: R
Warnings: None
Summary: Four interconnected tales of life, love and fortune cookies. Future fic.
Disclaimer: Not real.
Author's Notes: Written for marksykins for the drawn_to holiday exchange. Happy holidays! I hope you like it. Much love to cmonkatiekatie, cynthia_arrow and feelforfaith for the beta, and to foxxcub for organising the exchange. <333 Title stolen from Damien Hirst.

I want to spend the rest of my life everywhere, with everyone, one on one, always, forever, now.

One of Ryan’s earliest memories is of sitting at the breakfast bar in the kitchen of the house he grew up in, listening to his dad talk, for what seemed like hours, about love.

A lot of what his dad said went over his head; he was too young to understand the meaning let alone the emotion of his dad’s increasingly angry words. Mostly what Ryan remembers is the off tempo thump the heels of his shoes made as he swung his feet against the metal legs of the stool he was perched on. But some of the key phrases, the things his dad repeated over and over again, sunk in: leave them before they leave you; nothing lasts forever so don’t kid yourself that it will; love is just a word people use when they don't want to be alone.

He can remember telling Spencer all about it the next day, carefully repeating his dad’s words as they sat in the relative cool of the shaded deck in Spencer’s backyard.

At first Spencer’s eyes had widened in surprise, but then his eyebrows had drawn together until they’d knotted into a perfect v in the middle of his forehead.

"But that’s not true," Spencer said. "My mom and dad have been together for ever so it can’t be."

Ryan thought that over, weighing the evidence as Spencer presented it against the truth as told by his dad.

"But what if it is?"

"My mom says your dad’s just sad and that sometimes he says stuff that isn’t true because of it."

"I guess."

"And anyway it can’t be true because we’re going to be together for ever, so your dad must be lying."

Ryan wanted to say that it wasn’t the same thing, that the kind of love his dad was talking about was different than what Spencer was talking about. But then he remembered what he’d drawn in class a week ago when his teacher had asked them to show what they wanted to do when they grew up. His picture had been of him and Spencer on a plane travelling the world, and Ryan thought, yeah, maybe Spencer was right after all.

So instead he shrugged and said, "Wanna go look at the dead raccoon in Mrs Peabody’s yard?"

*****

...the warm little center that the life of this world crowded around.

Things are easy with Alex.There are no promises being made and no drama because of them. They just pick things up and drop them again depending on where they are and what mood they're in. Ryan likes that; he likes easy and he likes Alex, but mostly he likes the idea that he could say let’s not do this any more and Alex would just shrug and say okay.

Ryan's been in New York for three weeks now, maybe closer to four. The days and nights are blurring into each other like they have a tendency to do when he spends time with Alex, and Ryan's lost track of the passing of time somewhere along the way. He'd only meant to stay for a few days, long enough to do some last bits of promotion for the album - an interview or two, an appearance on Alexa's show - and then he was due to fly back, but Alex said, "Stay a while" and there was nothing on the schedule for a month or so, so Ryan stayed.

Tonight, like every night since Ryan stepped off the plane at JFK, they're out on the town, partying for the sake of being seen just like everyone else they know. It’s early yet, barely past midnight, and the party isn’t even half way to being in full swing, but the apartment is already crowded enough that getting from one side of the room to the other is an exercise in weaving between bodies and stilted half-conversations accompanied by an oh-hey-I-know-you smile.

This is the early shift, the people who are just starting off their night, using the party to hunt out the best places to go; the hottest clubs, the coolest bars, the spots where the in-crowd are gathering for the night. They’ll be replaced later by an influx stopping in on their way home, grabbing one final drink before pouring themselves into a cab and then into bed. It’s like a tidal flow washing in and out, then in again, leaving the flotsam and jetsam of the party scene in its wake. The party as a living organism that swells and ebbs depending on the hour and the pull of the moon.

In the center of it all is Gabe, playing the role of the host like he was born to do it. And maybe he was. It takes a force of nature to convince a room full of New Yorkers normally more interested in being seen in the right places to forget about what’s hot and who’s not and give in to the absurdity of celebrating Christmas in July. But the paper crowns on heads and tinsel draped around shoulders is proof enough of Gabe’s abilities at work, and at play.

Ryan navigates the crowd with an ease he knows he wouldn’t have felt a year or two ago. Hell, he maybe wouldn’t have felt it yesterday. Tonight, though, tonight he feels comfortable in his own skin, happy to return the smiles and brief hellos that come his way without over-thinking every word he says and playing back the responses in his head over and over again.

It helps that he knows enough people, or, if he’s being honest with himself, that he knows the right people in New York that he feels like he belongs here in this room with the rest of its inhabitants. L.A. may be the place he calls home. But he still feels like an interloper there, like the plus one on an invitation rather than the name. New York is a better fit, but no matter how many times Alex tries to convince him to move here Ryan knows he never will. Being comfortable has never suited him all that well.

Ryan makes it back to the spot he picked out earlier, by the windows that are flung wide open to give the illusion of letting in some air. The heat of the afternoon that stripped the streets of the morning’s rain has left the night air muggy and close with hardly a breeze to stir the gaudy decorations that adorn the room, but there’s enough of one to stop Ryan from wishing he’d picked a lighter jacket for the night.

From his perch on the windowsill Ryan nurses his drink and watches people interact, creating stories for faces in the crowd in his head. It’s a hangover from long, hot summer days that he and Spencer used to pass sitting in a diner on the edge of the Strip, giggling over milkshakes as they made up identities for the tourists who wandered by. It's childish and kind of silly, but it's something Ryan never gets tired of doing.

If Spencer were here he'd tell him how the girl in the red dress with blonde hair twisted and teased into a carefully constructed casual ‘mess’ and the tall, skinny guy she’s talking to are high school sweethearts who haven’t seen each other since graduation, busy rekindling their old flame. And that the couple in the corner are just back from a romantic getaway that was a last-ditch attempt to save their relationship. Or maybe that the shy looking guy standing by the drinks table is new in town and overwhelmed by the bright lights of a big city.

Ryan kind of wishes Spencer were here. He pulls his phone from his pocket meaning to text him, but a sudden burst of noise, loud and discordant above the background hum of the party, draws his attention away.

Gabe is standing in the doorway dressed in a Santa suit made of something shiny and shimmering, trimmed with a million sequins that flash as they catch the light. He’s flanked on either side by two girls in red bikinis with white fake fur trim, and there’s a weird looking guy just off to the side dressed as an elf and carrying an oversized top hat.

It’s ridiculous, and perfect, and perfectly Gabe, and Ryan laughs so hard that tears begin to prick at the corners of his eyes. When he’s recovered enough that he can breathe again he pushes forward through the crowd with his phone in his hand. He breaks through to open space in time to take a picture of Alex sitting on Gabe’s lap, their matching grins illuminated by the lights of the tree. Ryan winks at Alex then posts the picture to twitter with the caption "seasons greetings" as the crowd moves around him and swallows him up again.

~

Ryan isn’t sure why he does it, maybe he’s in a whimsical mood, or maybe being surrounded by couples smiling at each other and having fun is making him a little wistful, but when the guy in the elf costume is standing in front of him, passing him paper and a pen and asking what he wants for Christmas, Ryan takes the pen, smooths the paper out on the windowsill, and neatly writes “love” before folding the paper once, twice and dropping it in the hat. It wasn't the first thought that came into his head, but Ryan knows the thing that was is something he can never have.

He forgets about it almost as soon as he’s done because Alex appears by his side telling him about a club they absolutely have to go to and a bar they need to stop by on the way. Ryan drains his drink and follows Alex to the door. He lets Gabe pull him under the mistletoe on the way out for old time’s sake.

The night blurs into a kaleidoscope of cab rides through streets lit up like daylight in the middle of the night, of shouted conversations over too loud music, and smoke breaks in alleyways hidden behind bars. Ryan forgets each place they visit as soon as they leave. This isn’t a night for making memories, it’s one of elusive moments and brief connections. Ryan lets the world flow around him but keeps track of Alex in his peripheral vision, watching out for the signal that it’s time to leave.

In the relative quiet of a VIP section in some exclusive club Ryan feels the buzz of his phone in his pocket. There’s a reply from Spencer on his twitter feed – "feliz navidad!" - and Ryan scrolls through his contacts and hits ‘call’ without thinking of what time it is.

Spencer sounds drunk on too little sleep when he answers. He’s in Spain, tomorrow he’ll be in France, Italy the next day. Spencer hasn’t had time to adjust to the time difference and his brain is telling him to sleep all day and its keeping him awake through the night. Ryan wonders if his body and mind are acting in sympathy with Spencer’s; he hasn’t seen daylight other than the dawn in weeks. But then that’s no different from normal, so maybe it’s Spencer that’s in tune with him.

Spencer tells him tales of touring, snapshot flashes of festival crowds and backstage celebrations, and Ryan listens without his usual pang of jealousy. The anxiety of separation is long gone and Ryan has a tour of his own a couple of months away, but normally conversations like this leave him with a sense of missing…something that he can never quite put a name to. But not tonight. Tonight Ryan is buzzed on being buzzed, half drunk on the world and half on the drink in his hand, and all he can do is smile at the stories Spencer tells.

They talk until Ryan sees Alex wave for his attention and nod towards the door. He tells Spencer goodnight or good morning and to get some sleep, then ends the call and follows Alex into the early morning light.

They get pancakes and coffee in a diner by Times Square filled with people grabbing breakfast on their way to work. Then it’s another cab ride back to Alex’s apartment and the final stumble into bed. Ryan lets Alex spread him out across the sheets, arches up as Alex pins his arms above his head, hands strong and sure around Ryan’s wrists, gives himself over to the slow, lazy grind of skin against skin as the sun starts to stream through the windows, illuminating the scene.

~

Ryan wakes up late in the afternoon to an empty bed and the sounds of the upstairs neighbor's stereo filtering down through the ceiling. It's hot in the apartment and Ryan feels sweat-sticky and in desperate need of a decent shower and he winces at the thought of the anemic trickle that passes for water pressure in Alex's bathroom. Ryan thinks maybe it's time to go home.

He doesn't bother getting dressed. It's too hot and all the clothes he has with him are night-time clothes, things to be seen in not things to laze around the apartment in trying not to wilt from the heat. Instead Ryan pulls one of the sheets from the bed round his shoulders like a cape and wanders to the bathroom trying not to trip on the loose material that flaps round his feet.

He takes a piss, brushes his teeth, then spends a little too long staring at his reflection in the mirror, trying to chase the dark shadows under his eyes away through sheer force of will. It doesn't work, it never does no matter how many times he tries it, and he's been trying it for years. He thinks if Spencer were here he would roll his eyes and tell him to go back to bed and not get up again until he looks less like he's halfway dead. Ryan sticks his tongue out at Spencer's voice in his head and laughs to himself when his reflection does the same right back at him.

Ryan finishes up then goes to the kitchen to look for something to eat. There's a note from Alex stuck to the coffee pot that says he's at the studio and he'll be back later and that Ryan should give him a call if he gets bored. Ryan peels the note off and pours himself a cup. The coffee is barely lukewarm and overstewed, but it's liquid and it's caffeine and Ryan doesn't have the energy yet to make any more.

The remnants of last night's take-out are in the refrigerator so Ryan grabs a fork and Alex's laptop and takes the whole lot back to bed. The noodles are cold and greasy, slippery and hard to eat sitting as he is propped up against the pillows with his phone cradled between his shoulder and his ear, on hold with the airline. The operator asks how she can help him just as he's shoveling the last of the noodles into his mouth, and Ryan has to mumble out apologies through his mouthful, swallowing it half chewed so he can speak. The woman sounds bored, like she has a million and one better things to do than deal with his call, but she's efficient, booking him on to a flight the next day and moving on to the next call before he's finished thanking her for her help.

Ryan texts, "customer disservice gets better every day. see you tomorrow LA" to twitter then thinks about going outside and getting some fresh air. He settles for a nap instead. It seems like the easier option.

As he's wriggling around trying to get comfortable, Ryan hears a rustle and then a crunching sound and feels something digging into his hip. It's a fortune cookie, broken into pieces but still in its wrapper, the little paper motto creased and folded and surrounded by crumbs. Ryan pops the cellophane and shakes the bits of ruined cookie into his hand, stuffing them into his mouth as he smoothes the paper out.

The fortune says, "You will find love with a good friend," and Ryan laughs a little cynically, thinking through the list of people it could refer to in his head and crossing them off one by one. He keeps it anyway, tucking it into his wallet between a picture of him and Spencer when they were kids and his parking stub from LAX. Then he settles back down again and goes to sleep.

~

When Alex gets home Ryan’s up and dressed, sitting curled up on the couch reading a book he found propping open the door to the spare room that no one ever uses. It’s one of those popular science books in which an author with a whole list of letters after his or her name attempts to explain a grand theory in words the average man on the street can understand; it’s interesting but kind of dry and it’s not really holding his attention, but Ryan keeps turning the page anyway.

"Hey." Alex is leaning against the door frame, a fond little smile on his face. "You wanna do something tonight?"

Ryan's attention is more than half on the book in his hands and less than a quarter on what Alex is asking him. "Huh?"

"Last night in NYC, dude. We should go out and paint the town a whole new shade of red."

Ryan is pretty sure they’ve worked their way through the red spectrum already, and maybe covered orange as well.

"Or, hey," Alex continues, "we could paint the town purple, or chartreuse, maybe indigo. Whatdya think, Ross?"

"I dunno." Ryan shrugs, he has an early flight to catch tomorrow. Or, okay, he has a flight to catch in the afternoon, but that's early for him. "I kind of want to stay in."

"Staying in as the new going out." Alex flops down on the couch beside him, his ever present phone already in his hand. "I like it. I'll make some calls, see if anyone wants to come hang out."

"I thought maybe we could... you know, hang out, just the two of us."

"Oh, it's a romantic night in, I get it now." Alex grins up at Ryan from his lap. "Wait, wait, are you gonna ask me to go steady? Is that what this is about? Because I gotta say, Ry, it's kinda sudden, I mean, I'd hoped the day would come but..."

Ryan is momentarily speechless, too busy trying to read Alex's expression to see if he's kidding or not to form actual words. Instead he just flails his hands around like maybe he's hoping to grab some words out of the air.

Alex cracks up, folding over double and burying his face in Ryan's thigh before sitting up again and wiping a hand at his eyes like he's clearing away tears of laughter.

"Dude! You should see your face! I was kidding, man, I know you don't do the commitment thing, and that's fine, neither do I. That's why this works."

Ryan gives Alex his best glare, the one he saves for special occasions, hoping it will detract from the way his face is heating up with embarrassment. "Fuck you, I do commitment."

Alex snorts, so Ryan punches him in the arm. "Maybe I'm committed to not being committed, did you ever think about that?"

"Well," Alex says, "when you put it that way, want to come show me how committed you are?"

Ryan rolls his eyes, but he lets Alex pull him to the bedroom anyway.

~

Later, when Ryan is loose-limbed and hazy, he opens his eyes and finds Alex propped up on one elbow watching him. It's kind of creepy, and Ryan has to fight the urge to squirm under Alex's gaze.

"What?" Ryan narrows his eyes. "Did you draw on my face while I was asleep?"

Alex smiles. "Nah, I was just lying here trying to figure you out."

"Good luck with that. If you manage it, let me know, I could use the insight."

"Couldn't we all. Seriously, dude," Alex pushes at Ryan's shoulder, "you're like the most complicated guy I know."

"I'm not that bad."

"You're kidding, right?"

"Just..." Ryan rolls away, sitting up and pulling at the sheet until he can wrap it around his waist. He hates conversations like this; they make him itchy and uncomfortable. "Stop with the psychoanalyzing and order me some food. I'm hungry."

Alex snorts. "You're also the most demanding guy I know."

"Shut up and pick up the phone." Ryan kneels his way across the bed, inching his hand slowly up the inside of Alex's thigh. "I'll make it worth your while."

~

They both sleep through the alarm, barely waking up in time to get to the airport. Ryan feels achy and like he needs at least a week's more sleep, sitting in the back of a cab with his bags at his feet and Alex slumped against his side. New York passes by the windows in a blur of people and sun-soaked streets, and Ryan thinks that he could spend years here and not ever really get to know even half of the city enough to call it home.

They reach JFK with only half an hour to spare until check in for his flight closes. Alex gives the cabbie an extra ten to circle round and come pick him up again, then walks Ryan inside. The chill of the air conditioning inside the terminal feels like a godsend against the heat of the day, and Ryan can feel himself starting to relax into travelling mode as he walks over to his check-in desk.

When he's got his boarding pass in hand, Alex pulls him into a hug, arms holding him tight as he says, "See you soon, Ryan Ross."

Ryan holds on just as tight for a minute, then steps back, smiling wide. "Not if I see you first."

Ryan walks through the security checkpoint without looking back, his thoughts already turned toward L.A.

*****

Ryan can still remember the first time he looked at Spencer and felt something more than just friendship. They were shooting hoops in Spencer’s front yard and Spencer turned after throwing a perfect shot, a wide grin stretched across his face as he threw his arms up in victory.

Spencer was haloed by the light from the setting sun reflected in the windows behind him, a golden glow that seemed to shimmer and dance and highlight the sliver of skin exposed between his shirt and his jeans.

For a moment Ryan was frozen by the fluttering buzzing feeling that started in his chest and spread out across his skin.

"You okay?" Spencer asked.

"What? Yeah. I, um," Ryan desperately tried to think of a lie to cover the thoughts swirling in his head. "I was just thinking about Jessica, that girl I told you about in my math class."

Spencer’s lip curled up in disgust. "Why would you be thinking about a girl?"

"I dunno, she’s nice, pretty, you know."

"Girl’s are dumb. Like my sisters, always wanting to play with dolls and not wanting to play real games in case they get dirty."

"I think about kissing her sometimes, just to find out what it would be like."

Spencer didn't say anything, he just looked at Ryan like Ryan had gone temporarily insane then turned back to the hoop to line up another shot.

Ryan had just started Junior High, Spencer was still in Elementary. It was the only time that Ryan can remember feeling the difference in his and Spencer’s ages.

*****

A truly rich life contains love and art in abundance.

They’re in one of L.A.’s seemingly endless number of tiny clubs, hidden at a table in the back in a room full of people caught between careful affectations of ennui and actual boredom. On stage a man in yellow jumpsuit and purple wig is singing operatic covers of eighties pop anthems, while a woman in a ball gown and tiara accompanies him on cello. Badly.

Ryan tilts his head to one side then the other, drains the last drops from his glass then hold it up so he can watch the stage through its base. The image is distorted, the stage lights spanning out in a kaleidoscope of rainbow tints, but it doesn’t make the performance any easier to listen to.

"So, is this ironic, post-modern, or just pretentious shit?" Ryan looks over at Z and smiles as she scrunches up her face, play acting at deep thought.

Z raises her hand like a kid in a classroom. "This is just a guess, but I’m gonna go with c."

Ryan grins and nods his agreement. He can’t even remember why they decided to catch this show. He thinks maybe it was at the suggestion of the weird hippie woman who runs the whole food store in the canyon. Or maybe not, it might have been Runion’s idea of a joke to send them here. Ryan kind of wishes he could remember, just so he can make a mental note not to listen to whoever it was again.

Ryan contemplates getting another round of drinks, but he’s driving tonight and he’s fairly sure he’s already at his limit. The entertainment might be bad but it’s not worth losing his license over. Instead he sighs, rolls some of the kinks out of his neck and stares at the ceiling over the stage, trying to will it to fall down and end everyone’s misery.

When Z leans over and whispers, "You want to get out of here?" in his ear, Ryan is on his feet and pulling her up with him before the "fuck yeah" has even left his lips.

It's still early and outside the sidewalk is busy. People bustle by them in groups, moving from one club to another, laughing and talking as they navigate the night.

Ryan slings an arm round Z’s shoulder and steers her towards where his car is parked on a side street. She’s humming a song under her breath, quiet enough that he can’t quite catch what it is, but he taps out the beat against her collar bone anyway.

He feels restless, not ready to end the night but not sure of where he wants to go next. It’s too late to find another, better show, but too early to find a decent club. Plus he’s not really in the mood for a club anyway, doesn’t want to deal with a mass of people, and if he wants to drink he’ll need to find somewhere safe to leave his car for the night.

When they get to the car Z ducks out from under his arm and spins around, leaning back against the door. "You should take me somewhere for waffles."

Ryan purses his lips and raises an eyebrow. "Yeah? What’s in it for me?"

Z laughs. "The pleasure of my company, jackass. We can go to that fifties place on Sunset. You know you love it there."

Ryan pretends to think it over but he already knows he’s going to give in.

~

"Ooh, there's an exhibition at the Circus Gallery that looks kind of neat. You wanna go sometime?" Z's flipping through a magazine someone left on a table that she managed to grab before the waitress took it away.

Ryan peers over at the picture she's pointing at. It looks interesting, he guesses, more Z's things than his, but still. "Yeah, sure. When are you guys heading out?"

Z bites her lip as she thinks. Ryan can't help but stare at the way red turns white under her teeth.

"Ten days."

Ryan nods his head. "Okay. We can go sometime next week if you want."

"Yay!" Z beams across the table at him then goes back to reading her magazine.

Ryan looks round the diner. It's maybe half full, mostly clubbers filling up on coffee while they wait for the right time to make their entrance at whatever club they're heading to tonight. Ryan thinks maybe he'd like to own a diner someday. He likes the idea of always having people to watch. And maybe he'd have regulars who'd tell him stories of their days, and he could tell them all about his life on the road in return.

It's a nice dream. Ryan files it away for later in the part of his mind that's saved for future plans.

Across the table Z checks her watch for what seems like the hundredth time this evening. Ryan wonders if she has somewhere she needs to be, or someone she needs to meet. He hopes not. He was hoping she'd come back to his house and spend the night, but if she's got plans maybe she won't.

Ryan sips at his coffee and considers asking her. But if he does that then he'll know and maybe he'll be disappointed and he'd rather not be just yet.

Z closes the magazine and checks her watch again. She stretches then rolls her neck then arches an eyebrow. "It's nearly midnight. We should head back to your place."

Ryan manages to stop himself from grinning. But only just. "What happens at midnight? Are you going to turn in to a pumpkin?"

"I might, you never know." Z waggles her eyebrows, then stands up and holds out a hand. "Come on, jackass, take me home."

~

It takes Ryan a moment to realize that the sudden burst of noise is a room full of people yelling "Surprise!" and "Happy Birthday!" It takes him even longer to realize that they're yelling it at him.

He stands in the doorway holding tight to Z's hand, staring at the room full of people and trying to work out what they're doing here. He can see Mike and Tennessee and Laena and Chad and pretty much everyone else he knows in L.A. Ryan doesn't really get what's going on until Z kisses his cheek.

"It's after midnight, Ross, happy birthday."

Ryan turns to her, a huge grin on his face. "Is this why you kept looking at your watch? Wait, wait, is this why we went to see that shitty band?"

Z laughs then points across the room. "That was Runion's idea. You can blame him for that."

"Oh," Ryan says, "I will."

People start coming over to hug him or pat him on the back, each of them with a different part of the plan to tell him about. Ryan feels...he can't even describe it, he thinks maybe he's still a little in shock. He can't quite believe that all these people would go to this kind of trouble for him.

Ryan's looking round the room trying to work out who he hasn't spoken to yet when he's sees Spencer. He's hanging out on his own at the back of the room with a beer in his hand. He looks a little lost and a little awkward and Ryan thinks, oh yeah, he probably doesn't know all that many people here.

But mostly he thinks, "Fuck, I'm glad you're here."

Spencer sees him looking over and raises his hand in a self-conscious wave. Ryan grins then nods his head towards the door. Spencer pushes off the wall and walks over, grabbing a couple of beers on his way. Ryan really loves his best friend.

They head into Ryan's bedroom to escape the noise of the party. Someone's set up a karaoke machine in the lounge and Ryan hears the first strains of Love Shack as he closes his door. Spencer's already settled down cross-legged on Ryan's bed, so Ryan joins him, nodding his head in thanks when Spencer passes him a beer.

"This is really awesome." Ryan points his beer toward the door to indicate he means the party.

Spencer nods. "Yeah, it's pretty cool. I'm impressed that Z managed to keep it a secret from you."

"I know, right? I could never have done that."

"That's because you're the worst secret keeper in the world."

Ryan thinks that actually Spencer's statement is totally untrue. There are plenty of things about him that no one knows, even Spencer. But then Ryan guesses that's a different kind of secret.

"Z's nice," Spencer says. "She's cool, I like her."

"Did she invite you?" Ryan frowns because that isn't quite what he meant to say. "I mean, how did she get your number."

Spencer shrugs. "I don't know. I figure she just got it from your phone, but I'm glad she did,"

"Yeah. Me too."

"So hey, what's all that." Spencer points his beer at the pinboard on Ryan's wall.

Ryan laughs, a little embarrassed. "Okay, so, every time I get a fortune cookie the motto is the same: 'you will find love with a good friend'." Ryan doesn't have to look, he knows the words off by heart. "I started collecting them because no one believed me and..."

Ryan trails off and looks over at the board. There's about sixty or so mottos pinned to it. Delivered by a dozen different restaurants but showing the same eight words.

"I figure it must mean something."

Spencer arches an eyebrow and gives Ryan a look that says he thinks Ryan is an idiot. It's a look Ryan knows well.

"Yeah it means something," Spencer says, "It means you eat way too much take-out. Learn to cook, Ry, seriously."

Ryan pokes his tongue out at Spencer who stands up and heads for the door.

"You should probably get back out there, go spend some time with that cool girl of yours."

Ryan thinks Spencer is probably right. As usual. "You're hanging around, though, right?"

"Yeah." Spencer smiles. "I've got some time before I need to head home. Let's go watch the karaoke.

Ryan lets Spencer lead the way.

~

Ryan likes Sundays. Since he's been hanging out with Z, Sunday has become his favourite day of the week. He likes the routine of it, them sitting in bed, propped up on pillows, reading through the paper. He likes the late lunch and the long walk they take after it, and he likes getting back home and going back to bed.

Ryan thinks he could get used to this. Like really used to it, in a way that would mean he would miss it if it were gone. So maybe he should do something to make sure it happens every week and not just when they happen to have gone out together on a Saturday.

He watches Z for a moment, taking in the familiarity of the way she twirls a strand of hair round her finger as she reads, and the little crease in her forehead as she frowns at the words in front of her.

Ryan makes a decision and then doesn't give himself a chance to over-think it before he says.

"Move in with me"

Z looks up from the paper. "Hmm? What did you say?"

Ryan takes a deep breath. "I asked you to move in with me."

Z stares at him, open-mouthed in surprise. She doesn't smile. Ryan thinks that's probably a bad sign.

"Fuck." Z bites her lip. "You're serious."

Ryan tries to smile but he thinks it probably comes out pinched and awkward looking. "Yeah."

"No. Just...no." Z flaps a hand in the air then covers her mouth. She looks sad and apologetic and terrified. Ryan wishes he hadn't said anything. "We work okay like this, Ry, we don't need to change things."

"Why not?" He has to ask even though he knows he won't like the answer.

"Because," Z says, looking down at the paper again, "this way I can pretend like you won't break my heart."

"Hey, no, I was just being stupid. It was a dumb idea. Just..." Ryan looks anywhere but at Z. "Just ignore me."

*****

The longest time Ryan went without speaking to Spencer happened after they agreed on the split and lasted for exactly one month. For the first week Ryan was too busy convincing himself he’d done the right thing to notice. But then when he did it became this weird little internal war between the voice in his head that was telling him to call Spencer and the other voice that was telling him to wait for Spencer to call him.

It ended when Ryan came home one day and found Spencer sitting waiting for him on his doorstep. He'd hesistated before he'd gotten out of his car, and by the time he did Spencer was on his feet, staring at Ryan like he wanted a fight.

"Are we not friends any more?" Spencer had his hands clenched into fists and his shoulders squared. "Because I don’t remember agreeing to that."

"No," Ryan said, then flailed his hands as the look of shock and anger that had crossed Spencer's face. "I mean, yes. Fuck, I mean, sorry I’ve been busy."

Spencer waited a beat then punched Ryan on the arm. Hard. "Busy being an ass."

"Fuck you, Spence, you could have called me." Ryan knew he sounded whiny, but he didn't care.

Spencer didn't say anything. He just punched Ryan again in the exact same place.

"Ow, jesus, remember we had that talk about how I’m all thin and scrawny and you have to remember not to hit the same place twice in a row or else you'll leave a mark."

Spencer looked at this shoes and murmured. "Maybe I want to leave a mark."

For a brief second Ryan felt long dormant butterflies stirring to life and fluttering in his chest. But he was used to the feeling by then; it usually meant everything was going to be okay.

*****

in another life I’d be drenched in sweat with you

Los Angeles shines in the dark. Light from clubs and bars illuminates the streets and the sky above them, while out in the suburbs the glow of porch lights and televisions flickering through windows creates a state of perpetual twilight.

Ryan keeps his curtains closed against it most nights.

Ryan’s house feels too big with just him in it. Everyone he knows in L.A. is out of town, Z and Mike are out on tour, Jason’s at work in a studio somewhere down south, Spencer and Brendon are in Australia, even Eric who’s supposed to be home taking a break has gone to stay with a friend.

Ryan knows he could scroll through his phone and find someone to spend time with, but he also knows it would be end up being someone who’s more of an acquaintance than a friend, and right now that feels more like hard work than a fun way to spend his days.

Sometimes when Ryan looks in the mirror he feels like he’s fading away. The person staring back at him has dark shadows under his eyes from too many sleepless nights and pale, pale skin from sleeping the days away. He thinks that maybe the next time he looks the image will be a little more translucent, a little more indistinct. He worries that one day he’ll look and there’ll be nothing to see.

Ryan sits on the bathroom floor and writes a song about being alone in a room full of people; he tears it up as soon as he’s done. He burns the pieces one by one in an ashtray then crawls into bed, soot on his fingertips and the smell of burning paper on his clothes. He thinks maybe, if he’s lucky, he can sleep the days and nights away until it’s time to go on tour, a Rip Van Winkle for the twenty first century.

~

Ryan wakes up to the sound of someone moving stealthily around his room. Or at least trying to. What Jon actually does - and Ryan knows it’s Jon from the muttered “ow” when Jon stubs his toe on the leg of Ryan’s desk like he always does - is trip over the shoes that Ryan left just inside the door way, knock over a pile of books and papers Ryan had discarded on the chair by the desk, and then half sit, half stumble on to the bed beside Ryan.

Ryan carries on pretending like he is asleep. It seems wrong to let Jon know he’s about as stealthy as a drunken elephant.

"Wake up, sleepyhead."

Jon is leaning in close and whispering in Ryan's ear. It kind of tickles but Ryan fights the urge to twitch and continues to feign sleep.

"I know you’re awake, Ry, stop pretending." Jon flicks Ryan's ear and there's no way Ryan can pretend to sleep through that.

He rolls over and squints up at Jon, stifling a yawn. "I might be asleep, you might be a figment of my imagination and I’m still dreaming, there’s no real way to tell."

"If you’d really been asleep you would have punched me by now for waking you up. Ow! Quit it, Ross."

Ryan shrugs his shoulders. "Just checking you’re real."

"So," Jon says, "Eric called. He said you were being an emo dick and I should come do something about it before he murdered you and fed your body to the coyotes."

"Oh."

"C’mon, get your ass out of bed." Jon tugs at the sheets, trying to dislodge them from Ryan's grip. "I didn’t fly all the way from Chicago to sit in a darkened room and watch you pretend to be asleep."

Ryan tugs the sheet back, pulling it over his head for good measure. "You flew all the way from Chicago because the tour starts in L.A."

"That’s not for three days. I’m giving up precious time I could be spending at home to cheer your pathetic ass up, so get out of bed and look like you’re glad to see me." Jon wins the war of the sheet, pulling it clear off the bed and leaving Ryan lying on the mattress blinking up at the ceiling in defeat. "And, dude, take a shower, you reek."

When Ryan gets out of the shower he walks back into his bedroom and finds Jon curled up in his bed sound asleep. Ryan’s first instinct is to throw the wet towel he’s got draped round his neck in Jon’s face, but he manages to resist the impulse for revenge. Instead he grabs his phone and takes Jon’s picture, thinking he can maybe use it for blackmail purposes at a later date.

There’s not nearly enough light in his room to take a decent photo. Jon looks fuzzy and blurred, little more than a dark shape against Ryan’s dark sheets. But when he looks closely Ryan can see the way Jon has one hand tucked under the pillow and the other clutched in front of his body like he’s holding on to something in his dream.

Ryan towels his hair as dry as he can then crawls back in to bed. He spoons up against Jon, laughing quietly to himself when Jon murmurs, "Five more minutes", and throws an arm around Jon’s waist, sliding his hand up Jon’s chest until he can lock his fingers tight with Jon’s.

Ryan lies awake for a while, tucked in close enough to Jon that they’re sharing the same pillow, until slowly but surely the steady rhythm of Jon’s breathing lulls him back to sleep.

~

"So, is this the usual pre-tour freak out or is there something else bothering you?"

Jon reaches across the table and tugs at the menu Ryan is busy studying, making sure he has Ryan's attention as he speaks. Ryan bats his hand away with a huff and a frown. Sure, Jon's question is an important one, but it's not as important as choosing between the brunch special or the burger and fries with onion rings on the side.

They're sitting in a diner that overlooks the beach; it's one of Ryan's favorite places to eat, Jon's too when he visits, they've both come here often enough now that the staff know them by name. Ryan wonders idly if he could convince them to put his picture up on the wall behind the counter. He kind of likes the idea of seeing just how many of L.A.'s eating establishments he could get his face on the wall. Maybe it could be a contest between him and Pete. Although Pete would probably win just through being who he is, so maybe not. Ryan has never been all that keen on losing.

Jon's tapping his fingers on the table top in an irritated fashion, like he's getting bored waiting for Ryan's answer to his question.

Ryan considers leaving him hanging for a while longer, just for the fun of it, but then their waitress appears and Ryan has to stop himself from laughing out loud at how quickly Jon's demeanor changes. Jon goes from grumpy and irritable to charming in the blink of an eye, all wide smiles and sparkling eyes and by the time he's done ordering he's charmed free beers for the both of them from the dazed looking girl.

As she walks away to place their order Ryan kicks Jon under the table, rolling his eyes and saying, "You're such a flirt."

Jon laughs and leans forwards again. "What's the matter, Ry? Jealous? Don't worry, I'll flirt with you later."

"Yeah yeah," Ryan waves a dismissive hand in Jon's direction, "promises promises. You talk big but you never deliver."

"That's not what your mom said last night."

Jon leans back in his seat with a smug grin on his face. Ryan watches him with one eyebrow raised, waiting for the shoe to drop and Jon to realize his mistake.

It takes almost a minute, Ryan counts the seconds in his head so he knows it's at fifty two that the smile slips off Jon's face, and at fifty nine that he mutters, "Fuck", reaches for his wallet and slides a five dollar bill across the table.

Ryan pockets the money with a grin. "The 'your mom' tax was the best idea I ever had."

~

It's not until a day later when they're wandering around the farmers market in Woodland Hills that Jon brings up Ryan's mood again. Ryan isn't surprised that it took Jon so long; it's typical of the way Jon's mind works. He likes to ask a question then drop the subject, give whoever he's talking to time to think. Or maybe, Ryan surmises, that's just the way that Jon likes to handle him.

Ryan knows that his problem is mostly that he doesn't like being alone. He's not good at it, doesn't know how to keep himself busy or occupy his mind with anything other than increasingly dark and depressing thoughts. He knows that if he sat down with a therapist they'd probably tell him he has abandonment issues that stem from his childhood, but Ryan doesn't think that's true. He thinks it's more to do with the fact that right up until he moved to L.A and the cracks in the band turned into chasms he'd always been surrounded by people and he'd never really had to deal with being alone.

On his more honest days Ryan knows that by people he means Spencer, and that what he misses most is seeing him every day without fail. But Ryan also knows it was his decision, the itch under his skin to do something new that separated them. So he tends to not dwell on that chain of thought.

Another thing Ryan knows is that if he tells Jon the truth, if he confesses to being lonely amongst the millions of people in L.A. then Jon will feel guilty. Jon will shift the blame on to his own shoulders and drag it around with him, and a guilty Jon is a moody Jon, and Ryan doesn't want to deal with that today.

So instead he asks Jon about the other thing that's been playing on his mind.

"Do you really think this idea of having local bands support us at each show will work out okay?"

Jon turns his face up towards the sun, shielding his eyes with a hand. "I don't see why it won't. It'll generate local ticket sales at least, so there's that."

"But isn't it kind of gimmicky?" Ryan asks. Because that has kind of been worrying him.

Jon shrugs. "Yeah, I guess, but it's cheaper than having a band support the whole tour. Plus if they're assholes we only have to deal with them for one night."

"You make a good point, my friend."

"That's me, Jon 'good point' Walker, at your service." Jon slings an arm around Ryan's shoulders and leads him over to a stall selling homemade jewelery and trinkets. "You okay now? Is the crisis over?"

Ryan rests his head on Jon's shoulder and thinks it over. He does feel better than he did before Jon arrived. There's still a sense of something, or someone, missing, but it's a dull throb now and not a sharp pain, and faint enough that Ryan can lock it away in a corner of his mind and ignore it for a while.

"Yeah, I'm good. And, you know, thanks for coming to rescue me from myself. Again."

Jon doesn't say anything. He just drops his arm down to Ryan's waist and pulls him closer. Ryan does the same thing, adding a little squeeze of thanks, and they stand still in the bustle of the market for a while, watching the gemstones on the jewelery sparkle in the sun.

~

On the TV Jeremy Hilary Boob, PhD, is covering the Chief Meanie in roses. It's one of Ryan's favorite parts of Yellow Submarine but right now he's ignoring it. Right now, right this very second, Ryan is totally focused on the texture of Jon's beard. On the way it's soft under his fingertips but kind of spiky against his lips.

It's weird, Ryan thinks, that something can be soft and spiky at the same time. Or, wait, maybe it isn't. Maybe Jon's beard is an extension of Jon's personality, because Jon's kind of soft and warm and nice but he can be pretty spiky, too. So if Jon can be soft and spiky at the same time then it makes sense that his beard can be as well.

Ryan's really glad he's cleared that little conundrum up. Now that he's done that he can focus on the kissing instead.

Jon tastes like whiskey and weed, which is no surprise because he always tastes like whiskey and weed when Ryan kisses him. They only do this when they're stoned, and it never gets any further than just making out. It's not about getting each other off, it's more about chasing sensation and riding out the high together, nothing more and nothing less.

There was a time when they did do more than just make out. A time when Ryan knew every inch of Jon's skin like it was his own, when they spent hours, sometimes even days, in bed hiding from the world, trying to lose themselves in each other so they wouldn't have to think about the anger and the frustration and the sadness they were feeling.

It was good while it lasted. They were good together and the sex was great but they both knew it would come to an end. And Ryan knows it won't happen again. There are too many bad memories to go with the good for them to ever be something more than they are now.

But still he can't help the shiver that creeps across his skin as he remembers what it was like to have Jon stretched out beneath him. Jon's hands twisting in the sheets and his eyes squeezed shut as he urged Ryan to go harder, faster, to give him everything he had. And his heavy lidded smile afterwards as they lay tangled together beneath the sheets.

Ryan can't help but wonder what might have been.

Ryan breaks the kiss and sits back a little, running his tongue across his lip to follow the tingling left by Jon's beard. "Do you think that maybe, if things were different, we'd be together."

Jon looks confused. "We are together."

"No, I mean together together." Ryan pauses, thinking of a way to say what he means. "Like, married and living in Vermont with a couple of adopted kids and a yacht."

Jon's eyebrows knit together as he scrunches up his face. "Why would we have a yacht?"

"I don't know. I just want one."

"Oh okay. Just seems weird, you know."

"The yacht is not the point." Ryan says. "The point is, would you have moved to Vermont with me, gotten married and had kids?"

"If things were different."

"Yeah."

"I don't know if I'd want to live in Vermont." Jon scrubs a hand through his hair. "It's kind of far from Chicago."

Ryan laughs because you really can't take the boy out of Chicago. Period. "Answer the question, Jon."

"If things were different, then we'd be different." Jon reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind Ryan's ear. "I just...I guess I like how we are now."

Ryan thinks about it for a minute, weighing up the could have beens against the here and now. He figures Jon is right. If things had have been different then they might not even have met, and if they hadn't met then Ryan wouldn't have a band and he wouldn't have someone to kiss when he's high and all the yachts and adopted kids in the world don't seem as good as that.

"Yeah. Me too. Hey, I'm hungry, you wanna order chinese?"

~

The bus is due to pick them up in ten minutes and Ryan is looking round his bedroom trying to work out if there's anything he forgot to pack when he hears Jon shout. "Heads up."

He doesn't turn in time to catch whatever Jon threw at him. But chances are even if he had turned around in time he wouldn't have caught it anyway, so.

Jon laughs from his place in the doorway. "You need to work on your reflexes, Ross."

Ryan pokes his tongue out and leans down to pick the fortune cookie up from where it landed at his feet. He opens the wrapper and breaks a piece off, crunching on it happily as he gives his room one last look over.

He leaves the fortune unread on his desk as he walks out of the room. He already knows what it's going to say.

continued...

Fic: I want to spend the rest of my life everywhere... part 2

themoononastick — Thu, 10 Dec 2009 21:32:15 GMT

The night Ryan burned his guitar he slept in Spencer's bed. Partly because Spencer's room was right at the top of the stairs and his was all the way at the end of the corridor, a whole twenty feet or so away that Ryan had no desire or energy left to stagger to. And partly because Spencer's bed looked so neat and tidy with its pillows and blankets all arranged and perfect, and Ryan hadn't quite worked out all the destructive energy that was buzzing inside him that night.

He woke an hour or so after passing out to the feel of the bed dipping under another person's weight and the blankets he'd thrown on the floor being pulled up around his shoulders. Then an arm snaked round his waist and he felt the warmth of breath across skin as Spencer crowded in close, nuzzling the back of his neck.

Spencer smelled like weed and fresh air and he'd brought the chill of the night in with him. Ryan told himself that was the reason he shivered as Spencer's hand stroked across his chest.

"You're cold."

Spencer hummed in agreement. "Been on the roof. You okay?"

Ryan shrugged. "I'm quitting music. I'm gonna move to Paris and become a mime."

There was a snort of laughter and then Spencer asked, "Paris I get, but why a mime?"

"I'll never have to speak again. I can just tell my pathetic tale through exaggerated hand movements and sad faces."

"You're an idiot."

"Yep." Ryan paused. "You gonna come with me?"

"Duh, obviously." Ryan was sure he could hear the roll of Spencer's eyes.

Ryan had lain there for a while listening to the sound of Spencer's breathing evening out as he drifted off to sleep. And then when he'd thought it was safe to do so he tried to roll out from under Spencer's arm, meaning to get out of Spencer's bed and make the long walk to his own.

But Spencer just clung tighter, holding Ryan in place as he mumbled, "Where you going?" his voice thick with sleep.

"To my room. We're not kids any more, we're too old to share a bed."

"We'll never be too old, Ry," Spencer said. "Shut up and go to sleep."

*****

as long as you have love in your heart you’ll never be alone

Ryan would really like to know who thought it would be a good idea to tour the UK in December. It’s cold and wet, and the constant sullen grey of the sky seems to bleed into everything, like all the color has drained out of the world, leaving only shadows and monochrome behind.

It’s not much better when they’re off the bus and in the venues. The warren of backstage corridors is the same from city to city, all dark and foreboding, half lit by buzzing neon, with water lying on the floor where the rain has seeped inside on jackets and boots and puddled under discarded umbrellas. No matter how many layers he wears or how close he sits to the wheezing clunking radiators, Ryan can’t seem to get warm. Next year they’re spending December somewhere hot, even if Ryan has to sell his soul to make it happen.

The nights are good, though. They're playing pretty small venues but Ryan finds that he kind of likes it. He can see the crowd better, pick out the people who are singing along and watch the way they smile and clap and turn to each other mouthing, "This is my favorite song". Sure, it's a step down from the places they, he and Jon, used to play, and they're not making half as much money, but it's fun and Ryan's enjoying himself, and that's really all that matters when it comes down to it.

The only thing that doesn't feel quite right is... Okay, Than’s a good drummer and a great guy but Ryan still feels a weird disconnect when he turns around on stage and it’s not Spencer grinning back at him. It’s dumb, he should be used to it by now, it’s been two years and more than a hundred shows between them since he last shared a stage with Spencer, but the feeling of disappointment when he turns and Spencer’s not there never seems to go away.

Ryan figures that that, the nightly jolt of disappointment, is the reason for his dreams. Every night so far since they landed at Heathrow, Ryan has dreamt about Spencer. Most nights it's been memories of time they've spent together, like a greatest hits of their combined life playing out in his head. But some nights the dreams are hazier, more surreal and disjointed, just flashes of skin and heat, and a smile and pair of blue eyes that he'd recognize anywhere.

On those nights Ryan wakes up with his skin buzzing and his fingertips tingling like he can still feel Spencer's skin beneath them. It's like a sense memory of something he's never had and it's confusing the hell out of him. He hasn't dreamt or even thought about Spencer in that way since the first flush of hormones hit when he was a kid. Except he has, because the crush never went away. Ryan just learned to live with it and turn it into something he could deal with day to day, but even back when it started, his mind didn't torment him with images like the ones he sees when he closes his eyes night after night.

Ryan tries not to dwell too hard on what it might mean. It's not like Spencer ever liked him that way anyway, so it's easier just to lie in the dark of his bunk and listen to the road go by and try and go back to sleep.

~

"I think I'm going to call my new album 'Floccinaucinihilipilification." Alex says for no reason in particular.

Ryan puts down the magazine he's been flipping through and raises an eyebrow in question.

"It means 'to consider worthless', that way I'll get my shot in before the critics. Like a last laugh, only first." Alex looks pleased with himself.

Ryan just rolls his eyes and wonders how long it will take before Alex posts to Twitter. Sure enough his phone buzzes in his pocket a minute or so later; he doesn't bother checking it; he can see Alex laughing to himself in a corner with his phone in his hand.

They'd arrived at the night's venue way earlier than they needed to. Soundcheck isn't for a couple of hours and there's nothing for them to do. Ryan's bored, so so very bored. If the weather was better he'd maybe take a walk around the city, try and find a really tacky postcard to send Z or find a cafe he could sit in and watch people walk by. But it's raining, again, and Ryan's not in the mood to trudge through wet streets dodging umbrellas and getting splashed by passing cars.

Jon's hunched over his laptop, laughing to himself as he scrolls through whatever he's looking at. Chances are it's cat macros or an email from Tom, but it'll pass the time, so Ryan decides to investigate anyway.

Ryan slumps down on the couch next to Jon, resting his head on Jon's shoulder. He's kind of tired and Jon's warm and comfortable to lean on; Ryan thinks maybe he'll just take a nap and wake up when there's actually something to do.

Jon points at his screen, angling the laptop so Ryan can see. "Some of these are pretty funny."

"What are you looking at?"

"The replies to our 'ask us a question' thing on Twitter."

Ryan sits up a little and focuses on the screen. It's the replies feed on their The Young Veins Twitter account. About a week ago they'd posted to say they'd answer questions their fans left. Mainly it was to give them something to do at times like this and it seemed like a good idea at the time. Probably because there had been quite a lot of alcohol involved.

"Okay, hit me." Ryan's just bored enough to take an interest. "What do the best minds of a generation want to know?"

"Well..." Jon scrubs a hand through his hair and scrolls up and down the page a few times. "About fifty percent of them think either you suck or I do, or, you know, both of us."

"Good to know." Ryan grins ruefully. He's used to that kind of thing by now.

"And a whole bunch of people want us to play shows in a whole bunch of countries."

Ryan waves his hand for Jon to continue.

"And then there's, like, I don't know how many we'll need to get translated before we know what they say."

"So if we do that we'll know how to say 'you suck' in every language, yeah?"

Jon laughs and nods his head. "Yeah, probably."

"I thought you said they were good." Ryan's losing interest pretty quickly.

"I was getting to the good ones." Jon elbows Ryan in the side to make his point. Ryan jabs a finger under Jon's ribs in revenge.

"Think of this as truth or dare, but without the dare part. I'll ask a question, you have to answer it." Jon pauses, waiting for Ryan to agree.

Ryan thinks it over for a moment, then asks, "Are you going to post my answers?"

"Nah," Jon says, "we'll do that later. Maybe."

Ryan says, "Okay. Fire away."

"If you had to spend the rest of your life stuck on an island with only one other person, who would it be?"

Ryan doesn’t even stop to think about it, the answer is automatic. "Spencer."

"Okay," Jon scrolls down the page a little. "Lets try this one: who or what do you miss most when you're on the road?"

Again, the answer is automatic. "Spencer."

"Who's number one on your speed dial?"

"Um," Ryan has to pull out his phone to check. "That would be Spencer."

"When was the last time you had a sexy dream," Jon makes with the air quotes, "and who was it about?"

"I'm not answering that one!" Because, seriously, there's some things Jon does not need to know.

"Sorry, the rules of the game say you have to." Jon looks far too smug for Ryan's liking.

"I hate you, just so you know." Ryan glares at Jon. Jon seems unfazed. Ryan huffs. "Fine. The answer is last night, but I'm not telling you who it was about."

"So the answer is Spencer then, thought so."

"Fine, yes, it was Spencer. I've been dreaming about having hot sweaty sex with Spencer every night for the past week." The words tumble out of Ryan's mouth without him being able to stop them. "Because I'm head over heels in love with my best friend and I have been since I was twelve. Happy now?"

Jon looks down at his keyboard, smiling to himself like he’s finally hearing something he always knew was the truth, and Ryan’s left thinking ‘huh?’ and ‘how the fuck did Jon know that before I did?’

"Is that the first time you've admitted that to yourself?" Jon asks quietly.

"Yeah." Ryan hates how shaky his voice sounds. He shouldn't sound shaky. It's just a stupid crush and it'll never come to anything and Ryan really needs some fucking air.

Ryan stands up and starts pacing back and forth, trying to sort out the maelstrom of thoughts swirling in his head. His little outburst must have drawn Alex's attention because he comes wandering over, juggling an apple from hand to hand. He moves so he's standing next to where Jon is sitting and peers at the laptop's screen.

"Is Ross okay? He looks kinda...sick. You should eat more fruit, dude. An apple a day..." Alex takes a bite of the apple in his hand, exaggerating the crunch and rubbing his belly.

"He's fine." Jon says. "He's just having an epiphany."

"Nice word, I like it. Epiphany, epihayou, epiphame. Fuck, where's my phone?" Alex pats his pockets until he finds his phone, tapping away at the screen as he says, "So is it a biggie? Has he finally realized paisley doesn't mix well with plaid?"

Jon laughs, then says, "No such luck. And it's bigger than that."

"You lie, Walker, there's nothing bigger than a sartorial emergency."

"Says the guy wearing the stupid hat."

"Hey, fuck you, my hat is awesome."

Even Ryan has to take time out from his nervous breakdown to snort at that.

Alex glares, Jon just looks smug. At least, Ryan thinks, Alex's hat does have a use now that it's drawn the attention away from him.

Except it hasn't because Alex stops glaring at Jon and turns to look at him. "So come on, Ross, what's up, tell Uncle Alex."

Ryan just flails his hands and shakes his head, there's no way he's going to discuss this until he's got it sorted out in his head.

Jon must have missed the memo, though. "He's realized he's in love with Spence."

Alex flops down beside Jon and raises his hand for a high five. "Oh my god, fucking finally."

"I know, right? It's about time."

Ryan stares at the pair of them, trying to work out what weird alternate dimension he woke up in. "What. The fuck?"

"Chill, dude." Alex grins up at him. "I guessed around the time you called me Spencer when we were, you know," Alex makes a hand gesture that falls somewhere between obscene and just plain weird, "in bed."

"Oh hey," Jon says, "you too?"

"What?" Ryan flails his hands. "I never...shut up."

Jon shrugs. "Sorry, man, you totally did."

Alex nods in agreement, then gets a wicked gleam in his eyes. "We should call Z, see if he's called her Spencer at an inopportune moment."

"No one is calling Z." Ryan makes a grab for Alex's phone but misses. "Seriously I will break the hand of the first person who tries it and I don't care if we still have shows to play."

"He's done it to me too."

Ryan spins to look at Eric who's been sitting on the other side of the room, obviously listening in. "But we never, you know..."

"Damn right we haven't." Eric walks over and squeezes on to the couch next to Alex, turning to talk to him and Jon. "I got home one night and he was asleep on the couch, so I was trying to get him to wake up and go to bed and he was all 'five more minutes, Spence.' It was kind of adorable."

"Fuck you, I am not adorable."

"Face it, Ross," Jon says, "you kind of are." Beside him Alex and Eric nod in tandem. Ryan turns away from them in time to see Than give him a thumbs up from across the room.

Ryan stops pacing and sits down heavily on the floor. He covers his face with his hands, trying to block out the image of the three wise monkeys grinning at him from the couch. The worst thing about all this isn't the realization that he's in love with Spencer, it's that he'll never hear the end of it now that it's common knowledge. Alex will start coming up with plans which, in Ryan's experience so far, rarely ends well, and Jon will be supportive and yet irritatingly pushy in that way he has. And Eric, Ryan's not sure what Eric will do but he's hoping it will be along the lines of his usual 'lalala not listening' attitude that's the main reason they've managed to share a house for so long.

From behind him on the couch he hears Alex stage whisper to Jon and Eric. "It's like watching a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis."

"More like a baby giraffe trying to stand up," Jon replies, not bothering with the whispering thing, "all wobbly and unsure."

"No, no, totally a butterfly." Alex sounds insistent. "They do that thing where they unfurl their wings and wait for them to dry before they take their first flight. That's what we're watching, he's waiting for his wings to dry."

Ryan wonders idly if he can make it as a solo performer, because his bandmates are assholes. "Can you two jokers shut the fuck up for a minute, I'm trying to think."

"Don't strain yourself, dude."

"Yeah, we've got a show to play tonight."

"Fuck the both of you with something sharp and unpleasant. I'm gonna go call..." Ryan stops, his words tailing off into nothing. Because the person he calls when he needs to sort things out in his head is Spencer, but he can't call him about this.

Ryan's phone starts vibrating in his pocket like it knows he was thinking about it. He pulls it out warily and then stares at it in horror when he sees Spencer's name on the screen.

Ryan stands up, puts his phone on the table and backs away slowly.

Which was clearly a big mistake because Jon grabs it, hits a button and says. "Ryan Ross's phone, how may I direct your call?" and then "Hey, Spence, we were just talking about you."

Ryan glares and mimes cutting his throat. Jon just grins at him.

"Yeah, the tour's going great. It's tiring but it's fun, different city every night, hours and hours stuck in a tin can on wheels, you know how it is."

Jon listens for a moment and then says. "We finish on the 21st. Ryan'll be back in L.A. on the 22nd."

Ryan glares some more, but then relents because maybe Jon is actually being a nice guy and fielding the call for him.

"Yep, Ryan's right here, I'll pass you over."

No such luck. Ryan makes a list of all the ways he's going to make Jon's life hell then takes the phone from him, saying, "Hey, Spence."

"Hey, so, um," Spencer pauses and Ryan is sure he hears him take a deep breath like he's nervous or something. Which is weird. "What are you doing for Christmas?"

The question throws Ryan for a moment. He hadn't really thought that far ahead. "I haven't decided yet. I guess I'll maybe go see my mom."

"Oh, yeah, I hadn't thought of that." Spencer pauses again. "So okay, my parents won, like, this holiday on a cruise ship, Christmas at sea or something, and Jackie and Crys are taking the opportunity to spend time with their boyfriends."

"Holding hands and not touching below the waist, right?" Ryan interjects.

"Damn right, you know it." Spencer's laughter echoes down the phone. On the couch Jon, Alex and Eric are looking way too interested in the conversation for Ryan's liking, so he walks out into the hallway, closing the door on the room.

Spencer is still talking. "And Brendon is going out to Detroit, so I'm kind of home alone and...I was wondering if you wanted to come spend Christmas with me?"

Spencer's last few words come out in a rush and Ryan is a little confused by it; after all, it's not like Spencer is asking him to donate a kidney or anything.

Ryan thinks the question through. His first reaction is to say yes, but it feels weird, he feels weird even thinking about spending a few days alone with Spencer. Which is dumb, because they've spent more time together than he's spent with pretty much anyone else in his life.

It's just the timing of it that's freaking him out, Ryan knows that. If he hadn't just bared his soul to the chuckle brothers behind the door then he wouldn't be thinking twice about saying yes.

"Ry? You still there?" Spencer taps at his phone like he's checking the connection. Ryan should probably answer him.

"Yeah, sorry, the connection is a bit shaky. Anyway, yeah, sure, I'd love to come over to your place for Christmas." Maybe love is a bit strong, Ryan tries to cover it up with a joke. "It'll save me spending money on takeout, right?"

Spencer laughs again. "Definitely. If you're lucky I'll even show you how to cook a turkey."

"And if I'm unlucky?"

"I'll make you cook it yourself."

"But then we'll both die of food poisoning."

"Good point, well made."

Ryan can hear laughter in the background. "Hey say hi to Bren for me, yeah?"

There's some muffled talking and then Spencer is back. "He says hi back. I'm also supposed to tell you he made thirty or so fake Twitter accounts so he can leave you and Jon a bunch of embarrassing questions."

Ryan laughs. "Tell him we already worked that out."

"I'll tell him in a minute," Spencer says. "Look, I'll let you get back to the stuff you were doing, just... come over when you're done sleeping after you get back, yeah?"

"Yeah, okay." Ryan smiles. He wonders if Spencer can tell he's smiling all the way away in L.A.

"See you later, Ry."

"Bye, Spence."

Ryan ends the call and slumps back against the wall, trying to decide if agreeing to spend Christmas with Spencer is a good idea or the worst decision he's ever made.

Through the closed door beside him he hears Alex shout, "Fly, Ross, fly!"

Ryan doesn't feel at all guilty when he jerks the door open without warning and Alex and Jon sprawl out into the hallway, landing in a tangled heap at his feet.

~

Ryan avoids the party after the show. He feels off-balance and unsure of himself, and he has ever since Spencer's call and the conversation before it. He's definitely not in the mood to deal with a room full of people he barely knows. Instead he climbs back on the tour bus and curls up in the lounge, wrapped in a blanket to ward off the worst of the night's chill.

He's been sitting there staring in to space and trying his best not to think about anything for maybe half an hour when he hears the door to the bus hiss open. He listens to the sounds of footsteps walking through the bus and looks up when he hears someone clear their throat. Jon is standing in the doorway with a shaky smile on his face and a pair of take-out cups from Starbucks in his hands. If Ryan were to hazard a guess he'd say they contain hot chocolate; it's Jon's default drink choice when he thinks someone needs comforting.

"You okay?" Jon asks.

Ryan just shrugs. He's not really in the mood to talk about things.

Jon sits down beside him and passes over one of the cups in his hand. "So, um, sorry I was kind of an ass earlier. I didn't realize it was such a big deal."

Jon looks really apologetic, but Ryan isn't done wallowing yet, so he just shrugs again.

"No, hey, Ryan, come on, it's going to be fine, trust me." Jon shifts closer, putting his arm round Ryan's shoulder.

Ryan leans against Jon's chest, sipping at his hot chocolate and trying to let the feel of Jon's fingers carding through his hair soothe his worries away.

~

The rest of the tour goes smoothly. Jon and Alex treat him like he's fragile and might break any second for a couple of days, but Ryan gets sick of it almost immediately and starts pulling pranks on them until they can't do anything but treat him normally again.

He still gets the same jolt of disappointment when he turns around on stage and sees Than and not Spencer. And he can't help but notice the little flashes of guilt that cross Alex's and Jon's faces when they mention Spencer's name. But the dreams stop, and for the most part Ryan feels like he's getting over his little freak out and learning to deal with things again.

After all, he's felt this way about Spencer for years, so he's used to tucking the thoughts away in dark corners of his mind where they'll never see the light of day.

~

Ryan gets home late on the 22nd, or more like early on the 23rd. He feels wired and shaky; he's felt that way since he changed planes in New York. It was weird leaving everyone else behind at the airport - Jon to catch his flight to Chicago, Alex and Than heading off home, Eric going to stay with his folks for the holidays.

As he was sitting in the departure lounge on his own Ryan had wondered if it had always felt this way for Jon when they toured before; everyone else going one way while he headed off on his own in a different direction. It wasn't a nice feeling, Ryan didn't think he could have done it as often as Jon did. But then Jon has always been more self-sufficient than Ryan, so maybe it hadn't been so bad for him.

But now Ryan's home alone, too tired to stay awake and too exhausted to sleep.

He walks from room to room, not sure what to do with himself and trying not to think about the day after tomorrow - Christmas Eve - when he's supposed to be heading over to Spencer's house.

He makes a pot of coffee then sits down in front of the TV, flipping through the film channels looking for something to watch. TNT is having a Christmas marathon so Ryan settles on that, losing himself in watching Jimmy Stewart talking to his angel and then the Grinch and his heart that grows three sizes. By the time he falls asleep, curled up on the couch with the TV still playing, there are birds singing outside in the trees.

~

Ryan wakes up with a start, confused and disorientated. For a minute he can't work out where he is or how long he's slept, jetlag and post-tour exhaustion making everything seem hazy and blurred.

On the TV Michael Caine throws a window open and asks a street full of puppets what day it is and Ryan considers doing the same thing. Except the chances of there being anyone, even a puppet, outside his window who can answer him are pretty slim. Unless the coyotes have gotten smarter since he's been gone.

Ryan thinks maybe he could post to Twitter, ask the masses what day it is like a modern twist on an old tale. But then the fog in his brain clears a little and he realizes he can just look at the readout on his phone to find the date.

His phone tells him it's already Christmas Eve. He's been asleep for more than a day and he's got a dozen missed calls, half of them from Spencer.

Ryan curses and jumps to his feet, ignoring the rush of blood that makes him sway and the ache in his back from sleeping on the couch for so long. He needs a shower badly, and to pack a bag and find the gifts he got Spencer in England, but most of all he needs to return Spencer's calls.

Spencer sounds pissed when he answers, his, "Hey, Ryan" tinged with something that sounds a lot like disappointment.

"Hey, hi, sorry sorry, I'm on my way, I promise." Ryan is throwing clothes into his rucksack with one hand and holding the phone in the other. "I got back really late and I just woke up. Seriously, Spence, I missed a whole day."

"Oh, okay, cool." Spencer sounds happier already and Ryan breathes a sigh of relief. "So Pete's having a party tonight and I said we'd make an appearance. You can meet me there if it's easier?"

Ryan thinks about it, but no, he'd much rather go to Spencer's and then on to Pete's, that way he can take his car and leave it on Spencer's driveway.

"No no, I'll only be, like, half an hour or so." Ryan pulls off his shirt and sniffs at his armpit. "Wait, make that an hour, I really need to take a shower."

Spencer laughs and says he'll wait for Ryan to get there. Ryan hangs up and looks around his room, trying to remember where he put his keys.

~

Spencer is drunk. Gloriously, amazingly, hilariously drunk. Ryan can’t decide which one of them will be in more pain in the morning, Spencer from his hangover or himself from the way his facial muscles feel stretched and frozen in a grin that’s been threatening to split his face in half since Spencer decided to show the party the best way to do The Bump.

Ryan’s standing on the edge of the room, one eye on the chaos that Spencer is creating and one on Ashlee who’s filling him in on all the gossip he missed when he was out on tour. He’s been nursing a beer for an hour or so. It’s warm and a little flat when he sips at it and he doesn’t really want it, but he keeps a hold of it anyway.

Ashlee leans in to whisper a particularly juicy tidbit, but Ryan doesn’t catch what she says, his attention solely focused on Pete who’s grabbed hold of Spencer’s hips and is trying, mostly unsuccessfully, to lead him round the room in what may or may not be an attempt at a waltz. Ryan hopes to god that neither of them try to dip the other. That's bound to end in tears, and possibly broken limbs. Brendon will kill him if he gives him back Spencer after the holidays with an arm or a leg in a cast.

Ashlee groans and buries her face in Ryan’s shoulder, muttering, "My husband, ladies and gentlemen." Ryan pats her back consolingly, smiling at how fond she sounds even though she’s complaining. But even as he’s doing it he gets a little pang of jealousy that he can’t say something similar. Not that he wishes he and Spencer were married, it’s just that ‘my best friend’ doesn’t have quite the ring to it that something like ‘my boyfriend’ would have.

And yeah, Ryan thinks, he’s definitely had enough to drink if he’s thinking things like that. He promised himself he’d get through Christmas without getting melancholy and sad and wishing for things he can never have.

Pete waltzes Spencer over to where they’re standing, grinning manically as he works through the complicated task of disentangling Spencer’s arms from around his waist and transferring him over so he’s propped up against Ryan, his arms thrown haphazardly around Ryan’s neck. Spencer’s heavy against him, so much so that Ryan has to shuffle them both back carefully until he can lean against the wall to help support their combined weight.

"Is he okay?" Ashlee reaches over and smoothes Spencer’s hair away from his face, concern in her expression.

Spencer nuzzles into Ryan’s neck, sighing contentedly and pressing his lips against Ryan’s jaw. Ryan thinks maybe it’s time he poured Spencer into a cab and got him home so he can throw up and pass out in peace. Hopefully in that order.

"Yeah, he’s fine, but I think I’m gonna take him home just in case."

"You guys can stay here if you want." Pete looks over at Ashlee as he suggests it, waiting for her to nod in agreement before he continues, "The guest room’s free, or there’s a pull-out bed in the couch in my office if you don’t think he’ll make it that far."

Ryan thinks it over; it’s a nice offer and it will save him a lot of trouble, but Spencer’s going to feel like crap when he wakes up and that kind of thing is way easier to handle in your own house, so.

"Nah, it’s okay, you guys don’t need us here when you’re opening presents from Santa." Ryan feels Spencer slipping down a little, so he winds his arms round Spencer’s waist to hold him up. "Just, can you do me a favor and call the cab for me, my hands are kind of full."

"Hey, no," Ashlee holds up a hand. "I’ll drive you, it’ll be easier."

"Are you sure?" Ryan asks. As much as he knows Spencer will feel better waking up in his own bed, he also knows that Spencer hates feeling like he's putting people out or being a burden on anyone.

"It’s fine, don’t worry. I’ve been sticking to Coke all evening and this way if he pukes in the back of the car it’ll just mean I’ll own his soul," Ashlee grins, "you know, instead of him having to pay valeting fees."

"Come on." Pete pulls one of Spencer’s arms from Ryan’s neck and drapes it round his own. "I’ll help you get him to the car."

~

The ride back to Spencer’s house is uneventful. Spencer passes out pretty much as soon as they get him in the car and Ashlee seems content to hum along to the radio up front while Ryan keeps an eye on Spencer in the back.

Ryan’s kind of dreading getting Spencer out of the car, not really sure if he and Ashlee combined will have the strength to haul his dead weight inside if they need to. But Spencer wakes up easily when Ryan nudges his shoulder and tells him they’re home, and once they’ve tugged him out of the car he starts walking up the path to his front door under his own steam.

Ashlee pulls Ryan into a tight hug, pushing up on to her tiptoes to brush a goodbye kiss against his cheek. "Tell Spence we have the whole night on tape, yeah?"

Ryan takes a step back and looks at her quizzically. "Really?"

"Nah, I'm just kidding, but it'd be fun to make him think we do." Ashlee grins as she climbs back in her car, pulling her seatbelt on then waving as she pulls away.

Ryan watches Ashlee drive down the road until she disappears from sight round a corner. He feels like he needs to take a moment to breathe, to order his thoughts, before he deals with getting Spencer into the house and in to bed. It's stupid, but it just feels...domestic in a way that Ryan knows in his heart it isn't. It's just one friend helping another friend out, not anything more. Ryan squares his shoulders and turns towards the house.

Spencer is leaning on the door, his head pressed against the wood and his hand raised to the lock like he got halfway through trying to turn the key and passed out again. Ryan can't help but laugh. He thinks about trying to take a picture with his phone to capture the scene for all time, but he figures it's probably best to just get Spencer inside the house before he falls over and hurts himself.

It's not easy juggling the tasks of keeping Spencer on his feet and getting the door open and them both inside but Ryan manages it somehow. He props Spencer up so he's half sitting on the little table in the hallway, heels off his shoes and takes off his coat, then turns to do the same for Spencer.

Spencer's eyes are glassy and unfocused and he's mumbling to himself. Little snatches of conversation that Ryan can't quite catch, but he thinks he maybe hears his name a couple of times as he's trying to get Spencer to move his arms enough to remove his coat. When he kneels down to untie Spencer's laces, Spencer sighs happily and then Ryan feels a hand on his head, Spencer's fingers carding through his hair trying to tug him forward, and he closes his eyes and bites down on his lip trying to chase the thoughts of how he's dreamt about Spencer doing the same thing under a whole other set of circumstances.

Ryan pushes himself to his feet quickly enough that he sways a little from the blood rush. Spencer puts a hand on his chest and at first Ryan thinks Spencer's trying to steady him, but then Spencer tugs him forward until they're pressed together and Ryan can smell the alcohol on Spencer's breath.

Spencer leans forward, pressing his face against Ryan's shoulder and whispering, "'m drunk" like it's a big secret, before leaning back again and staring at the ceiling.

There's a strand of hair hanging in Spencer's face and he keeps blowing at it to get it to move. Ryan reaches out and tucks it behind Spencer's ear then let's his hand curl round the back of Spencer's neck. "Yeah, Spence, I know."

Spencer stops staring at the ceiling and stares at Ryan instead. His eyes are clearer now and a little bit wild looking.

"No no, you don't get it, 'm really, really, really drunk," Spencer grabs Ryan's shirt and pulls him forward again, "and that's why I'm going to kiss you now."

"Wait, wha..." Ryan doesn't get a chance to finish his question because Spencer's kissing him. It's sloppy and messy and Spencer tastes like tequila and beer; it's simultaneously the best and the worst kiss that Ryan's ever had.

Ryan gets lost in the kiss for a moment. Lost in the feel of Spencer's lips against his and the happy little noises Spencer's makes as their tongues meet and tangle together, lost in the fantasy that he's getting what he finally realized he's wanted all these years.

But then he remembers that Spencer's drunk, drunker than he's seen him in ages, and Ryan may be an asshole and he may have done a lot of things that he regrets, but he's not so desperate to get what he wants that he'd ever take advantage of anyone when they're in a state like this. And especially not Spencer.

Ryan breaks the kiss and pulls away from Spencer, trying not to notice the way Spencer follows him or the way Spencer's hands are grabbing at thin air like he's trying to catch hold of Ryan and pull him back in. Ryan flails his hands in the air trying to work out what to do. It's too late to call anyone for advice, and besides, what would he say anyway: Spencer kissed me, send help! He'd sound ridiculous and Spencer's going to be embarrassed enough in the morning without knowing there was someone else to witness...whatever this is.

Spencer, though, Spencer seems oblivious to the chaos he's creating. He's just sitting on the table with his eyes closed, smiling as he says, "I've wanted to do that for years. Years."

"You've wanted to do what for years, Spence?" The words are out of Ryan's mouth before he has a chance to think what he's saying.

Spencer opens his eyes then rolls them, looking at Ryan like he's the dumbest person on Earth. "Kiss you, stupid. So so long, like, since we were kids."

Something his dad used to say flashes through Ryan's head - there's truth at the bottom of a glass - and he can't help but ask, "So why didn't you?"

Spencer sighs. "Because you were always kissing someone else. And, and, you don't believe in love and that's stupid, you're stupid, why are you so stupid?" He emphasizes the last few words by jabbing a finger against Ryan's chest.

Ryan grabs Spencer's hand and holds it, thinking back over all the conversations they've had over the years and all the things Spencer has been saying to him that he just didn't hear. "Because I don't listen to you enough."

"Damn right." Spencer nods his head, glaring at Ryan like he's daring him to argue as he says, "You should listen to me all the time, then we could kiss and I wouldn't feel sad."

And that, that right there, the idea that he's been making Spencer sad, is something Ryan just doesn't have the energy to deal with right now. It's too late at night, Ryan's too tired and Spencer's too drunk, and if they're going to have this conversation they should have it when they're both sober enough to remember it. And anyway Spencer's eyes are drooping closed and he keeps jerking his head up like he's fighting the urge to sleep.

So instead of asking Spencer any more questions, Ryan puts an arm around his waist and pulls him to his feet. "Come on, let's get you into bed."

There's no way he's going to get Spencer up the stairs in the state he's in so Ryan guides him to the lounge. The couch is long enough and wide enough that Spencer can sleep comfortably on it, and there's a big overstuffed armchair that Ryan can curl up in; he wants to stay close just in case Spencer needs anything in the night.

Spencer is pretty much asleep on his feet but Ryan manages to get him settled on his side on the couch, with a couple of cushions for a pillow. He digs a couple of blankets out of the chest in the corner, throws one onto the chair for himself and covers Spencer with the other. He thinks he probably should have gotten Spencer to drink some water before he went to sleep, but it's too late now.

Just as Ryan's backing away from the couch, Spencer reaches out and grabs hold of his arm. His eyes are closed but his voice is clear when he asks, "Can I tell you a secret?"

Ryan smiles. "Yeah sure, Spence."

Spencer pulls him closer then tugs on his arm until Ryan kneels down beside the couch, then he half-says, half-whispers, "I'm in love with Ryan Ross. He's my best friend and he's an idiot, but I love him anyway." Spencer lets go of Ryan's arm and brings a finger to his lips. "But, shhhh, don't tell Ryan, okay?"

Ryan can't decide if he wants to laugh or cry, he settles for saying, "I promise." Adding, "How 'bout I tell you a secret too?" when Spencer frowns like he doesn't believe him.

"'kay."

Ryan takes a deep breath, then says, "Ryan's kind of in love with you too."

"Yeah?" Spencer smiles, the big, wide smile that Ryan knows so well. It's beautiful and devastating at the same time.

Ryan leans in and presses a kiss to Spencer's forehead. "Yeah."

Spencer murmurs, "Good, that's good," before his breathing evens out and he's asleep.

~

When Ryan wakes up the couch is empty. The blanket is lying discarded on the floor, and Spencer is nowhere to be seen. For a moment Ryan is gripped by a fear that Spencer has run out on him, taken the walk of shame off into the sunrise. But then he remembers he's at Spencer's house, so that probably isn't the case.

He hears a noise from the kitchen, so he gets up to investigate, yawning and stumbling a little as he walks. Ryan thinks he could do with a lot more sleep.

Spencer is standing in front of the oven, staring at it like it holds the secrets of the universe. Ryan leans against the door frame, waiting for Spencer to notice his presence.

"I'm trying to remember how long it takes to cook a turkey." Spencer doesn't turn to look at him, he just keeps staring at the oven.

Ryan tries to hold back a laugh but doesn't really manage it. "Why are you trying to remember that?"

"I promised you turkey, you know, all festive and stuff." Spencer finally turns away from the oven and looks at Ryan. "I'm pretty sure my mom always gets up at dawn to put hers on, so."

"No no, seriously, Spence. We can have turkey tomorrow. You're not in a fit state to cook today."

Spencer runs his hands through his hair and shakes his head. "Yeah, I think I'm maybe a little bit drunk still. Unless the room is actually spinning, in which case I'm fine."

Ryan walks towards Spencer then stops when Spencer starts to back away.

"I was also trying to decide between ritual suicide and hoping you woke up with amnesia." Spencer looks at Ryan with a worried look on his face. "Do you have amnesia?"

Ryan shakes his head, no.

"Okay," Spencer says, "suicide it is."

Ryan frowns, thinking over what Spencer said last night and wondering if he changed his mind. "Why do you... What do you remember about last night?"

Spencer winces and his face starts to flush with embarrassment. "I remember being incredibly drunk and telling you things I promised myself I never would."

"Oh." Ryan steps closer, crowding Spencer back against the counter and giving him nowhere to run to. "But did you mean them, those things you promised not to say?"

"Ryan, don't." Spencer looks away, refusing to meet Ryan's eyes.

"Okay, fine, I'll go first." Ryan turns Spencer's face with a finger under his chin. "Spencer James Smith, I am in love with you and I always have been. And, honestly, if I still feel that way after watching you dancing last night, it's never going to change."

Spencer's eyes go wide in amazement, like he's hearing Ryan's words for the first time. Ryan tilts his head to the side. "Do you remember me telling you that last night?"

Spencer shakes his head. Ryan rolls his eyes.

"Trust you to forget the important bit."

"But I... but you..." Spencer flails his hands. "Wait, What? You love me?"

Ryan nods his head yes this time, and then proves it with a kiss.

It's a way better kiss than the one they shared the night before. Spencer grabs hold of Ryan's shirt and pulls him close, then closer still, like he's trying to crawl under Ryan's skin. Ryan thinks that Spencer just needs to realize he's already there.

When they break apart Ryan is panting for breath and Spencer's swaying on his feet. Ryan wants to think that it's due to his awesome kissing technique. But he thinks it's more likely to do with how much Spencer had to drink and how little sleep he's had.

Ryan takes Spencer's hand and pulls him out of the kitchen and toward the stairs, saying, "Come on, let's go to bed."

Spencer stops in his tracks. "There's no way I am doing anything other than sleep, you know that, right?"

"Yeah, don't worry about it." Ryan smiles. "I figure we've waited this long, what's another few hours."

"I was thinking more like days. As in, I'm going to sleep for..."

Ryan doesn't let Spencer finish, he just kisses him again and then drags him up the stairs to bed.

~

Later, much later, when they're curled up together on the couch, watching Scrooged on TNT and eating take-out straight from the carton, Spencer passes Ryan a fortune cookie that's been lying neglected at the bottom of the delivery bag.

Ryan snaps it in two, keeping half for himself and giving the other half back to Spencer, then he turns over the slip of paper expecting to see the same familiar fortune he's been getting since July.

But instead of telling him he'll find love with a good friend, the fortune reads, "You got your wish."

...the warm little center that the life of this world crowded around. ~ Chuck Palanhiuk - Fight Club

A truly rich life contains love and art in abundance. ~ Fortune cookie motto

in another life I’d be drenched in sweat with you ~ The Guillemots - Get Over It

as long as you have love in your heart you’ll never be alone ~ As Tall As Lions - Home Is Where You're Happy

telephones are dangerous things!

themoononastick — Wed, 18 Nov 2009 22:01:54 GMT

Today I spent the day being trained in the tricky art of using a telephone in a safe and secure manner. I am sure you will all be pleased to hear that I am now fully qualified to use a phone without hitting myself in the eye with the receiver, or accidentally strangling myself with the cord. Phew!

Anyhoo. It's Wednesday which means the weekend is just that little bit closer, so here, have some not!fic I wrote for cmonkatiekatie, foxxcub and siryn99 yesterday to cheer up a crappy day.

An Elf's Tale ~ Jon/Spencer, Ryan/Brendon ~ PG ~ 2400 words

Once upon a time there was a young elf named Jon. Actually he was only part elf (one quarter, on his mother’s side) and he wasn’t especially young what with being in his early twenties, but his name was Jon so that part at least is true.

Jon was a North Pole (part) elf which was good for two reasons. Firstly it meant that he was a good judge of character and he was really good at fixing things that weren’t working quite right, as were all North Pole elves. And secondly it meant that he only really had to work for a couple of months – November and December – and he pretty much had the rest of the year to do with as he pleased.

Mostly Jon spent his free months of the year hanging out with his best friend, Tom, and helping look after the kittens that were destined to be given as gifts at Christmas. Jon really liked hanging out with Tom and he loved playing with kittens, but recently he’d gotten just a little bit bored with life at the North Pole.

Part of the problem was all the snow. Living in a winter wonderland meant that Jon had to wear shoes whenever he left his house and Jon really, really did not like wearing shoes. Shoes made his feet feel stifled and pinched and he spent a lot of his time, when he wasn’t hanging out with Tom or playing with kittens, daydreaming about what it would be like to live somewhere warm where he could go barefoot all day every day.

Plus there was the fact that Tom had started hanging out with an elf called Sean, a lot. Jon liked Sean, and he really liked the way Sean made Tom smile, but Jon had started to feel like maybe he was in the way, and that wasn’t any fun at all.

So one day Jon made a decision. He packed a bag with some clothes, enough sandwiches for a long journey, and some extra strings for his guitar. He said goodbye to the kittens and left Tom a note to say not to worry. Then he hitched a ride on a passing dog sled and set off to seek his fortune.

Jon traveled on the dog sled as far as the end of the snow fields. From there he managed to catch a ride with a gypsy caravan who took him to the edge of the southern forest, and taught him lots of new songs along the way. At the forest’s edge Jon said goodbye to the gypsies who wished him luck and sang a goodbye song as they rode off to the east, then he took off his shoes (because it was finally warm enough for him to go barefoot) and started out on the path into the forest.

Jon hummed to himself as he walked through the forest. Not because he was scared, but because he was so happy to be somewhere with no snow, where he could feel the grass beneath his feet and the sun’s warmth on his skin. He smiled at the chipmunks and squirrels in the trees and waved at the birds as they flew over head and generally spent the day feeling really good about everything.

As night was falling and Jon was thinking that he should really be looking for somewhere to sleep he heard music weaving its way through the trees. As he drew nearer he could hear that it was a guitar accompanying a lone voice singing a song about missing friends and lost loves. It was a sad song and hearing it made Jon want to find the singer to see if he could cheer him up.

Jon followed the music until the trees started to thin out and he came to a huge clearing in the forest. In the middle of the clearing was a tall, tall tower, and at its base, just a little to the left of the tower’s door was a tent. Beside the tent, next to a roaring fire, was a boy, sitting hunched over his guitar still singing the sad refrain that had drawn Jon’s attention.

Jon stopped at the clearing’s edge, not sure if he should move closer and say hello to the boy or carry along on his way. There was something so sad about the way the boy was sitting all alone by the fire that it made Jon’s heart ache, and in the end that is what made up his mind. Because Jon was an elf and elves fixed things, and this boy looked like someone Jon could fix.

(Also, it was getting dark and the boy’s fire looked warm and inviting and Jon really did not want to spend a night alone in the forest with no heat to help him sleep. He may have been an elf and thus prone to flights of fancy that involved healing broken hearts, but he was only part elf and his human side made him quite practical too.)

As Jon drew closer to the fire, the boy stopped playing and looked up.

“Hello.” said the boy “Are you lost?”

“Hi,” Jon replied, “I was walking through the forest and I heard your song. I was wondering if I could sleep by your fire tonight. My name’s Jon, by the way.”

“Oh! Hi, hi! I’m Brendon.” The boy, Brendon, held out his hand for Jon to shake and grinned the widest grin Jon had ever seen. “Of course you can sleep by my fire, we don’t get many travelers in the Forest of Doom, it’ll be nice to have some company.”

“The Forest of Doom?” Jon looked around the clearing worriedly. The forest had seemed nice enough when he was walking through it but with a name like that maybe he had been wrong.

“Don’t worry about the name.” Brendon laughed and rolled his eyes. “It used to be called the Forest of Love but Spencer made them rename it.”

Jon put his bag and his guitar down on the ground and sat himself beside the fire.

“Who’s Spencer?” he asked.

Brendon leaned forward like he was sharing a precious secret. “Prince Spencer. He lives in the tower, although don’t let him hear you call it that, he prefers it to be called The Fortress of Solitude.”

Jon noted that in his mind and nodded for Brendon to continue.

“Prince Spencer was once the happiest boy in all the lands, but then one day his best friend disappeared and no matter how far and wide the royal guards searched for him they could not find him.” Brendon paused for a moment and sighed. “When it became obvious that Ryan was missing never to return Spencer declared that he would live his days in solitude as an act of mourning for his friend. It’s a tragic tale.”

Jon took a moment to think about what Brendon had told him. He couldn’t imagine that any friend, no matter how good, would want someone to lock themselves away from the world if they vanished.

“So this Ryan, how would he feel if he knew that Spencer had hidden himself away?” Jon asked.

“Well, to be honest, Ryan was kind of over-dramatic and just a little bit self-centered so…” Brendon shrugged as he spoke but Jon could see the sparkle in his eyes when he thought about Ryan.

“But,” Jon said, “you were in love with him anyway.”

Brendon ducked his head to avoid Jon’s eyes as he replied. “Kinda, maybe a little bit.”

“And that’s what your song is about – Spencer and Ryan?” Jon was pretty sure he was right, but he asked all the same.

“Yes!” Brendon looked up again, grinning the same wide, wide grin as he had when Jon first appeared. “Most people don’t get that so quickly, you are really good at catching the meaning of things.”

Jon shrugged. “I’m part elf, we’re good at reading people.”

“Oh wow, that’s awesome! You should tell me all about what it’s like to be an elf.” Brendon held up a hand before Jon could start to speak. “But tell me in the morning when Spencer’s here, that way you won’t have to tell your story twice.”

“Spencer?” Jon was confused. “But I thought you said he’d locked himself away for ever.”

“Technically yes, he has.” Brendon shrugged again. “But he has to come out here once a day to walk his dog. It wouldn’t be fair to keep the poor thing locked up all the time.”

Now Jon was really confused. “Spencer has a dog living with him in his fortress of solitude?”

“Yeah, it’s complicated.” Brendon flailed his hands in the air and scrunched up his face. “Basically the dog followed Spencer here from the palace and then sat outside and howled for two days and two nights until Spencer let him in. And now he refuses to leave.”

“Huh. That’s…interesting.” Jon had an idea what that might mean but he needed to wait until morning to see if he was right. Plus he’d been walking all day and he was really tired and didn’t want to get into a long conversation about dogs that wouldn’t leave a person’s side. “What time does Spencer leave the tower?”

“He wakes up at sunrise and comes outside when the birds start to sing.” Brendon yawned. “So we’d better get some sleep if you’re going to meet him.”

Jon thought that sounded like a very good idea so he unrolled his blanket and arranged his bag so he could use it as a pillow and laid down to sleep.

In the morning Jon woke to the sound of the tower door creaking open. He sat up just in time to see a figure emerge from inside. Prince Spencer was tall and handsome, with eyes as blue as a summer sky and the shiniest hair Jon had ever seen. Jon could not help himself, he fell instantly in love.

“Hi.” Jon said, hoping that Spencer’s vow of solitude did not mean that he had sworn not to speak.

“Hello.” Spencer looked confused. “Who are you?”

“My name’s Jon, I’m a traveler from the north.” Jon replied. “Brendon was kind enough to let me share his fire last night.”

“I see,” Spencer said. “Brendon’s nice like that. He always likes to share the things he has when he can.”

Spencer looked sad and kind of wistful, like he was remembering times past. Jon wanted nothing more than to make him smile. He decided then and there that he would devote the rest of his days to making Spencer happy again.

So smitten with Spencer was Jon that he did not notice the dog Brendon had told him about the night before, until he heard Brendon laughing and turned to see the oddest sight he’d ever seen. The dog was the strangest looking animal – with long, long legs and long messy hair and, stranger still, it was wearing pinstripe pants, a sweater vest and had a tiny little pageboy hat perched on top of its head. But Brendon did not seem to be taking any notice of the dog’s strange apparel; he was too busy hugging it close as it licked his face, its tail wagging so furiously that Jon was sure it would fly off any minute.

Jon looked back at Spencer meaning to ask why he dressed his dog that way, but he was distracted by the tiny smile Spencer was wearing and how it might look if Spencer allowed himself to look truly happy for a change.

Spencer must have felt Jon’s eyes on him because he shook his head and settled his features back into a more somber look as he said, “The dog chooses its own clothing, I have nothing to do with what it wears beyond helping it get dressed.”

Jon smiled. “That’s not a dog.”

Spencer tilted his head to one side and frowned. “I can assure you it is.”

“No,” Jon said, “it really isn’t.”

“What do you mean, Jon?” Brendon asked.

Jon didn’t reply. Instead he got up onto his knees and called the not!dog over to where he was sitting. It came trotting over straight way and then sat down in front of him, looking at him expectantly.

“Are you sorry for all the naughty things you’ve done?” Jon asked the dog.

The dog nodded its head and looked down at the ground.

“And do you promise to only be nice from this day on?”

Again the dog nodded its head.

“Okay then.” Jon said. Then he reached forward and removed the dog’s hat and placed a kiss on the top of its head between its ears.

There was a flash and a weird popping noise and then suddenly in the spot where the dog had been there sat a tall, thin boy with messy brown hair, wearing the exact same pinstripe pants and sweater vest that the dog had been in. Only larger, more mansized versions, as was appropriate.

“Ryan!” Spencer and Brendon shouted at the same time, as they ran across to hug their friend.

“Oh my god, thank you!” Ryan exclaimed, beaming at Jon from over Spencer’s shoulder.

“You’re welcome,” Jon replied, “but make sure you keep your word.”

“I will, I will.” Ryan said. “I promise.”

Jon sat back and watched the three friends hugging, letting their happiness wash over him. He felt quite proud of himself. It was only daybreak and he’d already performed a good deed. And maybe, if he was lucky, he would get a reward.

When Spencer had hugged Ryan enough to make up for all their lost time and Brendon was making moves to drag Ryan into his tent, Spencer turned to Jon and asked, “How can I ever repay you?”

Jon thought about it for a moment, rewards were a tricky thing to gauge. But when he’d decided on something that he thought was fair he replied, “I’d like a kiss. No wait, a kiss for every hour that you and Ryan were parted.”

Spencer smiled the brightest, most beautiful smile that Jon had ever seen. “That’s a lot of kisses, you’d have to come live in my tower with me if I am to give you that many.”

Jon smiled back as Spencer took his hand to lead him into the tower, and said. “I think that’s fair.”

And they all lived happily ever after. The End.

Fic: Kill the headlights and put it in neutral

themoononastick — Fri, 25 Sep 2009 21:54:43 GMT

Title: Kill the headlights and put it in neutral.
Pairing: Tom Conrad/Ryan Ross
Rating: PG13
Summary: Um. Tom and Ryan are fail!boyfriends. The Young Veins and Empires go on tour together! Stuff happens!
Warnings: none. Unless ridiculousness needs to be warned for. In which case...
Disclaimer: not real.
Notes: For siryn99 because she’s awesome and I promised I'd write Ryan/Tom for her. Thanks to cmonkatiekatie for the beta. <333333

Tom doesn’t expect to find Ryan Ross sitting on the steps outside his apartment when he opens his door.

To be honest, Tom wasn’t really expecting to find anything on his doorstep at all because it isn’t like he’d come down to answer the buzzer or anything, he was just on his way to the store to buy some milk. Yeah, sometimes trash from the street ends up on the steps, and there was that one time he found a single shoe just sitting in the middle of the second step like it was waiting for its pair to show up, but on a scale of one to unexpected Ryan is pretty much at the top.

Tom blinks and opens and closes his mouth a few times. It’s early, his brain isn’t really functioning all that well yet. He’s kind of stuck on a loop that in his head sounds something like "need milk, coffee, Ryan?, coffee, coffee, milk".

Ryan blinks back. He’s got a suitcase sitting beside him and a guitar sitting beside that.

Tom does a quick count of the days in his head, just to make sure he hasn't slept through a week. Again.

When he's as sure as he can be that he knows what day it is he says, "You know the tour doesn’t start till next week, right?"

A little crease appears in the middle of Ryan's forehead as he pulls a face and says, "It's not really a tour."

"Huh?"

"What?"

"Tour." Tom sits down on the step next to Ryan. He has a feeling this conversation might go on for a while. "You said it isn't really a tour."

Ryan shrugs. "Well yeah, it's more like four shows and a festival."

And okay, Tom gets that four shows in fairly small venues and a festival appearance are not the same as a worldwide tour, but, "We're leaving the state and there are hotels involved. It's a tour."

"Hmmmm." The crease in Ryan's forehead deepens a little. Tom kind of wants to reach over and smooth it out.

"Anyway, the thing that may or may not be a tour doesn't start till next week, so..." Tom waves his hand at Ryan and his suitcase in a vague kind of a way.

Ryan nods. “Yeah. L.A. was getting…” Ryan trails off into a vague wavy hand motion of his own.

Tom tries to fill in the blanks and comes up with...nothing, because he really is not awake and he really needs coffee.

"Oh hey," Ryan says, picking up a plastic bag from the step beside him and shaking it a little in Tom's direction. "Jon said to bring milk."

"Is Jon stopping by as well?" Tom does not remember making plans with Jon. But he may have forgotten. It's been known to happen.

"What?" The crease is back in Ryan's forehead, it's making Tom's fingers twitch. "No. He just said you never have milk so I should bring some with me, or it might have been Cassie who said it, I can't really remember. I tuned out pretty early on. Jon has a tendency to ramble when he's stoned."

Tom grins at that, because, "Yeah, he does."

"Yeah." Ryan grins back.

They sit side by side on the steps grinning at each other for a moment until Tom remembers that he still does not know why Ryan is here. "So, um..." Tom does the hand waving thing again. He thinks he should probably move on to using actual words at some point, but that's unlikely to happen pre-caffeine.

"Oh." Ryan looks down at his shoes for a beat then picks a bit of fluff from the leg of his pants. "Jon says you have a really comfortable couch that you'd probably let me sleep on for a few days."

Tom's couch is not comfortable. Jon Walker is a lying liar who lies. Tom considers telling Ryan this but then Ryan might go away and Tom kind of doesn't want him to, so he settles for saying, "I do have a couch, yes."

Ryan looks up again, smiling hopefully. "I brought cookies as well. And cake, and there's some ice cream but it might be a little melted, I've been sitting out here a while now."

All of a sudden Tom can hear his mom's voice in his head telling him he's being a bad host and tutting at how he's left Ryan sitting outside and not even offered him a drink. Tom thinks his mom is probably right.

He pushes himself up from the step and grabs the handle of Ryan's suitcase. "Coffee?"

"I didn't buy any coffee." Ryan opens his grocery bag and looks inside, his face falling. "I can go back and get some?"

"No. I have coffee." Tom lets go of the suitcase and offers a hand to Ryan to help him up. "You can have some if you come inside. I mean, if you want."

"Yes. Yes, please." Ryan smiles again and takes Tom's hand, wobbling a little as he turns to pick up his guitar. Tom tells himself the reason he grips Ryan's hand a little tighter is just to help him balance.

***

Once, way back when Tom was alternating between being angry at the world and being depressed and Ryan still thought that painting birds on his face was the ultimate expression of his inner turmoil, Tom and Ryan had some, as it turned out, surprisingly good sex. Together. At the same time. With each other.

Actually now that Tom thinks about it, it happened more than once. Two or three times maybe, possibly even as many as five, Tom can't quite remember to be honest. It was a couple of years ago and he's spent a lot of the time in between then and now drunk off his ass.

But what Tom does remember is that the sex was good enough that he'd like to do it again. Only this time without the sneaking around and secrecy and the not really having enough time to totally savor the experience. Mainly, Tom thinks, he'd like to have sex with Ryan in a bed, instead of an out of the way room backstage at a venue, or a not especially hygienic truckstop bathroom. Tom has a pretty comfortable bed in his room just down the hall from where he's sitting that he thinks would be ideal.

The problem is, though, that Tom is not exactly sure of how to suggest it happen. He thinks there is probably some kind of etiquette involved. Tom's never really been all that good at etiquette.

They've had a nice day: they had some coffee, swapped stories about Jon doing stupid things, they reminisced about people they know and places they've been and right now they're sitting on the couch eating pizza and Ryan is smiling and he keeps laughing at Tom's jokes, no matter how lame they are. Tom doesn't really want to ruin it by blurting out "oh hey, wanna fuck?".

Which is a shame, because that right there is a question that Tom would really like to know the answer to.

***

Tom wakes up in the middle of the night to find Ryan sitting cross-legged on the end of his bed. In the light shining into the room from the streetlights outside Ryan kind of looks like a gargoyle. A gargoyle in paisley pajamas, but a gargoyle all the same. It's sort of creepy, Tom thinks, waking up to find someone watching you sleep. He makes a mental note to apologize to Nick next time he sees him. And also to buy some curtains.

Tom sits up a little and tries to get his brain in gear enough to speak. It doesn't really work. He means to ask Ryan what's up but it comes out more like "nnrgh?"

Luckily Ryan seems to get what he means.

"Your couch is really uncomfortable." Ryan pulls a face to emphasize his point. "Jon lied."

Tom nods in agreement and tries the speaking thing again. "Yeah. He did."

"So," Ryan says, "can I sleep in here with you?"

Tom really hopes that the speed with which he slides over to make room for Ryan does not make him seem too eager. Because he kind of is.

If Ryan notices he doesn't say anything, he just climbs in, then spends five minutes fussing with the pillow and arranging the blankets just so. Tom thinks he shouldn't really find it endearing, but he kind of does.

When Ryan is finally settled he rolls on his side and presses a quick kiss to Tom's cheek, murmuring, "Thanks," before rolling back the other way.

Tom goes back to sleep with a smile on his face.

***

Ryan is made almost entirely of elbows. Tom is sure that Ryan must have grown extra arms in the night, that would explain all the elbows. Tom isn't really complaining, though, because the reason he knows about Ryan's extra elbows is from the way they keep jabbing him as Ryan squirms around until he's settled above Tom, smiling as he leans in for a kiss. Tom has absolutely no problem with elbows if there's kissing involved. No problem at all.

They've been kissing for a while and Tom is working on undoing the buttons on Ryan's pajama top - and seriously, Tom wants to know, who in the world wears actual pajamas - when Ryan pulls back, tilting his head and screwing up his face like he's thinking really deep thoughts.

"Morning sex isn’t really that sexy. It’s all bad breath and weird hair and pillow creases and, like, sweaty but not necessarily in a good way."

"Oh." Tom stops what he's doing and lies down again. If he pouts a little too he doesn't think anyone can blame him.

Ryan rolls his eyes and undoes the remaining buttons on his pajama top, peeling it off when he's done and throwing it onto the floor beside the bed. "I wasn’t saying we shouldn’t. Just, you know, sorry about the morning breath."

Another thing Tom has absolutely no problem with right now is morning breath.

***

When Al wanders into the room Tom is sitting on the not-at-all-comfortable-to-sleep-on couch watching a game show. Ryan's stretched out beside him, his head resting in Tom's lap as he takes a nap.

Al looks at the TV for a moment, calling out the answer to a question. Once he's been proved right he turns in Tom's direction and says, "Hey man, I'll catch you later, I’m going out to grab a few beers with Ryan."

Tom looks at Al then down at Ryan. He's pretty sure Ryan is asleep so he guesses he should wake him up if he's going out for drinks with Al. On one hand Tom is glad his friends get along. On the other hand, he's kind of disappointed because if Al is going out then he and Ryan could have had the apartment to themselves for the night, but if Ryan is going with Al then it will just be Tom in on his own. And that's kind of sad.

Tom's just about to shake Ryan's shoulder to wake him up when Al stops him. "No, no, my Ryan." Tom raises an eyebrow. Al flails his hands a little. "I mean our Ryan." Al pauses again and makes a noise that's halfway between frustration and embarrassment before saying, "I’m going out with Luciani."

Ryan chooses that moment to roll on his side and fling an arm over Tom's legs like he's holding him down. Ryan mutters something unintelligible and then snuggles in closer until his forehead is resting against Tom's hip and Tom can feel the warmth of Ryan's breath starting to seep through the crotch of his jeans.

Tom absentmindedly pats at Ryan's head, smoothing the hair away from his face until Ryan hums contentedly and presses forward. Tom is pretty sure he can feel the pressure of Ryan's mouth right against his dick. His dick that is busy interpreting Ryan's position in a fairly interested way. Tom tries squirming a little but it doesn't really help so he gives up and tries to pretend like it isn't happening, because Al's eyebrows are raised so high Tom thinks he might need to get them surgically removed from his hairline just to get them back to where they're supposed to be.

"Um, so," Al pauses for a moment, "you and Ross..."

Tom shrugs.

Al's eyebrows climb even higher. Tom did not think that was possible.

"Right. Okay." Al says. "Well, um, I'll leave you to it then."

Tom doesn't get a chance to reply because Al turns and walks out the door quicker than quick. Tom thinks he hears him saying 'dude, you'll never guess who Tom's fucking' in a disbelieving voice as the door of the apartment creaks open.

Tom's trying to work out how long it will take for the whole Chicago scene to hear the gossip when Ryan rolls over again and opens his eyes.

"Is he gone?"

Tom nods his head and grins. "Yeah."

Ryan grins back, just the right side of wicked. "Good."

Ryan rolls off the couch and shuffles forward until he's settled between Tom's legs. Tom let's his head fall back and grins at the ceiling as Ryan reaches for his zip.

***

Sean is convinced they need one final practice before the first show.

Tom wants to argue that they don't, because, well, it has nothing to do with how ready they are and a whole lot to do with a conversation he'd had with Ryan earlier about scarves and ties and the interesting ways they can be used. But then Al shouts something about Max picking them up in half an hour and Tom's argument dies before it begins. If Sean already has Max and Al on his side then Tom knows from experience there is no point trying to change anyone's mind.

Ryan takes the news that Tom has to go out pretty well. He looks a little disappointed for a moment but then nods and looks thoughtful.

"We should probably practice too."

Tom doesn’t know how that's going to happen seeing as Jon is busy communing with nature out in Crystal Lake, Eric is in L.A., Than is in New York and, according to Ryan, Alex is vibing in the cosmos. Whatever that means. Tom is not entirely sure he wants to know. But Ryan mutters something about webcams and ichat so Tom reminds him to put on some pants and leaves him to it.

Practice goes well. Like really well. Sean's voice soars round the practice space, Al and Max are on fire and Ryan doesn't fall off his stool once. It's days like this that make Tom feel energised and giddy, like he can take on the world. Tom really, really fucking loves his band.

When Tom gets home Ryan is sitting at the kitchen table waiting for him. There’s pizza from his favourite place on plates instead of in the box and a candle sitting in the middle of the table. It’s shaped like a pumpkin, but still...

"You cooked."

"I ordered in." Ryan shrugs and looks down at the floor. "I'm banned from cooking. Eric made me sign something to say I wouldn't do it anymore. There was an incident."

Tom totally understands. He's only recently mastered the complexities of the toaster oven. Kitchens can be dangerous places.

And anyway, "It’s the thought that counts."

Ryan looks up again and smiles. It's the big, happy smile that makes Tom want to kiss Ryan when he sees it, so he pulls Ryan up from his chair just so he can push him up against the counter and does.

"Oh wait," Ryan breaks the kiss and points to a chocolate cheesecake that's sitting on a plate on the counter. "I made dessert. Well I defrosted it. Um, we might need to wait like an hour or two because I only remembered it half an hour ago and the instructions say three hours."

"I’m sure we can think of a way to pass the time." Tom grins and waggles his eyebrows.

Ryan grins back. "I’ve heard that cheesecake tastes better naked."

"What about pizza?"

"I dunno. Wanna find out?"

Tom grabs the plates and follows Ryan down the hall.

(As it turns out, naked pizza eating is not such a good idea. Tom makes a mental note to remember that hot food and nudity do not go together. Partially defrosted cheesecake on the other hand is definitely improved by nakedness. Tom does not even mind that he'll have to buy a whole new set of bed sheets.)

***

They're the first ones to arrive at the venue. Which is surprising and a little unsettling. Tom is a kinda worried that maybe they are in the wrong place, or that maybe it's the wrong day. It's happened before.

He's about to suggest they find someone to check with when Ryan crowds him up against the wall, muttering something about "alone time" and dressing rooms bringing back memories, and kisses him. Tom is totally okay with them maybe being in the wrong place on the wrong day just as long as there's kissing.

They've just gotten to the point where Tom is wondering if Ryan remembered to lock the door to the dressing room, and whether or not he really cares, when he hears the door open and a voice that sounds a lot like Jon's say, "Oh, hey."

Tom peers over Ryan's shoulder. He has to stand on tiptoe to do it. The reason the voice sounded a lot like Jon's is because Jon is standing in the doorway looking confused. On the plus side that means they got the day and venue right. Tom counts that as a win.

Tom smiles at Jon. Ryan on the other hand does not smile at Jon, he's too busy sucking a bruise onto Tom's neck. Tom notes that this does not stop Jon from looking confused, so Tom asks, "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm..." Jon pauses and half scowls, half pouts. "I'm trying to work out which one of you I should be threatening to beat up."

Ryan stops what he's doing and turns round to face Jon saying, "Why?"

Tom tries not to hate Jon just a little bit.

Jon says, "The best friend thing. You know the thing where I threaten violence if anything goes wrong. It's like...I can't decide who to say it to."

"Does anyone really ever do that?" Ryan tilts his head to the side like he's considering Jon's quandary.

"Do what?"

"Make threats."

"I dunno, maybe?" Jon shrugs. "Cassie's been making me watch a lot of romantic comedies, it happens in them a lot."

It takes Tom a minute or two but then he has an idea. "Um, how about you threaten us both. You know, if it will make you feel better."

"Sure yeah I can do that." Jon looks relieved, Tom feels kind of proud of himself. "So, um, consider yourselves warned."

Tom gives Jon a big smile and a thumbs up. "Thanks, man."

Ryan nods in agreement and smiles at Jon as well. "You're the best."

"I'm gonna go see if Alex has shown up yet. You two can... " Jon waves a hand vaguely in the direction of the couch in the corner of the room that Tom had not even noticed then backs out of the door, shutting it behind himself.

Tom remembers to lock it before he joins Ryan on the couch.

***

Tom is half watching the local band that's opening for them soundcheck and half working on tuning his guitar when Al taps him on the shoulder.

"Dude, band meeting."

Al has his serious face on. The one he reserves for when things are fucked up, or when he's trying to convince a girl he's interested in what she's saying. As Tom is not a girl, he figures Al is trying to tell him bad things are afoot.

Tom follows Al back to the dressing room. Ryan is huddled in a corner with the rest of his band, Tom's band is in an equally huddle-like formation in an opposite corner so Tom joins them. One of the sound guys from the venue is standing in the middle of the room looking a little exasperated. Tom thinks his name might be Mike but he cannot in all honesty be sure.

Maybe-Mike sighs, heavily, like this is not the first time he has had reason to sigh today, and says, "So, you guys never actually decided who's headlining. You know that's kind of important, right?"

There's a murmur of agreement from both corners, Tom nods along with it because, yeah, maybe-Mike does have a point.

Tom sneaks a look at Ryan who just happens to be sneaking a look back at Tom. Tom smiles and shrugs. Ryan grins back, until Alex glares at him and tells him not to fraternize with the enemy. Tom hums a couple of bars of Romeo and Juliet to himself and tries to focus on what Sean is saying.

Across the room Tom hears Jon ask maybe-Mike if they have a Wii in the building. Jon Walker, Tom thinks, is a sneaky fucker.

"Dude, we are not playing Beatles Rock Band to decide who headlines." Tom knows for a fact that Jon is a dirty cheater. There's no way he completed the entire game in three days without cheating in some way.

Jon looks sad. Tom will probably have to buy him many, many drinks to make up for foiling his cunning plan.

"We could have a drinking contest," Ryan J suggests, like he read Tom's mind and got the wrong idea. "Last band to pass out headlines the tour."

Sean does not look impressed. "Yeah, that is so not a good idea."

Alex says, "We could build a sweat lodge."

"How will that help?" Ryan looks confused. Tom thinks it's kind of a good look for him.

"I dunno," Alex replies, "I just really want to build one."

"Oh for fuck's sake." Max throws his hands up in the air in what Tom feels is a slightly over-dramatic fashion. "Who has a quarter? We can flip for it, whoever wins headlines tonight then tomorrow we switch. There's four shows, we headline two each."

There's a new murmur of agreement followed by the sound of people patting their pockets for change. Maybe-Mike rolls his eyes and walks to the door muttering to himself about needing a drink. He comes back a minute later with a handful of coins and a beer.

Empires wins the toss. Tom would celebrate but he is too busy listening to Ryan telling him about all the ways Tom can make him feel better about losing. Tom thinks it may be the very definition of a win-win situation.

***

It occurs to Tom, not for the first time, that Econo Lodge does not provide quite the same level of comfort that Ryan is used to in a hotel. Or motel, as the case may be. Tom's latest clue is in the look of disdain on Ryan's face as he waves his hands at the, it has to be said, not especially large piece of vaguely off-white material he's attempted to tie around his waist, saying, "This is not what I would call a bath towel."

While Tom can see Ryan's point re: the size of the offending towel, he can also see that it has its good side. It really does not leave a whole lot to the imagination. Not that Tom actually needs to imagine Ryan naked, he's seen him that way enough times now to know exactly how he looks. But sometimes a little mystery is nice.

Tom pats the space on the bed beside him. Ryan fiddles with the towel some more then gives up, throwing it on the bathroom floor before he crosses the room.

Ryan ignores the space Tom has so carefully left for him. Instead he climbs on the bed and shuffles around until he is straddling Tom's lap. Tom is perfectly okay with this.

"You," Ryan says between kisses, "are wearing too many clothes."

Tom thinks Ryan is probably right. "I am. I should do something about that."

"Yes." Ryan nods vigorously. "Yes you should."

Ryan pulls back the comforter and the sheets and arranges the pillows while Tom is getting undressed. It feels weirdly domestic, Tom thinks, but he kind of likes that it does.

"Orgies are really hard to organize." Ryan says. "You need a really big bed or else someone always ends up falling off the side."

Tom is getting used to Ryan's way of saying things like he forgets that other people can't hear the thoughts in his head. But he still raises an eyebrow in question, because, what?

Ryan waves his hand at the bed. "It's like taking part in an orgy but not being able to see the other people in the room."

Tom is still a little confused. "Huh?"

Ryan shrugs. "Do you know how many people have had sex in an average motel bed?"

Tom does not. "No."

"Hundreds. Maybe as many as a thousand."

Tom thinks about it for a moment then says, "How about we make it a thousand and two."

Ryan grins. "Okay."

***

Tom has a little bowl on the table right beside his front door where he keeps his keys. It's a very nice bowl: nothing fancy, just made of wood, but it's just the right size and feels comfortably heavy when it's picked up. Tom really likes it and he tells Ryan all about it while they're sitting on his front steps with their bags and their guitars waiting for Al to come home.

It seems very likely that Tom's keys are sitting in his nice wooden bowl right this very second. He may or may not have forgotten to pick them up when they left for tour.

"I think," Ryan says, "I'm suffering from deja vu."

Tom nods. The situation does seem very familiar. Except for how the door was open last time they were here.

Ryan pulls his phone out of his pocket and takes a picture of their feet. "At least it's a nice day."

Tom nods again, because it is. The sun is shining, the sky is blue and Tom could quite happily sit on his steps for at least a couple of hours before he gets really bored.

"So, um when are you heading back to L.A.?" Tom knows what he wants Ryan's answer to be.

"I don't know." Ryan pauses, then his words come out in a rush. "I thought I'd stick around here for a while, if that's okay."

"Yeah," Tom says, because, "yeah, that's okay."

Ryan smiles and finishes sending his text. When he's done he shuffles a little closer and rests his head on Tom's shoulder. Tom puts his arm round Ryan's waist. Yep. Tom could sit here for hours, days even maybe.

Tom's phone buzzes in his pocket. It's an update from Ryan's twitter - a picture of their feet side by side on the steps in matching flipflops with the caption "all the time in the world". Tom can't help but grin.

his delusions find their way inside your head

themoononastick — Sun, 20 Sep 2009 22:32:49 GMT

I ate a bag of popcorn for dinner this evening because I was feeling too lazy to to cook. It seemed like a good idea at the time...

At what point does it become too late to respond to comments on a fic? One of my pet peeves is people who don’t reply to fb and yet, oh hey, that is exactly what I’ve done. If I could only think of a way to make ‘sorry for the lateness of my reply, I went a little crazy due to side effects of medication and forgot how to communicate, oops?’ sound less pathetic. Sigh.

Anyways. In related news: I got kind of carried away with that meme from a few days ago and wrote a bunch of drabbles in response to Katie’s request. They’re a companion piece to this fic and I am not entirely convinced they make sense unless you’ve read that first, but I kind of like them so I am reposting them here. (unbeta’d so please excuse any Britisms)

Ryan/Jon ~ PG ~ 5 x 100 words.

Time moves strangely in L.A.

It feels like Ryan’s house exists in a surreal bubble that’s disconnected from the rest of the world and drifting in a universe of its own making. Like maybe the theatrics of the décor and the wild flights of fancy of the people who walk its halls have merged and turned a fantasy into reality. Jon thinks that sometimes it feels like being on stage. Like everything that happens is just another performance and that he needs a crib sheet to remember his lines.

But the longer Jon stays, the less he wants to leave.

~

Ryan sometimes wishes he was better with words. It frustrates him that he can make words work for him when he’s writing lyrics or rambling about nothing on the internet, but no matter how hard he tries he can’t think of the right words to say to Jon.

Ryan’s tried. He’s talked until his throat is dry and his voice sounds shaky and unsure, but it always feels like what he really needs to say is hovering just out of reach.

So Ryan shows what he can’t tell. Wraps himself around Jon and holds on as tight as he can.

~

There are always people in Ryan’s house: Than visiting Eric, Alex when he’s in town, Mike, Jason, Z, Kate and her friends, and what feels like a million other people with instantly forgettable names. Jon is used to waking up and finding strangers sleeping on the couch or sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee, and the constant hum of conversation that never seems to end.

He thinks Ryan needs them all to distract himself from what’s happening with the band. And that makes Jon wonder if he’s enough for Ryan and what would happen if all these people went away.

~

Ryan is used to being the one who needs reassurance. He’s the one who thinks things through until the what ifs and maybes are swirling so fast in his head he feels dizzy with it.

And Jon…Jon is the normally the one who listens to Ryan’s worries, the person who holds Ryan together when it feels like his thoughts are trying to pull him apart.

Which is why Jon’s hesitation, this reversal of roles, should unnerve him. But it doesn’t. Ryan likes being the one who’s sure for a change.

It makes him feel like he’s finally giving something back.

~

Jon knows Ryan is waiting for him to make a decision.

He can see it in the way that Ryan looks at him, in the unasked questions written all over Ryan’s face.

Jon wants to tell Ryan what he’s waiting to hear. That he’s ready to choose Ryan and leave everything else behind. But he knows that once the words are out of his mouth he won’t be able to take them back again.

Jon feels like he’s balancing on a tightrope without a safety net below him, hoping that Ryan will be there to catch him when he falls.

(one day I will organise my external hard drive...

themoononastick — Thu, 17 Sep 2009 21:00:17 GMT

and then things like this will not take me so long to put together)

It's Jon Walker's birthday and I have an unexpected day off. These two things combined can only lead to one thing - it's picspam time!

(Clicking on this picture will take you to my previous Jon Walker picspam of much epicness.)

Jon Walker is very, very pretty.

He likes to prove this by posting pictures of himself to twitter.

For which I am very thankful.

Sometimes other people, like say, Eric, post pictures of him to myspace, for which I am equally thankful.

Jon, on the other hand, is just surprised.

Sometimes Jon's friends like to take pictures of him (and who can blame them)

Jon Walker likes to nap. I fully support this as an A+++ lifestyle choice.

And sometimes he is just so damn beautiful that the camera only focuses on him.

Every picspam needs some semi-nudity...

I'll let you enjoy that for a while

...

Okay.

One day Jon spent a brief period of time thinking he was a swan.

This is not because he is insane, it is because he really likes animals.

Even bugs.

Other things Jon likes include - going to the cinema with his friends.

Standing on furniture.

Drinking tea.

And reading magazines.

Jon Walker does not however, like it when people follow him into the bathroom.

He had plans.

Plans that demand some privacy

Another thing Jon does not like is shoes.

No matter how many people think he should wear them or how free they are.

It's weird not to be able to see his toes, okay?

Not so long ago Jon Walker went to South Africa, in order to spread his attractiveness to new corners of the globe.

When he's not running around the world looking pretty or playing with animals Jon likes to play music.

This makes him all hot and sweaty. Not that anyone minds.

He also likes being in the recording studio.

Jon Walker really likes his friends. A lot.

Sometimes he is subtle about it

other times, not so much

Subtle...

Not subtle

No really, this picture looks like a scene from a TV show wherein a guy asks his sweetie to marry him in front of a live studio audience. (A tv show from the seventies, obviously)

(You have now reached the portion of this picspam entitled 'why yes, I do have an OTP, thank you for noticing'. Just sayin'.)

Jon Walker really likes his Ryan Rossy.

"Legs crossed towards each other. That is an unequivocal sex invite"

"Anything you can do to draw attention to your mouth is good."

(also the portion of the picspam where I quote Clueless a lot *hands*)

Subtle...

Not quite so subtle

NOT subtle

Yeah, not even approaching subtle.

In conclusion:

JON

WALKER

IS

MY

FAVOURITE.

Fic: Free Falling (Ryan/Jon, R)

themoononastick — Wed, 03 Jun 2009 19:00:23 GMT

Title: Free Falling
Pairing: Ryan/Jon
Rating: R
Summary: "Love is metaphysical gravity." (R Buckminster Fuller)
Disclaimer: Not real.
A/N: I haven't posted fic for almost six months. Mainly because I had the most unshakeable case of writer's block ever. Thanks to cmonkatiekatie, cynthia_arrow and foxxcub for doing the beta thing. <3333333

It’s late, or early, or whatever time of night you call the moment when birds start to wake up and sing good morning to each other and the sun is thinking about joining them in the sky. That’s nothing new; Jon is used to this weird lifestyle of sleeping through the morning, waking up around noon, and maybe thinking about getting out of bed around three. Tonight, though, he’s kind of tired and he’d like to just close his eyes and give in to the pull of sleep, let it take him where it may. But Ryan is awake and that means Jon is awake, because Ryan is spooned in close behind him and Jon can feel he’s hard, and that’s kind of difficult to ignore.

And then there’s the fact that Ryan has his hand wrapped loosely around Jon’s dick, in this vague, maybe he’s trying to start something but got distracted kind of a way. Or maybe it’s that Ryan is just not sure if Jon is still awake. So Jon wriggles back, makes a humming noise deep in his throat, tells Ryan he’s awake and he’s willing without saying a word.

Ryan hums back, presses a kiss to Jon’s shoulder, moves closer until there’s no space between them, unfurls and flexes his fingers, once, twice, like a pianist about to take the stage, then curls them around Jon's dick again.

Ryan is open-mouthed against the back of his neck and for just a second Jon forgets to breathe. The world sways around him, vertiginous and tumbling.

It’s slow, though, too slow. Ryan moving his hand in a maddeningly unhurried rhythm, slightly off-beat, long on the down stroke, short on the up. It’s not nearly enough to get Jon off, but it is enough to make his breath start to stutter. He clamps down on the desire to beg for something more, something firmer and more sure than the slow drag and not-quite-enough pressure Ryan is giving him. And maybe, Jon thinks, maybe that sums up this whole thing they have between them - neither of them giving enough or being willing to ask for more.

But then Ryan twists his wrist, thumb dragging over the head of Jon’s dick, and Jon stops thinking about anything but the feel of Ryan’s hand and the smell of sex that clings to the bed.

Jon’s world has narrowed down to the press of Ryan against his back, Ryan’s breath hot and a little damp on his skin, and the slow, loose feel of Ryan’s hand. It’s still nothing like enough but it’s getting sharper, the feeling of it, as though his nerve endings are sparking extra hard to make up for what Ryan isn’t giving him. He closes his eyes and the room feels darker than it actually is, all the light drained away and replaced by sensation and the low whisper of panted breaths. They’re breathing in time with each other now, with the rhythm that Ryan’s setting: in and out, up and down, a catch at the end of every other stroke to go with the twist of Ryan’s hand.

Jon holds his breath hoping that discord will force Ryan into action, like a petulant crash of chords when a song isn’t coming together quite right. It does the opposite: Ryan’s hand slows, gets looser still until Jon wants to beg, to fucking plead for something, anything that Ryan is willing to give him.

But he doesn’t. He holds it in.

Ryan shifts backwards letting cool air into the gap between their over-heated skin, uncurls his fist and moves away. Jon wants to scream, has to bite down on his lip to keep in the nonono that wants to escape.

He stays still, though, so still; listens as Ryan rustles on the table beside the bed and then sucks in a breath when Ryan slides in close again. Lets Ryan shift them and move them until Jon has one leg draped up and back over Ryan’s thigh and Ryan is in the v of his legs, pressed in close, whispering, "I want to fuck you," in Jon’s ear.

Jon nods, urgent, just a shade desperate; holds his breath as Ryan trails cool, slick fingers between his cheeks.

Jon exhales as Ryan pushes in.

~

Jon wakes up to an empty bed. Again. It’s not unusual. Jon wakes up alone more often than he wakes with Ryan still next to him, but, like always, it makes him blink away the last traces of sleep and haul himself out of bed.

Jon takes a piss, splashes some water on his face and contemplates coffee. His cigarettes and lighter are on the kitchen table; he thinks maybe a nicotine rush will fix the buzzing in his head until he finds the energy to fight with Ryan’s temperamental coffee maker. So he steps outside and turns his face into the sun that’s still low in the sky but feels warm and comforting on his skin.

He stands by the door smoking with his eyes closed, listening to the sounds of birds in the trees and the breeze stirring the bamboo wind chimes hanging by the door. They clank together with a deep, hollow thud that counterpoints the high ting of the smaller, metal chimes hanging in the trees by the edge of the cliff. Jon wonders idly if they could capture that sound on tape and use it in a song. But he pushes the thought aside as soon as it comes. Too pretentious, too hippie, and besides, how would they recreate it on stage?

Cigarette smoked, he stubs it out in a plant pot that’s home to a sad looking Agave, a sea of spent butts and the crumpled remains of too many joints, and wanders slowly down the winding path, letting his fingers trail over the leaves of the bushes that line his way. The mattress is still lying out on the lawn, and that’s where he finds Ryan, lying on his back staring up at the sky.

Jon drops down with an 'oof' as his knees hit and Ryan turns to look, smiling wide as he pats the space beside him. Jon tilts his head to the side and considers for a moment before smiling back and dropping forward, rolling into place so they’re side by side staring up at the same patch of sky.

Ryan hums contentedly, rolls up on to an elbow and smiles down at Jon again, and then flops down, half covering Jon with an arm and a leg, murmuring ‘sleep’, elongating the vowels as he nuzzles his head down onto Jon’s shoulder.

Ryan’s hair is tickling his nose and the sun is going to get too hot too soon, but Jon closes his eyes anyway.

~

There’s a tree that hangs out over the cliff right above the wall Spencer built, an old gnarled thing with thick, thick branches that jut out at right angles from the trunk. If Jon reaches up on tiptoe he can grab hold of the thickest, strongest branch and use it to pull himself up to balance on the top of the wall and peer down into the valley below.

There’s a part of him that wonders what it would be like to take a step off: to feel the air rush past him and see the ground get closer, closer, then closer still. What it would be like to take that chance, to just forget his fears and jump, eyes open, head clear, and wait for his feet to hit the ground.

Jon lets his knees sag just a little, bends his body till it curves out over the drop and he can feel the pull of gravity in the strain on his arms. He thinks about jumping and falling and all the ways it could hurt, all the things it could change.

Behind him there’s a cough then a clearing of a throat and Eric says, "Jon?" in a tone that’s just a little too soft not to be born of fear.

Jon pulls himself upright and turns his head until he’s looking backwards, asks, "Do you ever wonder what it would be like to jump?"

Eric frowns then shakes his head. "No."

"I’m not..." Jon pushes himself back from the edge, jumps back down to the safety of the ground, landing with his arms outstretched like a gymnast after dismount. "I’m not going to, I don’t want to jump." Jon pauses, scrubs his hand over his eyes. It’s hard to explain. "It’s like, I think it’s a metaphor or something."

Eric rolls his eyes and laughs. "You spend too much time with Ross."

~

Ryan is talking about synergy and symmetry, rambling on about wavelengths and harmony and perfect balance. Jon stops listening when Ryan starts listing names: Lennon & McCartney, Goffin & King, Jagger & Richards. He doesn’t really buy into Ryan’s sudden case of self-belief.

Jon thinks that if he were to put a name to them right now it would be more like Mickey & Mallory or Charles & Carril Ann: fucked up, co-dependant and out of touch with reality, with a fast track to self-destruction waiting for them on the horizon.

They wake up, they smoke up. They drink, they eat, they fuck, they make music. Day in, day out. Never changing, never moving forward, but never moving back. Caught in an endless loop because pride and fear always gets in the way.

Jon can’t remember the last time he was sober for sex. Scratch that, Jon can’t remember the last time he was completely sober. He thinks it’s been a while. He also thinks that’s probably not so good.

Jon thinks, I need a drink.

Jon thinks, I need a drink and a cigarette.

Ryan offers him coffee and a bowl instead.

~

Jon is on his knees and the carpet feels soft beneath him; toes curling, he takes a breath.

Time is syrupy-slow, measured in heartbeats and inhale-exhale, speeding up as Jon shuffles forward, fingers clumsy on button, zipper and belt.

There’s skin now and a sharp inhale that trails off into something else, something more, as Jon moves closer still. Mouth open and eager, left thumb tracing the sharp jut of Ryan’s hip, right hand curled into a loose-tight fist to kiss.

Jon is on his knees and Ryan is in front of him; pinned to the wall by Jon’s mouth and hands, hands and mouth.

And right now, right at this moment, Jon is exactly where he wants to be.

~

Jon doesn’t remember falling asleep. He remembers hunting out a quiet place to sit and think for a while, because the noise of people talking and laughing and playing around in the studio made his head ache.

He remembers wandering into Ryan’s room and hiding himself away in the far corner, sitting with his legs stretched out in front of him and his back to the cool wood panelling, where the open door blocked the view from the hallway and he could pretend that no one would find him.

By the light in the room Jon can tell he’s been asleep for a while. It’s getting murky-dark, the trees outside the window blocking most of the sun’s dying light. Except for one last ray that’s slowly shrinking across the floor towards where he’s lying with his head in Ryan’s lap. Jon turns his head just enough to look up. All he can see is the spine of the book Ryan’s reading: gold letters on a black background, not quite in focus enough for Jon to make out the title.

Jon thinks about moving, about standing up and climbing into the bed that’s just a stumble and a yawn away. But Ryan’s fingers are running through his hair, petting him like he’s a cat curled up on Ryan’s lap, and Jon is content to stay where he is.

Ryan turns a page and says, "You sleep too much."

Jon closes his eyes. "You don’t sleep enough."

Ryan shrugs. "We balance each other out."

~

When Jon’s in L.A. he thinks about Chicago, when he’s in Chicago he thinks about L.A. He feels greedy for wanting them both, never satisfied, unsettled and restless.

When he’s in-between, when he’s high in the sky halfway between one and the other, he sometimes wishes the plane would start to dip and he’d feel the clunk of landing gears slipping into place. That the plane would glide down from the skies and leave him stranded somewhere that’s neither place he wants to be.

He thinks he needs an anchor, something to hold on to to make Chicago feel like home again, and home feel like L.A. He thinks about jumping, about landing, about reaching out and holding on to what’s being offered. He thinks about sleeping and waking, of sun-drenched days and sheets that still smell half like him when he gets back from being away.

Early morning, as the sun rises, Jon curls himself along Ryan’s back, fits his knees into the bend of Ryan’s legs and talks into Ryan’s skin. "I think we should..."

"Hmmm?" Ryan murmurs into his pillow, voice sleep-drowned and barely there.

"This thing, we should, I don’t know, we should do it properly." Jon closes his eyes, holds his breath for a beat and thinks about air rushing past him before he speaks again. "We should admit that it’s something."

"I already have." Ryan’s voice is louder now, more distinct. More sure.

"I know." Jon does, it’s just... "I mean I should."

Ryan turns his head, smiles and says, "Okay."

**

There is a companion piece for this fic here

maybe in the sub-cockle area

themoononastick — Wed, 24 Dec 2008 23:31:15 GMT

Flist, I have spent the entire day lazing on my sofa watching the Discovery Channel and thinking about Jon Walker. Excellent use of my time y/y?

Anyhoo, I do this meme every year so let's get it out of the way shall we.

This year I have written these fics:

Untitled ficlet (Tom Conrad, Panic; Gen)
Do Rockstars Dream Of Electric Sheep? (Spencer/Brendon, Ryan/Jon; R)
Words Left Unspoken (Ryan/Jon; R)
Intermission (Spencer/Brendon, vague Ryan/Jon; PG13)
...and one to grow on (Spencer/Brendon; PG13)
Synesthesia (Panic GSF; NC17)
Go With The Flow (Ryan/Jon, with a side of Spencer/Brendon; R)
Explicitly Yours (Ryan/Jon/Spencer; NC17)
Moving Day (vaguely implied Panic GSF, PG)
But It's Better If You Smile (For The Paparazzi) (Ryan/Jon/Gabe; R)
Untitled bandom ficlets (Pairings: Frank/Mikey/Spencer; Bob/Spencer; Ryan/Spencer; Panic GSF; Spencer/Brendon (x2); Jon/Brendon; Brendon/Ryan; Jon/Spencer)
Feel Good Hit Of The Summer (Panic genfic)
Cigarettes & Chocolate Milk (Ryan/Jon; PG)
Subterranean Homesick Blues (Panic genfic)
Untitled Panic ficlets (Jon/Brendon; Spencer/Brendon (x2); Panic GSF)
Sunset Skies (Frank/Mikey; PG)
Untitled ficlets (SPN/bandom crossover: Sam, Dean/Spencer; Popslash/Bandom crossover: JC Chasez, Ryan/Jon; Mikey Way/his band; Frank/Gerard.)
Strung Tight (Ryan/Jon; PG)
Map of the Problematique (Ryan/Jon; R)
Bruise Violet (Ryan/Jon; PG13)
Foundations (Frank, Gerard; gen)
Untitled ficlets of much randomness (JDM/Jensen/Jared; Robin Hood gen; Richard Armitage/the entire cast of Robin Hood; Viggo/Sean Bean; Charlie/Boone; Desmond, Sayid.)

My favourite story: Go With The Flow, maybe. Or Synesthesia.

My best story: Bruise Violet. Because drabbles totally count and for some odd reason I tend to be happier with them than I am with anything else I write.

Which was the most fun to write? The as yet unfinished epic AU I am writing with cmonkatiekatie. What? It totally counts.

Which was the hardest to write? Do Rockstars Dream Of Electric Sheep? At one point I sent an email to Katie saying I wanted to print it out just so I could burn it. And one day I will.

Which was your favourite to write? Intermission. It just flowed and didn't make me bang my head on my desk and swear a lot.

Story with the single sexiest moment: Um, Map of the Problematique? Idk I've been pretty PG this year.

Holy crap that’s wrong even for you! Like I said, I've been very PG this year. Disturbingly PG.

Most unintentionally telling: Synesthesia. Also, any other fic that involves people doing drugs/being high. There's a reason I get comments from people saying the druggy scenes seem realistic. Ahem.

What pairing/genre/fandom did you write that you would never have predicted in January 2008? Robin Hood RPF. *hands*

What pairings/fandoms do you plan to write for 2008? Bandom, bandom and more bandom.

Happy holidays flist o' mine. Have a fabulous time doing whatever you intend to do for the next couple of days. ♥ (Personally I'm just looking forward to coming home and wallowing in all the fic I've saved up to read as a reward for not punching my dad when he makes us watch Wizard of Oz for the millionth year running.)

Do Rockstars Dream Of Electric Sheep? (Spencer/Brendon, Ryan/Jon; R. 1/3)

themoononastick — Mon, 15 Dec 2008 19:21:03 GMT

Title: Do Rockstars Dream Of Electric Sheep?
Pairing: Spencer/Brendon, Ryan/Jon.
Rating: R
Summary: Crack!fic in which Spencer has weird dreams, questions his sexuality and spends a lot of time hiding things away in boxes in his mind.
Disclaimer: Not real.
Word count: 18,240
Notes: Written for the drawn_to holiday exchange. Ridiculous amounts of love and gratitude to cmonkatiekatie and cynthia_arrow for the kick ass beta, hand-holding and endless words of wisdom. And much love to foxxcub for organising the exchange and putting up with my inability to meet deadlines. ♥

Sometimes Spencer dreams he's in college, spending his days worrying about essays and reading lists and midterms and trying not to fall asleep in lectures. And sometimes he dreams he’s working in a normal boring everyday office type job with deadlines and cubicles and gossiping about last night’s TV by the water cooler. And sometimes, Spencer dreams that he’s working as a door to door salesman selling encyclopedias to bored housewives who answer the door in baby doll night dresses with curlers in their hair, but that’s a whole other story.

When he dreams about college or offices he always wakes up feeling kind of wistful, like, ‘that could be my life if Ryan hadn't done x and I hadn't agreed to y and q wasn't the square root of the hypotenuse of p and isn't it a shame I'm missing out on TV dinners and deadlines and drinks with the gang Friday night after work’. Which, yeah, is dumb because, hello, rock star. He has the life that most people who actually do have shitty Monday to Friday desk jobs or who are sweating over essay writing in college dream about, so what the hell? But then he figures it's just his subconscious filling in the dream gap that’s been left by the fact his life is basically fantasy fodder.

The encyclopedia-selling dreams, on the other hand, have less to do with subconscious desires for a quote unquote normal life, and more to do with watching far too many really cheesy porn flicks late at night on the bus with Brendon. Like too many to the extent that Spencer stopped being turned on by any of it a long time ago and actually started taking notice of camera angles and the difference in quality from one porn production house to the next and at what point fake tits move from attractive in a ‘seriously they should move more than that’ way to ‘yeah, no, that's just ridiculous, how the fuck does she walk with those things glued to her chest, no, really, Brendon, how?’

Not that he and Brendon have discussed the whole monotony of porn watching or the concepts of objectification versus fantasy fulfillment and self-insertion as it relates to Sgt Pecker's Lonely Hearts Club Gangbang or America's Most Willing, or anything.

Except that they have. Kind of a lot. In between revoicing what little dialogue the films in question have in a Mystery Science Theatre kind of a way.

Which. Should probably be way weirder than it is. But isn’t. Really.

And the other thing that has never really flagged itself as weird in Spencer’s mind is the actual act of watching porn with Brendon. Because Spencer is pretty sure watching porn is supposed to be a thing that couples do together when they can’t be bothered with foreplay any more. Or a solitary thing, mainly partaken of by the greasy, slightly creepy guys he and Ryan used to point and laugh at as they scurried from one strip joint to the next at the seedier end of town. But somehow watching guys whose, for the most part, only attractive feature is the size of their dick, fucking women whose tits defy the laws of nature, never seems odd, or not quite right, or anything but just another extension of the, okay, slightly strange dynamic that they have as a band.

Because they all, and Brendon especially, have a total disregard for the concept of personal space, and a habit of falling asleep draped all over each other. And then there’s the fact that spending so much time squashed close together in the cramped confines of a tour bus means that they all know exactly how each other sounds when they’re coming, because curtains don’t do much more than muffle the sound of jerking off and they don’t really do that especially effectively. Which means that, really, in a weird kind of a way, sex is just another part of the background noise of touring and watching porn is more of a normal day-to-day activity than it probably should be.

Spencer does sometimes wonder if he should question it, but it’s easier not to. That way only madness and uncomfortable feelings around the breakfast table lie.

Because it’s not like he and Brendon watch porn for, like, sexual reasons. It’s not like Brendon is trying to seduce him with the greatest bangs of the seventies or anything. Because Spencer is one hundred percent sure that isn’t what it’s all about. Or, okay, ninety eight percent sure. He maybe thought that might have been what was going on the first couple of times but… yeah, no, Spencer knows now he was maybe just projecting old feelings onto a new situation where they didn’t belong. And Spencer learned long ago that there are certain thoughts that belong in the past, or, more specifically, belong in the box in his mind that he packs all the things he would rather forget about into. The box that has ‘DO NOT OPEN’ written in red on the top of it and is surrounded by police tape that says ‘Danger, do not cross this line’. Spencer decided long ago that there some things are best ignored, because if he ignores them for long enough then they will maybe fade away and disappear.

*

Last night, though, Spencer just had a run of the mill playing on stage naked dream, so it must be a Tuesday. In theory it should be an anxiety dream, he knows this from reading countless new-agey advice columns in countless trashy magazines that always seem to get left lying around the bus (even though no one admits to buying them) and are only slightly less addictive than reruns of classic Jerry Springer chair throwing moments at 3am when he can’t sleep. But in his case naked drumming dreams translate more to ‘I am Spencer, hear me roar.' Or in actual fact, ‘hear me pound the hell out of my drums, and yes I’m naked, d’you got a problem with that? ‘Cos I sure as hell don’t.’

But dreams about being on stage always leave him feeling tired and achy, like he really did play through a whole set while asleep in his bunk, so Spencer’s kind of glad he’s the first one awake because it means he has full access to the coffee pot and there’s no need to attempt conversation while he waits for the drip.

Spencer’s not alone for long though. The pot isn’t even half full before Brendon stumbles out from the bunks with a look about him that Spencer has learned either means Brendon’s been awake all night or that he’s been hiding cans of Red Bull in his bunk again and has already mainlined enough caffeine to kill an elephant. It’s at times like this that Spencer wonders if there’s an AA equivalent for ex-Mormons who need help with their caffeine addiction. And if there isn’t, whether he should find someone willing to start one. For the good of Brendon’s health, and everyone who has to deal with him in a caffeine frenzy’s sanity.

And the other thing Spencer is wondering is if they should have that talk again, the one about communal living and appropriate clothing choices. Because the whole as close to naked as possible thing that Brendon is so fond of is getting tougher for Spencer to deal with on a daily basis. There’s like this direct correlation between the age and rattiness of the boxers Brendon chooses to wander around in (even though the elastic in the waistband is close to failing and Brendon spends half his time pulling them back up his hips as he walks) and failure of Spencer’s ability to pack certain thoughts and feelings neatly away in the box in his mind. In fact Spencer is pretty sure that soon he is going to need a bigger box, or some kind of large storage space with doors that can be closed. Spencer very carefully does not think of the word ‘closet’.

So maybe he should just forget talking to Brendon about him wearing more clothes, because then Spencer can just pretend he doesn’t notice the way that Brendon’s boxers accentuate the curve of his ass. Spencer is really good at not noticing things; he could win medals if it were an Olympic sport.

Spencer moves in front of the coffee pot in a vague attempt to stop Brendon from getting his hands on any more of his favourite early morning vice. But it’s early and Spencer is still half asleep and his heart's not really in it, so it only takes a quick bump of Brendon’s hips and him saying, "you owe me twenty dollars," for Spencer to move out of the way and hop up so he is sitting on the countertop, staring at Brendon’s profile while Brendon communes with the spirit of the bean.

Spencer runs through the list of reasons why he might owe Brendon money in his head. He’s pretty sure he didn’t break anything of Brendon’s and he hasn’t borrowed any money recently and… Spencer gives up thinking after a minute or so and just asks. It’s easier that way. "Huh? Why?"

Brendon shrugs and pours himself another cup of coffee as he says, "You lost the bet, you know, the bet, the big one we’ve had going for ever," like he thinks Spencer will know what he’s talking about.

Spencer doesn’t know what he’s talking about, they have a lot of bets running between them, they’re from Vegas for fuck’s sake, betting is what they do. "Seriously, Bren, it’s too early for being vague."

Brendon turns and leans back against the counter top, humming happily to himself as he takes a sip of coffee before nodding his head in the general direction of the bunks. "Jon and Ryan are fucking."

"Fucking what?" Spencer sighs. If Jon and or Ryan have already done something to annoy Brendon then it’s going to be a long and potentially irritating day. "Fucking assholes, fucking liars who lie, fucking hippies who need to cut back on the dope smoking or at least learn to share better?"

"Well, technically, all three of those options are true," Brendon grins into his coffee mug and waggles his eyebrows in a half-hearted, early morning kind of a way, "But no, not fucking anything. Just fucking. As in they are fucking. Each other. In the back lounge. Or they were earlier anyway, I don’t know if they still are because it’s not like I went and checked or anything and I doubt either of them has the staying power to actually, you know, fuck all night or anything, but they got kind of loud last night and woke me up and I was going to go shout at them but I got halfway through the door and realized what was going on and kind of backed out again really quickly because, you know, fucking. It’s kind of inconsiderate of them really, like, I left my book in there last night and I want to go get it, but there’s an issue with nakedness and interrupting and I’m not sure what the etiquette is. Like do I just barge in and ask if they could please stop fucking and hand me my book or do I wait for them to come out here and then run in and grab it and hope it isn’t near anything gross. Oh god, what if it is near something gross? What if it was underneath them or something while they were you know. I’m gonna call Pete, Pete will know what I should do, or maybe Gabe. Who do you think has had more experience with random acts of fuckery in the back lounge of a tour bus, Pete or Gabe? No wait, I’ll call Patrick."

Brendon moves to grab a cell phone that’s been left lying on the table. The phone’s not actually Brendon’s, Spencer thinks it looks like Jon’s, and it wouldn’t be the first time one of them had used a phone that wasn’t theirs without asking first, but Spencer’s pretty sure that Patrick won’t want to be dragged into the strange little fantasy world that Brendon’s living in this morning, so he grabs the phone before Brendon can and slips it into his pocket saying, "No calling anyone. Also, they’re probably not fucking. We had that talk about the internet being a strange place and the things on it not being true, right? And that clicking on links that Pete sends you can only lead to confusion and the misinterpretations of everyday situations. They probably just fell asleep on top of each other. Again."

Brendon rolls his eyes and, what the hell? Eye rolling is Spencer’s job, not Brendon’s. The way it works is: Brendon says something stupid, Spencer rolls his eyes and explains the actual reality of the situation, Brendon admits he was wrong and that Spencer is always right, the universe continues on its merry way as normal. Not the other way around.

Brendon is still rolling his eyes when he says, "Yeah, see, no, I don’t click on Pete’s links. Okay maybe occasionally, out of curiosity when I can’t work out what the random bits of text speak he uses to explain them mean, but that’s not the point. The point is, I know fucking when I see it and they. Are fucking. For a start they were both naked and Jon had his legs wrapped around..."

Spencer interrupts before Brendon can go into any more detail because, ew, way too much information for this time of the morning, and also, "Are you sure?"

Spencer is beginning to wonder if he woke up in an alternate reality where he is the one who misinterprets things and Brendon is the one who gets to be right all the time. Which. Is weird. Maybe he’s still dreaming and if he pinches himself he’ll wake up and everything will be normal again. Spencer pinches himself. It hurts. He must be awake. Damn.

Brendon is looking at him like Spencer’s a small child who doesn’t understand what happens when daddy and daddy love each other very much.

"Well, unless Ryan was giving Jon a really thorough prostate exam with his dick, then, yeah, I’m sure."

It should be disturbing how quickly and easily his mind can conjure up an image to go with Brendon’s words. And doubly disturbing that in his head Ryan is wearing a nurse’s uniform made of rubber and Jon has a stethoscope draped round his neck, but Spencer is too busy thinking about the actual meaning of what Brendon said to worry about that right now, because, "Huh, Ryan didn’t say anything."

Or maybe Ryan has said something, he’s been doing a lot of eyebrow twitching and eye widening recently and while that works with some things, Spencer kind of needs to know the actual topic of conversation before he’s able to translate Ryan’s not-speak. Also, Spencer had just assumed Ryan was working on cultivating a facial tick or something, to go with the monocle and the white linen safari jacket and culottes he’d taken to wearing recently.

Spencer always makes sure to avoid talking to Ryan about his clothing choices for fear of the three hour lecture on the subject of personal style versus societal norms that anyone foolish enough to ask Ryan what the fuck he’s wearing and why is bound to receive. Spencer learned that when he was 8 and Ryan was 9 and spent two weeks of the summer wearing what Spencer is pretty sure was a skirt but Ryan swore blind was a kilt. He always wishes he’d saved the negatives when Ryan made him burn all copies of the pictures his mom took. They would have made excellent blackmail material.

"I’m sure he was going to tell you soon, maybe he got distracted or something.” Brendon pats Spencer’s arm in what is probably supposed to be a soothing manner, but that, in reality, makes Spencer kind of want to punch Brendon for being patronizing. “Oh! Maybe it was their first time! Like a spur of the minute, oh my god you’re so hot, let’s have sex kind of thing. I mean it’s not like it’s surprising, right? One of them had to hop on board the clue bus at some point. Dude, I am so glad I didn’t like interrupt. First times should be special. They should be memorable in a soft focus, hey honey, do you remember our first time, wasn’t it magical kind of a way, not in a haze of embarrassment at getting walked in on mid fuck. Heh, em-bare-ass-ment, that kind of fits. Hey, where are you going?"

Spencer pauses on his way back to the bunks and points, "Back to bed."

"You’re going to see if you can hear them aren’t you?" Brendon’s mouth twists into a knowing smirk, "You’re such a pervert, Spencer Smith."

Spencer really hadn’t considered the fact that the door to the back lounge doesn’t quite shut properly so, yes, if he goes to his bunk he will be able to hear them, but he’s committed himself to walking in that direction now and if he turns back it will look like Brendon is right. "Shut up, am not. I just... I’m gonna try and get a couple hours more sleep. I have, like, a headache and I feel kind of sick and..." Spencer lets his sentence trail off and tries his best to look like he’s in pain.

His act must be working because Brendon’s smile drops down a couple of notches from ‘evil thoughts’ to ‘concerned friend’ and he says, "Hey, there’s some Advil in my bunk if you want it."

There’s something about Brendon when he’s being all sincere and worried that never fails to throw Spencer’s delicate sense of balance out of whack. It’s stupid really, because Brendon’s one of the most kind-hearted people Spencer has ever met, so him being thoughtful shouldn’t come as a great surprise. But somehow it always does, like maybe Spencer just doesn’t expect that thoughtfulness to be directed his way, which is stupid because why wouldn’t it be?

It’s not like he and Brendon aren’t friends so why wouldn’t Brendon offer him pills if he has a headache, or backrubs when his shoulders are sore from drumming, or save him the last muffin in the morning when Spencer oversleeps and doesn’t crawl out of his bunk before Ryan has eaten just about everything in sight. It doesn’t mean anything and it shouldn’t throw him like it does, and the fact that right now it is means that Spencer is probably more tired than he thought and the best cure for that is more sleep. Spencer really hopes he remembered to charge his iPod.

*

Spencer didn’t charge his iPod. Which sucks. And not in the good way. Because it means that he has to lie in his bunk and listen to roughly an hour of creaking couch springs, muffled conversations and not-so-muffled moaning, and on one occasion Ryan saying, "Fuck, Jon, your mouth, why did we wait so long to do this" in a breathy, high-pitched voice that would be amusing if Spencer wasn’t so close to storming the back lounge and asking the pair of them if they could just do whatever it is they’re doing a little more quietly, for the love of god, please.

Finally, finally it all goes quiet and Spencer is thinking he might just be able to fall back to sleep when the curtain to his bunk is pulled aside and Ryan says, "Hey"

Spencer makes a non-committal noise in response but he doesn’t bother opening his eyes because he’d not really in the mood to talk to Ryan right now; he just wants to get some sleep.

Ryan makes a noise of his own; the frustrated almost growly one that Spencer knows means Ryan’s feeling defensive and unsure of himself. "Brendon says you’re pissed at me."

Spencer sighs to himself. Then he opens his eyes and props himself up on one elbow. "I’m not pissed at you, Ry. I just have a headache."

"Oh, do you need anything?" Ryan sounds relieved. He leans a little further in to Spencer’s bunk and makes a vague attempt at smoothing the hair away from Spencer’s face, or maybe Ryan is trying to see if he has a temperature, Spencer isn’t really sure what Ryan thinks he’s doing but whatever it is, it’s annoying. Spencer bats at Ryan’s hand and shakes his head ‘no’.

Ryan stares at him for a moment like he’s trying to tell if Spencer is lying, then he nods like he’s satisfied and starts pulling the curtain back across the front of Spencer’s bunk. Spencer’s about to launch into a chorus of hallelujahs in his head when Ryan pauses, takes a deep breath and says. "Oh and by the way, Jon and I might have hooked up. And by might have I mean we did. And we’re going to again. Maybe a lot. Just so you know."

Ryan is grinning. Like ‘Pete Wentz wants to sign us’ grinning and there’s no way Spencer is going to do anything to make that stop any time soon. Because the opposite of Ryan grinning is him moping about, sighing heavily and writing songs about people being whores. And no one wants to go through that again. Least of all Spencer.

"Hey that’s great man, tell Jon I’ll kill him slowly and painfully and hide his body where no one will ever find it if he screws up, yeah?"

Ryan grins some more then wanders off, presumably to find Jon.

Spencer rolls on to his side so he’s facing the wall, pulls his pillow over his ears and tries not to think about the fact that the last time he had sex was so long ago he thinks they might have changed how it’s done.

*

The problem is, Ryan and Jon go from dancing round each other in a will-they won’t-they dance of much neverendingness to sickeningly happy old married couple in the space of two extended sessions in the back lounge and one hotel night. Spencer figures it has something to do with the, quite literally, years of build up and awkward flirting that have led up to this point, but also, he’s thinking his breakfast, okay fine, brunch, is about to make a reappearance, because, honestly, there’s cute and in love and then there’s sickeningly sweet. And in the relationships as confectionery scale, Jon and Ryan are the gooey center of a Twinkie.

Plus, now that Ryan has found happiness he’s become one of those really fucking annoying people who think that anyone not in the throes of true love (or who isn’t at least getting laid on a regular basis) must be wasting away from the pining and that he, Ryan Ross, is their bizarrely dressed fairy godfather of love.

Which is why, somewhere between five and an infinite number of times a day, Spencer finds himself being pulled into the nearest available, semi-hidden place with Ryan’s arm round his shoulder and Ryan pointing out a random person and asking what Spencer thinks of them.

Or being shoved towards a confused looking tech or sound guy or member of hotel staff from whatever city they’re playing that night while Ryan says something ridiculous like, "Oh hey, Spence, this is Vladimir he likes taking long walks in the park and building model airplanes. Do you remember that plane you made when we were kids, we flew that in a park. You guys should talk." And then Ryan walks off looking pleased with himself and Spencer is left to apologize to the latest victim of Ryan’s Get Spencer Laid scheme. And later Ryan will look at him sadly, usually while draped over Jon’s lap and say wistful things like, "I wish you’d just given Vladimir a chance, you two could have had something special."

And Spencer will be forced to point out that Vladimir lives in Azerbaijan, speaks roughly four words of English and is highly unlikely to want to embark on a long distance love affair with a guy half his age who lives in Vegas. Mainly because Vladimir is in fact married with four kids, as straight as they come and only wandered into the hotel lobby to get directions to the nearest swimming pool.

To which Ryan will say something like ‘love knows no distance’ or ‘marriage is just an institution designed to keep people from being who they really are’, spend fifteen minutes earnestly explaining that ‘swimming pool’ is actually a metaphor for true love and then end by patting Spencer’s arm in a supposedly soothing manner and saying, ‘I just want you to be as happy as I am’ and then he and Jon will stare at each other in a sappy manner and proceed to make out for how ever long it takes them to get to the next venue.

Spencer wonders how long he would have to serve in prison if he strangled Ryan with one of his stupid scarves and if it would be worth it for the satisfaction it would bring him. He thinks it probably would be, after all, he could always get a degree while he was in prison and then, when he’s paid his debt to society, he could get that nice, sensible office job he keeps dreaming about.

And then, just when Spencer thinks it can’t get any worse and that Ryan’s matchmaking has reached its peak with the whole ‘accidentally’ locking him in a storage closet with the lead singer of their support band, Ryan comes up to him after a show, hands him a beer and says, "I’ve been going about it all wrong. I’ve been trying to match you up with strangers and, you, Spencer, are not a strangers kind of guy. The answer is obvious. You and Brendon should hook up. Then we can all go on double dates."

Ryan looks ecstatic, likes he’s found a solution to a really tricky problem that’s been bugging him for ages. Spencer, on the other hand, doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Because, seriously, it’s like the universe is conspiring against him and refusing to let him forget about the fact that, okay, yes, he did maybe have a bit of a crush on Brendon when he first met him. And by bit of a crush Spencer means, huge, potentially life-changing crush that nearly drove him insane with the questions it raised in his mind. But the thing is, as soon as it looked like they were actually going to go somewhere with the band and it wasn’t just going to be something they did to pass the time at the weekends hidden away in Spencer’s grandma’s garage, right then Spencer decided that the band was way more important than any crush he might have so he made himself forget about it.

But recently it’s gotten harder to do, because the truth is those feeling never really went away. And somewhere along the line, around the time that Ryan and Jon started hanging out together more and more often and dancing around each other in a song-writing as courtship kind of a way, Spencer started spending more of his time with Brendon than he ever had before and all the thoughts and questions and confusion he’d thought he’d oh so carefully hidden away had started to creep into sight again. And the absolute last thing that Spencer needs right now is for Ryan to get it into his head that Spencer should do something about them. Because Spencer was happy with his not dealing with things, or he was content at least, and he’d like to stay that way and carry on not dealing and ignoring and packing things away in boxes in his mind thank you very much.

*

Spencer’s noticed there’s been a lot more casual semi-nudity since Jon and Ryan started fucking. Like somehow Brendon’s sartorial choices have become the default for three quarters of the band. Right now, for example, Jon is walking through from the bunks on his way to the kitchenette clad in nothing but a pair of boxers and a smug grin. Plus Jon has sex hair and how does someone with hair as short as Jon even manage to have visible sex hair? That’s just weird and a pretty damn mad skill on Jon’s part.

Spencer files it away with all the other things that sometimes make him wonder if Jon’s an alien or some kind of superhero or possibly an alien superhero. Like the way Jon can locate the nearest Starbucks simply by standing in the parking lot of a venue and looking around for a minute or two (Brendon swears he’s seen Jon sniffing the air like a tracker dog, Spencer is inclined to believe him) or charm even the stuffiest, most uptight hotel concierge into forgoing the extra cleaning and/or damage costs whenever Brendon decides he’s bored and what would really liven things up is a food fight or Ryan is overtaken with the desire to turn a bedspread into a ‘fetching’ or even ‘jaunty’ vest and hatband set. Which usually involves a pair of nail scissors, lots of swearing and very little actual making of any vests and/or hatbands.

Spencer watches Jon foraging in the refrigerator for a moment or two then nudges Brendon, who’s sprawled out on the floor in front of him doing a crossword, with his foot.

"If you were a superhero what would your special power be?"

Brendon hems and haws for maybe a little too long, like it’s a really tough decision on a really serious topic, then his eyes go wide and he raises his fist in victory.

"The power of awesome. I would beat evil doers into submission through sheer awe."

Jon snorts as he walks back towards the bunks with a coffee in one hand and a can of diet coke in the other, which he tucks under his arm just so he can ruffle a hand in Brendon’s hair, saying, "Sorry dude, that power’s already taken."

Brendon looks a little crestfallen but nods in agreement, "’s true, you are awesome, Jon Walker."

"Damn right I am." Jon wanders off back to the bunks with his sex hair and his semi-nudity and his smug grin.

Spencer watches him until the door swings shut then asks Brendon, "Does it bother you?"

"Does what bother me? There are lots of things you could be talking about. Global warming for example, that definitely bothers me. I mean, imagine all those penguins in the Antarctic with no snow to have their babies on. That would be tragic."

"Wha… how did we end up talking about penguins?"

"You asked me if something bothered me and I told you what did."

"Oh. I was talking about..." there’s a muffled thump then a moan from the bunks, and Spencer nods his head towards where it came from, "that."

"Eh, that doesn’t bother me. Well apart from the fact that the back lounge is now a no go zone most of the time but there’s only a couple of dates left on the tour so I am willing to forego my back lounge time if it means not having to put up with a repeat of Ryan being a moody bitch like he was that day we suggested banning sex on the bus. And anyway, why would it bother me? You know, except for the obvious thing that if they crash and burn the band will probably break up because they both suck at staying friends with their exes."

Spencer hadn’t thought of that and as soon as he does his stomach twists in a new and frightening way. "Please don’t say things like that."

"Sorry."

Spencer’s about to say something, anything, to change the subject when Ryan pokes his head out from the bunks and says, "Oh hey you might want to steer clear of the back lounge for say half an hour. Wait, make that an hour. Also, do we still have that whipped cream?"

Once Ryan has wandered off with his whipped cream and his disturbingly wicked smile, Spencer thinks about climbing into his bunk and trying to sleep. He picked up some heavy duty earplugs at their last stop so if he’s lucky he’ll miss out on hearing anything that might filter through from the back lounge.

He’s about to stand up and go brush his teeth when Brendon asks, "So does it bother you?"

"What, global warming?" Spencer knows that’s not what Brendon meant, but.

Brendon laughs and ducks his head like he thinks he maybe deserves that then says, "No, you know what I mean, Ryan and Jon, does it bother you?"

Spencer thinks about it for a moment, and honestly, "No, not really, I mean they seem happy and I think they’re both sensible enough to know if it would screw with the band, it’s jus..."

"Just what, Spence? Come on, you can tell me, I promise I won’t breathe a word, is there some deep dark secret I should know? Is Ryan secretly an alien who’s only got one year left on Earth before he has to go back to his own planet and leave poor Jon heartbroken and alone? Or wait, he’s a robot isn’t he? I knew it! You can’t hide the truth any more, Spence, enquiring minds want to know."

"No, nothing like that." Spencer can’t help but laugh at the way Brendon’s face falls at the lack of gossip. "It’s just, you know, all the sex, like having to deal with it all the time and, well, not having any of it of my own."

Brendon’s eyes flare wide and he nods vigorously in agreement. "I know what you mean. The last time I had sex was so long ago I think it’s probably changed by now. You know, got all futuristic and exciting and I’m missing out."

"Yeah that, exactly that." Spencer thinks it’s so unfair that everyone else is having exciting, futuristic sex and he’s having exactly none. "Like I’m happy for them but do they really have to flaunt the fact that they’re getting some quite as much as they do?"

"You know," Brendon is chewing on his thumbnail as he talks and Spencer has to try really hard not to stare at the way Brendon drags his thumb across his lip as he does it, "we could always do something about our mutual frustration."

Spencer’s stomach does this weird flippy thing that it hasn’t done in years. He’s kind of proud of the way he manages to sound mildly disinterested when he says, "Yeah?"

"Yeah!" Brendon’s on the verge of bouncing, Spencer can tell by the way he’s getting all twitchy and excited. "You and me, together, we should do something."

"Like what?" Spencer is not thinking thoughts he shouldn’t be thinking, he isn’t.

"Yeah, totally, like we should ask Zack if he can find a club or something in the next city and then we can have a wild night out and find us some action. What do you say, Spence, will you be my wingman? I’ll totally be yours."

And just like that Spencer is back to wanting to crawl into his bunk and go to sleep, maybe until the tour is over.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if he never, ever had sex again. There are plenty of people in the world who aren’t getting laid on a regular basis, some of them even by choice. Spencer wonders if telling Ryan he’s found religion and taken a vow of celibacy will stop the frantic matchmaking. Probably not, but it’s worth a try.

*

Spencer wakes up in a cold sweat, blinking as he flails a hand out to find the reading light in his bunk to turn it on. Because he has that childhood, light will scare the monsters away if I can just find it thing going on in his head.

Tonight's dream was the encyclopedia selling one, which, not an issue, he knows how that one goes, but when the door of the house opened it was Brendon standing there, smiling at him in a vaguely leery way and striking ridiculous poses that Spencer's guessing were supposed to be all come hither, and, honestly, Spencer’s subconscious mind would have been more than happy for there to be plenty of hithering especially if coming was involved, except for the fact that he, Brendon, was wearing a requisite to bad porn baby doll night dress complete with feather trim and a huge over-sized blonde wig with curlers in it. And that, that is weird and wrong and fucked up on so many levels that Spencer doesn't even want to start trying to consider what it says about the state of his mental health.

Because even now with the light on and the dream fading in his mind, Spencer is maybe a little more turned on than he should be by the idea of Brendon in a baby doll nightdress. Which means it’s probably time for him to give up on sleeping for a while and possibly mainline all the coffee on the bus, just in case the dream comes back again.

Spencer pulls the curtain of his bunk back just in time to see Brendon climbing his way into the bunk across the aisle. All he can really see is Brendon’s ass and his hairy legs, but Spencer’s mind oh so helpfully superimposes a layer of satin and a feather trim over the reality of what’s in front of him.

Spencer squeezes his eyes tight shut and pulls the curtain back into place as fast as he can. He is so ready for the tour to be over. So, so very ready.

Part 2

Do Rockstars Dream Of Electric Sheep? (2/3)

themoononastick — Mon, 15 Dec 2008 19:16:24 GMT

Spencer doesn’t dream as much when they’re not on the road and when he does it tends to be about really boring everyday things like going to the grocery store to buy milk or sitting around playing Wii with Brendon. He figures it’s because of the fact that when he’s at home he sleeps, like really sleeps, long and deep and good and waking up feeling refreshed and ready for the day sleeps. Not like the sleep he gets on the bus which is half-assed and shallow and never really leaves him feeling anything other than tired when he wakes up.

There’s too much noise on the bus for him to relax properly: other people moving about and talking or writing songs at 4am, and the noise of the bus and the air conditioning and the road. It’s not much better when they have hotel nights because Spencer is always really conscious of there being another person in the room, not in a creepy they’re watching him way or anything but in the way that his mind always stays a little too alert, waiting to push him awake if there’s any noise of unhappiness or discomfort.

On hotel nights it’s like he’s gone back in time to when Ryan used turn up on Spencer’s doorstep all hunched in on himself but with this determined-to-not-talk-about-it look on his face and Spencer would lie awake waiting for it to crumble and Ryan to crawl into his bed with him. Or when Brendon first moved out and they would camp out on his ratty sofa and make up bullshit excuses about why it was too late to go home just so Brendon wouldn’t have to be there alone. And Spencer would spend nights and nights in a row half-awake ready to listen to Brendon when the ‘what the fuck have I done, I can’t do this’ moment came or calm Ryan down when he got an attack of the guilts because Brendon had turned his back on his family for the band and, "what if he changes his mind, what if I’m not a good enough song writer to make it worth all this?"

But at home, all alone in his house in his big oh so comfortable bed wrapped up in a cocoon of blankets with the air conditioning turned up high to counteract the fact that even in the middle of the summer Spencer still likes to feel the weight of way too many blankets above and around him, Spencer sleeps and doesn’t dream.

Except that now he does dream. All the time. Constant technicolor visions swirling through his brain at a million miles an hour but still just slow enough that he can remember what they were about in the morning. Which is good because there’s nothing worse than waking up hard and not knowing why. Or maybe, Spencer thinks, maybe there is. Maybe waking up hard because he’s been dreaming about fucking one of his best friends is worse. And maybe dreaming about sitting with said best friend and giving a running commentary while watching his two other best friends fucking, complete with weird camera angles and a seventies funk soundtrack, is way, way worse than not knowing what he’s been dreaming about that has him waking up so turned on it only takes the slightest touch before he’s gasping for breath and coming so hard he sees stars.

*

Spencer gets woken up from a nice dream about working for an accountancy firm by what sounds like someone leaning on his doorbell, so he’s not in the best of moods when he opens the door to find Ryan and Jon standing there holding bags that look suspiciously like they contain towels and shower gel.

He’s even less amused when Ryan smiles his best ‘you’re my best friend in the whole wide world’ smile and says, "So, hey, um, can we borrow a cup of shower?"

"Again? Seriously, Ry, you have to start paying your bills on time." Spencer is beginning to think Ryan does the not paying bills thing on purpose. Like he thinks it makes him more bohemian or interesting in a crazy artistic way. Which it really, really doesn’t.

Ryan just shrugs and says, "We were on tour, I didn’t know it was due."

At the same time as Jon says, "It would probably help if he actually opened his mail."

"You live there as well now, Walker, please don’t tell me you inhabit the same world as Ryan does where bills magically pay themselves and all household utilities are free. Plus if you saw the bills you could have at least opened them or something." Spencer really has no idea how he ended up stuck with the two most useless examples of adulthood in the universe as band mates. He must have been so very evil in a past life.

"Nah," Jon makes a face, "It’s like illegal to open other people’s mail. Plus, you know, when I’m in Chicago I live with my parents because I never really got around to getting my own apartment, so bills do magically pay themselves as far as I’m concerned. Also, first shower!"

"Dude," Ryan punches Jon on the arm, "you cannot claim first shower, we’re not on tour now."

"We walked from your place to Spencer’s I figure that counts as being on tour." Jon leans in a little closer to Ryan and stage whispers in his ear, "Or did you want to share?"

"Yeah, that’s not happening at my house." Spencer holds up his hands to show he means business. "I have two bathrooms and two showers so you can both go first but when you’re done we are sitting down and having a conversation about the concept of responsible adulthood."

"Thanks, mom." Ryan kisses Spencer on the cheek as he walks by. "And then when you’re done we can talk about how you’re going to die old and unloved, because you won’t take my advice and jump Brendon’s bones."

Spencer sometimes wonders why Ryan is his best friend, no really, why?

"Shut the fuck up and go take a shower."

*

Spencer is sure there was something really important he needed to talk to Ryan about. Something about responsibility maybe? Or something about Ryan keeping his nose out of Spencer’s love life? Or was it something about Ryan reading his mail. Wait, has Ryan been stealing Spencer’s mail and reading it? That’s just wrong. Spencer reaches out and smacks Ryan on the head in retaliation for his mail stealing ways.

Ryan has the decency to look guilty, and to pass Spencer the joint he’s totally been hogging which, hey, joint, excellent.

And there’s another thing Spencer can’t quite seem to remember right now. "Tell me again why we’re sitting in my car in my garage? I have, like, chairs and stuff inside we could be sitting on, it’s not like my couches bite."

"I once made out with a girl who liked to bite." Jon’s eyes have a glazed, far-away look about them like he’s reliving some moment from the dim distant past, or like he’s really, really stoned. Either/or. It’s always hard to tell with Jon. Spencer squirms a little in his seat, trying to shift so that he can look at Jon from a better angle but there’s not a great deal of space so he kind of ends up with his feet hanging half in the air and his knees resting on Ryan’s thighs.

"Kinky!" Brendon’s face appears over the top of the front seat of the car and from where Spencer’s sitting it looks like his head is floating in the air not attached to a body. Like the Cheshire Cat, Spencer thinks, nodding his head in agreement when Brendon grins insanely wide to complete the mental image.

But, wait, when did Brendon get here anyway? Spencer is sure he would remember Brendon showing up but he doesn’t, which is worrying. Spencer wonders if all the weird dreams and his inability to keep track of who’s in his house and who isn’t maybe add up to him beginning to lose his grip on reality.

"We’re all mad here," Spencer mutters to no one in particular, then punches Ryan in the arm for the fact that he’s thinking about Alice In Wonderland at all. Or maybe it was Tom Waits he was thinking about. Either way it’s Ryan’s fault, so.

Ryan pats Spencer’s knee absentmindedly then asks Jon, "So was it hot?"

"What?"

"The biting?"

"Oh yeah, no, not really." Jon pauses and does the thinking thing again, "It kinda hurt. She kept, like, biting my tongue every time I stuck it in her mouth."

Ryan tilts his head to the side like he’s trying to work something out. "So why did you keep doing it?"

Jon shrugs. "I was fourteen and she had great tits, I thought if I made out with her for long enough she’d let me touch them."

“Did she?”

"No." Jon makes his best attempt at looking sad and woeful.

Spencer sniggers to himself then looks at Jon. "Sucks to be you."

"I had a dream once where I had tits. It was awesome." Brendon reappears over the front seat, still grinning like the Cheshire Cat, "I’d totally let you touch my tits if you made out with me."

"Thanks, man, I appreciate that." Jon grins at Brendon, Brendon grins back. Spencer grins as well because it turns out that grinning is contagious.

"I think it would be hot." Ryan is tapping his finger against his chin like he does when he’s contemplating lyrics or the meaning of life, or what to have for supper.

"Brendon having tits?" Jon sounds confused, and maybe a little worried.

"No! That would be..." Ryan scrunches his face in disgust and Brendon pouts then cups his hands against his chest like he’s imaging breasts there. "I mean the biting thing."

"It really wasn’t. C’mere," Jon makes grabby hands at Ryan. "I’ll show you."

There really, really isn’t enough room on the back seat of Spencer’s car for Jon to demonstrate his weird kissing experience to Ryan without Spencer having to watch. Because they’re right there beside him and even if he looks away, like out of the window maybe, he can still hear them. Plus the inside of his garage is kind of boring and Spencer’s feeling not entirely sober and easily distracted by things like tongues and the tiny flashes of Jon’s teeth he keeps catching out of the corner of his eye. Spencer wishes Brendon would pop back up over the front seat again so he’d have something to focus on that isn’t Jon and Ryan and their sloppy, noisy making out.

Suddenly Ryan pushes Jon away and says something that might be, "Ow." But it’s hard for Spencer to tell because Ryan is holding the tip of his tongue with his fingers and scrunching his face up in pain.

"See," Jon says smugly, "Totally not hot. Imagine that for like an hour. I was talking funny for days."

"You already talk funny."

"Your mom talks funny."

Spencer would join in with the ‘your mom’ fun but there’s still one thing that’s really confusing him. "No, really, why are we sitting in my car?"

"Dude." Brendon appears again, still all smiley and Brendon-like. Spencer is maybe really glad to see him. He missed Brendon for the five minutes he was gone. "It was your idea. You wanted to see if we could hotbox it."

"Oh yeah." Spencer remembers now. "Heh. We totally did."

"We’re awesome." Brendon agrees with a vigorous nod of his head and a fist pump in the air.

Ryan pouts and says, "My tongue hurts."

Jon presses his finger against Ryan’s bottom lip like he’s trying to soothe the hurt. "Want me to kiss it better?"

Ryan nods. "No teeth though."

"No teeth. What?" Jon holds up his hands when Ryan looks like he doesn’t believe him, "I promise, scout’s honor."

"You got kicked out of the scouts, you can’t use that as a promise."

"Okay, fine," Jon pauses for a moment then says, "I promise on all the future first born children of this band."

Spencer decides not to point out that if they carry on the way they’re going there won’t be any first born, or second born, of any number of born. Unless medical science advances to the point where men can have babies. Which he really hopes it doesn’t because the idea of Ryan under the influence of pregnancy hormones is too terrifying to consider. He’d make them his slaves and refuse to leave the chaise lounge that he’d buy purely for the purposes of lying artily across for the full nine months. Spencer would have to leave the country, change his name and go into hiding in a small village in the Amazon, just to get out of being forced to rub Ryan’s back when it ached or massage his swollen ankles, and… Spencer is maybe getting a bit hysterical.

He focuses back on the here and now just in time to see Ryan and Jon start kissing again. This time it’s slow and intent and bordering on really fucking dirty and Spencer can see tongue and open mouths and Ryan’s teeth tugging at Jon’s bottom lip and Jon’s hand is already travelling down Ryan’s chest so he can cup Ryan’s dick through his pants and Ryan’s hand is curled round Jon’s neck and he’s starting to lean back against Spencer and pull Jon down as well and Jon’s thumb is running up and down Ryan’s zipper and any minute now Spencer is sure that zipper is coming down and then it will be Ryan’s dick and Jon’s hand or maybe Jon’s mouth and, fuck, Spencer really hopes it’s Jon’s mouth and, what the fuck? When did he get interested in watching his friends fucking? Because Spencer isn’t he really, really isn’t. It’s just that right now he feels weird and disconnected and like maybe he fell asleep somewhere and all this is just one of his dreams. All it needs is for Brendon to be sitting beside him, eating popcorn and critiquing Ryan and Jon’s technique.

Spencer closes his eyes and wills himself to wake up. But he can still hear the sound of Jon and Ryan kissing and feel Ryan pressed against him which means either he’s stuck in this particular dream till it ends, or, he’s already awake and he’s sitting in his car with his eyes squeezed shut like a freak. While his friends make out as though he isn’t there. So maybe he’s invisible, like somewhere between the first joint and the however-the-fuck-many they smoked he just blinked out of existence, possibly in a puff of smoke. It’s hard to tell, there’s a lot of smoke in the car.

Spencer cautiously opens one eye, then shuts it again and opens the other one instead, just in case, because there’s maybe some left brain/right brain, left eye/right eye thing floating around in Spencer’s head. Like maybe reality only exists in the right side of his head, that’s the rational side, or at least he thinks maybe it is or it might be the left and… fuck it, Spencer stops with the weird kind of slow winking thing he’s doing and just opens both his eyes.

Ryan and Jon don’t seem to have progressed much further with the zipper thing, which is good, and if he can just get it together enough to slide his hand along the door until he finds the handle then maybe Spencer can get out of the car and go somewhere, anywhere that isn’t here.

Except, except… Brendon. Brendon is staring and his eyes are wide and dark and there’s this little crescent of white against the red where Brendon’s teeth are pressing into his lip and Spencer wants to trace it with his finger, no no, with his tongue. Yeah, Spencer wants to crawl forward and lick the white away, see if it tastes different just there, like maybe that little line on Brendon’s lip will taste hotter or maybe cooler than everything around it and Spencer wants to twist his fingers into Brendon’s hair and make Brendon look at him with those wide, dark eyes and Christ he needs to get out of here right fucking now.

Spencer scrabbles for the door handle and manages to yank it open but he has to grab onto the seat beside Brendon to stop himself from falling backwards out of the car. Brendon turns to look at him and his pupils are so, so blown and Brendon’s smiling again but this time it’s wicked and his voice sounds rough when he says, "Dude, they’re just getting to the good bit."

"I can’t... I have to go." Spencer desperately tries to think of a reason to leave that doesn’t have anything to do with wanting to jump Brendon’s bones. "I have to walk the dogs, I forgot earlier and..."

Spencer is painfully aware that that is possibly the lamest excuse ever and it totally looks like he’s running away. Which, oh hey, he is.

But Brendon doesn’t call him on it, he just shrugs and says, "Suit yourself, I’m staying right here."

*

The thing is, Spencer’s always thought of himself as straight, carefully ignored crushes on Brendon notwithstanding. Okay, yeah, he’s maybe looked at a guy or two (or three or four or okay, fine, so he’s lost count, whatever) before and thought they were hot and that maybe, just maybe, he’d consider making out with them or something. If he had the option to do so. Which he never has.

And he’s definitely jerked off thinking about Johnny Depp, but, like, who hasn’t, so that totally doesn’t count. And maybe Antonio Banderas in that really early Spanish film that he spends a lot of his time in on his back getting fucked by the director guy, but Spencer’s pretty sure Banderas falls into the same category as Depp so, again, it doesn’t count.

Also, he really needs to get his DVDs back from Brendon.

But, what he’s never done is actually make out with another guy, or even try to figure out what kind of pick up line would work if he ever got the opportunity to use one. And Spencer is a firm believer in actions meaning more than words, or in his case, thoughts, and he’s never acted on any of his vaguely homoerotic thoughts (okay, except for the jerking off, but that does. not. count) so in his head he’s, yeah, straight.

But maybe he’s thinking now that he’s not entirely straight, like he’s maybe ten percent gay or something. Or maybe more, maybe more like thirty percent. Or eighty percent straight, twenty gay and ten bi-curious, which fine adds up to more than a hundred but whatever, it’s his sexual identity crisis and if the math doesn’t add up then who the fuck cares, not Spencer that’s for sure.

"Oh god, my sexual identity crisis goes up to eleven."

Spencer is glad there’s only Boba and Milo around to hear him admit to that. It actually sounds even dumber when he says it out loud than it did in his head.

Milo stares at him for a while then stands up, turns in a circle and lies down again, Boba doesn’t even show that much interest, he just cracks an eye open for a second or two then goes back to sleep. Spencer wonders idly if his life would make more sense if he were a dog.

Because the truth is, if he thinks about naked guys in general then, yeah, nothing happens, not even a twitch of interest. So maybe it’s actually only like one percent or something. But if he closes his eyes and thinks about naked Brendon, or more specifically, naked Brendon on his knees looking up at him through his eyelashes with his mouth stretched wide around Spencer’s dick, then Spencer goes from disinterested to hard as a proverbial nail in about the length of time it takes imaginary naked Brendon to raise an eyebrow and smile. So statistically Spencer is maybe one hundred percent gay for Brendon. Fuck.

*

One of the things Spencer has always been good at is solving other people’s problems. His own though, not so much. But that’s mainly because he’s never really had that many problems that actually required solving. All of his problems have been kind of small and insignificant and the kind of things that just go away on their own if he waits long enough. But somehow he thinks this thing with Brendon isn’t going to do that, because if he’s honest with himself then he’s been ignoring it for years and really it hasn’t gone away like he thought it would.

Normally what he’d do is list all the pros and cons of the situation and then work out what to do based on which column turns out the longest. But Spencer’s not entirely sure exactly what his problem is or how many actual problems he has to deal with, because there’s kind of a lot of issues in play. There’s the ‘how will it effect the band’ thing, and the ‘will it fuck up my friendship with Brendon and if so is it worth it’ thing, and the ‘does Brendon even like me back’ thing and, possibly more importantly, there’s the ‘dudes: check yes or no’ thing. Which adds up to a lot of lists and a lot of time spent writing them when he could just be doing something less thinky and more actiony. Plus the way Spencer’s seeing things at the moment he’s pretty sure he’ll just end up with a cons list as long as his arm and a pros list that just has one thing on it. But that one thing is ‘Brendon’ and, yeah, in Spencer’s mind that carries a lot more weight than a million petty worries do.

And now Spencer is thinking that maybe the time has come for him to stop making lists in his head and stop packing things away in imaginary closets and just man up and face his problem head on. Because once upon a time Spencer was a take charge, let’s fix this shit kind of a guy and he’s beginning to feel like an idiot for the way he’s been acting lately. But Spencer would still kind of like to talk to someone who’d understand what he’s going through at the moment, someone who’s been through it and lived to tell the tale. The only problem is, the one person Spencer can think of to talk to is the same person he’s so confused about. So maybe Spencer just needs to kill two birds with one phone call.

Which is how he finds himself lying on his couch on the phone to Brendon asking, "So, like, how old were you when you realized you were gay?"

Brendon, to his credit, doesn’t ask why Spencer wants to know or get all defensive and weird about the question, he just says, "Um, 15 maybe, 16? Something like that, I didn’t do anything about it till I was like 19 or 20 though. But I’m only gay on Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays. And on Fridays in months with an R in the name."

"What about the rest of the week?"

"Tuesdays I’m straight, Thursdays, bi-curious, Fridays May through August I like to dress up in a gorilla suit and go freak out tourists on the strip, unless we’re on tour, in which case I’m open to all offers. And Sunday is a day of rest. No fucking on the Lord’s day."

"Really?" Spencer takes the phone away from his ear and stares at it for a moment. "Like never?"

"Well, I could probably be convinced." Brendon goes quiet for a moment, then asks, "So, hey, why the sudden interest in my sexuality anyway?" in the same kind of tone of voice he uses to ask about the weather, like it’s perfectly normal for Spencer to call him up and ask about his sexual preferences.

Spencer wishes he had Brendon’s calm, he used to have that kind of calm, he’s sure of it. All he has now is a jittery feeling in his stomach and an embarrassing shake in his voice when he answers. "Oh, you know, no reason, I was just thinking about... stuff."

There’s noise on the other end of the phone, muffled like Brendon’s got his hand over the mouthpiece, but then Brendon’s loud and clear again when he asks, "Like what kind of stuff."

Spencer takes a deep breath. He figures if he says what he has to say quick enough then maybe Brendon won’t catch all of it, but that won’t matter because Spencer will have said it and that’s the plan, so. "Oh, you know, like how I am maybe not quite as straight as I thought I was kind of stuff. So, hey, wanna come over and watch porn?"

Brendon of course does catch it all, or at least Spencer figures Brendon caught the big, important parts anyway because there’s a moment of silence and then he says, "Is it gay porn?"

Spencer pulls a cushion over his face because, god, this is way more embarrassing to do than he thought it would be, but at least he’s on his own and Brendon’s not actually here to see how red Spencer’s getting. Which is a plus. "Yes, Brendon, it’s gay porn. All cocks, all the time. Because apparently I maybe like the cock and you like the cock so I thought we could sit and enjoy looking at cocks together."

Brendon doesn’t say anything for what feels like the longest time. Spencer’s seriously considering making out that he’s joking just so Brendon will speak again, because silence, it turns out, is really uncomfortable. But just as Spencer’s working up a really good fake laugh Brendon asks, "Are you trying to seduce me, Spencer Smith?"

"Um, maybe?" To be honest, Spencer isn’t all that sure himself, but, "Is it working at all?"

"No, yeah, totally." Brendon’s smiling, Spencer can hear it in his voice. "And for the record, saying hey B’den let’s get naked and sweaty would have worked a whole lot better."

"Really?" Spencer puts the cushion back where he grabbed it from. "I’ll try and remember that."

"Sure," Brendon laughs. "I’ll be there in ten. Want me to bring snacks?"

"Cheetos." Spencer may have ulterior motives involving licking orange cheese dust off his fingers in what he hopes is a sexy way.

"‘Kay. In that case I need to go to the store so I’ll be there in half an hour."

*

When Spencer opens his door it’s to Brendon standing there wearing his classic 'oops?' expression and Jon and Ryan standing behind him, looking by turns mildly embarrassed and not-so-mildly annoyed. Ryan pushes his way through and then past Spencer, very pointedly not saying a word in that way he’s had since they were kids that actually is him saying, "I am angry and hurt and disappointed and I intend to prove this to you by sitting in a corner, refusing to speak and glaring at you until you beg for my forgiveness".

Brendon, on the other hand, starts babbling nonsense as soon as he’s inside. Totally inane stuff about the weather and the dog they saw on the ride over and did Spencer decorate since he was last here because something looks different and, oh hey, did he mention that Jon and Ryan were over at his place when Spencer called because they were, and Spencer pretty much tunes him out right away. Because if Brendon is babbling it means he’s nervous and Brendon being nervous is making Spencer even more nervous than he was already. Spencer is beginning to think this whole facing up to things idea of his was a dumb one. Like possibly the stupidest idea he has ever had, and Spencer has had some really stupid ideas over the years.

Spencer is also beginning to think that Jon had the right idea when he walked straight through into Spencer’s kitchen, opened the sliding doors and announced he’d be outside if anyone needed him. Spencer isn’t sure if he exactly needs Jon right now, but he is sure that he needs to get the hell away from Ryan and his silence and Brendon and his babbling, so he says something vague about getting a drink, walks into his kitchen and just keeps walking.

Jon is sitting on the grass, leaning back on his hands and staring at the sky. He looks all content and Jon-like and Spencer, not for the first time, wonders what it must be like to be as calm and mellow as Jon is most of the time. Like maybe Jon should write a book about it, impart his wisdom to the masses so that all the stressed out people in the world can get a little of the Walker magic. He could call it ‘Zen and the Art of Flip-flop Wearing’, it would be an instant best-seller and Oprah would feature it on her book club segment every week for a month.

Spencer starts laughing to himself at the thought of Oprah trying to get any sense out of Jon in an interview situation. Spencer would pay good money to see that, he should maybe call Pete and put the idea of a range of DecayDance self-help books in his head and see what happens.

Of course it could just be the contact high that makes being round Jon so calming, Spencer thinks that’s actually probably more likely, but whatever it is, it works, because Spencer feels way better than he did before he came outside.

Jon leans back a little further and he must spot Spencer standing by the door because he smiles and sits up straight so he can wave Spencer over. Spencer walks across to where Jon is sitting, drops down next to him and asks, "How’s the merging of households going?"

"Eh." Jon does the fifty-fifty hand waggling thing. "As well as can be expected. Hobo’s chewed through five pairs of my flip flops, Dylan’s annexed the couch and is pretty much refusing to leave it or let anyone sit on it and Clover is staging some kind of dirty protest with hairballs. It’s pretty gross. I’m pretty sure Clover’ll be bald soon because, seriously, no cat has that much fur to hack up on a daily basis."

"Maybe it’s being shipped in through care packages from Chicago."

"What like an underground movement set up to liberate kitties who’ve been forced to move to the desert? You know, it wouldn’t surprise me. There’s been a shifty looking black cat hanging out in Ryan’s backyard a lot recently. Maybe that’s the leader of the resistance come to check up on how the glorious revolution is coming along."

"Your backyard." Spencer points out.

Jon looks confused. "Huh?"

"It’s not just Ryan’s backyard any more, it’s both of yours."

"Oh yeah." Jon grins, wide and happy. "Nice. So how’s the coming out to your friends as maybe gay going?"

"Eh," Spencer does some hand waggling of his own, "As well as can be expected."

"Ryan still not talking to you?"

"Nah, right now he’s just sitting and glaring and sighing over-dramatically. And that’s making Brendon all jittery and extra manic. ‘S why I’m out here."

"Not because of my sparkling conversation then?"

"Well that too. Plus I’m out of cigarettes."

"Subtle." Jon laughs, but he passes over his pack as he asks, "So what’s the problem?"

Spencer lights his cigarette, takes a drag and thinks for a moment. He has a lots of problems but he figures he may as well go with the big one and work back to the smaller ones if he has to. "I think I’m maybe a little gay."

"Okay, let me get this straight." Jon ducks his head and grins when Spencer raises an eyebrow at his choice of words. "You’re freaking out because you get all tingly and hard when you think about boys. A boy? Brendon? Well what’s the problem with that? Either he likes you back or he doesn’t but you’re good enough friends to deal with whichever it is."

"But what if we’re not? And what if he does like me back and then we get all naked and stuff and it turns out I don’t like dudes?" Because that’s the thing, what if Spencer doesn’t like dudes and he’s just misreading the messages his brain is sending him.

"You deal. You always do, that’s who you are, Spence, you’re the guy who works out what a problem is and how to deal with it. And Brendon is the guy who always helps you, because god knows me and Ryan are about as useful as a pair of dead fish in that respect, so. I just, Spence, I don’t see what the big deal is here." Jon looks genuinely confused, like he really can’t work out why Spencer is making such a big deal out of all of this. "You like Brendon, I’m pretty damn sure he likes you, you’re both single and over the age of consent, why not try it out and see what happens? The worst thing that could happen is you’ll find out you don’t want to fuck him or he doesn’t want to fuck you and, yeah okay, that might make things a little awkward for a day or two but then you’ll just end up laughing about it and turning it into a big old joke, so just go in there and stick your tongue down his throat and see what happens.”"

"But, dude, I’m not..." Spencer pauses. He feels like he’s stuck in a loop saying the same thing over and over again, but the thing is, "I don’t even know if I’m gay. It might be just some weird fucked up phase I’m going through because Ryan’s finally driven me crazy with all his ‘embrace your feminine side and join the gayvolution crap’."

"Yeah, Ryan is kind of on a roll at the moment." Jon laughs again, but it’s warm and fond and Spencer can’t help but smile at the sound of it. "Okay, Spence, look, I’m not gay. Or at least I don’t think of myself as gay. I just like Ryan, you know? I mean, we fit. Like, he gets me and I get him and I don’t have to spend all my time explaining why I can’t be places or worry about what he’s doing when I’m not home, because he’s right there next to me and he’s doing all the same crazy shit I am."

Way back when they were holed up in the cabin, in the middle of a Kevin Smith marathon, taking a break from watching Ryan going slowly insane and Jon trying to set the world record for the most amount of weed smoked in a day without going into a coma, Brendon declared that Jon was their very own equivalent of Silent Bob. Spencer had thought Brendon was maybe a little too stoned and made him go to bed, then forgotten about it, but now, maybe now he gets what Brendon was saying. Because Jon might be a chatty motherfucker most of the time, so the Silent part is way off base, but every so often, in between the weird kind of nonsensical ramblings that seem to fall from Jon’s mouth via a direct bypass from his brain there’s a little nugget of pure genius. A perfect summation of whatever fucked up situation they’ve managed to get themselves into that suddenly clears all the confusion and doubts away.

Jon takes a last drag of his cigarette, grinds it out, then smiles and adds. "Oh and there’s the fact that I am pretty much head over heels in love with the stupid fucker."

"Love you too, asshole." Spencer totally did not hear Ryan come outside, so he maybe jumps about a foot in the air when he Ryan pushes his way in to sit between them.

Jon smiles his cat that got the cream and the canary smile and says, "You love me ‘cos I’m so smart, right?"

Ryan’s smile is just as smug as Jon’s is. "Sure, you just keep telling yourself that and we’ll be fine."

Ryan’s smile changes from smug to something softer, Jon’s does the same. Spencer considers making gagging noises because the level of sugary sweetness that’s going on beside him is about to put him in a diabetic coma, but then Ryan stops grinning inanely at Jon and turns Spencer’s way, "You I don’t love so much. I’m supposed to be your best friend; if you’re having some kind of crisis, I’m the first person you should be talking to. That’s how best friends works or have you forgotten?"

Spencer decides against the gagging noises and just scowls instead. Ryan scowls back. Spencer knows the scowling thing could go on for a while. Their record for scowling and not speaking is two days and Spencer is perfectly happy to sit back and see if they can break it.

Jon, it seems, is not because he huffs in frustration and smacks them both lightly on the back of the head. "Jesus, you two are such idiots. Okay look, Ry, Spencer didn’t come to you because what’s going on in his head is something that’s between him and Brendon, not him and you. I’m willing to bet there’s days, weeks maybe, of freak outs, ‘what ifs’ and ‘oh my god what have I dones’ coming your way in the very near future, but just not today. So stop acting like someone stole your best friend away, because he’s right there sitting beside you and I figure Spencer’s got enough on his mind without having to deal with you being in a pissy mood."

Yeah, Brendon was right all along. Jon is definitely their Silent Bob.

Spencer looks at Ryan and smiles in the way that he hopes Ryan will know means he’s sorry he’s been behaving so weird lately. Then he points at Jon and says. "What he said."

Ryan’s trying really hard to keep looking like he’s mad, but Spencer can see the smile that’s beginning to form at the corners of Ryan’s mouth, and after a good long dramatic pause, Ryan rolls his eyes and lets it break free. "Okay, fine, but next time you call me, okay? I know I’ve been kind of distracted lately but I always have time for you. Always."

"Yeah, okay," Spencer grins at Ryan. "You’ll always be number one on my speed dial from now on."

"I thought I already was. I’m hurt, Spence, hurt." Ryan is doing his best to look upset, but he’s not doing a very good job of it. "Who or what has taken my place?"

Spencer pulls his phone out of his pocket and pretends to scroll through the contacts. "That pizza place just off the strip, you know, the one that has that amazing garlic bread with the cheese and the jalapeños."

"Oh god, yeah, I know the place you mean. I am willing to accept being second place to garlic heaven but I’d better be next in line or there’s gonna be trouble."

"You totally are. Right after my dry-cleaners, my vet, that cab company we used in New York that one time, that guy with the foot fetish you made me talk to in Seattle, Pete, Gabe, Bill, our lawyers, the guys from the record company, oh and that chick from Spin I did the phone interview with a year or so ago."

"Shut up, I hate you." Ryan sticks his tongue out but he’s laughing and he puts an arm round Spencer’s shoulders and pulls him in close.

Spencer leans against Ryan and lets his head fall back on Ryan’s shoulder. "I hate you too."

"So," Ryan pats at Spencer’s shoulder. "What’s up?"

Spencer shrugs. "It’s complicated."

"Spence wants in Brendon’s pants but he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to get it up. What?" Jon looks all wide-eyed and innocent when Spencer glares at him. "Okay, I maybe paraphrased a little, but I’m pretty sure I hit all the main points."

Spencer thinks it over for a second then says. "I hate to admit it, but he kind of did."

"I don’t see what the problem is." Ryan says. "You and Brendon have been practically dating for years, it’s about time you got to the good stuff."

"Wait. What?" Because, seriously, what?

"Think about it, Spence. You like all the same geeky things, you spend all your time together even when we’re not on the road or doing promotional stuff, you always share rooms on hotel nights, you take his side in arguments and he saves you breakfast when you sleep late. The only thing you’re not doing is sleeping together and I’m pretty sure that’s only because you’re both too chicken to admit you want to. So you should tell him. It’s the only logical option."

Spencer thinks he should maybe have the talk about the difference between Earth-logic and Ryan-logic with Ryan again. But, worryingly, he also thinks that maybe, just maybe, Ryan has a point this time. Because when he thinks about it like that, about the way that he and Brendon already pretty much live in each other’s pockets and probably see more of each other than most married couples do, then perhaps being more than just friends with Brendon doesn’t seem like such of a leap. As long as Brendon is interested in being more than Spencer’s friend, that is.

Spencer opens his mouth to ask Ryan if he’s sure and if it really could all be that easy, but Ryan gets there first and says. "You should go talk to Brendon. But if I don’t get some quality Spencer time by tomorrow night I am coming over here to demand it. And I don’t care how naked and busy you are when I get here. Now go, get out of my sight."

Ryan makes flappy shooing motions with his hands and Spencer takes a deep breath, stands up and walks back to the house.

Part 3

Do Rockstars Dream Of Electric Sheep? (3/3)

themoononastick — Mon, 15 Dec 2008 19:13:58 GMT

Spencer hesitates when he gets to the door because right now he would rather spend an entire day, like 24 whole hours, doing interviews with idiots who don’t bother to do any research than walk inside and face Brendon. Which is stupid because it’s just Brendon and Spencer knows Brendon well enough to know that whatever happens Brendon isn’t likely to judge him or make fun or even look at him funny. Okay, Brendon probably will make fun of him and look at him funny, but he’ll do it in a caring way because that’s what they all do to each other all of the time, that’s how they work as a band and as friends and Spencer wouldn’t have it any other way. But right now Spencer kind of feels like he’s back in school and the popular girl that everyone likes has found out the weird chubby kid has a crush on her and now everyone is pointing and laughing and Spencer just wants to die.

Which, okay, is maybe a little over-dramatic, but whatever, if Spencer is going to embrace his inner gayness then he may as well start channeling his inner drama queen as well. Or maybe he should go back to carefully boxing up and avoiding all of the things he doesn’t want to deal with. Maybe he should walk round the side of the house, get in his car and drive off into the sunset, buy a new identity from some shady guy in a shady bar and begin a new life. Maybe as a postman, Spencer figures he’s just about psychotic enough to work for the postal service, possibly even a little too psychotic but he could probably reign it in a bit for the interview.

Except that his car keys are sitting in the bowl on the table by the front door which means Spencer will have to actually go into the house if he wants to run away. Damn.

He’s trying to work out if hotwiring a car is really as easy as TV makes it look when the door opens and Brendon is standing there with a hopeful look on his face.

"Hi."

"Hi." Spencer lifts his hand in a weird kind of half wave thing and then feels lame for doing it.

"So," Brendon bounces on the balls of his feet a little, "Are you coming inside?"

Spencer decides to opt for the truth. "Actually I was thinking about running away and joining the postal service"

"Okay," Brendon drags out the O until it’s almost a word on its own, "you know it’s more normal to want to join the circus, right?"

"Yeah, but I’ve been there and done that." Spencer shrugs. "Thought I’d try something different."

"I guess that makes a weird kind of sense." Brendon nods like he understands, then he smiles and grabs Spencer’s hand and pulls him inside the house as he says, "Look, okay, I’m just going to say some stuff and you should listen and then you can say some stuff and then… I dunno, stuff will maybe happen."

Spencer waits until Brendon has hopped up onto the counter by the refrigerator where he always sits, then says, "That’s a lot of stuff."

Brendon doesn’t say anything for a minute or two, he just sits and looks at Spencer until Spencer starts to feel uncomfortable, like he has something on his face or he’s grown an extra head in the night. With the way his life has been going recently, there’s a distinct possibility that he might have. Then Brendon hops down from the counter again and walks slowly over to Spencer like he’s taking his time on purpose because he’s thinking something through.

Spencer really wishes Brendon would say something or else he will be forced to and it’d probably be something dumb like ‘I think you’re hot, will you be my boyfriend?’ and then Spencer would be forced to become a hermit and never speak to another living soul again from sheer embarrassment.

Spencer nervously runs a hand through his hair in case it’s sticking up weird or Jon put flowers in it again while Spencer wasn’t looking, because that has to be why Brendon is looking at him like he is. Brendon stops when he’s just in front of him and Spencer kind of wants to reach out and grab him, but he doesn’t get a chance to because Brendon pushes himself up to his toes, leans in a little and kisses him.

Except it’s less a kiss and more a meeting of mouths because it’s dry and quick and over before Spencer can really do anything more than think Brendon’s mouth, Brendon’s mouth is on my mouth, and Holy crap Brendon just kissed me.

Brendon takes a step back. He’s smiling, but it’s a little shy and a little worried, like he's not sure if he should have done that. Spencer wants to tell him it’s okay, and ask if they can maybe do that again, but for longer this time and maybe with more tongue, but before he can Brendon starts to speak in a stream of nervous babble.

"I lied earlier, when you asked me how old I was when I worked out I was gay. Or okay, maybe I didn’t exactly lie, but what I didn’t tell you is I know the exact day it happened. It was at the third practice I ever came to, way back when I’d only known you for a couple of weeks and I already kind of knew that I liked you in a different way than how I liked Ryan and Brent but I hadn’t really admitted what it meant to myself yet. And then right before we started, when we were waiting for Brent to show up and you were just fucking around and doing some warm ups on your drums, I was watching you out of the corner of my eye and you were doing that thing where you put everything you’ve got into drumming and you threw your head back and your eyes were closed and your mouth was open and you looked, fuck Spence, you looked like every wet dream I had ever had, and I had to make some excuse about needing a drink and go jerk off in the bathroom because it was either that or beg you to let me blow you right then and there."

Spencer’s mind is still stuck in a loop over the fact that Brendon kissed him, but part of what Brendon said manages to push its way through. Because: "What the fuck? You jerked off in my grandma’s bathroom? Jesus, Brendon, that’s sick."

"Way to focus on the important part of my story there, Spence. The point is not that I defiled the sanctity of your grandma’s bathroom, the point is: before that day I’d never had a guy starring in my alone time fantasies, okay."

"What, never?" Spencer finds that a little hard to believe.

"Nope." Brendon shakes his head to emphasize his point, "You were my first. You should feel honored."

Spencer kind of does feel honored and he wants to tell Brendon that just as soon as he can speak again. Because all he can really do right now is think about Brendon all wide-eyed and just a little bit desperate, frantically trying to keep quiet as he jerks himself off quick and maybe a little bit rough, leaning back against the locked door behind him so he can still hear the noise from the garage. Spencer can see it so clearly in his head: Brendon with his eyes closed and his head thrown back so his neck’s exposed like he’s imagining someone kissing him there, biting on the knuckles of one hand to keep himself quiet while he fists his cock with the other, little beads of sweat forming at his temples and just above his top lip, whispering Spencer’s name as he comes and… holy crap, Brendon was thinking about him. All that time Spencer was sat behind his drum kit trying to will himself to stop staring at the long lines of Brendon’s back or Brendon’s ass, oh god, Brendon’s ass, Brendon was standing there thinking about Spencer.

There are a million and one questions filling Spencer’s head. Like why didn’t Brendon say something, and, okay, why hadn’t he said something to Brendon? And, most importantly as far as Spencer is concerned, does Brendon still feel the same way now? But just thinking that makes Spencer’s stomach ache because he’s not sure what he’ll do if Brendon’s answer is no. So he ends up asking the one question that seems safe. Because, yeah, he’s kind of intrigued.

"So, like, before that, what did you, you know, think about?"

Brendon bites his lip and scrunches his face up like he does when he’s embarrassed. "I always made myself think about chicks."

"Like who?"

"I don’t know, Tina Turner."

"Tina Turner? Tina ‘Thunderdome’ Turner? Not some other Tina Turner that I’m not aware of?" Because, really?

"Hey she has amazing legs for someone her age." Brendon is doing his best to look like he means it. "Also, can we maybe get back to my point?"

"I dunno." Spencer isn’t sure he’s ready to accept Brendon’s argument, and then there’s the fact that: "I’m still kind of stuck on the fact that you jerked off in my Grandma’s bathroom, I’ve kind of forgotten everything else."

"Oh. My. God, Spencer, let it go." Brendon’s almost shouting and he’s waving his arms as he speaks. Spencer resists the urge to duck and cover. He doesn’t think Brendon would appreciate the joke right now. "It happened, okay. In fact, it happened more than once, and I jerked off in your parent’s bathroom like a dozen or so times too. I was a teenager, there were hormones involved, you were the hottest thing I’d ever seen, I couldn’t help myself. But every single time I was thinking about you, okay?"

Now it’s Spencer’s turn to bite his lip, look embarrassed and stutter out: "I meant I was thinking about you jerking off, not where you were doing it."

Brendon smiles wide and bright. Spencer figures there’s something else he should tell him. "I maybe had a crush on you back then too."

"Yeah, I know. Ryan told me. I mean, not at the time. He only just told me about it, and he maybe mentioned that you still have a crush on me." Brendon pauses and frowns. "Well, at least I think that’s what he was getting at. There was a lot of talk about the ‘flames of friendship’ and ‘love burning hotter’ and how you can ‘only smother a fire for so long but if there’s still fuel it will always burn strong’. He was either telling me your darkest secrets or threatening to set me on fire. I mean, it was Ryan, so it’s hard to tell."

Spencer may not have been there, but he totally gets what Ryan was talking about. "You and Jon can write our next album, right? We don’t actually need Ryan."

"Um, I guess." Brendon looks a little worried. "Why?"

"Because," Spencer grits out, "I’m gonna to go kill him."

"Again, Spence, way to focus." Brendon throws his hands up in the air like he’s frustrated and he stares at Spencer for a moment like he’s trying to work out how to get his point across. Then he fists a hand into Spencer’s shirt and pulls him down just enough that Brendon can kiss him. And this time it’s not so quick and it’s not so dry and it lasts long enough for Spencer to forget about being mad at Ryan and focus on how good Brendon’s lips feel pressed firm and insistent against his and how he would be happy to just stand in his kitchen and kiss Brendon for hours, maybe days, weeks even, if Brendon will let him.

But before Spencer gets a chance to suggest they do just that, Brendon pulls away and says. "We’ve both been kind of dumb. I mean, I’ve been in love with you since forever and I’m pretty sure you feel the same way about me, and neither of us has done anything about it, even though I’ve tried out all my best moves on you."

Spencer isn’t sure what to focus on first, the fact that Brendon just declared his love, or the fact that Spencer has clearly missed Brendon coming on to him. Because surely Spencer would have noticed that. "What moves? I didn’t notice any moves."

"Spence, I’ve been making you sit and watch porn with me for the last six months. What the hell did you think that was about?" Brendon looks genuinely confused. "People don’t just sit and watch porn together for the sake of it."

Okay, so maybe Spencer wouldn’t know a come on if it punched him in the face. "I thought it was just a band thing, you know, what with us being kind of weird and co-dependant."

"Point." Brendon laughs a little at himself. "I guess it wasn’t the best of plans."

"What about Ryan and Jon. I thought you, you know, in the car, with the watching and..."

"Huh? Oh no, no, they totally kicked me out of the car about a minute after you left. Ryan said something about a plan not working and how you were sexually retarded and then called me a pervert for wanting to watch them. I ended up going home and jerking off instead." Brendon runs his fingers through his hair, twisting at the ends like he’s nervous. "But it was you being there that was getting me hot. I kind of wanted you to join me in the front and then you didn’t and... you probably need to get your upholstery cleaned."

Oh. Oh. Spencer’s kind of at a loss for words. He knows what he wants to say, just not how to say it. But then he remembers what Brendon said earlier."So, um, hey B’den, want to get naked and sweaty?"

Brendon grins, wider than wide, but he still takes a few steps back, pulls himself up so he’s sitting on the counter again and says, "Nope."

"What? But I thought you said..."

"I don’t put out on the first date." Brendon shrugs, but he’s still grinning. "I’m easy, Spence, but I’m not that easy. You gotta wine me and dine me first."

Okay, that Spencer can work with. "There’s beer in the fridge and Cheetos in a bag on the couch."

"Hey! I paid for those Cheetos, you can’t use those as part of your big romantic seduction plan."

"Fine, I’ll make you a sandwich." Spencer walks across to his refrigerator and looks inside. "What do you want, I have cheese or, um, cheese."

Spencer looks up just as Brendon makes a grab for his arm. "I want you to stop talking about sandwiches and kiss me."

Spencer lets Brendon pull him close, then closer still till Spencer is standing in between Brendon’s legs and he can feel the warmth of Brendon’s arms where they’re draped round his neck.

Spencer tilts his head to the side and considers Brendon’s request. "I thought you said you won’t do that kind of thing unless I treat you right."

Brendon laughs, wicked and low. "I said I don’t put out, not that I don’t make out."

"Oh yeah?" Spencer likes the sound of that.

"Yeah. Now stop stalling and just..."

Spencer cuts Brendon off with a kiss. Maybe it’s not the greatest kiss in the world because the angle is off and Brendon wasn’t expecting it so it takes him a moment to get on board. But then Brendon shifts a little and the angle changes so it’s just right, and Spencer licks along the seam of Brendon’s lips like he’s thought of doing so many times before and Brendon opens up for him, and the slide of their tongues together is perfect and the feel of Brendon’s mouth crushed against his the best thing Spencer’s felt in years. All the doubts and the worries that Spencer had melt from his mind and he can’t for the life or him work out why he didn’t do this sooner. Because Brendon is making needy little noises and his hands are sliding into Spencer’s hair; he’s pushing up from the counter and wrapping his legs around Spencer’s waist until Spencer feels like he’s surrounded by Brendon and it’s fucking amazing.

Spencer slides his arms around Brendon and holds him in as tight as he can, because this, kissing Brendon, is the best idea that Spencer has ever had. So good that he can hear cheering and clapping in his head. Except Brendon stops kissing him and starts laughing instead, ducking down so his face is pushed against Spencer’s neck like he’s hiding. Because the applause isn’t inside Spencer’s head, it’s coming from outside in the garden where Ryan and Jon are grinning smugly like the whole thing was their idea (Ryan) and making enthusiastic thumbs up gestures (Jon). Spencer groans and hides his face against Brendon’s shoulder. He really needs to get some new friends. He’ll maybe get right on that as soon as he’s had his fill of kissing Brendon. Spencer figures Ryan and Jon are safe for, oh, say, a decade or two.

Spencer turns his head so he can whisper in Brendon’s ear. "I say we make a break for it. They can’t follow us if we lock the door."

"Don’t wanna move." Brendon tightens his hold on Spencer to emphasize his point. "If we wait them out they’ll get bored and go away. That’s the thing about stoners: short attention spans."

Spencer laughs because it’s totally true. He’s willing to wait them out if Brendon is. But then the way Brendon is clinging on to him gives him an idea. Spencer moves his hands down until he’s grabbing Brendon’s ass, takes a minute to relish the fact that he can do that now, then says, "Hold on tight," and lifts Brendon off the counter and walks them both out of the kitchen.

They don’t get far because either Brendon is way heavier than he looks or Spencer needs to start hitting the gym on a more regular basis. And also there’s a wall in Spencer’s hallway that he thinks Brendon would look really good pressed up against. Spencer tries it out. He was right, Brendon does look good, and he feels even better. Because Brendon is kissing him like he never wants to stop; his legs are still wrapped around Spencer’s waist and he keeps making these amazing noises in the back of his throat. Spencer can feel how hard Brendon is every time he rocks forward and Spencer is so turned on he thinks he might die.

Spencer’s hands keep slipping, so he presses forward and lets go, and now the only thing holding Brendon up is his legs around Spencer’s waist and the weight of Spencer pushing him against the wall. Spencer slips his hands under the hem of Brendon’s t shirt and slides them upwards, dragging the material as he goes, because Spencer wants to see touch taste Brendon’s skin, wants to lick and bite and kiss every inch of him and then start over and do it all again. Brendon’s hold slips and he slides a little lower down the wall, and finally Spencer’s got something to grind against that isn’t thin air, and the feel of it, the sudden friction as he pushes hard against Brendon and Brendon squirms back against him, has Spencer gasping and closing his eyes and trying to think of anything but Brendon so he doesn’t come in his pants like a teenager.

Spencer can feel the muscles in Brendon’s legs trembling like he’s having a hard time holding himself up. He pulls back enough for Brendon to let go then he crowds forward again, pushing a leg between Brendon’s and rolling his hips forward so he can rut against Brendon’s hip as he pulls Brendon’s t shirt up and off. And, god, there’s so much skin, so much of Brendon on display just for him that Spencer doesn’t know where to start.

Spencer presses his palm against Brendon’s chest just below his collarbone then starts to trail it down, dropping kisses across Brendon’s jaw and down his neck and loving the way that Brendon gasps and his hands tighten in Spencer’s hair when he brushes his hand over Brendon’s nipple then drops it down, down and cups Brendon’s dick through his jeans.

"Fuck, Spence, fuck, I want..." Brendon sounds wrecked. His eyes are closed and his head is thrown back against the wall and, fuck, Spencer knows exactly what he wants to see.

"Show me, Bren. Show me what it was like when you couldn’t stop yourself from jerking off. Show me how you looked when you were thinking about me."

Brendon gasps and his eyes fly open and they are wide and dark and his pupils are so, so blown. Spencer wants Brendon to look that way at him always. But then Brendon is moaning Spencer’s name and scrabbling at his zipper and pushing his jeans down far enough to pull his dick out, and Spencer takes a step back and has to push the heel of his hand against his own dick to get some relief because Brendon looks nothing like Spencer imagined. He looks a million times better.

Spencer steps forward again, crushes his lips against Brendon’s, licks into his mouth and drinks down Brendon’s moans. He can feel the rhythm of Brendon’s hips rocking forward and back, but Spencer remembers that he wanted to see this, to watch Brendon fall apart just for him. Spencer shifts to the side, just enough that he can look down and see Brendon’s hand moving fast and rough on his dick. Spencer trails a hand down Brendon’s chest, then lower across his belly, then lower still. He hesitates for just a second then curls his fingers over Brendon’s. Brendon’s eyes close and his head falls back, and Spencer mouths at Brendon’s neck, tracing the fluttering rhythm of Brendon’s heart in the pulse point just below Brendon’s skin with his tongue, all the while trying to follow the rhythm of Brendon’s hand as it slides and twists up and down his dick, until Brendon’s hips stutter forward, jerking off beat, and he moans Spencer’s name and comes liquid hot over their joined hands.

Brendon opens his eyes again and starts pushing and pulling at Spencer’s shirt muttering, “too many clothes,” under his breath. When Spencer’s shirt finally joins Brendon’s discarded on the floor, Brendon starts pushing and pulling at Spencer, turning them until they’ve switched positions and Spencer is the one with his back against the wall. Spencer’s about to ask what he wants when Brendon drops to his knees and smiles up at him as he unbuttons Spencer’s fly and pushes his jeans and boxers down. And, fuck, Spencer was so, so wrong, kissing Brendon wasn’t the best thing ever, and nor was having his hand on Brendon’s dick and watching him come because this, this right here, Brendon leaning forward and opening his mouth around Spencer’s dick, is the absolute best thing ever.

Spencer’s hands scrabble at the wall behind him trying to find something, anything to hold on to and he has to close his eyes because the feel of Brendon hot and wet and perfect around him is too, too much, and if Spencer watches, if he looks down and sees the way Brendon’s lips are slick and swollen and his mouth is stretched around Spencer’s dick, then it’s all going to be over embarrassingly quickly. Spencer can feel Brendon’s hands on his hips holding him steady and maybe, maybe that’s enough to ground him, so he opens his eyes and looks and, fuck, Brendon is looking right back at him, staring up at Spencer through his eyelashes, eyes big and round and still so, so dark and his mouth is stretched wide, so wide and Spencer can’t help the way his hips jerk forward and Brendon doesn’t try to stop them. He just lets it happen and that is just too much for Spencer to take. The heat that’s been pooling at the base of his spine is spiraling up and through him, and his vision is narrowing so all he can see is Brendon and the way he’s taking every jerk of Spencer’s hips, and Spencer is coming so hard he sees stars.

Spencer’s lets himself slide down the wall until his hits the floor with a bump and suddenly he has a lap full of Brendon, kissing him and saying things like, "You’re so fucking hot, Spence, so hot," and Spencer wants to agree and tell Brendon he feels the same way but he can’t seem to form words properly. All that comes out is a croaky sounding, "Hi."

"Hi." Brendon grins then leans in to whisper in Spencer’s ear. "You know this makes us boyfriends now, right? No take backs."

Spencer is totally on board with that idea. "Yeah, you’re pretty much stuck with me now, just sayin’."

"Next time, though, we should totally try and make it to your bedroom, or a couch, or someplace with, you know, carpet." Brendon looks at the wooden floor in Spencer’s hallway and pouts, but he hums appreciatively when Spencer takes pity on him and rubs his knees.

Spencer is too busy thinking about the fact that there’s going to be a next time to suggest any potential places it could happen. There’s a lot of places he can think of that fit the criteria, so maybe they should try them out one by one, just to see which is best.

"Or, oh hey, we could go see your grandma. For old times sake, if you know what I mean." Brendon grins wickedly and waggles his eyebrows.

Spencer rolls his eyes. "Yeah, see, I was going to spring for pizza like a gentleman, but you’ve ruined the mood now."

"Mmm, pizza." Brendon rubs his belly and makes happy noises. "I’ll totally make it worth your while if you buy me pizza."

"I dunno." Spencer shrugs then makes a big show of stretching and yawning. "I’m kind of tired. I might go take a nap." Spencer is so very, very smooth.

Spencer takes a couple of steps before he realizes Brendon is still sitting on the floor behind him. Okay, so maybe Spencer is not quite as smooth as he thought, seeing as how Brendon obviously did not get the oh so subtle ‘you, me, my bed, now’ hint. He guesses he’ll just have to make it a little more obvious.

Spencer turns and raises an eyebrow. "You coming?"

Brendon looks down at his lap, shrugs, and then looks up at Spencer with a smile on his face. "Well, not right now, but if you give me ten minutes I’m sure we can work something out so that I am."

Spencer laughs. He can’t help it, his boyfriend is an idiot. But he’s Spencer’s idiot, so. "Shut the fuck up, Brendon, and come to bed with me."

Brendon grins so, so wide. "Well, seeing as you asked so nicely. Help me up?"

Spencer reaches out and pulls Brendon to his feet and then turns towards the stairs. Brendon doesn’t let go of Spencer’s hand until they’re lying side by side, wrapped up in blankets and each other. Spencer doesn’t call him on it, though, because it takes two to hold hands and Spencer has no intention of letting Brendon go.

*

Sometimes Spencer dreams that he's in college, or working in a normal boring everyday office type job, and sometimes he dreams that he’s a salesman, going from door to door selling encyclopedias to lonely housewives. But now, when he dreams the encyclopedia-selling dream, the house he’s walking up to is one he knows well, and when he looks down at himself he’s not dressed in a cheap suit and there’s no heavy case in his hand filled with books. And, when the door opens, it’s Brendon standing there, and he’s dressed like normal and smiling like normal and not acting weird or trying to seduce Spencer with cheesy lines and fluttering eyelashes. He’s just Brendon and Spencer is just Spencer. And when Spencer wakes up with a start just as Brendon is sinking to his knees and smiling up at him, he’s only disappointed for a moment. Because then he remembers that Brendon is lying in bed next to him, so Spencer shifts until there’s no space between them, closes his eyes and goes back to sleep with a smile on his face.