Beggar's Notes

A Million Words of Love

Wed, 09 Dec 2009 17:28:29 GMT

To anyone and everyone who happens to stumble upon this.

The Heart Rate of a Mouse [Volume 1]

Tue, 08 Dec 2009 14:06:03 GMT

"It must be love-gone-astray, or just plain perverse,
When one is led to hate what one loves,
Or to love what one hates."
- Henri d'Avranches

Vol.1: Over the Tracks

In the summer of 1974, Ryan Ross embarks on an exhausting tour in support of his band’s breakthrough album, struggling to live up to the pressure and expectations of sudden fame. As he juggles his dissolving band, lying best friend and fleeting girls, he heads down a dangerous and self-destructive road, letting himself want the one person he can’t let himself have.

I would have been happy with mediocre success. A record deal, small tours, a firm hold of myself. It’s what I wanted, what I probably had somewhere between the first and second album, but I missed it. I didn’t notice. So now I’ve got my face on magazine covers, fans screaming and passing out at the sight of me, and I want to put this car on reverse and go right back to that moment I missed, that moment in a club in Buffalo where I noticed a few guys of the three hundred headed audience singing along, and my heart stopped at the achievement. But it’s too late for that, and I’m gone.

(Prologue)

I
Chapter 1: The Apocalypse and Take it from There
Chapter 2: A Machine for the Music Industry
Chapter 3: The Conscience
Chapter 4: Wild with Misdemeanour
Chapter 5: Petty Thieves
Chapter 6: Stars in Cities
Chapter 7: Tales of San Francisco
Chapter 8: An Absurd Notion
Chapter 9: The Disappearing Act
Chapter 10: If He Can Feel My Heart*

II (currently being written - see below for posting)
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8

Masterpost with other volumes and more notes on the story.

Notes on Volume 1
Jackie, Me and This Lady was taken from Sunset Rubdown. Thanks to st_andrews_fall for naming The Followers, and I believe the tour name was also her idea. She also deserves thanks for listening and for throwing ideas around with me and singing Somebody Told Me in the car as we waited for the lights to turn green somewhere in Helsinki.

Thanks to nyquil_love for her feedback when I had lost faith, and thanks to spazzyskittles for betaing! She's done a huge job once again, so thank you so much for that! A very special and gigantic thank you to holycloud who was always happy to talk about the plot with me (even though it had no Jon/Spencer in it!), was supportive and amazing, helped me whenever I got stuck, and without whom the installment thus far would not have seen daylight. She also kept me sane when I felt like I was going crazy, and I honestly don't have the words for how much she's done for me. She probably won't even read this story (refer back to the lack of Jon/Spencer), but I'd like to dedicate this volume to her nonetheless. <3

The name of I - Chapter 7 is not a nod towards Arctic Monkeys, btw. I didn't know they had a song with a similar name, and then I said, "DAMN YOU, SHEFFIELD!" when I found out about it.

Below you'll find a list of references that will hopefully be helpful to those who are not major 70's music fans (I'm certainly no expert). I also added the list of tour dates for the '74 tour for the sole reason of personal gratification. You guys want the map? I could upload the map! I MADE IT. :D ... Okay, yeah, I'll go back to my creep corner now...

*) The final events of this chapter are based on true events taking place on the 15th of July, 1974.

List of bands, musicians and other related references in order of appearance (excluding the most obvious ones):
Capitol | Wikipedia
Foxy Lady | Wikipedia | YouTube (live at Woodstock, Ryan, Spencer and Brent were present!)
Ziggy Stardust | Wikipedia
Creem | Wikipedia
White Light/White Heat | Wikipedia | YouTube
Houses of the Holy | Wikipedia
Eric Carmen | Wikipedia
The Raspberries | Wikipedia
Billy, Don't Be A Hero | Wikipedia | YouTube
Keith Richards | Wikipedia
Ruby Tuesday | Wikipedia | YouTube
Detroit City | Wikipedia | YouTube
Bobby Bare | Wikipedia
Radio Varsity | Wikipedia
Court and Spark | Wikipedia
Joni Mitchell | Wikipedia
Here Come the Warm Jets | Wikipedia
Brian Eno | Wikipedia
Suzie Q | Wikipedia | YouTube (such a good song)
Ryan's list of dead musicians:
Alan Wilson of Canned Heat, dead at 27
Jim Morrison of The Doors, dead at 27
Duane Allman of the Allman Brothers Band, dead at 24
Danny Whitten of Crazy Horse, dead at 29
Janis Joplin, dead at 27
Jimi Hendrix, dead at 27
Berry Oakley of the Allman Brothers Band, dead at 24

Jackie, Me and This Lady '74 tour
The dates are listed the way I would date things, that is to say with the day before the month.

First leg – East Coast
10/06/74 St. Paul, MN - Civic Center
11/06/74 Milwaukee, WI - Mecca Arena
12/06/74 Chicago, IL - Arie Crown Theater
13/06/74 Chicago, IL - Arie Crown Theater
14/06/74 Chicago, IL - Arie Crown Theater
16/06/74 St. Louis, MO - Kiel Auditorium
17/06/74 Indianapolis, IN - Indiana Convention Center
19/06/74 Cleveland, OH - Public Hall
20/06/74 Detroit, MI - Cobo Hall
21/06/74 Detroit, MI - Cobo Hall
22/06/74 Toronto, Ontario - O’Keefe Auditorium
23/06/74 Toronto, Ontario - O’Keefe Auditorium
24/06/74 Ottawa, Quebec - Civic Center
25/06/74 Montreal, Quebec - Forum
27/06/74 Boston, MA - Music Hall
29/06/74 New York, NY - Radio City Music Hall
30/06/74 New York, NY - Radio City Music Hall
1/07/74 New York, NY - RCMH
2/07/74 New York, NY - RCMH
3/07/74 New York, NY - RCMH
5/07/74 Philadelphia, PA - The Tower
6/07/74 Philadelphia, PA - The Tower
7/07/74 Philadelphia, PA - The Tower
8/07/74 Philadelphia, PA - The Tower
9/07/74 Pittsburgh, PA - Syria Mosque
10/07/74 Cincinnati, OH - The Fieldhouse, University of Cincinnati
12/07/74 Charlotte, NC - The Coliseum
13/07/74 Atlanta, GA - Fox Theater
14/07/74 Tampa, FL - Curtis Hixon Hall
15/07/74 Tampa, FL - Curtis Hixon Hall

Second leg – West Coast
13/08/74 Memphis, TN - Mid-South Coliseum
14/08/74 Nashville, TN - Municipal Auditorium
15/08/74 New Orleans, LA - Municipal Auditorium
16/08/74 Houston, TX - Sam Houston Coliseum
17/08/74 Austin, TX - Municipal Auditorium
18/08/74 Dallas, TX - Memorial Auditorium
19/08/74 Oklahoma City, OK - Civic Center Music Hall
20/08/74 Kansas City, KS - Kansas City Memorial Hall
21/08/74 Omaha, NE*
23/08/74 Denver, CO - The Coliseum
24/08/74 Denver, CO - The Coliseum
25/08/74 Salt Lake City, UT - Salt Palace
27/08/74 Phoenix, AZ - Arizona Coliseum
29/08/74 San Diego, CA - Sports Arena
30/08/74 Los Angeles, CA - Universal Amphitheater
31/08/74 Los Angeles, CA - Universal Amphitheater
1/09/74 Los Angeles, CA - Universal Amphitheater
2/09/74 Los Angeles, CA - Universal Amphitheater
3/09/74 Los Angeles, CA - Universal Amphitheater
4/09/74 Los Angeles, CA - Universal Amphitheater
6/09/74 San Francisco, CA - Winterland Ballroom
7/09/74 San Francisco, CA - Winterland Ballroom
8/09/74 Portland, OR - Paramount Theater
9/09/74 Seattle, WA - Paramount Theater
10/09/74 Vancouver, BC - Commodore Ballroom

*) I wanted them to go to Omaha because Conor Oberst has convinced me that Omaha is awesome. However, there really was nothing there back in '74 (I shall not discuss the current state), no venue for the boys to go to, so let's just pretend there was some awesome venue there.

Posting
Lastly, I'm open to ideas as to how to post the 2nd half of Vol.1 (and this fic in general, I suppose). Which is better: posting it all in chunks, one multi-chaptered part at a time as was done now, or would you want a new chapter whenever I finish one at highly infrequent intervals? I will listen to what you'd prefer, so hit me up with it.

So far this story has been challenging to write so it's taken me ages. Hopefully it was worth it and you'll enjoy it! xxx

p.s. Please inform me of any messed up links! Thanks!

Vol.1: Over the Tracks - I [Chapter 1]

Tue, 08 Dec 2009 14:05:05 GMT

Prologue
Vol.1 Masterpost

Vol. 1: Over the Tracks
I

Chapter 1: The Apocalypse and Take it from There

I have to be insane or suicidal. Maybe both, because the two certainly are not mutually exclusive.

Pete sits across from me, a lazy smile on his lips. My mouth remains hanging open as I look back to the paper and then back at him again.

“We can still make a few changes,” he informs me reassuringly, and it is clear that he would be happy to squeeze a few more dates somewhere in there. He would be pleased, the money hungry bastard. He is without a doubt the most capitalistic hippie I know.

I pass the paper to Joe, who pushes frizzy, brown locks from his handsome face and peers at the list of tour dates. His blue eyes light up, and knowing him, it’s from the prospect of all the girls and all the partying he will get to do. Brent leans over Joe’s shoulder, making approving sounds. I knew Joe would be pleased, but Brent? Goddamn backstabber. Spencer takes the news like a man, playing the mediator like he always does.

I shake my head, laugh in disbelief, and my bandmates take no notice of me. “Come on!” I cry out to get the attention I deserve, and the words echo back from the walls of Pete’s office. The noises from the outside offices of Capitol momentarily go even muter, and in my mind’s eye, I see their interns and A&Rs sneaking to eavesdrop outside Pete’s door.

“Is there a problem?” Pete asks calmly, his voice like peaceful waves coming from the sea, gently making contact with the shore, his brown eyes staring at me patiently. Black hair flops to cover his left eye, and that’s right. Hide, you bastard.

“Yes!”

I grab the sheet again and throw it at Pete. My hands are bound as far as firing the fucker is concerned, but I can complain as loud as I can and let him know that this front man is not happy. “What the fuck is this? I had agreed to a summer tour, but this? Fuck! Five shows in New York? Why the hell do we need to do five shows in goddamn New York?”

“They love you there. They love you everywhere, or have you slept through the past few months? You guys are the shit right now, you’re groovy. Also, you really should check your contract – you’ve already agreed to do this tour. You can’t weasel out of this, Ryan.”

Pete has placed a gun to my head and pulled the trigger. My hands are bound.

Spencer nudges my shoulder. “Not like you had other plans, right?” he asks, but his voice conveys almost as much enthusiasm I feel.

“I did have other plans,” I claim. Get drunk. Get laid. Get high. Write songs. Record them. Refuse every interview that gets thrown at me. Spencer is a good spokesperson; he can handle the press. Call up Dad, remind us both of the constantly forgotten existence of a family and see if I can drive up to Bismarck to spend a few weeks in his cabin, just me and the pine trees.

But no one cares about what I want. They want the fifty-five sold out shows, roughly and clumsily divided into two legs: East and West. The venues are bigger than anything we have headlined in before. Brent and Joe begin to talk about the stage performance, Spencer suggesting that we do a light show. That is exactly what we need, to copy bands before us, to do tricks that in no way convey our uniqueness.

Pete says that the tour dates are still subject to change. Spencer insists on a gig in Cincinnati, and Pete promises to make some calls to promoters in the area.

I imagine tens of thousands of faces that my eyes will land on in the near future. I feel sick.

“Also, now that we’re all here,” Pete says, “I suggest a band meeting.”

“Funny thing, that. You’re not in the band,” I point out.

“We should clear the air before the tour. Start it with a positive feeling. So any thoughts or concerns, now is the time to share.” Pete folds his arms and leans back in his chair.

Thoughts or concerns? Well, let’s see. I don’t even want to go on this tour. We haven’t done anything except fight since we went to the studio to record our chart wonder. If the album is filled with ‘swirls of dark energy’, it’s because we were fucking pissed off. Most bands start with a group of friends who just want to play their music, but then the business gets in the way. Fame distorts reality. You no longer make music for you, but for the fans. What will they respond to? What do they want? What will keep you on top? And everyone has a different idea of it. We’re stuck together, the four of us plus Pete, and the bonds that keep us together are getting thinner and thinner. Pre-tour thoughts or concerns. Let’s start with the apocalypse and take it from there.

“I think I should be a bit closer to Ryan on stage. And up front like he is. Not in the back left,” Joe states firmly. “My fans want to see me.”

“Naturally,” Pete nods.

“More spotlights on me. And I want a mic.”

“You don’t sing,” I smile.

“But I want to engage with my audience,” Joe smiles back.

“Brent?” Pete now asks.

“Cheese crackers in the dressing rooms. Courtesy beer bottles. Only four-star hotels on hotel nights. There always has to be jam donuts and condoms on the bus. I want one roadie to be responsible for my bass and keyboards, no fucking about with that. Just one guy so I know who to yell at. Um... let me think... You know what, I’ll make a list.” Brent grins, a hint of self-adoration on his roughly carved face, like God just couldn’t be bothered to go the extra mile that day. When Brent is in a bad mood, his eyebrows furrow over his dark brown eyes, lips looping downwards, and I am always faintly reminded of a chimpanzee.

“Spencer?”

“I’m good.”

“Come on, now.”

“No, really. We’ve decided on the drum kit, so I don’t need anything.”

Pete turns to me. “Ryan? What do you want?”

I look through the window and watch the spring wind push and shove a tree outside, and I wonder if there could be a wind strong enough to whisk it up into the air, break all the roots that have tangled up in the ground for far too long, and if there is such a wind, then it has to tell me its secret.

“I don’t want to share any hotel rooms,” I mutter.

“Done!” Pete grins, like it’s fixed, sorted out. We’re cured. Joe keeps giving me dirty glances, Brent shifts restlessly, Spencer tries to keep smiling, and I wish I had never gotten up this morning.

* * *

Spencer attempts talking me into it over a few beers. We have already sold out two of the five New York shows, so it isn’t like I even have a damn say in it.

“It’ll be fun, man,” Spencer says half-heartedly, not meaning it, and my head jerks upwards as I realise that the radio is playing our song. The bald bartender of the smoky bar is humming along to it, but he didn’t recognise me when I went over to get our second beers. Good. It’s a rock station, and it’s nearly midnight, which must justify them playing our track. They better not play it during the day when picket fence America is picking up their children from school.

“Ry, are you even listening?”

The bartender is miming the lyrics, mouth opening and closing to accommodate my voice and my lyrics. He doesn’t know what the song is about, how I felt when writing it, what the message is. But there he is, pouring another beer and abusing my words, stealing them, robbing them, dressing them up in velvet when I aimed for satin.

“Never mind,” Spencer sighs and stares at the beer left in his glass, which is not much. Spencer is overwhelmingly gifted in that department. Spencer is used to our radio airplay, but I feel surreal whenever I hear my own voice on the radio. Spencer downs his beer, his blue eyes starting to stand still slightly. He scratches his beard, and I watch the strong muscles of his arm move beneath the skin. He’s got a friendly face, the kind that makes you want to tell him all of your secrets. It’s taken me years to try and resist the urge.

The radio commentator says, And that was The Followers with their single Alienation from their brand new and critically acclaimed album Boneless. I don’t know about you, but the record is definitely already in my collection!

I tune out the rest.

“Look, remember when we supported Floyd back in ‘71?” Spencer starts again, and I nod. Fucking hell I remember. Nine thousand people and the four of us on stage. No one knew us. No one cared. “Venues big like that, it’s like... having sex with a stranger.”

“Something I do regularly, then?” I suggest, and Spencer waves his hand to tell me to shut up.

“My point is that, yeah, we’re headlining this time. But they already like us, otherwise they wouldn’t be there. And the venues are so big that there is absolutely no intimacy. So whatever, you don’t have to impress these strangers. We get on stage, we play, we bow. We leave. A one-night stand,” he explains. It makes sense in its own way. I can bear my soul for the fans to see. They won’t look closely enough to notice it.

“Maybe,” I grant him eventually, putting down my empty bottle. “I gotta get going. Jac said she might drop by.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know how you put up with her.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” I ask and put my jacket on. “She’s faithful most of the time. More than you can ask a woman these days.”

Spencer scoffs, but he’s young. His head is still dazed from heartbreak, but when it clears up, he will realise that we’re not in the fifties anymore. Sixties happened, you can’t take it back. I lost my virginity at Woodstock, you can’t take that back either, not that I would want to because Fauna was a beautiful woman. She didn’t want anything of me except that one night. That’s how women are now – they want to experience something beautiful with you, and they’re not that bothered if you disappear afterwards. It’s 1974, for Christ’s sake – the world has changed, and that change is irreversible. There is a sexual revolution to go with our musical one.

“Is Jac coming on tour?” Spencer asks.

“Nah.”

I don’t want her fucking all of my friends. Spencer asks me to stay for another drink, but I decline. “I know this is the pot calling the kettle black, but you shouldn’t drink so much. Seriously. It’s been months and months, man. She was just a girl, and she certainly didn’t deserve you,” I tell him firmly, and he nods wearily. He knows, of course. She was a girl, he thought it was love, and it’s over now. He made the right choice by choosing the band, even if we are... the knights of destruction. The ambassadors of loss. Coming together, but mostly just falling apart.

“Dime a dozen,” Spencer concludes, and I feel us coming together just a little bit.

I find Jac outside my building, smoking a cigarette that I stop to share with her. She tells me about her bitch of a sister, and a hickey is peaking through the blonde locks of her hair. I don’t really care who left it there, right above her left collarbone. I know she’d want me to be jealous, but I’ve never had it in me. Not for her, not for anyone. It’s not like she loves me.

“Fifty-five shows,” I tell her. “We kick off in a month.”

Her eyes light up, and I know that look. It means she’s up to no good, but she will get away with it. She’s a pretty girl with a doll-like face and big, innocent eyes. She’s tiny and astoundingly beautiful naked, and plenty of men know that. A few girls too if there is any truth in her stories, which I doubt there is. Jac uses her looks to get under people’s skin because she is scared shitless no one will like her for herself. She has confidence for the two of us, which is probably why I have stuck around. Or maybe she has stuck around. She keeps me guessing about that.

“Come on, let’s go up,” I say.

We don’t make it to my bed. We are half-dressed in the living room with her panties down to her ankles and my fly open when she finds out I have no intention of taking her on tour with me. She swears and pushes me off, steps out of the pink underwear and heads for the door.

If she never comes back, I could keep the panties as a memory.

“It’s a small bus,” I explain. “There is no room for you, baby. You can fly up to meet us in Detroit if you want.”

“And what the fuck would I want in Detroit?” she barks back. The illusion of her doll face vanishes fast when she hates my guts. Her eyebrows get drawn together, forming a thin line there is no crossing. Her hands are in fists, and she raises them up dramatically and brings them back down, making a sound like, instead of the skinny woman she is, she is a wounded bull staring down the matador.

“I dunno,” I shrug.

“Fuck you, Ryan Ross. Fuck. You.”

She points a finger at me to make sure I know I am the Ryan Ross of her nightmares before leaving with a bang. I mutter a curse and find a whisky bottle, getting out my black electric and playing White Light/White Heat to calm myself down, and I force myself not to think about the fifty-five shows, fifty-five shows, fifty-godddamn-five shows.

I will hang myself in the dressing room in Philly. That’ll show Pete.

The old lady next door starts banging on the wall to shut me up. Count that as one person who will be delighted to hear of my upcoming absence.

* * *

The studio lights are making me sweat. I have makeup on me, but it’s not enough to put me behind a defensive wall. The audience is seated and not a mass of cheering, beer chugging rock fans. They are members of charity organisations, house wives, bored husbands with even the top button done, and they stare at me over their glasses and wonder what my parents did wrong. The woman from makeup is trying to convince Joe to tie his curly, long hair in a ponytail, but he refuses while Spencer swirls drumsticks and adjusts the bandanna around his head. It’s a new touch to his stage look. Brent doesn’t really have a distinctive style of his own, he just lets his dark brown hair hang over his head like a wet towel, the tips sweeping past his shoulders. He doesn’t give a shit. Joe goes for the same impression by obsessing over every belt and skin-tight costume that show most of his chest through a V-cut that goes all the way to his belly button.

I know we’re behind the times with our mix and match approach, riding the wave that could be the last one for prog. I went to see David’s show last summer, when he was promoting Ziggy. When he was Ziggy and the band were the Spiders. It was an amazing show, I admit that, but it would be too much fuss for us to come up with characters and stories. Not that we’re tame. Fuck tame, and forget the boy choir haircuts and matching suits, this is not the fucking sixties. We’re just us. I wanted to have that level of immediacy with the music with no bullshit theatrics involved, but the ship of musical sincerity has sailed. A big show alienates the audience, distorts the music. Big venues are to blame. Money is to blame. I don’t want to become another Ziggy.

But when you hit the charts, you have three options. You either suck it up, gloat in it, or you fall apart. I’m trying my best not to go for the third option.

“Are you ready to play?” the director’s assistant now asks me. I nod, making sure my bandmates are ready too. Spencer clears his throat behind the drum kit, Joe tests his microphone one last time. Our first TV performance.

We wait for some more lighting fine-tuning, and I watch the director snapping at the sound engineer. Behind the cameras, Pete and Jac are watching on beside the bleachers. Jac waves and blows me a kiss, a wild smile on her face, exactly the same as it was on the night I met her. She’s taller than Pete in her green platform shoes. I’m wearing one of her hat designs to go with my tweed vest, t-shirt and jeans. The hat has got red flowers sticking to the side. I didn’t choose it, but I genuinely like it. It’s a nice change when I don’t have to lie to her.

“I thought she was mad at you,” Spencer mumbles when I go have a word with him.

“She was,” I shrug. Her threats and our fights mean nothing. “When do we have the crew practice?”

“Brent, when’s the crew practice?” Spencer calls out.

“Tomorrow,” the bassist says. Already. I need to pack up for the tour.

“You better be there,” Spencer mumbles and shoots me a look. I scoff loudly and silently curse him. I was only maybe thinking about having my grandmother die a thirty-sixth time.

The TV people are finally ready, and the overenthusiastic host introduces us as they begin recording. We play our song. It’s the shortest off the new album, only five minutes and twenty seconds. I forget the cameras and focus on the music, the moment where the drums kick in between the third and fourth part, the second before we change the signature to 11:13. Brent switches between bass and piano halfway through, and I sing. My voice is raw and untrained, just like the music strives to be, though every second has been calculated and obsessed over. I know I have made a decent song if I have driven myself insane and lost sleep over it.

The director keeps motioning for me to look up into the cameras. I ignore him and sing to his shoes.

“The Followers, everyone!” the host says as the audience applauds. Joe and I are directed to the chairs where we sit down for the interview. Joe has insisted that he should be interviewed more. Good. The fewer interviews I do, the happier I’ll be. But still the host mostly addresses me because they know I am the songwriter, front man, lyricist, vocalist. I am the product which they buy.

I give replies to his awkward questions.

“This is your third album. What is it about the new record that gave The Followers the recognition the first two didn’t receive?”

I scratch my cheek. Cameras roll. Smile, Ryan. Be amiable, Ryan.

“Our first two albums got a very good reaction in certain circles. It’s not my fault if they never reached your ears,” I say and play it off with a smile. The audience laughs. My skin begins to itch. I feel thirsty. The host has horribly yellow teeth.

“You are all very talented players,” the host says but frowns. “I only have one question. Why does it have to be so loud?”

Behind the cameras, Jac covers her mouth with a hand to muffle her laughter. I don’t have anything to say.

* * *

The crew practice is like a high school reunion except no one feels ashamed when they head straight for the alcohol to suffer less from the awkward catching up. Andy Hurley and William Beckett listen in and ask questions as we go through the set. On the nights we play Sore Skill, Joe will need his blue Fender tuned half a step down. If Miranda’s Dream makes the setlist, then Brent will need his five-string bass. We fill the practice space with all of the gear that needs to be taken on tour as Pete makes notes on extra strings, bridge pins and drumsticks. Andy has photographic memory, as I recall from our previous tour, and he looks at my effects pedals only once before remembering the correct order. We’ve toured with both guys before.

“Where are Zack and Simon?” Joe asks as we set up to play. The real stages will be three, four, maybe even five times bigger than the room we’re in. I look around for the two missing roadies, and William shakes his head. William’s around my age and has taken hair tips from Joe, but instead of Joe’s frizzy chocolate brown curls, William’s are a lighter brown. He is as tall as me and just as skinny, but whereas I try to hide my bony limbs, William manages to pull on the tightest jeans imaginable. He is too effeminate and emotional for my liking, even his facial features resemble that of a girl’s, but he is a good roadie, and even I have to admit it, though I’m not too crazy about the guy.

“I’m sure Zack and Simon will be here shortly,” Pete hurries to say, fearing mutiny. Spencer throws a vest over his red t-shirt and sits behind his new drum kit, a boyish glee in his eyes. I relax at the sight of it. I need him on this tour. I will not survive this summer if Spencer’s not there, and while I acknowledge that, I resent myself for being a co-dependent leech. I didn’t used to be like this.

There are a lot of things that I once were that I no longer am.

Andy fusses around with cables with a roll of duck tape between his teeth, carrying it like a dog would carry a bone. He tapes my mic cable to the floor, crawling on all fours. “You want it like this or like this?” he asks, looking up at me and pushing his slipping glasses up the bridge of his nose. He’s got thick, reddish brown hair down to his shoulders, slightly bushy eyebrows that hang over his attentive grey eyes. Andy’s the philosopher of the group. He and Spencer have sat down and talked about death, love, the war, and whatever else, until morning. I’ve sometimes sat with them and listened. Andy swears by acid and how it broadens your mind. It broadens his a bit too much at times, but it’s good to have at least one self-professed intellectual on the bus.

Working out how to play the new songs live is hard. We end up fighting and bickering twenty minutes in when Joe magically starts singing the chorus to Her Shadow. I sing the chorus, Brent does some backups. Joe doesn’t sing in any song. He never has.

“You said you wanted the mic to talk between songs and –”

“Well, why can’t I sing too?”

“Because you can’t hold a fucking note!”

“Oh, and you can?”

“Yes, actually!”

Joe turns to Pete. “What do you think?”

“Don’t talk to him! Was he there when the four of us sat down and started this band? Huh? Was he? Don’t fucking ask Pete –”

“I think –” Pete starts.

“Shut up!” I point a daring finger at him.

“Don’t threaten the devil’s advocate,” Brent mutters under his breath but loud enough for me to hear. He isn’t being diplomatic, god no. Brent is just not taking my side.

“If I want to sing –”

“It doesn’t matter what you want! You don’t start raping my music –”

“Oh! Oh! There we have it! His music? Did you hear that, Andy? William? Pete, did you hear that?” Joe asks, looking around for support. The boyish glee is gone from Spencer’s face, a grey, worn out look on his features as he lifelessly stares at his drum kit. My blood boils and I squeeze the neck of my guitar with both hands, wanting to fling the instrument over my shoulder and smash it against Joe’s head.

Spencer stands up. When he speaks, his voice is emotionless. “I am sure that what Ryan meant was –”

“I know what he meant!” Joe storms.

The door slams open, and Zack Hall walks in. He’s a huge guy, roughly the size of a bulky, eighteenth century oak cabinet. He makes me look like a twig if he stands next to me. I’m a tall guy, but Zack is taller and probably weighs five times what I do. He’s got the strength of a bull and he keeps his hair short so that no one can grab it when he gets into a fight. That’s what he says, anyway. But beneath the scary physical first impression, he’s a good guy. Quirky, definitely, mean, sometimes, but he’s not evil in the slightest. He keeps people in their places, and maybe it’s this sudden appearance of his that makes me and Joe both shut up.

Pete exhales. “Zack! You’re here! Excellent! Where’s Simon?”

“At home. He woke up this morning, still drunk from last night, fell down the stairs, broke his left leg in two places. I drove him to the hospital, which is why I’m late, and oh, by the by, Simon will not be coming on tour with us.” Zack stops and takes a long look at us all. “Why the long faces?”

That’s it. The tour is over.

I carefully put my guitar in her stand as Brent realises the damage that has been done to him. “Who will be responsible for my instruments, then?!” Brent asks angrily, and as defiantly as I was telling the guys not to put their faith in Pete, I am now grateful that our manager is there to take the fall. I have double standards just like the rest.

The room is filled with angered and frustrated exclamations as I round Zack and walk out of the room, up the basement stairs, along the corridor and out of the building. Los Angeles is cloudy.

I light a cigarette with shaking hands. That’s it. No tour. We can’t do it.

A homeless man is leaning against the brick wall, and I throw him two quarters. He tells me to fuck off.

“Don’t you know who I am?” I ask, half-serious, half-sardonic.

“No!” he barks angrily, scratching his face with dirty fingers and mumbling to himself incoherently.

“Me neither,” I admit and walk away from him. Damn Simon. My fault for getting him into whisky on our last tour. Only three things can ruin a man: fame, women and twelve-year-old whisky. Damn Joe. I don’t need a guitarist who thinks he’s a vocalist. Joe is the most handsome of the four of us by general consensus, thanks to his charisma, toned body and manly face with a pair of sparkly blue eyes. He doesn’t need to sing to get more chicks, so why is he doing this? To torture me? That’s it, to goddamn torture me.

The cigarette shakes between my fingers as the tension of the practice room makes my entire body tremble. Sweat pours down my neck, and I swallow hard, close my eyes when the world goes out of focus. I want this music. I want this band. But laced within that are a million things I could live without.

“Ryan.”

I open my eyes. Brent takes the cigarette from me without asking, and he is nearly serene as he looks across the street like he doesn’t have a care in the world. “So listen, William said that he has a friend, some guy he knows, who can take Simon’s place. William swears by him.”

“But will he come on such short notice?”

“To tour with America’s most rocking band?” Brent asks, clearly enjoying the superlative. “If he doesn’t, he’s a fucking idiot. He will.”

A new guy might not fit in, though I will most likely get voted as the most antisocial again so it’s not likely to affect me. Maybe it won’t matter much, but I worry. When it comes to this tour, I will worry about every damn thing.

“I was thinking we could just tell the sound engineers to turn down Joe’s vocals during songs. Either that or let him embarrass himself once, and then he’ll stop. The narcissistic fucker can’t sing, you’re right about that,” Brent says thoughtfully. He thinks Joe is an asshole. Brent, by default, thinks everyone is an asshole, and he thinks it of me too.

“Joe can’t mess up the music. He just – I have to protect it. The music.”

“Is that what it’s about? The music?” He sounds amused.

“If it’s not about the music, then what is it about?” I ask angrily. Brent finishes the cigarette and pats my back. He pities me on top of everything else.

“The situation is not ideal for any of us. The new guy will have to learn on the job, and who knows how qualified he is to look after my instruments? But we’ll deal,” he shrugs. “Come on, we’ve got to figure out the rest of the songs.” Brent pushes slightly greasy hair from his forehead and walks back inside.

And I am expected to follow like us Followers do. Christ.

I head back for the door, and two girls walking down the street recognise me as they walk past. My sudden emergence doesn’t give them time to do anything except stare at me, let it kick in, their mouths dropping open, and then they hush, “Ryan” and “The Followers”. I look over my shoulder, and Joe would flash a charming smile, Brent would grin, Spencer would wave, but I turn my gaze away and feel their eyes on my hunched back. Their widening irises feel heavy in my heart.

The beggar is still by the door, looking confused that the girls are staring our way. “You must be famous,” I remark and walk back into the mess we have made.

Next chapter

Vol.1: Over the Tracks - I [Chapter 2]

Tue, 08 Dec 2009 14:02:49 GMT

Previous chapter

Chapter 2: A Machine for the Music Industry

Jac is sitting on my bed in my boxers and t-shirt. She hasn’t brushed her hair, and it falls in a tangled, blonde mess around her face. Her eyes are bigger than they usually are, her lower lip jutted out in a pout. A man weaker than I would have melted already.

“I’ll be so bored,” she exclaims.

“I’ll be bored too,” I tell her and throw my last pair of socks in the suitcase.

“You’ll be on tour. I’ve been on tour, I know what it’s like,” she insists. But this won’t be one of those tours I used to enjoy, hang out at the bar, jump on stage from the midst of the crowd. And it won’t be the ones she has made cameos on, living on the bus for three or four days and hanging out with the bands she is friends with. This is venue security, classified schedules and impersonality taken to new extremes. They all want a piece of us. Now, we’re famous.

“Get dressed,” I tell her, going to the kitchen to empty the fridge of anything that is likely to go off while I’m away. I stop at the bedroom doorway after I’m done, and I watch her put on a bright green dress that stops above her knees. No bra, of course; she has burnt all of hers.

Jac grudgingly helps me carry one of my two suitcases. The taxi is waiting for me downstairs, ready to take me to the airport where I will be reunited with the band. The crew is already in Minnesota where we kick off, getting everything ready for tomorrow night. Jac sighs and chews on her bottom lip. I open my arms. She presses her head against my chest and wraps her tiny arms around my middle. Will she really miss me? Would I really want her to? My chin leans on the top of her head, and I look down my street blindly as my better half says something.

“Huh?”

“Who’s Jackie?” she repeats. “Brent said that you named the tour, so who is she?”

“Brent said?” I repeat sceptically. “When did you hang out with him?” She shrugs in response, and I shrug back, both of our answers locked away in our brains where we don’t share. The taxi driver gets out of the car and points at his wristwatch. I sigh. “Gotta go, babe.”

Jac lets go of me. “I love you.”

“You too,” I say easily. Too easily.

She smiles brightly, and I give her a soft kiss. Then we are separated by the window of the car, and she waves me off before turning around. Her step isn’t any heavier than it normally is. The taxi gains speed and the driver asks, “Was that your wife?”

I suppress a spontaneous laugh. “No.”

“Fiancée?”

“My girlfriend. Occasionally.”

“Oh.” The man sounds disapproving, but he’s an old guy, almost fifty. God forbid us young people, kissing in the streets, fucking in the bushes, growing long hair, wearing tight clothes and listening to that goddamned rock and roll. God forbid us.

After two blocks, it gets harder for me to remember the details of Jac’s face. She is most likely realising the same about me.

* * *

We get to our hotel in St. Paul late afternoon. The venue is on the other side of town, but our tour bus is parked two blocks from the hotel. Joe is organising a huge pre-tour party in his hotel room, starting now, but I decide to skip it. Why be hung-over tomorrow? I definitely do not want to be in even worse shape than I will be.

Instead, I decide to acquaint myself with my home for the next three months. Bigger label means more money, and more money means a better bus. It’s not hard to top the piece of shit we used to tour with, but my expectations are exceeded when I round the corner and spot our bus. It’s brand new and looks like a metal box with a smooth, blue panel on both sides. Small windows decorate the sides of the bus from the front to the middle where they suddenly stop. I figure it’s where the sleeping area must start. To my surprise, Pete is standing by the bus door, rubbing the metal surface with his sleeve. His bell bottom jeans are flipping in the wind as I make my way over.

“Hey.”

Pete swirls around, lifting huge sunglasses up to his forehead. His smirk spreads from his eyes to his mouth and cheeks. “Hey! Just polishing her up,” he says adoringly, casting the bus a look he would give to his lover. “Groovy, ain’t she? Come on, have a look,” Pete urges. I lift a sceptical eyebrow. He is being far too nice to me when we both know that the dislike is mutual. “Come on! I’ve got a surprise for you in the back.”

“A one-way ticket to Hawaii?” I ask and fake a laugh, and Pete imitates me.

“So funny, Ryan. Ah, you’re a kidder.” He wipes his eyes.

I get on the bus, passing the empty driver’s seat. Pete gets on the bus after me, and I can feel the slight tilt of our weight. I push a thin, curtain aside that can give the driver privacy when driving, and am instantly in a lounge area. Pete eagerly shows me around, explaining how we can hang out on the couches or on the two armchairs with the table in between, perfect for card games to kill time or a nocturnal snack in between cities. The couches and chairs are yellow with orange polka dots while the walls are light green. Needless to say Pete had a hand in this. Nonetheless, I make approving sounds. A couch on a bus? Insane. We only had normal seats the last time.

I pass the tiny kitchen counter and fridge, which is small but should fit a few beers. That’s the latest technology right there. So far, the bus is liveable and downright luxurious. The bathroom is microscopic, but the toilet flushes, which is more than I can say about our last bus. We have clearly hit it big time - everything about the new, modern bus says so.

“The guys decided their bunks yet?” I ask.

“They haven’t checked out the bus. They said they would, but...” Pete looks like a kid whose friends didn’t show up for his birthday party after all.

“Oh, yeah. Joe is having a party in his room. I imagine he has ordered alcohol for over a hundred bucks by now,” I mutter, and Pete goes two shades paler. “Let’s hope they don’t trash the place,” I add with a smile that is practically frolicking in Pete’s sudden anguish. He obsesses over every cent. Cheap bastard.

I open the door to the bunks and stop in my inspection. A young man with dark brown hair stands in the narrow pathway. He turns his head to look at me over his shoulder and says, “Hey.” He has an almost too handsome face with full, beautifully shaped lips that are slightly too big for him, a nose that dips half an inch too low, but neither feature do nothing except enhance the grace of his face. I’ve never seen him before. He is roughly my age and slightly shorter than me. I can’t decide if he is buff or not: he has strong arms and shoulders, but his overall impression is tiny with a narrow waist. His tight clothes only support the impression as the shirt stops two inches before his jeans start. I don’t get the latest fashion at all.

The man draws shut a bunk curtain and wipes his hands to the back of his tight jeans.

“Hey,” I return, the question of ‘and you are?’ clear in my tone.

“Ryan, this is Brendon, Simon’s replacement. Brendon, this is Ryan,” Pete explains, and yeah, figures. This is William’s friend. I conclude that he is too skinny. Not as skinny as me, but I am not expected to lift and shift and push and pull hardcases filled with amps, drums and guitars all day long.

“The singer, right?” Brendon clarifies and offers his hand. I take it.

“It’s my band,” I shrug, regardless of what Joe might say. It’s my music. Don’t try taking it from me.

“Cool,” Brendon nods, eyeing between me and Pete. “Well, I’m late for the party,” he says, a cue stating that he wants to leave. We give him space, and he squeezes past.

I look after him, feeling just the tiniest bit confused. Brendon looks nothing like any roadie I’ve worked with or seen before. Where was the beard? The rock ‘n roll hair? I don’t go for “the bigger, the better” hair policy that is so popular in our scene, but my brown locks still speak of a level of carefree hippie descent. Brendon’s hair was neatly cut.

Pete walks to the door at the back of the bunks while I add things up. Eight bunks, four on each side. Four band members, one tour manager, four roadies. There isn’t enough room.

“How exactly –”

Pete opens the backdoor, revealing what is best described as a nest of sorts. I snake past Pete to the small back lounge, taking one step from the door before standing by the side of a double bed that is surrounded by the bus on three sides. It looks cosy with huge, red pillows and blankets, and Pete puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “No bunk for you. You sleep right here in the queen-sized bed.”

Because I am not like the rest of the band. I’m the lead: I’m special. I’m the stubborn star Pete has been trying to polish.

He is trying to make me forgive him for our fifty-five show tour. And what’s worse, it’s working. I hate bunks. He knows that, the sly bastard. In bunks, I toss and turn and bang my head to the ceiling, wake up covered in bruises.

“It’s almost like having your own room,” Pete enthuses. “A groovy, big bed, you get all the privacy you want and a good night’s rest. Not like Jac will be here, right?”

“Yeah.”

I had actually worried about how I’d get laid on this bus. Now I know.

“The other guys will be furious that I’ve got my own room,” I point out even as I salivate over the thought. Maybe I deserve this. I have far more pressure on me than the other guys. They don’t get what it’s like.

“I’ll talk to them. You just leave it up to me,” Pete says in his I-can-fix-anything voice. “You’ll even enjoy this tour. You’ll see.”

He’s even more disillusioned than he has been.

* * *

Civic Center, St. Paul, Minnesota. The show is not quite sold out. Pete says it was a close call.

Our support band is some Midwestern promise for the music world. I follow them from the side of the stage for a while as the energetic singer takes a hold of the microphone and shouts, “Fuck the war!” The crowd roars like his words are new when they are not. The war has been over for a few years, a handful of troops still lingering in Vietnam. We need something new to fight for, but no one seems to be coming up with anything. I am sure most of the roaring is from the enthusiasm that the singer said the F word.

Music and politics. It’s not a good idea to mix them.

“What do you think?” Zack asks from beside me, and I shrug.

“A bit pretentious. A bit insincere.”

“About the crowd,” he laughs, and I force my eyes to the right where I see a row of people, then another, another, and then the venue opens up like the open sea, endlessly fading into black. I make my way back to the dressing room, where the rest of the band is getting ready. Joe is my opposite in many ways, and over the five years that we have been in this band, Joe has made friends in every state of this country. He surrounds himself with people, and he invites these admirers backstage in every city, so even now the dressing room is full of people I don’t know with backstage stickers glued to their shirts and jeans.

“Pete,” I call out, and Pete reads my expression easily enough. He looks torn between pleasing me and pleasing Joe, but two minutes later, the room is void of freeloaders. Joe doesn’t mind for once as he too wants to get ready to go on. It’s the first night. That counts. He, Brent and Spencer are all hungover.

I didn’t drink last night, but I’ll drink now. I block out the voices, laughter, excitement and nervousness, take sips from the wine bottle and stare at our setlist. Maybe the order isn’t good. Maybe we got it all wrong.

“Ryan.”

“Huh?” I look up and see Brendon. He is holding out his hand with an unsure smile. I blink. His smile.

“I need the setlist?”

“Right.” I pass it to him, and he rushes out of the room as William nearly squeals, “Can I please, please be the one-two-three guy?”

Spencer is putting on his stage clothes: jeans, t-shirt, vest and bandanna. Joe is always the most extravagant, and tonight, he is wearing a one-piece with a V-cut so deep it almost goes to his belly button. He should shave his chest hair, at least for my sake. Brent’s going on in a suit. Pete is calling out encouragements, and back in the hall, the crowd is cheering and chanting loud enough for us to hear. My breathing is shallow as I hear the increased pace of my heartbeat soaring in my ears. One down, fifty-four to go. After tonight, it’ll be one down.

William comes back, a big grin on his face. “Five minutes! I’ll keep an eye on you from the back!” William is taking care of the merch, and he gives us a thumbs up and leaves.

I keep studying the backstage pass I have hanging around my neck, examining the font spelling out The Followers and Jackie, Me and This Lady, brushing my thumb over ‘all access’. Pete keeps telling us not to lose these. It’s a crown of sorts, a shield and a sword, but somehow, it still feels like an iron chain around my neck, pulling me down.

Pete hurdles us together for a big pep talk. I don’t listen, but I put my hand in the middle with the others. Then something weird happens: I slide to the back of my head. My eyes become a cinema screen, and I take a comfortable seat in the back of my brain, tilt the chair backwards, reach for the popcorn. On the screen is a corridor, then another, a flight of stairs, Spencer’s back, sudden lights. The side of a stage, screaming fans in the distance, a halt, Andy and Zack are smiling at the screen, encouraging, and the ear-wrenching noise is muffled as the halt is over, and the camera flips down, shows my shoes walking, which is funny because I am in my brain cinema and not walking on stage. That is not me; that’s somebody else. That’s a machine for the music industry.

A microphone. A funny metal ball with a thousand little holes, and it comes closer to the screen. A voice says, “Good evening, St. Paul,” speaking into it. A girl in the front row stretches out both arms and screams, “RYAN!”

Instantaneously, I am pulled from my chair and onto the floor of my brain, and I struggle in vain, kick the air and scream as invisible hands take a hold of my collar and drag and drag and drag me, throw me at the cinema screen, and I fall right through.

I am on stage in front of thousands, people stretching far to my right and far to my left, and right ahead of me until they get eaten by the dark. The lights are hot. I’ve got a guitar around me, providing a very thin layer of protection. How did I get here?

Spencer yells, “One-two, one-two-three-four –”

Play. Just play. You know how to.

I let myself slip into automatic, managing to do it out of sheer horror. After the first two songs, it becomes nothing more than a painful, sickening throb in my guts.

I resent the audience.

Luckily, we all have certain roles on stage that we are known for. Joe is the entertainer who jumps with his guitar, throws it up into the air, entertains, spins around like mad. I’m famous for my lack of interaction, for being stoic and solemn. The reviews say it’s my thing. Brent is from between the two of us, rocking out with Joe sometimes, coming up to me to share the mic and shout into it. Spencer can hide behind his drum kit. I should’ve been a drummer.

I close my eyes and pretend that the audience is not there, turn around to play guitar to Spencer, who bangs and bangs, breaks two drumsticks, beats the shit out of the drums like his life depends on it. Knowing him, he probably believes it does. Sweat rolls down from under his red bandanna, hair stuck to his neck. Eventually, he crashes the cymbals and the song is at an end.

Six thousand people behind me roar. I walk to the drum kit, take a glass of water from the stage floor and pour its contents over my head. It soaks my shirt, and Spencer grins at me. The water lands on the guitar too. Sadly, I do not get electrocuted.

“Ryan.”

I look to my side and focus on Andy. His glasses are slipping down his nose as he sweats in the heat of the stage lights. He is offering me a guitar with a hand that is attached to a heavily tattooed arm, and I quickly walk back to the mic, step on two effect pedals to turn them off and unplug my Telecaster before giving it to him. I plug in the new one, check the tuning, and it’s just me and the instrument as I make sure everything is ready. The audience keeps clapping, as if beckoning me to play, to do something exciting, give them their money’s worth.

I strum the start of the next song. They recognise it, and the girls scream while the boys shout.

Brent is at the piano, and I can hear my guitar through the amps, the way it buzzes like a live wire, angry and demanding.

At the side of the stage, the crew is watching. Pete has his arms crossed, his shoulders tense. He is waiting for me to break down or storm off. Andy is nodding his head to the beat while Zack is eyeing the audience. I know William is somewhere around, making sure the venue workers are selling the merch at the right prices.

The new guy, Brendon, is reading a book.

My eyes fix on him.

It’s the first night on tour. We are the most exciting band around, all these fans paid to see us. We are famous. And there’s this guy, a guy who is getting paid to stand there, the best place to watch us perform, and... he is reading a book.

It takes me half of the song to remember what the hell I’m even supposed to be doing.

* * *

I wait around outside the dressing room, nodding as the crew heads back for the bus. The backstage area is full of people, all saying hi to me as they walk past with slightly hopeful smiles like I’ll indicate I want to start a conversation. I don’t.

“I just gotta,” I mumble and wave my hands around, and no one stops to ask me, “What?” One brush off from me is enough. Pete simply reminds me we have to leave in twenty and warns me of the aficionados waiting outside the venue. Zack offers to play the bodyguard since Pete is convinced they want me to place my hand above their heads and bless them, or quite possibly impregnate them. I can take on a few fans. I think.

My calloused fingertips ache from the show. I can see bits of black on them from the dirty strings. I should have practised more to prepare myself for the tour, but we hardly did more work than the crew practice. We didn’t exactly want to lock ourselves up in a small room with each other.

I hear movement in the dressing room, and I take in a breath and go in. Brendon is by the dressing tables and he looks up, our eyes meeting in the mirror. He’s just come from the shower, a towel wrapped around his narrow waist.

“Hey,” I say, and he turns around, tightening the towel with uncertain movements.

“Hi. Uh, I thought –”

“I was wondering,” I begin, not understanding why he is acting flustered when he doesn’t even know what I am going to say. “What were you reading?”

Brendon blinks at me. “Sorry?”

“Tonight. During the show.” A slight red emerges on Brendon’s cheeks as he opens his mouth without anything coming out. “I saw you,” I cut in.

“Hemingway. The Sun Also Rises.”

I lost to an alcoholic wannabe fisherman who spent his golden years drinking piña coladas in Key West before shooting his brains out. “What’s the book about?” I ask.

Brendon shrugs. “This American guy who lives in Paris. He loves a woman, who doesn’t love him back. Or, well, I think she loves him. She just doesn’t love him enough to care, and he knows that.”

For a moment, I think he is describing a very saccharine and romanticised version of my current relationship before my own ridiculousness dawns on me. Want of love is not love.

“You know you’re supposed to be paying attention during the shows. A mic stand might fall over, a string might break,” I list, and don’t mention how, tragic love story or not, I should still be more captivating than a dusty book. They said we had an amazing first show. I was there, I don’t know, but that’s what they said.

Brendon mutters, “Sorry.”

I look around the dressing room. It’s a mess now that we’ve had our way with it. Empty beer bottles, bits of food, one emotionally fucked up front man and a roadie who obviously can’t be bothered.

“You ever been a roadie before?”

Brendon shakes his head. “Used to work at a venue back in San Francisco. This is my first tour, though.”

“You live in San Francisco?” I ask, and he nods. I let my shoulders drop as I remember that we both have to make bus call. “Just pay a bit more attention, alright?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“Come on, then. Don’t wanna be late.”

Brendon searches for his clothes, and I turn around as he gets dressed. He checks the dressing room one last time to make sure no one has forgotten anything, and a venue worker shows us to the back door. The place is too big for us to be able to figure it out for ourselves.

There are fans waiting outside, just like Pete said there would be. I feel myself tensing up at the sight of them. There are far more than I had expected. I thought there’d be a couple like we had on our last tour, but there must be nearly twenty of them. Brendon and I both freeze, and my eyes frantically look around for an escape that isn’t there.

“Ryan!”

I will never get used to random people knowing my name. Twenty people let out an excited squeal and rush over, a mob suddenly surrounding us. The one who gets to me first, the ginger haired one, says, “Can I shake your hand?”

“Sure.”

“That was a beautiful show. That was –”

“The new album is amazing –”

“Your music is –”

“Thanks, that’s nice. Thanks for coming out. Yeah.” I speak to everyone and no one at all. They are all speaking at the same time. One girl stands in the back and stares at me with watery eyes. Someone touches my shoulder, someone my wrist, coming in closer and closer. I try to take steps back to no avail. Someone is snapping pictures of me.

“I’m coming to the next four shows! Would’ve come to more, but I ran out of money.”

I laugh uncomfortably and sign his copy of Boneless, where Brent, Joe and Spencer’s autographs already are, smearing the cover art of the LP. Jac designed it. She’s an artist and perfectly unknown, not counting the fame she gets for fucking me. She is an artist, and she has her privacy, and she wants to get rid of it so badly. Stupid woman.

I mutter, “It’s gonna be the same show tomorrow night. You’ll be wasting your time...”

“Hardly!” he enthuses.

I can’t come up with anything to say. “What do you think of St. Paul?” someone shouts.

Nothing. I’ve seen the tour bus, one diner, one hotel room. I think nothing of it.

“It’s, yeah... a lovely place.”

A girl smiles appreciatively, her eyes shining. They are pushing and shoving each other, and I feel more terrified by the second.

“Ryan, man, can I just ask –”

A hand lands on my shoulder, but it’s not trying to devour me, it’s trying to balance me. “I’m really sorry, but we have to get going now,” Brendon says firmly in a ‘don’t mess with me’ voice that sounds like it belongs to a man much taller and larger and more threatening than him.

“What? No, wait –”

“Step back, please!” Brendon orders. I shrug as an apology without being sorry at all, and Brendon firmly pulls me with him. He starts to walk behind me, hand on my shoulder and leading me away. The fans follow us. “Bye, Ryan!” “See you tomorrow night!” “Love you, man!” “I love you!” Brendon has to ask them to step back a second time as we take hurried steps and I hang my head, clearly thinking with an ostrich’s logic that hiding my head will make the rest of me vanish too. Brendon lets go when the distance is safe enough.

I mutter, “Thanks.”

“No probs,” Brendon says as we reach the bus. The thought of an actual bodyguard seems exaggerated, but with every day, I slowly realise how huge our band has become. I should let Zack play the angry dog with a tendency to bite. “Shit, those guys were insane. Looked at you like God.”

“I am God. To them,” I amend.

Brendon shakes his head in disbelief, but I don’t share his shock. I don’t want him to see that, for a second there, I got damn scared.

“Are you always that awkward with your fans?”

“I wasn’t awkward,” I protest, now fumbling my pockets for a cigarette. I offer him one, but he refuses. After one puff, I nod, “Yeah, I am.”

Brendon laughs. “Figured.”

We get on the bus, and I give St. Paul one last look over my shoulder. The fans are still lingering around, perhaps praying that I will come back to their temple to be worshipped.

* * *

“Another beer, come on!”

Andy pushes the fridge door shut with his leg, and the guys cheer as his arms are filled with more bottles. The entire front lounge smells of weed as we’re crossing the state line between Minnesota and Wisconsin. I should be sleeping, but it’s the first night. You always stay up on the first night of tour. It’s essential for the crew to bond so that we can have a laugh for the first three weeks. After that start the fights and the moans about missing everyone back home. Someone threatens to quit until Pete manages to intervene. Maybe someone will actually quit this time.

Joe, the insane fucker, is driving. We don’t have to drive when there are four roadies to take shifts for us, but he insisted on it. Something about him, night-time radio and the open road. I’m surprised by his act of kindness. He firmly said that he was too big a star to drive the bus or van anymore, so I take his driving to mean that he’s fucking furious about something and thinks it’s best not to be in the same room with anyone. The rest of us have crammed into the lounge area, which manages to seat the eight of us and even leaves room for more. Pete is going through paperwork by the table, having difficulty to step out of his managerial role. He only looks up to make sure we’re not making a mess.

Brendon has his Hemingway on his lap, but he’s not reading it. Maybe he is waiting for the conversation to get boring.

“A toast!” Brent insists, and we all lift our drinks. “To the amazing, fabulous, fucking rocking Jackie, Me, And This Lady ’74 tour!” The guys cheer and drink up. I take a sip of my beer, feel the cool glass against my lips.

“Ry,” Zack asks, and I hum and stare at the mouth of my beer bottle. “Why didn’t you bring Jac on tour, man?”

I snort. “As if I would when I know you want to put it in her.” The guys laugh, even Zack. He knows how to laugh at the truth when I present it to him. “Jac is coming to New York,” I add in.

Spencer joins in with, “Jac and Zack, sitting in a tree...”

“Sounds cute,” Andy grins. “Valerie was pissed as fuck that I’d be gone for most of the summer. She’s convinced I’m gonna bang a groupie. What groupie? Where? I’m not even in the fucking band!”

Spencer grins. “We were in Minnesota, man. The ladies will come a-rollin’ when we find some that meet our standards.” Spencer speaks like an expert though he never fucks any of them. He stopped when he met that girl. Here’s hoping he will start again. It’ll do him good.

“Yeah, they’ll all probably look a lot like Jac,” Zack retorts, and I give him the middle finger with a sweet smile as the guys laugh.

Brent, of all people, says, “Come on, don’t talk about Jac like that.” I appreciate the support of not having my whatever-she-is labelled as cheap, even if Brent is the biggest chauvinist in the room, which is exactly what Jac hates about most men, myself probably included. Brent asks, “What about you?” He is addressing Brendon. “You got a girl back home?”

“I’m single,” Brendon says, speaking for the first time in a while.

Andy nods approvingly. “Good, that’s –”

“And I’m gay.”

Pete’s head lifts from the paperwork in the blink of an eye. The chattering dies.

Brendon’s lips press together as he scratches the side of his head. “I don’t think William told you guys about that.”

Brent shakes his head a little. I turn to William, who, if someone had to be, should be the gay guy in the room. William wears his heart on his sleeve, is easy to get upset, is easy to forgive. He often acts like it’s the end of the world when it’s just a delay with our arrival to a venue, the drama swelling up to phenomenal levels. He talks with his hands, obsesses over his hair, and despite all this, he at least claims to be a straight man. And he never told us that the guy he recommended was a fag. He never said a word of it.

“Well,” William begins to fill the silence, “it’s not like it makes a difference.” Pause. “Right?”

I quickly try to figure out what the odds of getting raped by Brendon are. I could take him on.

“No, yeah.” “Of course not.” “Right, sure.” “Yeah.” Our voices are mumbled, seeking to be more liberal than truly accepting. William is looking at us all with big eyes, and I can almost see his left eyebrow twitching as he slowly works himself up to a scene. So Brendon fucks guys. Some guys do.

Brendon looks me straight in the eye, and I look away.

Pete can sense that William is about to freak out and asks, “So, Brendon. No boyfriend or... or anything or?”

I am relatively sure there is too many “or”s in the question. William leans back and lets out a breath. Thank god we managed to stop that one.

“I’m young, I’m cute, and I live in the Castro. I’m not looking for anything, definitely not to settle down.”

“Very sensible,” Andy grants him. It takes a group effort from Spencer and Zack to direct the conversation elsewhere. Brendon and William go to their bunks shortly after, William with the excuse that he needs to take a nap before he starts driving. He probably wants to calm down or vent to Brendon in private. Joe pulls up to a rest stop, and most of us scramble out of the bus and into the night air.

“You don’t think he and William...?” Brent trails off as we sit in the all-night diner. I sit in my own booth and scribble down in my notebook. The waitress comes around, but I decline the coffee with a shake of my head. I plan to retire to my glorious nest once we get back on the bus. Joe glances at me with a dirty look, and now I know it’s me he is avoiding. Great, what did I do this time?

Zack says, “I hope not.”

I don’t look up but listen in with a half-interested ear. I doubt they are fucking. I’ve seen William with women. They both live in San Francisco, and Brendon said something about having worked in a venue. William has worked at the Winterland Ballroom. It’s the only connection I can come up with.

Joe asks, “So he actually said that he’s cute? Jeez.”

“I can see it,” Spencer says, and I look up to watch the back of his head. “I can see why gay guys would find him attractive. He’s pretty feminine physically, his ass is like a girl’s, then hips and all.”

Brent snorts. “Someone’s been watching.”

“I just made an observation,” Spencer says calmly, and I recognise the tone as one that leaves no room for suggestive remarks. It’s not really fair to be talking about Brendon behind his back like this, but the news is far too juicy to just pass.

“Shit,” Joe gasps suddenly. “Does this mean I have to stop walking around the bus in my underwear?”

The guys start laughing, and I take my pen and notebook and head back out as my friends argue which one of them Brendon will try to molest.

“Yo, Ry,” Joe calls out. “Is your highness going back to his exclusive tour bus boudoir?”

I fucking told Pete it wouldn’t go down well. I told him. But Joe doesn’t understand.

“Yeah, I am.”

“Well, have fun now,” Joe says and sips his coffee, asking Spencer something as they all proceed to ignore me.

The night is not as warm as it would be back home, but the stars seem much brighter. The June wind blows in the pine trees, and a car drives down the road, headlights appearing and disappearing from sight. It’s quiet and I’m alone, something I know won’t happen a lot for the rest of the summer.

I make my way back to the bus, and for a moment, I let myself be the random guy with a guitar who wrote a few songs. It’s what I ultimately am.

Brendon emerges from the bus bathroom wearing a faded white t-shirt and grey boxers with a toothbrush in his mouth just as I head for the bunks. I say a simple, “Goodnight,” and he waves his hand, hair sticking out in random places.

I get why he was flustered when I barged in while he was barely dressed. I thought nothing of it, but if he’s a homosexual, he would perceive the situation entirely differently.

It’s a strange thought.

Next chapter

Vol.1: Over the Tracks - I [Chapter 3]

Tue, 08 Dec 2009 14:01:10 GMT

Previous chapter

Chapter 3: The Conscience

In Chicago, we are playing three sold out shows in a row so we temporarily move into a hotel. I have an interview on our first day there, and Pete barges into my room at eight-thirty, kicks me out of bed and sends home one of the girls that was lingering outside the hotel last night, waiting for us to arrive. I head for a shower to save myself from having to say goodbye to her. I don’t feel guilty, not exactly, but maybe I just expected myself to resist temptation for a week at least.

An hour later, and I am dressed and fed, and Pete is leading me down the hotel stairs. I say, “I don’t want to.”

“You have to,” Pete retorts. “They want to put you on the cover.”

“See, we’ve already been on the cover of The Rolling Stone, so it all just feels pretty anticlimactic after that. Besides, I think Creem is a shit magazine for pretentious assholes.”

“Right up your street then.”

“Fuck you.”

We walk down a hotel corridor to a small conference room or another. Pete has a hand on my back, pushing. If you asked him, he’d say guiding.

“They gave the new record a fucking amazing review, so you better go in there and talk about your music. We’ve got a photo shoot at noon. A car is picking us up. Oh, and did I tell you Boneless is number one on Billboard’s LPs and Tapes chart for the third week running?”

“Yay,” I mutter unenthusiastically. It makes me uncomfortable to know that many people are now listening to my darkest secrets. I asked for it, didn’t I?

The interviewer is a guy in his late thirties. He is wearing sunglasses inside. Idiot. He has a wooden necklace tied twice around his neck, undoubtedly a souvenir of his hippie times. What does a former tambourine banging hippie know about rock?

A lot, as it turns out.

“How do you perceive the accessibility of your music?” he asks three minutes in. The tape recorder is on the table between us, and I can see the two small reels rolling beneath the see-through cover. He extends the tiny microphone towards me. I take a moment to pour myself a glass of water, take a sip, swallow it down. The interviewer keeps the bottom end of a pen between his lips, a curious look on his face.

“I don’t think it’s inaccessible if you look at the number of copies we’ve sold,” I eventually say. He hums and looks at me, silently signalling for me to continue. I stare back.

He starts again. “The opening track of the new record is a ten-minute song that starts loudly and ends quietly, which is the reversal of the usual rock song. What motivated you toward this approach? Are you, perhaps, seeking to surprise the listener?”

“No. It just sounded good to me.”

I lace my fingers together on the table. I can see the interviewer getting more and more frustrated by the second. They always hate me, squeeze me like a lemon to try and get every drop out, but I’m as dry as the desert. I already poured it all out. Listen to the damn music, will you?

“The lyrics, which you write, are often cryptic and obscure. For instance, the song Less Than Graceful –”

“That song is about a ten-year-old girl who sees her father get shot,” I supply seamlessly before realising I made a mistake by cutting short the interviewer. They hate that. Pete will strangle me, and I will let him, happy that this is finally over. I take in a deep breath and decide to indulge this fucker. “I don’t make music for it to be accessible, and neither do I think my song choices necessarily are something listeners can relate to. I’ve never been a ten-year-old girl, and my father has never been shot in front of me either. But listeners can sympathise with stories and allegories that, to me, say something about the world in which I live in. The music is loud, angry, sad, and it’s quiet too at times, and that’s how it should be: alive. And I believe that our fans can feel that when they put on a Followers record. They feel alive. And that’s what makes the music accessible to anyone, regardless of age, sex or gender.”

The interviewer stares at me without blinking, then exhales a dreamy, “Exactly so.”

I can hear bells ringing in my head. And the winner is –

The interviewer licks his lips. “You are currently on tour, yes? And the tour is called Jackie, Me and This Lady. Are these real people?” I nod. “Is Jackie referring to the sister of drummer Spencer Smith?”

“No.”

“Your long-term girlfriend whose name I believe is Jac?”

“Is eleven months long-term?” I ask tiredly, adding, “Don’t put that in the interview, my private life is off limits. But the answer is no, it is not named after her.”

He nods slowly, eyes shining with interest. “Then who is Jackie?”

“I’m not at liberty to say,” I inform him, falling from grace as quickly as I rose to it.

* * *

The photo shoot takes place in downtown Chicago. The interviewer tags along, asking the other band members questions, mainly about me. If it ends up being another Ryan Ross article instead of a Followers one, the dirty looks Joe will give me will most likely exceed all the resentment felt during the Hundred Years’ War. That war, in reality, lasted a hundred and sixteen years, but fuck me if I know who fought it or when.

“It was between the English and the French from the fourteenth to the fifteenth centuries,” Brendon informs the car. He lost the card game between the roadies last night and got assigned to be our slave during the photo shoot. He might know a bit of history, but he certainly can’t play cards.

“You ever gone to college?” I ask him.

“Nah,” he laughs, looking down to his shoes in embarrassment. “My mother was – I, uh,” he stops to clear his throat. “I just know.” He looks out of the window.

It’s a dangerous thing to ask someone of their family because they just might tell you the truth, so I focus on staring out of the window while the interviewer asks Spencer what it’s like to be the best drummer alive. Usually, it’s relatively safe to ask someone to share, but what if that person decides to be honest? And there certainly is nothing more dangerous than honesty.

If I gave an honest answer about my family, it would go something like this: an alcoholic, asshole father who finally lost the last bit of his common sense in Vietnam. He was over there only for a few months back in ’64 before getting wounded and shipped back. He beat me up a few times. One time, I punched back, and we haven’t touched each other since. Not a hug, not a handshake. He still lives in Las Vegas, and he will die in Las Vegas. My mother left way before any of it happened. She must have seen what an asshole he was. Didn’t care to take me with her. I met her on tour in support of our second album. She said she was proud; I told her she might as well be dead to me. I have half-siblings somewhere. She didn’t abandon those.

I make a point of not asking Brendon about his background, though for some reason I’d like to know. But no, silence is better. I’ve known Zack for years, and I don’t know a damn thing about him either. Some of the best friendships are built on mutual indifference.

The photo shoot drags on painfully after way too much time was spent on the makeup artists doing our faces and hair.

“Ryan, can you move a bit to the left?” the photographer asks, positioning me in front of the other guys. I’m wearing another hat Jac designed, and the tips of my hair curl around the sides of my face. I need a haircut. Brendon is watching on, and he has been doing his job flawlessly since the first night. The guys avoid him, though. I try not to care. No one has appointed me as the defender of the underdog, as the conscience of homophobic musicians. I will stay clear of it, even if I don’t quite share their fear of Brendon. He really seems harmless enough.

“Ryan, can you lift your head a bit? Brent, a bit more sideways. Good, good. Joe, your hair is – That’s much better, thank you.” Snap, snap. “Okay, Ryan you stay in the middle. Guys, if you just take two steps backwards...” Snap, snap. “Think rock ‘n roll! Think attitude!” Snap. Flash. “We’re done! Thank you!” The photographer and his assistants clap.

Brendon holds the hand towel as I wash my face. The makeup that hid the imperfections of my face comes off, revealing changes in tone, uneven skin. A few groupies have told me I’m beautiful. I don’t see it myself. A few bangs hang in front of my face, and I prefer it like that, with just a bit of shelter. “Thanks,” I mutter as I take the towel Brendon offers.

Brendon leans against the bathroom doorway, his tight t-shirt riding up slightly, exposing his left hip. If he hadn’t told us he was gay, I would definitely be figuring it out by now.

“Is it gonna be like this the entire tour?” he asks, and I lift an eyebrow at him. “The media. That radio show you did in Milwaukee, now this, and I know you have some sort of a record shop appearance in Cleveland. I thought tours were about, you know. Playing shows.”

“Gotta promote the new album,” I say and straighten up. “I’d rather not, trust me. I think this is all bullshit. It’s politics, sales and profit. This is not goddamn music.”

Brendon chuckles. “Lucky that all labels rejected me.”

“You play?” I ask, mildly surprised. Of course he plays, but writing music is another thing entirely.

He shrugs. “Some. But I don’t want a profession out of it. The only musicians in this world without complete artistic freedom are the ones with a record deal.”

I lower the towel from my face, feeling a burning stone set in my stomach at his words.

“You missed some here,” he helps, motioning at his left eyebrow. I wipe my face more and hope to god I come out clean. I feel like he is waiting for me to speak, but I’m not the most sociable person I know. It’s not that I’m anti-social. It’s just that I prefer silence to my own voice. Most of the time, I just cannot be bothered with people when my own thoughts entertain me more than the mindless nonsense of a fellow man.

“Look,” I say anyway and against my better judgement. I was firmly planning not to get involved. “I’m sorry if the guys have been distant. William aside,” I add. “We’ve just not toured with a... well, you know. Before.”

“A fag?” he suggests.

“Yeah. A fag.”

“I was expecting it. Hoping for something different, sure, but I had prepared myself. I know most musicians just think about pussy, anyway. Except you, of course. I think you think about other things too.”

“I do, but I’m pretty sure pussy is in the top five.”

Brendon laughs, revealing all of his white teeth as his lips stretch wide. I realise that I feel like I’m speaking as a hermit to another. “I’m just saying that we’re in this for three months. So, you know. If you want to talk some time.” Emphasis on you because I don’t plan to do much talking myself.

I pass him back the towel. He seems genuinely touched. “Gracias.”

“You got some Latino blood in you?” I ask.

“Hawaiian,” he corrects, and that explains the hint of exoticness in his appearance. “I just got this thing, uh. I never want to say, you know, gracias in English. It’s not that I don’t even want to, I just... don’t? I know how to say it in a bunch of languages, so, yeah. I always say it in one of those. It’s just a thing.”

“Are you kidding?”

“No.”

“That’s fucked up.”

“It’s not that weird. Like, some people don’t want to step on the cracks, you know? And fair enough, I’m one of those people, but I also have other things.”

“Double fucked up.”

“Danke.”

I laugh as Pete comes to the door, looking between Brendon and me. “Wow, Ry, you’re smiling. First time this week, am I right? Come on, let’s get going. Soundcheck in two hours, we need to get to the venue.”

“Sure,” I mutter, giving another suspicious look at Brendon, who only grins at me.

Fans are lining up outside the Arie Crown Theater when the car passes the main entrance. The venue’s security men show us through the back door, and I feel myself relax. Here, I know what’s expected of me, even if I still can’t deal with the audiences. I was near a panic attack last night, Spencer pulling me into a backstage toilet to tell me to relax. But I would have been happy with mediocre success. A record deal, small tours, a firm hold of myself. It’s what I wanted, what I probably had somewhere between the first and second album, but I missed it. I didn’t notice. So now I’ve got my face on magazine covers, fans screaming and passing out at the sight of me, and I want to put this car on reverse and go right back to that moment I missed, that moment in a club in Buffalo where I noticed a few guys of the three hundred headed audience singing along, and my heart stopped at the achievement. But it’s too late for that, and I’m gone.

“Listen to them,” Brent says when the four of us are in the dressing room, sitting around and prepping ourselves for our first Chicago show in two years. I lift my head and nod tiredly. The audience is chanting our name. We’re not going on for another hour, so we’re killing time drinking and trying to act professional.

Joe’s not talking to me again. It’s because of the photo shoot where they made it clear I’m the star. I’m sorry, but this band can’t have two front men. I need friends right now, not enemies, and if he can’t get over himself, then fuck him too.

Someone knocks on the door before opening it and a friendly looking man around my age steps inside. He’s got a kind, readable face, and he looks like he just woke up with a sleepy grin on his lips, his mouth surrounded by scruffy stubble that matches the brown hair that frames his face and curls at the tips. I think he works for the venue. “Hey,” he states simply, and the guys lift their hands like they know the guy.

“Break a leg, man,” Joe says. In his case, he probably means it literally.

“Thanks. We’re going on in ten.”

“You’re in the support band?” I clarify.

“Yup, have been for the past two nights and will be for the next... five shows, I think?” he shrugs. “We met yesterday.”

“Oh.” I remember being introduced to the support, but I no longer remember faces or names. I don’t even remember what they are called, I just remember not digging them that much. He just smiles like he doesn’t mind that I have failed to acknowledge his existence. He’s shorter than me but broader chested and shouldered with actual muscle where I have bones.

“I was looking for Brendon,” he explains. We shake our heads. I’m not sure where anyone is. The guy’s smile falters. “Well, tell him that Jon came looking for him, yeah? And that Tom and I are staying in Room 317.”

“You got it,” Spencer promises, and the guy, presumably Jon, leaves.

Brent snorts. “Well, I’d never believe it just looking at him.”

“Believe what?” I ask distractedly, turning up the volume on the TV as I sip the vodka straight from the bottle. So far, not once have I been able to go on stage sober. The news is on, Nixon is giving a speech.

“That Jon prefers the back entrance.”

I laugh along with Brent. Spencer gets up and shakes his head, going to the dressing tables and wrapping a bandanna around his head, blue this time. “Earlier, I went for a cup of coffee with Jon’s girlfriend because they were sound-checking, and we were both thirsty and idle. A nice place just two blocks from here. You don’t have to be a homo to hang out with a homo.”

“Jon is banging the queer roadie while Spencer puts a move on his girlfriend,” Joe grins. “Smooth.”

“I can’t believe I’m physically the youngest and mentally the oldest around here,” Spencer mutters as he flops back down on an armchair, taking drumsticks and twirling them in his fingers. I keep my eyes on him, and Spencer shifts restlessly, giving me an uncomfortable look. I say nothing, though I could. The guys begin to argue about who has Jon’s sexuality figured out, and fuck, it hasn’t even been a week, but somehow, we’ve reached the point of useless bickering. I hear the support band start playing, the roar of the crowd as something finally happens on stage.

I get up and go looking for Andy because I want my Gibson restrung before we go on. I am greeted by people I don’t recognise, strangers patting my shoulders with, “How’s it going, man?” Fine. I’m always fine.

“Andy, hey,” I say, having finally found our guitar and bass technician. He and Brendon are backstage, talking loudly over the music and nodding in agreement. After I’ve made my request, Andy goes hunting for my Gibson dutifully, and Brendon heads for the side of the stage. I follow and yell, “Jon says hi!”

“He does? Cool,” Brendon smiles, now taking a spot where we can watch the band on stage. Jon appears to be the bassist. He’s been on for ten minutes, maximum, and he’s already drenched in sweat. Perspiration is so distasteful. Brendon lifts his hand, and Jon manages to catch sight of us, giving us both a gigantic grin. Before him are four thousand and eight hundred people, most of who have come to see me.

“He and Ron are –”

“Tom? You mean Tom?”

“Shit, yeah.”

Brendon points at the blond guitarist on the other side of the stage.

I try again. “He and Tom are staying in, um. Room 317. He asked to pass on the message.”

“Awesome,” Brendon smiles, and I stand by him awkwardly. The noise of the music would suffice a normal guy with the perfect excuse not to speak, but I feel compelled to, then anguished when I cannot come up with anything. I say, “Yeah,” and leave Brendon to it.

* * *

Ten minutes before we go on. It’s time for me to break down inside. I lock the dressing room toilet, do vocal exercises, relax my jaw and sing, “Do, re, mi, do, re, mi.” I take another sip of my vodka and sing, “Fuck this shi-ii-ii-it.”

“Let me in, man,” Spencer’s voice says with a gentle knock on the door. I exhale and consider my chances. The crowd is chanting louder than ever, and I can hear them. Fo-llow-ers, Fo-llow-ers –

I hide my face in my hands and will my body not to shake. It’s too much. Every night is too fucking much, but somehow, I end up in the middle of the stage, Spencer behind me, Joe to my right and Brent to my left, and we remain where we are for one and a half hours, and I sing, I sing and play, and I always walk out in one piece, but even closer to caving in than before. This moment right before we go on, I need Spencer to talk me into it. He knows that.

I let Spencer in, and he closes the door behind himself. I say, “You didn’t tell me you had coffee with some chick.”

“Jealous?” he smirks, though his face flashes with what I sensed earlier: guilt.

“Immensely jealous,” I admit and pause. “Did you fuck her?” It’s not an unreasonable question, and we both know that. My tone is, perhaps, a bit too hopeful. He shakes his head, and I am not sure if I am relieved or disappointed. To be honest, I was just curious. “Did you want to?” He shrugs. I try again. “Well, did you like her?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s good,” I try to say cheerfully, but fail as my voice falters under my own nervous breakdown. Spencer chews on his bottom lip worriedly. “You can fuck other chicks now. You can. You’re not with that girl anymore, so –”

“She’s got a name! Haley! Don’t ‘that girl’ her all the fucking time,” Spencer swears angrily.

“I just –”

“Fuck, Ryan!” he interrupts, and I can almost hear the wheels turning in his brain. “I mean, how am I supposed to move on if everyone tiptoes about it? Haley. Just say it. Don’t make it bigger than it is. I’m trying here, you know?”

“Sure,” I agree. Love is not love if Pete can offer your girlfriend enough money to disappear. It must sting. It mustn’t have been enough for Spencer to think she made the right choice.

“If something is going to destroy this band, it’s not me or anything to do with me,” Spencer states firmly, looking over my shoulder at the dirty bathroom mirror where we are reflected. I turn to study the portrayal: Spencer in his stage clothes, drumsticks ready, composed, determined, and then there’s me, my tie badly done, shirt buttoned wrong, vodka bottle in hand, a silly, feathery hat on my head. This is not the pep talk Spencer usually gives me.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask sceptically. I have no skeletons in my closet – I’ve pulled them out, dressed them up, and put them in songs.

Spencer lets out a breath. “Nothing. It’s just that... It’s an enthusiastic crowd out there tonight.”

Now we’re in the part where he talks me into going on stage.

I shake my head. “I shouldn’t have agreed to this tour. It’s too much, it –”

“No, it’s not. A few thousand, one million. It doesn’t matter how many people are out there because you will be perfect like you are every damn night.” I scoff at his flattery, and Spencer places a hand on my shoulder. “Remember back in ’65 when we spent the summer as paper delivery boys?”

“Yeah,” I admit, chuckling at the memory. I had my red bike. It was a good bike. “It was pretty bad ass, though nothing will ever get me out of bed before five in the morning again.” Now five in the morning is when I go to bed. On tour it’s all reversed: sleep during the day, stay up all night.

“It was the shittiest job ever, right?”

I nod in agreement and think back to the dry Las Vegas mornings, the dogs that chased me, the time I nearly drove my bike in front of a bus, leaving for my round before Dad had come back from the bar.

“But you did it anyway. You wanted to buy yourself a guitar, so you did the job, and you did it well. And I know this isn’t what you had pictured back then, but this is what you’ve got. Most bands never get a record deal, and even if they do get one, they never make a living off of it. You did. Now this is your job, and you are going to go out there and play the best you can. Not because you have to but because you want to play your music for yourself and the half a dozen people in the audience that have you figured out. And that’s all you have to do. Nothing else, nothing more.”

“Yeah?” I ask, the hope so clear in my tone that I almost feel embarrassed. That sounds doable. I could do that.

A knock on the door. “Ryan!” Pete’s voice. “Ryan, you better come the fuck out of there and get on stage! Don’t keep your admiring fans waiting!”

“His admiring fans?” Joe’s voice asks.

“Come on! Or I’ll have Zack break this door! You’re not a middle leaguer anymore, so stop acting like it! The label –”

“Shut up about the fucking label!” I nearly scream, and Spencer puts a hand on my shoulder and gives me a smile. I don’t know who is telling me the truth, Spencer or Pete, and I don’t know which will give me the strength to go on stage. The chanting is even louder now. Fo-llow-ers! Fo-llow-ers! They are stomping their feet. I bury my face in my hands.

“You can do it,” Spencer whispers.

“You have to do it, man!” Pete shouts.

I unlock the door, high-five the crew, don’t look any of them in the eye because they know that I was hiding, they know, so I hurry past them, and I go out to a roaring applause of thousands.

It’s time to do my round.

* * *

I don’t go to the club we’re invited to, so my bandmates go without me. I know the party by heart: plenty of alcohol, excessive amounts of drugs, stunning women. Joe will smash a piece of furniture or another while Brent will fuck anything that moves, and Spencer will get drunk beyond belief and smile this silly little smile as he thinks of some other life he is not living. It will be full of local people of interest, maybe someone I actually know, and everyone thinks I am so funny, so smart, so exciting.

It’s a little after one in the morning that I come out of the shower and stretch my aching limbs on the hotel bed. Two more nights in Chicago. I get out a cigarette and light it, lying naked and letting my body dry as smoke swirls in the air in front of me. I’m wondering if the phone will ring, if Jac will call. I know she won’t, but there’s no harm wondering.

Someone knocks on my door. The knock is cautious and hasty. I lift my head, cigarette between my lips. It’s most likely some girl. They always find me, bribe someone, try their luck, find out my hotel room number. And they come in the middle of the night, eyes bright and lips sweet.

There are two kinds of groupies: those who want to fuck me because I’m famous and those who want to fuck me because of my music. I prefer the first group. It’s not advisable to fuck girls who love the music – they take it too personally. You are the music. And it’s true. I am the music. The fame seeking girls are far more sincere when it comes to pussy and dick.

They knock a second time. I wonder which type of girl is behind the door, but don’t go find out. Eventually, I hear someone walking away.

After fifteen minutes of sleep not taking over, I start regretting my decision. I get dressed and decide to have a look in the hotel bar. Maybe the girl decided to hang around.

I walk down the hotel corridor, combing my slightly wet hair with my fingers. My belt hangs unbuckled. I head for the door that will lead me to the hotel stairs, but I come to a sudden stop outside a noisy room. 317. I stare at the golden plate that has been nailed to the door. Laughter pours through, someone is playing guitar, someone is singing. The hotel corridor is deserted.

The crew is getting along with the current support. That’s good, really. I’m just amazed how easily some people friend others, how I, once again, missed out on it. I think I’m paying attention, but later I realise it was to the wrong things. I’m not jealous. I’m not envious. It’s good that they get along. Really good.

I sigh restlessly and try to look away from the door. I have three options: sleep, groupie or this. I hear laughter, and I’m convinced it’s Brendon.

I knock on the door.

I instantly regret it and stuff my hands in my jean pockets. Jon opens the door, and the smell of weed hits me like a wave. “Ryan! Hey! Come on in, dude, come in!” He grabs my arm and pulls.

“I was just wondering if –” any of my bandmates are there. A lame excuse, definitely, but it’s all I can come up with on the spot. Jon doesn’t wait for me to finish.

“Guys, look who’s here!”

I scan the room, recognising Tom and the drummer of their band sitting on the floor. A light brown-haired girl is sitting on a bed, and Brendon is sitting in an armchair by the window, a joint between his index and middle finger, his other hand holding cards.

No one seems surprised by my presence. It’s the pot. Jon guides me to sit down on the floor and join them, and I notice they are playing poker. The guitar I heard lies abandoned on the other bed. Tom passes me a joint, and I take a hit. Jon offers me a glass of whisky, and I accept. I take a second glance at the girl. She’s beautiful.

“Let me think!” Brendon insists and stares at his cards. “What was higher, straight or flush?”

“Flush,” Tom says with impatience, his tone bearing repetition.

“We’re teaching the man,” Jon explains with a drunken smile. “Can’t play cards for shit.”

“That I can’t,” Brendon calls out and shakes with laughter as he finds this endlessly amusing.

“But he can play guitar,” the girl says in a smooth voice that has me looking her way again. Our eyes meet, but she looks away. A bit of a chase, is that what she wants? Alright. I’ll chase her.

Brendon gets dealt two cards, and his face lights up with boyish excitement.

“Brendon, dude!” Jon laughs.

“Shit, right,” Brendon says and tries to look nonchalant

“Fold,” Tom says instantly, and Brendon starts pouting, his lips jutting outwards. His expression is so sad that I forget the pretty girl, who also folds. Huh. I knew when I saw Brendon that he was beautiful, but somehow, I realise it all over again. A different kind of beautiful.

“Don’t fold! Come on, you guys!” Brendon insists.

Jon hides his face in his hand. “You fucking suck at poker, you know that?”

Brendon notices me staring, and he lifts an eyebrow at me. I simply lift my bottle in greeting, feel stupid doing it, and stare at my shoes. The weed and booze are getting to me, but it’s hardly a surprise when I have been drinking on and off for at least six hours.

Jon wins the game with a flush, and Brendon curses, throwing his cards into the air. The girl stands up, her orange dress belted with a big-buckled, green belt. She leans over the drummer to give Jon a loving kiss, and Jon’s hand slides on her neck, his fingers touching the undoubtedly smooth skin. So that’s why she’s not already sitting in my lap. She thinks she’s found love. And if that’s Jon’s girlfriend, then it’s the girl Spencer talked about. Well, Spencer’s got taste, and I fold my game for the night, though mine had nothing to do with cards.

I lean my back against the bed and take another hit, not really participating in the conversation. Jon tries to get a second game going, but it comes to nothing when Tom takes the guitar and starts playing California Dreamin’. Brendon starts singing in the chorus, and I sit up straighter. His voice. It’s an acquired taste, a wobble that isn’t there because of unprofessionalism. He is hitting every note he intends to, and the shake in his voice must be the way he prefers to sing. His voice is full and dark. Mine is raw and thin. We’re both acquired tastes, but I like the way he sounds. Brendon goes an octave higher, demonstrating a range I can only dream of. He goes even higher than Jon’s girlfriend.

“What are you guys called again?” I ask Jon.

“Canadian History.”

“You’re Canadian?”

“No.”

“Ever been over there?”

“A few times.”

“Know anything of its history?”

“No, just a band name. We were sort of drunk when we came up with it. Then it just stuck.”

Brendon has taken the guitar, softly playing as Tom sings. The drummer, whose name is Nate, has gathered courage to tell me how awesome he thinks it is that we’re drinking together. They don’t seem to mind that I have crashed their party. Why would they? They’ll never get another chance to get wasted with someone as talented or famous as me.

Brendon changes to a country song, making Tom crack up. “This man!” he exclaims and motions at Brendon. “I love this man!”

Jon nods in agreement, and since no one seems to be listening, I ask him, “You don’t mind that Brendon’s... you know.”

“He’s what?” Jon asks, baffled.

“No, no, go to the minors!” Tom enthuses, and Brendon obeys, the two of them howling in laughter as Nate drums a hotel pillow with two empty beer bottles.

“That he’s not playing for the same team as you?” I offer.

“Nah!” Jon exclaims. “You’re here too, aren’t you? We’re excited about touring with you guys, thousands of new people have heard our music now. It’s great!”

“Ry, you play something,” Brendon says, passing me the guitar. I take it simply out of surprise that Brendon has decided to call me by my unofficial nickname. I stare at the instrument stupidly for a minute, too high and drunk to remember how Foxy Lady goes. As I play and the rest of the guys sing, I wonder if this is the type of touring I have always heard everyone talking about, but have never seen myself. Guys hanging out, getting shitfaced, sweat, saliva and music. Always music.

“We’re out of beer!” Jon’s girlfriend exclaims unhappily, and Nate stands up, slightly wobbly.

“I’ve got some in my room. Come on, let’s get some. Come on! Cas, stand up, I’ll carry you. I’ll carry you, for real. Like this and – ” The girl squeals as Nate picks her up and puts her over his shoulder. She kicks the air and laughs, and Jon smacks her ass.

“Don’t drop her now!” Jon warns before he flops down to sit next to me, and Nate carries the girl out of the room. I pass him the guitar, and he starts playing. It’s nothing I recognise, but it’s damn good. “I’m just improvising,” he slurs and chuckles.

“Keep going,” I say, suddenly very intrigued.

Jon has amazing taste. We start talking and seem unable to stop, passing the guitar back and forth and throwing ideas around just for the hell of it. He’s a fucking talented guy. Brendon, Nate, Tom and the girl play more cards as we proceed to ignore them.

“If this band of yours fails,” I say at one point, and he laughs. “Or you want to jam. Or hey, a side project. I think we should, yeah, I think it might be fun. Some time, maybe.”

“Maybe,” Jon grants, a pleased, eager smile on his face. “Yeah, man. That, uh, that’d be great. We could jam some more tomorrow.”

“Yeah, definitely.”

“Shit. Awesome.” He sounds disbelieving and flattered. He beams at me.

Nate passes out before I finally leave. Jon and I talk about dogs. He knows a lot about them, can list fifty different breeds. Nova Scotia Duck-Tolling Retrievers make loyal pets. I don’t know what they look like. He says orange and alert. Brendon stumbles down the hotel corridor with us, going through his pockets and trying to remember his room number. Brendon’s fingers go down to brush the slice of skin showing at the top of his jeans. Jon has to steady him more than once, and I follow the way they move, reminding me of birds shooting down to a lake to take a sip of water in midflight.

I pay attention when Jon and Brendon hug goodnight. It’s brief, one-armed, like I’d hug Brent or Spencer. Brendon waves me a goodbye, and Jon is kind enough to take me to my door. He appears to be annoyingly clear-headed.

“So that was your girlfriend back there,” I say suddenly.

“Yeah, Cas. Cassie. The love of my life.” Jon grins brightly. “Two years and going strong.”

I am pretty sure Spencer could have fucked her if he had wanted to. Spencer is a well-known rock star, and this Jon guy. Who the hell even is he? I could’ve fucked her. Sure I could’ve.

“Huh.” We’ve reached my room, Jon is opening the door for me. I stop. “He’s a fag, you know.”

“Sorry?”

“Brendon,” I clarify and motion back to where we came from. I see Brendon’s face when I close my eyes, beautiful and laughing. “He fucks guys. Some guys do.”

Jon seems surprised. Gotcha. Gotcha, you motherfucker. I only say it because it’s true. For honesty. For virtue. Jon seems nice, he deserves to know.

“Yeah, some guys do,” Jon agrees. “Does it bother you?”

“No,” I reply instantly. It really doesn’t bother me. I just can’t stop thinking about it. “You got any in your band? Your crew?” I ask hopefully.

“We’ve got one black guy?”

I shake my head in disappointment. Most people I know haven’t cared about race since Marvin Gaye. My point is, and it’s an important point, is that we’ve got a gay roadie, who seems nice, can sing and play guitar, considers himself cute and too precious to settle down, and clearly does not want to talk about his family. We’ve got this thing, this funny, odd thing that I don’t know what to do with. It didn’t come with a manual.

“Goodnight,” Jon offers, and I stumble back into my room, get undressed, light a cigarette and stare at the smoke swirling higher and higher to the ceiling.

Next chapter

Vol.1: Over the Tracks - I [Chapter 4]

Tue, 08 Dec 2009 13:59:46 GMT

Previous chapter

Chapter 4: Wild with Misdemeanour

I promise not to tell Canadian History’s management that the band doesn’t need to stay in the hotel. Jon’s place is just a few streets down from the hotel, but he is abusing the privilege of being on the road with a band that demands four-star treatment. “And the breakfast is a lot nicer at the hotel. You crash on my couch, all you get is a kick in the ass to get out by noon,” Jon grins. “Does your manager know you’re here?”

“Pete? Yeah, sure.” I keep playing around with the guitar in my lap as one of Jon’s cats purrs at my feet. He lives with Cassie, who is at work. The place looks like it has that feminine touch to it, something sweet and homelike that speaks a lot about their relationship.

Jon comes back from the kitchen with two beer bottles and passes me one. I lift it as a thank you, and we start working on the song we started at the hotel yesterday.

Pete doesn’t actually know where I am, but I have three hours until soundcheck. I can be wherever I want, and Pete can run around in circles looking for me for all I care.

Canadian History’s music is pretty heavy. It puts a lot of attention on their singer’s vocals, letting it take attention away from the monotonous sound of the music. Jon should be in some other band that matches his talent. Jon, unlike the rest of his bandmates, isn’t mediocre.

“I really like this song,” I admit. It’s not loud. Jon and I both play acoustics, and the song is melodic and nearly pretty. With the different sections and messed up time signatures, it’s like a Followers song unplugged, and I’m surprised that I like it. It doesn’t need to be loud to hit home.

“What do you think of this at the end?” Jon asks, playing a little riff over and over.

“Go a bit higher. Yeah, like that. Yeah.”

Cassie comes home in the afternoon, and she sits on the couch and watches us play. She sends Jon bright smiles that Jon returns with adoring looks. She doesn’t smile all that much at me. Maybe I eye-fucked her a bit too much. Women always know when you want them, and she is doing nothing to let me even think I’ve got a shot. It’s a shame for her. I bet I’d fuck her better than Jon.

“Is anyone else coming?” Cassie asks, and Jon explains that the two of us are just messing around with music. “Brendon’s not coming?” Cassie asks disappointedly.

“Nah. Didn’t ask but he would’ve had roadie duties anyway,” Jon shrugs. Cassie offers to make us something to eat before we head back for the venue. I haven’t seen Jon around Brendon since I told him the news. I think Brendon liked Jon in a purely non-sexual way. Should I feel guilty that I’m ruining the kid’s chances of making friends? Or should I be worried that I can’t shake off this conscience I have developed?

“Remember a few nights ago when you walked me back to my hotel room?” I begin to ask, and Jon makes an agreeing sound. “Yeah, well, the thing I said about Brendon. He’s told us since he’s touring with us, but I don’t think he wants everyone to know. So, like, I was just thinking if you could keep it to yourself unless he brings it up.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was gonna do,” Jon shrugs like it was obvious. He had probably forgotten. It’s not a big thing unless I make it seem like one.

I rub my nose. “Just no reason for everyone to know we’re touring with one of those.”

“I won’t tell. No need to cause trouble,” Jon promises. “Hey, what do you wanna do with these songs?”

I shrug in response. The songs are good, though. They ought to be shared. And within the past day, I’ve realised that writing music with Jon comes easier than it has with any of my bandmates, excluding Spencer, maybe, were I to rewind a few years. But Spencer’s changed. He doesn’t enjoy this anymore. He’s here physically, but I have no idea where his thoughts are, where his heart is. And I’ve merely gotten sadder.

“We’ll see what happens,” I tell Jon. Maybe I could do a side project of sorts, sit down with Jon and write more songs. See what happens.

Cassie walks back in with one of the cats purring loudly in her arms. She’s holding a record that turns out to be the first Followers album, which we conveniently called The Followers. “Since you’re here,” she says a bit disregardingly, and I sign the self-titled 1971 album. She’s got that faux smile I see on fans sometimes, when they meet their idols only to be disappointed.

Cassie’s put the casserole in the oven. Jon and I finish our second song before it’s done.

* * *

I don’t go directly to the venue like Jon does. He has soundcheck, and I have a lack of alcohol in my system. Pete has started giving me long, disappointed looks when I drink up before going on stage, and it’s bullshit, utter fucking bullshit because the rest of the guys are just as drunk as me. Almost. Kind of.

I find a café not too far from the venue. I get myself a glass of Coke, make sure the waitress is out of sight before getting out my flask and mixing vodka with the drink. The carved initials on the flask’s front feel rough under my thumb. G.R.R. III. It belonged to my dad, but I carved one more line to change the II into a III. Nothing changes between generations except Roman numerals. I took the flask when I moved to LA. I doubt he’s missed it.

I stand out in the café with my overgrown hair and week’s stubble. It’s a friendly looking place where picket fence America enjoys warm apple pies with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. And I’m at the back, internally mocking the unimaginative baby this, baby that pop song that’s on the radio as smartly dressed adults and their mini-adult offspring prance around and ponder over inviting the Johnsons over for dinner. That will never be me. I take another sip of my vodka mix. God, that’ll never be me.

I need to take a leak. I spot the toilet sign and head for it, letting my eyes wash over the other customers. That old lady over there, well fuck her. And that business man, fuck him too. And that rock guy speaking to the payphone next to the toilet doors, fuc – Spencer? I stop in my tracks, frowning. It is Spencer.

At first, I am unsure because Spencer is actually smiling, a blinding smile full of white teeth. And the drummer of my band never smiles. Not in my presence. “You know you gotta call me when it goes down, right? Like, uh, you got all the hotels we’ll be staying – Hey, let me triple check, would you?” he laughs.

I blink. “Spencer?”

He almost jumps as he looks up and sees me. “I gotta go,” he says simply and hangs up. We stare at each other for a second before he clears his throat. “Where you been? Pete is furious.”

“At Jon’s writing music. Who were you talking to?”

“Sorry?”

“Just now. On the phone.”

“That. Right.” He looks back to the phone, mouth open, then rushes out, “Crystal. Just checking how everyone is back home.”

“Oh. And how is your sister?”

“Fine. Both of them.”

“Good. You heading back to the venue?” He nods and rubs his nose, eyes averting. “Sweet. Wait for me, alright? Need to take a leak.”

“Uh huh.”

I try to give Spencer the best smile I can, the one that reminds him that I’m his best friend and I trust him completely. We don’t need to know everything about each other’s lives. I trust him, sure, but fuck me if I’m buying his bullshit.

Spencer is waiting outside the café when I come out. The sunlight is too bright for me, and I get my oversized sunglasses from my pocket, the brown lenses helping to bring the world into focus. “So you and Jon, huh?” Spencer asks, and okay, guess we’re not talking about him or what the hell it is that Spencer is waiting to go down.

“We’ve written two songs. Damn good.”

“What you gonna do with them?” Spencer asks, just like Jon did. I don’t know yet. I’m not sure. Spencer says, “We used to write on tour.”

“I know.”

Now, we only write when we have to, when the label tells us to pop out a new record. It’s taken all the joy out of it. It’s not like that with Jon.

We walk without saying anything, and the silence is not as comfortable as it used to be back when we were fourteen, seventeen, twenty-one. It’s not as comfortable, but it’s not awkward either. Not yet.

“Just be careful,” Spencer says eventually. I eye the venue we’re closing in on, wondering how to get inside without any of the fans outside noticing. “Listen to me,” Spencer demands, and I grudgingly give him all of my attention. He always gives me advice, saying we should go talk to that Joe guy because he was damn good on that small bar stage, or he’s telling me that it’s probably for the best if I get rid of that blonde groupie Jac before she becomes a permanent figure in my life. Half of the time I listen to Spencer, half of the time I don’t. “All I’m saying is that you don’t know this Jon guy at all. You don’t know what he wants. There’s him, the bassist of some Midwestern wonder only locals have heard of, and then there’s you, an internationally acknowledged music genius. So you think about that, okay?”

“I will.”

“Good,” Spencer nods and adds, “We miss you, you know. The rest of us.” The way Spencer says ‘us’ can only mean the four of us, the core of this mess. The guys miss me? Joe misses me? “You know you’ve shut us out,” Spencer says without any blame at all, and it makes it that much worse.

“I’ll try harder,” is my automatic response, and Spencer smiles and doesn’t mention Jon for the rest of the day, but he keeps giving me looks that make me feel like I have been cheating on the band with Jon Walker.

* * *

“Fifteen minutes to bus call!” Pete calls out, and William and Zack lift another amp box and carry it from the venue’s backdoor to the bus that is being loaded. I light my cigarette, put the lighter back in my pocket, and check the cigarette packet. None left. The night clouds have overtaken the sky, the ground still wet from the rain that must have fallen during our show. St. Louis is pitch black and glistening, a chilly wind making its way under my jacket.

The support band has packed up already, but they haven’t left yet. I see Tom and Jon kicking a beer can back on forth, laughing their heads off. I wonder what they are on and why Jon didn’t offer me some. We’re friends by now.

Brendon carries two guitars to our bus, the doors of the luggage space wide open on both sides, slowly getting refilled with expensive equipment.

Brendon and William put down an amplifier case, and Brendon stretches his arms and groans loudly. “My back is fucking killing me.”

“You’re younger than me, what about my back?” William shoots.

“I’ll rub yours if you rub mine.”

“Deal,” William beams. Brent sends me a ‘dear fucking god’ look that says if those two start rubbing each other in our presence, Brent will be the first one running to the door in order to save his straight life. I chuckle and wonder if there is any truth in Spencer’s words, if the guys miss me. It’s hard to believe with the attitude I get from them.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” I tell Brent.

“Don’t leave me,” Brent says with complete sincerity matched with big, pleading eyes, and I shake my head in disbelief as I walk away. I spend my fifteen minutes walking up and down the nearest street, eventually managing to bum two cigarettes off a guy outside a bar. He is drunk as hell and asks me if I went to the Followers show. I tell him I was there.

He asks, “Fucking overrated shit, don’t you think?”

“I do.”

“You’re a good man. Here, here, take another!”

I smoke two of my three cigarettes on my way to the bus, but once I walk around the corner to the back, I hear yelling and see commotion by the buses. The guys are tiny figures in the distance, but it’s clear that a fight has broken out. Someone yells, “You fucker!” loud enough for it to break the silence of the night. I break into a fast jog, partly dreading, partly hoping, that something major has happened that will cause the immediate cancellation of our tour.

I am left disappointed. The troublemakers are Brendon and Nate.

“I’m telling you, man!” the drummer is shouting in slight disorientation, eyes wild with anger. He is high as a fucking kite. “Don’t come near me or –”

“Or what?!” Brendon shouts back. The rest of the guys are watching the show from a safe distance, most of them looking slightly embarrassed to even be there. “You think I’m gonna rape you? Or are you afraid that you might actually like it?”

“You sick pervert!” Nate yells.

He knows. How does he know, how did this get out? My eyes find Jon, who is looking at the ground, at anything except the display in front of us. I feel myself taking a blow. That fucker. He promised me.

Nate keeps swearing. “You motherfucking –”

“Hey!” I intervene loudly, surprising even myself that I don’t just stand and watch, passive and indifferent like is the norm with me, and Brendon turns to look at me, and the clouds shift, the moonlight hits him, and he looks beautiful in that one moment before the fist flying at him makes contact. Brendon takes the punch, stumbling backwards before launching on the man, reminding me of a leopard leaping on its dinner. I run closer while chaos breaks out, the guys trying to tear them apart. Zack easily picks Brendon up, who kicks air and swears as his nose bleeds, smearing his mouth and chin. Tom and Andy have Nate, who is struggling to get to Brendon. Spencer stands in between the two parties, holding up his hands. “Whoa! Calm the fuck down!”

“You fucking faggot!” Nate yells.

Zack lets go of Brendon, who doesn’t stop to wipe his face as he tries to attack again. “I’m gonna kill –” Brendon starts yelling, and Zack grabs the back of the roadie’s shirt and pulls him, picking him up a second time and literally carrying Brendon away while he shouts angrily. Andy and Tom let go of Nate, who yells such a long list of vulgarities that I am almost impressed.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Tom says hurriedly. “Nate’s on some acid, he’s not himself. Really didn’t mean to cause trouble –”

“I’m not sorry!” Nate declares loudly. Zack comes back, and I see Brendon walking away from us, punching the air and yelling at no one in particular. Jon is talking to Nate, hands on the drummer’s shoulders.

“One of these nights,” Zack says. It’s really a surprise we managed this long without a fight. “Let’s finish packing up.”

“Shit,” I mutter and look for a cigarette before remembering I only have one left. I’ll have to save it.

“Is that all?!” William demands angrily.

“William, we need to get on the road. Do your job, then think about your personal life,” Pete commands. William is nearly seething as he flips his long hair and storms to put the drum kit on the bus. Spencer walks to me, a solemn look on his face.

“Someone should go talk to him.”

I follow his gaze and see that Brendon has crossed the street running next to the venue, pacing back and forth in front of a closed café. Spencer’s right. Someone probably should. Canadian History won’t be touring with us much longer, so at least Nate won’t be around. And maybe it’s a good thing someone called Brendon a fag and punched him for his alternative lifestyle. Now it means Joe or Brent doesn’t feel like they need to do it. That would have been worse.

“What happened?” I ask, and Spencer shrugs. He looks tired, and we’re only a week into the tour. Joe walks over to listen to the story.

“Brendon just went over to talk, and Nate told him to stay away. Nate made a nasty remark, and I gotta admit that Brendon went down fighting. He said, ‘My kind? You mean fags?’” Spencer chuckles almost fondly.

Joe interrupts with, “No, man, you’re telling it all wrong. Listen, Brendon went over, right, and Nate was giving him an attitude. So Nate says he doesn’t want to hang out with Brendon’s kind, so Brendon says, ‘My kind? You mean Aries?’ That’s what he said. Fucking funny, man. Now Nate is being vague, so Brendon shouts at him until Nate calls him a cocksucker, and Brendon asks what business is it of his whose cock he sucks, and Nate insists that it’s not but it’s goddamn disgusting anyway, and Brendon says he’s only so worried because he thinks he’d like a guy sucking his cock. That’s when the guns started blazing.” Joe smiles like it’s a funny story.

“Someone should go talk to him,” Spencer repeats and gives me a long look with his blue eyes and then nods after Brendon. Why me? What could I possibly say that Spencer couldn’t?

I hear banging as the luggage compartment doors are shut. The tour bus is ready to go. All guys are still outside, though, restless, upset. Nate is muttering curses about his aching jaw, and Spencer is telling me to play the doctor and feed us all medicine. But I’m not sick.

When I remain still, Spencer says, “We can’t just leave him here.”

“God! Fine, I’ll go,” I hiss and start making my way over to Brendon, who is across the street from the Kiel Auditorium. I try to come up with something to say as I make my way over, mainly something about how he fought like a man, how his boxing coach would be proud of him for not passing out after a punch like that, provided that he has a coach, which he most likely doesn’t, so it’s a useless comfort, really. I stop at a safe distance and wait for Brendon to acknowledge my presence. He is holding his nose, fingers in blood, shaking his head and shivering with anger. “Is your nose...?” I ask, and Brendon shakes his head. It’s not broken or he’d be in excruciating pain. “The bus is leaving soon,” I offer. “We’ll get you cleaned up.”

Brendon lets go of his nose and rubs it gingerly. He gives me a dirty look. “You got a fucking cigarette?”

“No. Sorry.”

Brendon wipes his nose to his sleeve and shakes his head in disbelief, kicking the asphalt beneath his feet. I give in.

“Okay, here. You can have my last one.” I give him the cigarette I earned by dissing my own band. But at least it was on honest opinion unaffected by the appraisal of the press, though he could have hated us simply to be original. I light the cigarette for Brendon, and he inhales shakily. His eyes are watery, and I’m not sure if it’s from the pain or something else. I longingly look back at our bus, wanting to abandon this sinking ship I so unwisely boarded. Goddamn Spencer. I hope Joe isn’t hanging around to watch this spectacle.

“I liked Nate. I thought he was a damn nice guy. Can you believe that?” Brendon vents.

“I thought he seemed like a suck up, really.”

“Turns out that,” Brendon says, faces the buses and yells, “he’s a homophobic piece of shit!” The words echo along the empty street.

I can’t believe Jon told his bandmates after I told him not to. He made it sound like it wasn’t a big deal to him, but clearly, it was. Clearly, Jon thought the news was even harder to swallow than I did. It’s not my fault Jon is a tell-tale. I gave Brendon my last cigarette, didn’t I? This isn’t my fault. I have been purified with a sprinkle of holy water.

“Nate shouldn’t have called you those things,” I say objectively. “And you should have just walked away.”

Brendon’s head snaps up, his eyes thinning. “Excuse me? You think I should have done nothing?”

“Sometimes, it’s the braver thing to do.” And the smart thing to do. Gays should get that they can’t prance around wherever they want.

“It is not brave to be silent! It’s cowardly! I have come out of the closet, and I’m not going back in for anyone! I fuck guys. I kiss them, I lick them, I suck them. I go to gay clubs and think my gay thoughts and I march in the GFMs, and I am not afraid to say it’s who I am.”

“GFMs?” I ask, anything to stop the mental images of Brendon fucking, kissing, licking and sucking from corrupting my brain.

“Gay Freedom Marches,” he supplies, and well, I’ve never heard of those. Sounds a bit too ambitious. Brendon scoffs and looks at me down his nose. “I will not accommodate to other people’s ideals, and I won’t suppress a vital part of myself to help narrow-minded, oppressive heteros feel better! I am not trying to please Nate or you or any fucker. It’s who I am and I don’t hide it, but it still doesn’t make it any of your goddamn business, and no one, no one has the right to physically or verbally assault me for it.”

“I think you’re contradicting yourself there. If you openly promote it, it is other people’s business,” I point out, and Brendon looks like he’s about to hit me next, so I let it be and add, “Though I see your point, sure. You gotten punched for it before?”

“Three times, but who’s counting?” he shoots back before sitting down and leaning against the café door, my cigarette shaking in his fingers. He has gotten blood on it. He looks small, lonely and miserable, full of contradictions and no solutions. Fucking great, now I feel sorry for him.

“I thought San Francisco was pretty accepting of gays. Or certain places at least.”

“Never gotten punched back home. No, it was before, when I...” His voice fades away into a heavy sigh. I stare at him expectantly, but he shakes his head. “Never mind. Nothing.” He takes a drag of the cigarette.

“I was brought up in Las Vegas,” I offer. “It’s very... dry. Lots of flashy lights. Some of my first times playing in public were when Spencer and I went busking on Fremont Street. The best place is outside The Mint. This one time a lady gave us a fifty dollar chip, she must’ve won big time. I bought an amp with it.” By now I am fully aware that I am babbling, which only happens when I get nervous. Not the kind of nervous I get before interviews or performances, because that is always mixed with terror. This is the kind of nervousness that stems from feeling unsure and hoping I don’t make an ass of myself, which is clearly what I’m doing.

“I’ve never been, but it sounds nice,” he offers. Las Vegas really isn’t all that nice. It’s a fake city. Rewind seventy years, and it was a dozen houses in the middle of nothing.

“Look, I’m sorry about what happened,” I say because it’s probably what I am expected to say. Brendon looks like my words have hardly any impact on him, knowing as well as me that they are empty.

“Imagine if it were you. That someone wants you to die because you want to love women.”

“I don’t love them,” I correct him. “Don’t love anyone.”

“Fuck them?”

“Plenty.”

“Because you fuck them. Just pretend for one second what it’s like, and even then, you won’t come close to the shit I’ve put up with. And every time I think that it’s done, that I won’t have to put up with it anymore, something like this happens. Why does every straight guy think I want to fuck them or convert them? Do they want to fuck every woman they see? No. I’m picky just like the rest, and they already have one quality I don’t want: straight. Nate’s a paranoid piece of shit.”

“They won’t be playing with us much longer. Rest of the tour will be Nate free.”

“It’s not him, it’s what he represents. The millions that are like him.”

I sit down next to him, offering him my silence. The ground is wet, moisture coming through the backs of my jeans. Brendon’s breathing is uneven. “Think it’s gonna rain,” I observe.

He says nothing for a long time, but I can feel him slowly relaxing. “Yeah. Yeah, looks like rain. You guys were pretty good tonight.”

“Were we?” I ask, grateful for the change of subject. “Met a guy who said we were shit.”

“You still look like you’re about to pass out whenever you go on stage, but yeah. You were better. Maybe you’re getting used to life on the road,” he says like an expert, and I hate the fact that anyone who tours with us can see how terrified I am of the audiences. It’s humiliating to say the least, but I won’t feel sorry for myself. It must be hell to wake up every damn day to the same round of ridicule because there’s something messed up in your brain that makes you want to fuck your own sex. Brendon is clearly the one who should and has the right to wallow in self-pity. Since we’re competing...

Canadian History’s bus starts up, and the sound of the engine screeching alerts me. “We gotta go,” I say, and Brendon throws the rest of the cigarette away. I pick it up and take two quick drags since I don’t want to waste it. Brendon gives me a slightly disgusted look, but the ground was clean. Pretty sure it was.

The crews have disappeared into their respective buses by the time we come back. Andy is driving ours. The lounge is nearly empty, the guys having decided to vanish for the evening. I can already hear Zack’s steady snore. William is still in the lounge and he rushes over, a furious look on his face. “How could he?! How could he?! I am enraged! We should call the police! We should –”

William goes off like a Roman candle, babbling on and on about the injustice, intolerance, having worked himself up to a nearly nonsensical state. I wonder what William will do on the day the world actually ends. Because it will, you know. It definitely will, and then taking a punch in St. Louis will be nothing more than an amiable memory.

“How’s your nose?” William asks after giving Brendon several hugs.

“It’ll be fine.”

“Come on,” I mumble, giving William a look that signals him to leave us be. He seems surprised and even more upset, but Spencer gave me this task and I will see it through. I take Brendon to my nest, motioning him to sit on the edge of my bed while I go get some toilet paper and a glass of water. He cleans himself up, and I sit next to him, keeping my eyes on the closed door. The blue sheets smell of the sex I’ve had, an unpleasant, sweaty smell that I hope Brendon won’t notice because of the clotted blood in his nostrils. I need to tell Pete to arrange for the sheets to be washed.

“We could sabotage the Canadian History set tomorrow,” I offer half-heartedly.

“We could throw a bottle at Nate,” Brendon suggests as he rubs the last bits of blood off of his face.

“Good idea. And then we’ll feign ignorance.”

“That’d be nice,” he smiles, eyes cast downwards. I feel not-numb at the sight, trying not to frown at my sudden role as the protector of the innocent. “We’ll do it then.”

I nod. “Definitely.”

He manages to grin. “You’re alright. I thought you were a bit of a zombie, but you’re alright when you do decide to talk.”

“I didn’t decide anything. I just feel sorry for you for getting punched.”

He shrugs. “I’ll take it. You’re alright.”

“Grazie,” I mumble, and Brendon grins openly before wincing and going back to gently touching his nose. It’s swollen, but at least now it matches his naturally puffy lips. The bus takes off, and we slowly sway left, right, left as Andy takes turns.

“It’s a nice room you’ve got here,” Brendon observes. “We do have reason to be jealous, I guess.”

“Joe talking shit about it behind my back?”

“Joe and everyone else.”

“Ah.” So much for loyalty. I don’t understand why Spencer has to keep up appearances. The four of us will never be friends like we once were, and it will hurt less if we just admit it.

“The way you all speak of each other, I don’t know, man. Sort of surprised you’re bandmates, not enemies.”

I get up and open the door for Brendon. “What’s the difference?”

“Nothing, I suppose. Nothing,” he concludes, taking the hint and walking out. There are four bunks on both walls, grouped into two and two. Brendon goes to his, right after my door on the upper left. “Spasiba for the cigarette,” he whispers quietly and climbs in. I close the door and dive into the sea of dirty sheets.

* * *

I don’t know how he talked me into this. I am not this kind of person, but I suppose he is. I take my rebellion onto paper, but books never started revolutions. People did. People still do. And Coke bottles apparently do.

I feel a mix of disbelief and giddy, boyish disobedience as I find Pete and Zack following Canadian History’s set from the side of the stage. I tell Pete that Joe is having a diva fit and that Zack might have to detain him. The two hurry off, and I whistle casually though no one can hear me in the noise of the music. Canadian History’s own roadies are on the other side of the stage. If I stand in the shadows here, no one will see me.

“Hey.”

My eyes land on Brendon, who looks nervous but is almost jumping out of his skin with excitement. “You wanna throw it?” he asks and passes me the empty bottle. When we talked about this last night, I was just talking. I had no intention of going through with any of it.

I take the bottle, feel it heavy in my grip. Jon is not on our side of the stage, but Tom is. He is focused on the crowd though. I wouldn’t mind having another bottle to throw at Jon with. He broke his promise to me and blabbed about Brendon. But Nate is the criminal, Jon a mere accomplice. I let out a deep breath and feel butterflies in my stomach. Shit. Fuck. Shit. I let my eyes rest on Nate’s drumming form.

“You throw it,” I mumble and pass it back to Brendon.

“No, you throw it.”

“You throw it.”

“You sure?” he asks, licks his lips. His nose is not very swollen anymore, but bruises are developing on the skin surrounding the area of impact. I nod nervously, check there is no one in sight of us. This is insane. There is no real chance of killing Nate with a glass bottle to the head, is there?

Brendon tries to take even breaths. “Okay. Okay, here goes. Only one chance. Okay. Phew.”

“You can do it.”

“I can definitely do it. Yeah. Here goes.” Brendon gives me one look, and for a second, I am convinced we are insane, the fag and I. But Brendon’s face still bears the signs of the fight, and I focus on why I am doing this: my band, my crew, my tour. Just because I feel like it.

Brendon takes a few running steps before throwing the bottle across the air. I hold my breath as it hits the side of Nate’s head. The drummer slips off the stool in front of seven thousand people. The band stops playing and their roadies come running, and Tom looks around, shocked and confused, and spurts of laughter are fighting their way up my throat. This has got to be the funniest shit I have seen in –

“Shit, come on!” Brendon urges, grabs my hand and pulls me after him, and we vanish from the side of the stage and enter the maze of the backstage area. I start laughing hysterically as I try not to hit his feet with mine, and he tightens his hold of my hand as he laughs with me, glancing over his shoulder with bright eyes wild with misdemeanour.

We find the doors that lead out of the building, and suddenly we are in the back of the venue, Brendon’s overjoyed laughter bouncing from the walls back at us in the darkening evening. My own laughter mixes with his but is more monotonous and duller. “Holy shit, holy shit!” Brendon exclaims, jumps up into the air a few times. His eyebrows are high up, nearing his hair line. “Can you believe we just did that?!” His face and voice show more emotion than mine have in the past two years put together. I don’t know how he does it, but it amazes me a little.

I can’t help but feel his endless energy pour into me, making me almost happy. “I can’t. We just gotta play it cool like we don’t know anything.”

“Yeah, agreed. Okay, here,” Brendon hurries, going through his pockets to get out a pack of cigarettes. He puts one between his lips and passes me another. “We’ve been out here smoking the entire time. We know nothing.”

“Right,” I agree hurriedly, and we start smoking the cigarettes, inhaling fast to make it look like we’ve been there longer. And, sure enough, venue security rushes through the doors a minute later, looking around frantically.

“What’s going on?” I ask casually. Brendon looks down, and I know he is hiding his face to try and not let them see he is about to crack up.

“Has anyone passed through here just now? Anyone in a hurry?”

“No. Don’t think so. Brendon, have you seen anyone?”

Brendon clears his throat. “No. Just me and Ry, smoking our cigarettes, talking about... stuff.”

“Yeah, lots of stuff.”

They give us long looks but go back in. But it’s not over yet, and five minutes later, Nate and Canadian History’s manager Dan walk out. Nate has a wet, balled up towel to the side of his head. There might be a hint of red on it, and I realise we probably caused some proper damage. Nate looks as furious as he was yesterday, and he points at Brendon and says, “I know it was you!”

Brendon lifts his eyebrows, his face one of perfect innocence.

I frown and look at the manager. “What’s going on?”

Dan clears his throat uncomfortably. “Nate just got hit by, uh... a bottle. During the set. It seemed to come from the side of the stage.”

“No shit,” I gasp. “Wow, are you okay?”

“Oh, come on!” Nate barks, eyes flashing dangerously.

“He’s alright!” Dan hurries calmingly. “Spencer was kind enough to fill in for the last two songs, which the crowd seemed to like. He’s on stage right now. You know nothing about this?”

“No, man, Brendon and I have been back here for the past twenty minutes or something. We haven’t seen anyone.”

“You’re lying for him?!” Nate barks at me. And yeah, I guess I am.

“I really had nothing to do with this, though I guess it could’ve been a sign from God,” Brendon says icily. Nate takes two threatening steps towards Brendon, but I quickly step into the narrow space between the two men.

“Okay, seriously? You need to back the fuck off,” I snap. I can feel Brendon’s breath against my neck.

“This is not happening, this –” Nate vents, hands in fists.

His manager takes a hold of his arm, pulling him back, whispering, “That’s Ryan fucking Ross! The Ryan Ross! You can’t fuck with him, man. Are you insane?” Nate replies with a muffled murmur consisting of the words ‘fuck’ and ‘faggots’. Dan starts leading him away, calling out, “Okay, you know nothing. We believe you! Have a good show tonight!”

“Thanks!” I say and wave. The door slams shut after them. I let out a breath and turn to Brendon, who is grinning wickedly. We totally got away with it.

“Thanks,” Brendon says quietly with a warm smile that reaches his eyes and almost makes them sparkle.

“No pro – You just said thanks.”

He smiles. “Okay, yeah. I can say thanks, but I only say it if I really, really mean it. Save it for special occasions.”

I’m a special occasion. I lick my lips nervously and focus on a trash can in the distance. “So why the foreign bullshit?”

“Makes me more interesting. I think. I’m not very interesting, so a boy’s gotta do something, right?”

He’s interesting enough without it.

Pete comes looking for us soon after. Brendon needs to go set up our gear. Pete looks between us like he knows, but we just shrug. Pete also notes that Joe wasn’t having a diva fit although I claimed he was. “Technically, he is a constant diva act,” I argue. Brendon winks at me as he leaves with Pete at his trail. Luckily, Pete doesn’t notice.

The venue is surrounded by a tall metal fence, behind which is a street, and I watch people walking on the other side, living their lives, minding their own business. It’s a dog-eat-dog world on this side, and tonight, I got to bite back. I chuckle as I replay the bottle hitting Nate again and again and again.

“Ryan?”

I snap out of my precious thoughts and see Jon. He is still sweaty from their set, shirt soaked. I drop my cigarette and step on it. “Jon, hey. Heard what happened. Sucks, man.”

“Yeah, look, everyone’s really upset, and I just – You really don’t know anything about it?” His voice sounds slightly desperate. He looks at me like I would tell him the truth. He’s got nerve. He’s got some fucking nerve.

“I know nothing. But if I hear something, I’ll tell you. I promise.”

Like he promised not to share Brendon’s fucking tendencies with the rest of the world. He stabs my back, I stab his. If only we had had two bottles and Jon had been on our side of the stage. I don’t like being made fun of, and he lied to my face. He –

“Look, I gotta get going,” I say harshly.

“Right, okay. Are we working on our music more tomorrow?”

His voice is perfectly sincere. Our music. The music Jon and I created. It was beautiful, but it doesn’t mean we are something beautiful. Take Lennon-McCartney, Simon-Garfunkel. Beautiful music, mutually resenting musicians behind it.

“We’ll see if I have the time,” I inform him and leave Jon out in the cold.

I don’t need to throw a bottle at Jon to know that I’ve hit him hard. I bump into a hurrying Brendon backstage, and he gives me the biggest smile. I instantly smile back, looking over my shoulder to where he disappears with a roll of duck tape.

You win some, you lose some. Right now, I mostly feel like I’ve won.

Next chapter

Vol.1: Over the Tracks - I [Chapter 5]

Tue, 08 Dec 2009 13:58:09 GMT

Previous chapter

Chapter 5: Petty Thieves

Jon apologises to all of our crew on our day off in Cleveland. The rest of Canadian History’s crew hangs out behind him in the busy hotel lobby, feigning ignorance of our existence. Spencer focuses on the message that was waiting for him when we arrived, eyes going over the short note over and over again, probably from his parents again, telling him not to forget their anniversary this year. I’m glad that I don’t have anyone breathing down my neck.

Jon is solemn as he addresses us. “I speak for all of us, Nate included, when I say I’m sorry about what happened in St. Louis. He lost control, though I am sure that’s no excuse. We’ve still got three shows with you guys, we want to enjoy them in good spirits, and though no one knows what happened in Indianapolis last night, I am sure Nate has learned his lesson. So I hope there’ll be none of that anymore,” Jon concludes and sends a significant look to us all.

It could have been anyone of us, except Joe who would never avenge a gay roadie. Even Brent might have taken the bottle in his hand because he loves fucking around with people.

“So we’re sorry. I hope you can accept our apology. Especially you, Brendon.”

Brendon nods solemnly, but shoots me a look that clearly says he’s not buying Jon’s bullshit. I send him a look that says Brendon better not, and Brendon smiles, all appreciative and warm like I’m the only one there who gets him. Well, I don’t, but we outsiders stick together.

After Jon has left, we hang out in the hotel lounge with the whole crew and a few girls, and it has given us some sort of solidarity to have agreed on one asshole. We bash Nate and make jokes about drummers’ IQs, much to the annoyance of Spencer, who seems agitated. No wonder, with this insane fucking tour. Brendon’s bruises are at the point where they won’t get any worse and will slowly start fading.

We’re not upset because Nate called Brendon a cocksucker. We’re upset because one of our guys got into a fight.

Despite Jon’s efforts to make peace, we don’t invite Canadian History out with us. A van is waiting outside the hotel to take us all to a party someone is throwing for us. It’s not at a club but at someone’s country mansion a twenty minute ride away. The only reason I am choosing it over brooding in my hotel room is because Brendon insisted that I go with him. He made it clear that he would only go if I went too, and well, the kid needs to see the world a little, doesn’t he?

William has covered Brendon’s bruises with some make up, and I cannot believe that William is not the gay one, especially when he takes half an hour figuring out what to wear, causing us to be late.

Spencer decides to come along the last minute too. It’s our night off, and we don’t get many of these on tour. He rubs his hands together and says it’s a night unlike any other.

The mansion is enormous. We park the van out front, and they are expecting us. People – boys, girls, hippies, rockers, music lovers, drunk, high, young, beautiful, clothed, barely dressed and everything in between – come rushing towards us, grabbing us by the arms and tugging us along, saying, “Welcome!” and “Oh my god!” and “Joe, can I touch your hair?” Someone just screams. Brendon turns to me with an astonished look in his eyes, and I shrug like it’s no big thing. We are the star attraction at this party.

The house is full of people. Three steps into the foyer, and I have a drink in my hand and someone offers me coke. Spencer’s hand lands on my shoulder. “Ryan, you know how coke messes you up.”

“Yeah,” I admit grudgingly, and the guy asks, “You sure?”

I nod and hope Brendon’s not the dancing kind, because I’m not. Nah, we just need a few beers and –

“I’ll have some!” Brendon volunteers, beaming at the guy with the coke.

“Far out, man,” the guy responds with an easy smile, and the two take off, and I stare after Brendon in astonishment.

I let him go. Brendon’s a kid; he deserves to have some fun. Okay, so we’re probably the same age, but he’s still a kid when it comes to rock and our lifestyle. Coke might suit him.

Pete has two girls draping over him, and he looks amazed. Everyone is walking in different directions now, and Pete looks around, alarmed, calling out, “Guys! Guys, remember we need to leave by –”

I don’t hear the rest of his sentence as Spencer and I head to the doors that lead outside to the swimming pool. Naked girls are splashing in the water, and even Spencer has a hard time looking away from them. He smiles like he’s a part of some big joke where he knows the punch line and no one else does. Some local musicians are there, and I end up getting drunk with Eric Carmen of The Raspberries. I keep waiting for Brendon to come back. It doesn’t take half an hour to get coked up. And he wouldn’t ditch me, would he? He asked me to come, to keep him company. Where the hell is he?

“The matching outfits create a sense of unity,” Eric explains, trying to justify his band’s commercialism and sixties’ attitude. There’s a big difference between a group and a band. He’s a has-been, anyway. I am above him musically and intellectually. I’m the fucking main songwriter of The Followers. When was the last time this guy saw a girl faint in the front row, screaming his name? Never? For me it was yesterday.

“Excuse me,” I say and leave him where he is. Spencer calls after me, but he’ll manage. Girls are all over him, and maybe tonight he will finally move the fuck on. Haley wasn’t even that pretty.

Brendon finds me before I find him. I know these types of parties, but I still figured me and him would grab a few beers, find a quiet corner, sit around and talk, reminisce our victory with the bottle. He’d laugh at my stupid jokes, tell me how he thinks I’m alright. It feels like the biggest compliment I’ve gotten all year. And he’d be there not because of the hype or my fame, but because he wants to be, even if he knows I’m all talk and nothing else. Even if he’s seen my hands shaking before going on stage. He wouldn’t mind.

He barely sees me, though, bumping into me and then just walking on. “Bren, hey,” I stop him, snatching his wrist, and he turns his head to look at me. I can feel his pulse beneath my fingertips, a rapid speed that echoes through his hot skin.

He wipes his face and tries to focus. “Ryan! Shit, dude.” He’s tripping on something big time. “It’s like that, you know, like that.”

“Uh huh,” I agree and let go of him.

“Fucking great party! I’ll see you on the flip side!” he beams and hurries away.

All the people present want to hang out with me. The one guy I want to hang out with doesn’t.

* * *

The van we came in looks like a black bug on the driveway of the house. The mansion. Something in between. I look at it from the tall windows of the third floor, and a naked girl runs across the lawn and onto the gravel of the driveway. She laughs and swirls around with a champagne bottle in her hand, long hair blowing in the wind and her revealed breasts bouncing, and a naked man chases after her. I look closer, and I am pretty sure the guy is Brent. I try not to snort. They run around the van, looking like even smaller insects circling a big one.

I turn back around to face the dark library. I pour a drink and sit on the windowsill, enjoying the relative quiet. I can still hear the party, though, from a few floors below. I know I should be there. I know that we’re the attraction. We’re in the swimming pool, we’re in the pool room, we’re everywhere, they are everywhere, and this is one of those nights you will think back to and say, “God! Remember that one insane night when we...?”

But I am in the library with the quiet, the drink, and my best friend.

“Give me a hit,” Spencer says, sitting on the windowsill next to me.

“Billy, Don’t Be A Hero.”

“Not that kind of hit,” he says, but we laugh anyway. He lays my notebook open in his lap and starts reading, squinting to read the text in the moonlight. “Is that... olreem?”

I lean over. “Dream.”

“Your handwriting is fucking horrible,” he grins happily, but keeps reading, extending an absent hand towards me.

“I don’t have any left,” I admit.

“My stash is gone too. God, can’t believe we’re this famous and still don’t have any grass.”

“Just check the lyrics, alright? I want your opinion while you’re in such a good mood.”

“I’m in a good mood most of the time!” he argues.

“No, you’re really not.”

He just chuckles, and I pour him a drink in the fancy crystal glass we found in the next room over. I wanted Spencer to party like he never has before, but when he got rid of the girls and asked me if I wanted to disappear, I couldn’t have said yes sooner. Pathetic, really, but he’s not moping around like me. He keeps grinning like he is having the best of times.

It’s comforting. Spencer still enjoys my company. I was starting to think he didn’t.

Spencer hums and nods, makes a few ‘eh’ sounds, and I stare out of the window at our bug van. The house is full of people, but their cars are not out front. I don’t really know where anything is, the place is too big for me to figure out when I’m drunk. Maybe their cars are in the back. Or maybe they live here. Maybe this house is a magical place where everyone stays beautiful, everyone is young, the supplies of substances are endless, and the party never, ever ends. Maybe this is that place. Well, it’s a hell of a heaven.

Spencer says, “This is pretty good. Like... about an innocent criminal or maybe a slave. Or both. The narrator has got a strong voice. Do you have any melodies in your head for this?”

“I’ll write music around it. Or we will. Maybe.”

“Brent will only demand a bass solo,” Spencer laughs and takes a sip of his drink. “And Joe will try to steal the show as always.”

“What about a drum solo?”

“I thought it went without saying,” he grins. “This bit, though. The fire to survive and defy that flickers in the brownest of eyes. It’s too vague and detailed. Whose brown eyes? There is no talk of a specific someone until that bit. It just throws it off a bit, takes the song from purely abstract ideas of freedom and rights to a song about some chick.”

“I’ll work on it,” I promise, and he passes the notebook back to me. I tap the cover nervously. Brown eyes, brown eyes. “This party is good for us. We need a break from each other.”

Spencer nods for emphasis, doesn’t even try claiming we should just hang out more because somewhere deep down this band is still full of love. Guess even the most positive of us get tired, and it’s no wonder since the tension on the bus is getting more and more unbearable, now even following us on stage. Brent’s dressing room crackers and Joe’s own mic were always temporary solutions. Pete will fix it. It’s his job, but I’m not sure if I want him to do it. The band is beginning to feel more and more like an adopted child that I never learned to consider as my own.

“It’s a beautiful night. The world’s amazing, don’t you think?” Spencer muses happily.

“I don’t know what you’re on, but I want some.”

“Seriously,” he insists. “You know I love you, right?”

“Yeah. I love you too.” He smiles at me, giving my shoulder a squeeze. I stare. “This is awkward.”

He rolls his eyes.

Laughter flows through the double doors of the library, which open suddenly, and a man and a girl stumble in. The girl throws her arms around the man’s neck, and I call out, “Hey, if you’re not gonna ask us to join, find someplace else.” The couple starts giggling and calls out apologies as they leave, the doors remaining open. The noise of the party reaches us louder than before, the lights of the corridor creeping into the library and casting long shadows on us, mocking me for wanting to remain in the dark.

“You can go if you want,” I tell Spencer. “I won’t mind.”

“Nah. I’m happy right here. I think I’ve kind of moved beyond these parties, you know? You gotta grow up some time. Turn a new page, take responsibility. I’m not for these kinds of parties.”

He used to be. I used to be too, when the circles were smaller. I don’t know anyone anymore.

“I could really do with a joint,” I suddenly conclude. “Brendon owes me one. I’ll go get one, bring it back.” If I can find him. If he’s not too coked out. “He could come hang out with us. He could. Would you mind?” I ask, and Spencer shakes his head. I’ve noticed they get along, Brendon and Spencer. That’s good. Not that Spencer could get Brendon the way I could if I wanted to. I don’t think Brendon would tell Spencer the things he’s told me. I look around the library and tilt my head, feel the sudden swoosh of alcohol in my system. “I like this library. We could be the Three Musketeers if Brendon came too. Look, I’ll go get him. If you don’t mind.”

I leave on my quest to find him somewhere in this huge mansion, the enormous grounds, and it’s a bit like trying to find a needle in the haystack. Brendon invited me. It’s plain rude if he doesn’t plan on hanging out with me, for fuck’s sake. The corridor is decorated with paintings and statues of Roman or Greek gods. I never did know the difference between Venus and Minerva. Or Aphrodite. Whoever.

I go down flights of stairs and am finally in a spacious living room on the ground floor. All the couches are occupied, angry guitar riffs pumping through half a dozen speakers, mixing with the chattering of a hundred, two hundred people. It’s gotten wilder since our arrival. Girls are dancing shirtless, sweat rolling between their breasts, down their stomachs, around their belly buttons. White lines disappear from coffee tables, and alcohol travels from bottles to veins. I don’t see anyone from our crew in the foyer, so I walk in further, feeling like I am observing everyone from behind a glass. I spot one familiar face in the next room.

“Andy! Hey, you seen Brendon?”

Andy is on the couch with a pink-haired girl, telling her a story as she laughs and says, “No way! No way!”

Andy says, “He was with William!”

“Ryan!” the pink-haired one says. “Ryan, join us!”

“I’m looking for one of our guys.”

“Oh, he’ll be fine. Come on, honey, sit down with us! Or if you want to go someplace more private...”

I take a second look at her and break into a drunken smile. “Audrey! Hey, your hair!”

“Is pink!” she enthuses. I know her, but I am not sure if I’ve fucked her. Maybe. Probably. Surely, I’d remember. Or would I? She’s one of the groupies everyone knows. She’s famous in her own way.

Audrey’s got Jac’s habit of excessive makeup, but she is a beautiful girl with big eyes circled with eyeliner, a narrow nose and slightly hollow cheeks, and her hair is like a lion’s mane with stripes of pink and blonde. Her clothes barely cover her, and she has positioned herself like a worm and I am the fish. We’re all fish when she walks into the room. Someone said that all she knows she learned from the girl who inspired Keith to write Ruby Tuesday. Andy tightens his hold over her shoulders like he could actually hold onto her, and Audrey smiles at me, big and happy and pink. Andy’s girlfriend had every right to be worried about the free-spirited groupies. “Andy said that maybe me and a few other girls would have room on the bus?”

“Oh, can’t promise that. Maybe. I don’t know. Possibly. For how long?”

“Would like to get to Detroit. I’ve promised David we’d join his crew there.”

“Yeah, right! Man. Fuck, I forgot he’s touring over here now. How is the English bastard?”

“Fabulous,” she purrs. I tell her to talk to Pete and that she has my blessing. We’ll be in Detroit in just a few days, and Joe will be thrilled to have a few of the girls with us. He might even get off my back when he can orchestrate orgies in hotel rooms. “Ryan, stay,” Audrey pouts.

Andy has been trying to hit on her for an hour, maybe. I’m not heartless enough to let him have done it for nothing. It’s more than what Brent or Joe would do. I refuse, and Andy points me to where he last saw William. I circle around the room, decline pussy, alcohol, a threesome, a variety of drugs and endless invitations to sit down and hang out with people I don’t know, but they all know me.

Everywhere, the windows are wide open, but it’s not enough to get rid of the sweat and smoke, and after one round, I decide to check out the next room. The smell of sweat mixes with sex long before my eyes adjusts to the dark. It’s like an ants’ nest with the way people move over each other, tangling up together. A girl gets off, her moans ringing out the loudest. Everyone is naked. All the surfaces are taken – the couches, the table, and they are kissing, touching, licking and trying a bit of everything. I am most definitely overdressed for this orgy. I walk in, the naked skin blurring in my eyes. It’s slow and sensual, fast and hard only with the men and women who are riding for the climax. The back corner is in a red glow from a shirt that has been thrown over a lamp. I see Joe there with three girls around his armchair. The redhead is sucking his cock. He is completely shitfaced. I rub my eyes, push off someone’s hands going to my fly. The room is unreal, but this isn’t the first one of these I’ve seen during my astounding career.

“Joe,” I say loudly, and Joe pulls back from exchanging a slow kiss with one of his girls. He is still getting a blowjob, and he presses the girl’s head down with the palm of his hand, shifting his hips slightly.

“Swallow it, baby,” he murmurs before his head drops to the left, eyelids drooping. “Hmm?”

I try not to look at him. I do not want to see Joe getting head, even if I’ve walked in on him fucking a handful of times in my life and vice versa, even if that one time we fucked those girls at the same in the dressing room on our first tour. That was fine, we were still friends, we laughed it off later and called the girls sluts. It was hot seeing that chick get fucked while I was screwing her friend.

But this is the new world, me a drunken mess and him a coked out king of guitar solos, and I can feel my insides twist like snakes just being here now to see what he’s turned into it. What we turn these girls into.

I don’t remember why I came here. It was something important. Something pink. “Audrey’s here! Yeah, man, she’s here. And she and her girls want to come along with us to Detroit.”

“Sweeeeet,” he groans. He might not have understood me. I’m pretty sure Joe and I haven’t even talked to each other in two days.

“You seen William around? Or Brendon?”

He shakes his head. “Find a few girls, Ross. Find a few for Smith too. Maybe you wouldn’t be so damn uptight if you did.”

I glare at him. “Thanks for the advice.”

When I leave the room, my dick is hard, pressing against my thigh demandingly. I get myself a drink and hear that some guys are playing music on the second floor. It seems like a decent bet, so I make my way over, people swarming over me even more now, and maybe my hard-on is pretty well outlined through the fabric, but I don’t care. I find William and, to my surprise, Pete, who is fucked out of his mind. A party like this seems to be enough for him to stop playing our boss and start drinking, fucking and taking drugs until he throws up behind a couch somewhere. Pete has a guitar, and girls are singing along, all out of tune. It’s one of our songs. My words. My feelings. They take them, mould them, misunderstand them. It’s a room full of petty thieves.

“Where’s Brendon?” I ask William, and he points to the balcony.

“Yes, I am a Gemini! How did you know?” Pete laughs to one of the girls.

It’s nearly three in the morning and it has started raining outside. The air is just on the border of warm and chilly, but it’s refreshing. The balcony is big, and I don’t see Brendon as I walk to the railing, lean against it and stare at the full swimming pool below, at the people. I turn back and focus my eyes on the balcony’s dark corner where Brendon is with some guy.

I close my eyes. Focus. Must focus. I reopen them.

They are kissing heatedly. Brendon’s hands are in this guy’s hair. I hear the wet smacks of their tongues and lips clashing together. The guy is taller than him, around my height but muscular with a thick neck and large hands. Brendon is cornered, trapped. Brendon is pushing his crotch forwards. The guy murmurs something in a low, hormone-filled voice, and Brendon replies a breathy, “Yeah.” He sounds turned on. I nearly shiver. The man moves to suck on Brendon’s neck, cupping his crotch, and I watch as Brendon’s eyes flutter shut and he moves to the pressure of the man’s hand in small, rocking movements.

I look away, rub my eyes, wish I was drunker. I swirl around. Brendon’s not seen me. I’m still hard.

I haven’t been invited to watch this show. I need to leave. I am not interested in watching Brendon –

He groans, and my chest constricts. I quickly walk back inside to the out of tune singing and laughter, accepting the joint a girl is quick to offer me. A joint’s a joint. It doesn’t matter. Brendon’s out there, having found some guy that beats talking to me a million times over.

I go to the first bathroom I find. I lock the door, light the joint with shaking hands, lean against the wall and let it hang between my lips. I inhale. It’s strong. I take in too much too fast, and I end up coughing. I take another hit and close my eyes. My mind swirls. My hands shoot down, unzip my jeans, and I pull my hard cock out. The joint shakes against my lips as my groans push their way from my throat, my fist a blurred movement of up, down, up, down up down up down updown, slight twist there, and my fingers squeeze my burning flesh. I come instantly. I shudder from the force, my hips bucking into my hand, cock twitching.

“Aw, fuck. Fuck,” I sigh in the euphoria that follows my release. The joint falls from my lips. I try to wipe my hand on a towel, but end up on my knees instead, puking into the toilet.

* * *

Women were not allowed on ships because of superstition, but this is not at all true for tour buses. Women are very welcome here, or at least girls like Audrey, Meryl and Louvre. They’ve already chosen their targets. Groupies often do. I gave them all the brush off because I’m not lonely. I don’t need one of them to run in circles around me, calling me baby and giving me blowjobs and making me feel like I’m the most special thing on this side of the universe. Louvre, who claims to be French Canadian but I am pretty sure I can hear a Texan accent under there, has chosen Brent. Audrey, much to Andy’s disappointment, has chosen Joe. Meryl is slowly realising that Spencer isn’t warming up to her, which will probably leave her banging one of the roadies for the next two days.

The crew is still packing up the bus after our Cleveland show. We left them to it and took the girls, who spent the show cheering for us by the stage, and came back to start a party. Their cheerful and excited female voices feel like a wave of fresh air, and though I sit on one of the two lounge armchairs and say nothing, I have a small smile on my face. Their soothing presence is doing wonders for my hangover. Pete walks over to me and kneels down, giving me a confidential look.

“Meryl’s groovy,” he says quietly as the rest of our party keep on talking and laughing.

“She is,” I agree, casting a look at the skinny girl with long, brown curls. Pete gives me a cocky smile. “And?” I ask in confusion.

“Just saying, man, you’re our star and you deserve the best. I didn’t get you your own bed for nothing, right?” he winks, and I stare at my beer bottle. “Meryl, girl, come over here! Keep Ryan company!”

Meryl instantly skips over, clearly overjoyed that she might win the big grand prize after all. Pete winks again and leaves us to it, like all he needs to have a happy singer-guitarist is to make sure I orgasm twice a day. “Hi,” Meryl says and smiles sweetly. “You want another beer?”

“Yeah, sure.” I give in. This is how they do it: they start with the little things, beer, food, making sure you’re comfortable. Then they are asking you to trust them with bigger things, to look after your wardrobe, hotel keys, make you think that you can no longer function without their help. Meryl brings me a beer and keeps standing by my chair, chatting away happily. Another beer, and I let her sit on my lap, my arm wrapped around her waist. She weighs next to nothing. She looks at me like I’m beautiful.

Joe and Audrey come to me, tangled up together. “Ryan, man,” Joe slurs, “mind if we use your room for ten minutes?”

“Ten?!” Audrey protests.

“It doesn’t take long when you know what you’re doing,” Joe winks at her.

“Go for it,” I mutter lifelessly.

Audrey and Joe disappear just as the roadies finally get on the bus. Pete fusses around, making sure everyone and everything is ready. “Who’s driving?”

“I am,” Brendon says, lifting his hand. His voice instantly attracts my attention. I avoided him today. Not sure why. It’s not like he knows I saw him in the balcony last night, and secondly, it’s not like it even matters if I avoid him because since when have we been attached from the hip? Never. I barely know the guy. But he looks my way with Meryl draping over me, and he frowns, and I suddenly wish I hadn’t let her sit on my lap after all. But it’s nothing to the way I am sure he got laid last night. With that guy, whoever he was. Muscular. Handsome. The type Brendon is apparently into.

I wrap my twig arm around Meryl tighter.

“You met the girls?” Pete asks the roadies. Us and the girls spent the day fucking about one of the hotel rooms, feeling like big stars. The only roadie that dropped by was Andy. Pete starts pointing. “That’s Louvre, that’s Meryl, and Audrey is in the back with Joe. Girls, meet Brendon, William, Zack and you know Andy already.” The girls wave and bat their eyelashes.

“Did you say Audrey? The Audrey?” William asks, clearly impressed. Even groupies have a hierarchy. She won’t tour with just anyone, and when she was on the road with us for a week on our last tour, we all knew it meant we were heading for the stars.

“Audrey?” Brendon asks in confusion, and William instantly offers to tell him every band he knows she’s toured with. The list is long.

Joe and Audrey take an hour in the back room, in my bed. I don’t want to go back there and so I tell Joe to feel free to crash there until the sheets get washed. Joe is delighted and smiles at me for the first time on this tour. I’m reminded of the summer in the early days of the band when Joe and I lived together to save money. We had fun back then, going out together, having a good and reckless time, perfectly unknown, aspiring musicians, going back to our tiny place and taking turns of who gets to use the bedroom. This is a messed up version of the same game, but with different rules. It’s not friendship anymore, but rivalry. It used to be something sincerer, and I think Joe and I both remember that for a split-second. I loved the man like a brother.

Joe looks away from me like he’s been burned by fire, and I focus on Meryl, who squirms in my lap, leans to my ear and whispers, “I can do bunks. I’m really flexible.”

I tilt my head to the side and peer at her. “How about the dirty toilet of the next venue? Or better yet, you wanna fuck on stage?”

She blinks. She laughs. I wasn’t kidding.

We stay up into the night with Brent and Louvre now going to the back room. Audrey and Joe go to the toilet for five minutes. No one really pays attention where they go fuck and what they do, and Meryl looks at me with a silent question in her eyes, which I ignore. I enjoy sex just as much as the next guy, but it’s never been some sort of primitive animal instinct with me. I can go without sex for a month. Yup. A whole month before I feel like I really need to get laid. Joe can go without it for sixteen hours.

It’s a little past four in the morning when I feel the bus slow down and come to a stop after Spencer goes up to say he needs to piss and Joe and Audrey are occupying the toilet. Zack and I get out of the bus that now stands on the side of the road. Meryl looks like she doesn’t know if she should follow me. In the end, she doesn’t.

Zack sighs and rolls his shoulders, and I can hear joints crackling. Brendon is not too far away, smoking a cigarette. “You okay to drive?” Zack calls out.

“Yeah, man, we’ll be in Detroit in an hour.”

I can see Spencer’s outline not too far away, taking a leak. A bus stops behind ours, Canadian History clearly following our example. Their bus is from the late 60’s, a joke compared to ours. It hisses to a stop, and a few guys come out to stretch their legs. It’s dark, and I can’t tell where we are. Somewhere in between cities, in the middle of nowhere.

Brendon walks over to me, offering his half-burnt cigarette. I know Zack is standing right next to us, like it matters somehow that he can see me talking to one of the other roadies. I don’t feel comfortable as I decline the smoke with a shake of my head.

“Should you be driving? You got kind of messed up last night,” I tell him as casually as I can.

“Not that messed up,” he protests. He doesn’t even sound sorry. I went to that fucking party only to please him, and he doesn’t seem to acknowledge that at all. Fucking fag. Only runs after drugs and cock. What did I expect, anyway? That I had made a friend in him? Yeah, hardly.

Jon’s voice says, “Ryan, can I talk to you?”

I turn around and see Jon’s silhouette in the moonlight. Not the guy I want to talk to right now, but I follow him to the side of the road anyway, hear the gravel beneath our feet. He stops when we’re out of earshot.

Jon sighs restlessly in the dark. I’m glad I can’t see his face.

“Should we talk? The whole thing with Nate and Brendon, it’s just left a bad vibe, you know? Call me crazy, but it kind of feels like you’re avoiding me.”

“Are we fucking married?” I ask him pointedly. “We wrote a few mediocre songs I’m already wishing I hadn’t written. Jesus, Walker, try to put the thing into perspective.”

“Mediocre?” He sounds disbelieving. “We both love the stuff we wrote.”

“You thought wrong,” I shoot at him. Spencer was right about Jon. Spencer was right like he always is. “I was just trying to get some time away from the band. You were, like, going for a long walk or free therapy. Whatever. So tell me why would I want to work with you after the stunt you pulled on me?”

“Sorry?”

The clouds shift from in front of the moon, and Jon looks so confused that I have to resist the urge to beat some sense into him.

“I told you about Brendon, and then you blabbed it to Nate after you said you wouldn’t, and look what happened! Do you think I need the extra stress of my crew getting attacked? I mean, if I can’t trust you with that, then how could I with my music? Get a fucking reality check.” He looks astonished. I am done. I have nothing more to say to the guy.

I walk past him, and he says, “I didn’t tell anyone! I swear I didn’t tell Nate!”

“Sure you didn’t. Go fuck yourself, Walker,” I mutter with a middle finger raised over my shoulder. The idiot fucking lies about it too. If he had manned up, then I might have considered it. Jon Walker is a damn talented guy, and if he is even half as ruthless as he has proven himself to be, then he will succeed wonderfully in the music world, and his success will burn far too bright for me to be anywhere near it. The Followers, the four of us plus Pete, are not particularly ruthless. We’re just lucky, after which we have become arrogant. And there is a crucial difference between that and innate ruthlessness. Guys like Walker need to stay far away from me.

Zack and Brendon have gotten back on the bus, and I take the four steps up. Brendon is behind the wheel and is tuning the radio. I hear the girls laughing in the lounge. “Night,” I mutter to Brendon, not looking forward to my night of refuge in Joe’s bunk. Fuck, I hate bunks. The sheets better smell like baby angels, and Meryl better not think she is welcome to join me.

“Hey, wait,” Brendon hurries out, and I cross my arms and lift a disinterested eyebrow at him. “Uh, I kinda overheard you and Jon talking just now. Just wanna say that... I appreciate it. The thing you did. Loyalty. I know there’s not much around here, so tack.”

“Tack? Not enough for a proper thank you?” I ask, voice full of sarcasm.

Brendon stands up, smiling like he doesn’t care I’m being a bitch to him. By now, I’ve noticed he does that. He places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “Tack.” He winks, and I roll my eyes. I didn’t do it for him. I didn’t do it for loyalty. At most, I did it because I’m pissed off at myself, at him, Jon, Joe, Pete, whoever. And it was easy to take it all out on Jon because he embodied my aimless frustration.

“Whatever,” I mutter. Brendon smiles, and something flutters inside me, and it feels like we’re okay again, if we ever were not-okay, or if there ever was a state in which we were okay.

I go back to the lounge, reclaiming my seat with a lighter heart. Meryl has moved on to sit on the couch next to Zack, who seems rather chuffed to have an is-she-even-twenty groupie admiring his biceps. “Everybody on board?” Brendon asks, taking the headcount. He lists names under his breath as Audrey comes from the bunks with a huge smile on her face.

“I found Pete’s stash!” she giggles excitedly and shows the small bag of grass, and Joe claps to praise her snatching abilities. Pete is going to be pissed when he wakes up.

Then, suddenly, Brendon sees Audrey, and Audrey sees him, and both freeze. Audrey goes as white as a ghost, her mouth hanging open with disbelief all over her face. Brendon stares across the room and manages to say, “Al –”

“Audrey!” the pink-haired girl rushes out, recovering quickly and putting a huge smile on her face. Her eyes, though, are void of all merriment. “I don’t think we have met?”

“Oh. Right. Audrey,” Brendon mutters, as if to memorise it. “Right. One of the, uh... one of the girls.” Brendon appears to be in shock. “The girls with the... the girls that... with bands. With all those bands. You are. You’re one of those.”

I look between the two in confusion.

“Even Brendon’s smitten,” Brent laughs, nudging Joe’s side.

Audrey instantly catches the name, her rigid form loosening slightly. “Brendon. The roadie, right? It never occurred to me that – that you’d... Not that I’ve. It’s not like it’s a common name. I mean. Hey, you want some pot?” Audrey dangles the bag again, the movement too eager to cover up her attempt to change the subject.

“I gotta drive, so...”

Audrey mouths a silent ‘okay’ and busies herself with the hem of her shirt. Brendon turns his attention elsewhere. “You guys might want to stay awake for an hour. We’ll be at the Detroit hotel soon enough.”

“You okay?” I ask Brendon.

“Uh huh,” he hurries out, flashing me a fake smile and exiting the lounge.

No one really seems to have paid attention to the exchange. Audrey takes her place by Joe, but she looks shaken up. The bus takes off again, and I decide to stay awake until we’re at the hotel. Audrey keeps glancing to the front of the bus.

Spencer has gone to bed so I go sit by Brent, who is the best next thing. “Did it seem to you like Brendon and Audrey knew each other?”

“No?” he asks like I’m an idiot. “Please. Like some gay kid from San Fran would know the groupie goddess. Here, take a hit. It’s even sweeter because it’s Pete’s.” Brent grins at me, and I end up smoking with him.

I can hear Brendon singing along to the radio. He’s all alone, driving across America. “I feel sorry for the kid,” I tell Brent, not really sure when I decided that Brendon must be lonely despite having friends and lovers. Maybe I decided that when he was curled up and leaning against the café door, voice trembling and my cigarette shaking between his bloodied fingers.

“I feel sorry for anyone who sucks another guy’s cock,” Brent deadpans, and I chuckle. This is exactly why I love the man.

“We should be nicer to him,” I conclude nonetheless, and Brent makes a sound that isn’t a yes or a no, but definitely leans more to the no. It’s ‘what do you care?’, and the answer is that I don’t know. But Spencer told me to fix him, and Spencer is usually right about everything, so I’ll try. I’ll give it a shot.

Audrey keeps shooting worried looks to the front of the bus. She and Brendon might have fooled the others, but not me.

Next chapter

Vol.1: Over the Tracks - I [Chapter 6]

Tue, 08 Dec 2009 13:56:37 GMT

Previous chapter

Chapter 6: Stars in Cities

I sleep in the next day, having managed to push interview duty onto a willing Joe and a resentful Spencer. My hotel room has windows to the river, and I smoke a morning cigarette in the nude and watch Canada on the other side. We’re heading over there after Detroit.

Tonight’s show is sold out. Tomorrow’s too. Pete said that the longer we are on this tour, the more our album is getting played, the more the word spreads, the more sold out shows lie ahead of us. And the biggest venue we’re hitting now has the capacity of thirteen thousand, but the tour after this? Maybe even twenty thousand. Pete’s eyes shone as he said it, and I don’t know when this band’s success stopped being my dream and began being his instead.

Someone knocks on the door, and I pull on some underwear as I go to open it, expecting breakfast but getting Zack instead. “You’re not breakfast,” I observe.

“I’m the next best thing,” he deadpans, pushing past me. Zack goes to the suitcase I have in the corner and begins to throw clothes on the bed. I’ve never figured out who Zack works for. Is he Pete’s minion when he does stuff like this - forcing me to eat, to get dressed, to take better care of myself? Or does that make him my bitch? Zack probably just works for himself.

“What are you doing?” I ask him pointedly.

“We’ve got time to kill before soundcheck, so let’s see what Detroit has to offer.”

“Not interested.”

“Yes, you are,” he states as he compares one of my floral-patterned shirts with the next. “We’re all going. Even Spencer is excited to go. He’s been really happy lately, have you noticed? The kid’s weird. Weirder than you.”

“Hey!”

Zack ignores me. “Anyway, the girls want to go shopping for Bowie, and basically, it’ll be really good for the crew to just chill out for a bit. But what’s the point if Ryan is moping in his hotel room, not talking to anyone as usual? No point at all. This shirt,” he decides and shoves it at me. “Ten minutes, meet us in the lobby.”

I scoff. “You’re not the boss of me.”

Zack lifts an eyebrow and shoves me backwards with a push of his hand. “You think?”

Twelve minutes later, we cram into four taxis and take a ten minute ride to some hip clothes boutique Audrey demands we visit. We spot a music shop right next to it, and our team is divided into two as the girls plus William and Brent, who is obsessed with Louvre, go check out clothes. William squeals more than the girls do, and seriously, he is so in the closet that, if he were any further in it, the bastard would be in Narnia.

The rest of us head to the music store to mess around with the gear.

Brendon and Audrey don’t glance at each other. Why would they? Brendon wouldn’t want to fuck her, anyway. In daylight, I see much clearer, and the things I thought I saw in the middle of the night after an exhausting show seem nothing more than just a bit on this side of ridiculous.

They recognise us in the music shop, the owner throwing out other customers and temporarily closing down the place so we can browse without being harassed by fans.

“Why don’t I have a double-necked guitar?” Joe asks demandingly while I fall in love with an ES-335. Spencer’s made himself comfortable behind the drum kit at the back, just messing around.

“You know any songs about Detroit?” I call out to him, sitting down on a stool and picking the strings of the Gibson.

Spencer scratches his head thoughtfully. Yeah, why would anyone write a song about this place?

“Detroit City,” Brendon says, having armed himself with a Gibson Explorer. “Bobby Bare, sixties song?” We all blink at him, and he rolls his eyes. “Jesus, don’t you rockers know any country music? Here, you’ll recognise it when you hear it. Can I get a twelve string?” One of the workers rushes to get him one. Brendon strums a few chords on it. “So it goes like this. I wanna go home... I wanna go home...”

I recognise the song, Spencer already having picked up the tempo. He drums the simple rhythm, and I start playing along with Brendon. Brendon grins when he sings, “I dreamed about that boy who’s been waiting for so long,” and I roll my eyes as he modifies the lyrics and makes the country song gay friendly. Andy is making up a bass line, and Joe cracks up, starting to add heavy solos between the choruses. Zack and Pete let us jam as they stay by the main doors of the shop. I look over my shoulder and realise a crowd of people has gathered outside.

They’ve found us. Simple, really. A fan walks by, sees us, runs to the nearest payphone to call his local radio station, the host tells every rock fan in the city who is tuned in, and they come swarming.

But now, the audience is outside and not in my face. And we used to play around and jam so much on our previous tours, but we don’t anymore. Magically, we are doing it, and it feels good. It has the spark of enjoyment we used to have. Joe shouts a rocky, “Yeah!” and I laugh and shake my head.

We all join Brendon in the last chorus of, “I wanna go home, I wanna go home, oh I wanna go home, I wanna go home...” Spencer crashes cymbals for the hell of it.

The shop owner has fetched his camera, asking for a group picture he could frame on the wall behind the counter. We pose for him as Andy snaps the picture. The bell rings, and the girls rush in with William and our bassist. We hear screams of, “Brent! BRENT!”

“Quite a crowd out there,” Brent muses, clearly pleased. The girls and William have bags upon bags, and Pete looks slightly torn between amusement and despair. Of course, Brent paid for everything the girls bought, but who pays for it in the end? Not Brent.

“Might as well stay,” Spencer suggests, and I shrug, and we start a new song as Brent takes over bass. We haven’t jammed in a long time, but in the cosy music shop in downtown Detroit, we seem to find the same tune. Louvre sits on the counter, her feet dangling and three inch platform shoes banging against the front slightly, and she looks at Brent adoringly. Meryl is showing William her new headband.

We’re in the middle of a song with Brent providing the rather crude vocals when I notice Brendon and Audrey in the corner. I can’t hear anything, but I can read the nervous body language, Brendon’s questioning face and Audrey’s upset one. There it is again, that tension between them that I picked up on last night. I’m not insane, at least, which is mildly comforting. They know each other, so why are they pretending they don’t?

Audrey notices me looking, and she flashes a smile at me, ending the conversation with a short comment to Brendon, who looks annoyed. Then Brendon becomes aware of their surroundings and looks as unnerved as Audrey does.

What’s the deal with those two? Not former lovers since Brendon wouldn’t put his dick in her, so what’s going on?

“Okay, the police are here!” Pete informs us as the song finishes. We all flinch.

“Shit! Hide the drugs!” Brent tells us frantically, and we all start going through our pockets in a hurry.

“No, they’re here to safely escort us back to the hotel! There’s a few hundred people out there, blocking the street.”

Joe stares in astonishment. “So now, like... we’re not against the cops but with the cops? We’re with the man? Fuck, that is so not rock ‘n roll.”

“Call it whatever you will,” Pete shrugs. The roadies and groupies leave the shop first, and the fans outside scream though they can’t know for sure who is coming out. The police have pushed fans away from the door of the shop, and I hurry to buy the ES-335 while I can. Pete gives me a look that clearly says I don’t need the guitar, but I want it. The owner shakes our hands, eyes shining. Pete makes sure I am the last one out of the shop. I have to go last; it would feel anticlimactic otherwise. The policeman that takes me and Pete to one of the police cars pushes my head down and tells me to walk fast, and they scream, god, do they scream my name.

I get squeezed in the backseat of the car between Joe and Pete with my new guitar in a gig bag on our thighs. “The last time I was in the back of one of these, the situation was quite different,” Joe jokes. The cop driving us doesn’t look all that amused and takes off, slowly pushing through the crowd that bangs the windows. Jesus fuck.

Once we are out of the masses, the police car speeds down the road easily.

“What do you guys know about Audrey?” I casually ask my companions. Joe probably knows her the best.

“The same I know about every groupie,” Joe shrugs, which means nothing. We never know anything about them apart from the fact that they love us. “She once said she has six siblings, but that’s about it.”

“Six siblings?” I clarify, my thoughts running amuck. The car slows down in front of the hotel as one of the cops at the front kindly asks Pete not to bother the Detroit Police Department further during our visit. Pete assures them that he will keep his rock ‘n roll band at bay. His band? Right.

I spot Brendon and Audrey in the hotel lobby, my eyes taking in their faces as Audrey rushes to Joe and Brendon looks sour. The noses. The eyes. The bickering.

They couldn’t be brother and sister... could they?

* * *

Midnight showing of Chinatown. Brendon goes to buy the tickets with the money I give him just to be on the safe side, though I figure that all Followers fans were at the venue and we won’t bump into them here. Still, I really don’t want to sign any more album covers today.

It’s a new movie, a detective story of sorts. Some guy called Jack Nicholson stars in it, but neither one of us has ever heard of him. I look at the poster; he’s not a very attractive man either. A shooting star, clearly.

Brendon noticed the cinema from the taxi this morning, and I have my reasons to ditch my bandmates and join him. I’m also going because no one else would go with him. Even William refused after Meryl got bored of Zack and moved onto him. Well, William needs to keep up his fake straight boy image somehow.

I brush my hair that’s wet from the post-gig shower. Brendon comes back with a grin and shows me the two tickets. Once inside, I ask, “You want popcorn?”

“Sure, yeah.”

I get us popcorn and a Coke for him. I’ve got my flask of vodka in my pocket. Brendon munches on the popcorn happily as we wait to be let inside. I don’t really see the family resemblance between him and Audrey, though maybe they just have the same mother or father? Both are beautiful. Maybe that’s the similarity.

“So where are you from?” I ask him.

“I live in San Francisco,” he replies, which isn’t a reply at all.

“Huh,” I note, reaching for the popcorn he is holding. Our fingers brush as he grabs some too, and I notice it. Not in the way that I register it happening and my brain moves on to new, insightful observations, but in the way that I stop and acknowledge the brush of his fingers against mine like I’ve been waiting for it to happen all day. A few days.

I rush out, “When did you move to San Francisco?”

“About a year and a half ago?” he asks in a pondering tone.

“And before that?”

“Around,” he shrugs, and just as I am about to ask him to specify, he stops me with, “Oh, the doors are open.”

I have no chance of grilling him during the movie, which turns out to be pretty interesting. I keep glancing at Brendon, comparing his nose with Audrey’s. I just want to know what’s going on. It’s not that I find Audrey a puzzle that needs solving; it’s that I’m writing song lyrics around Brendon because he’s caught my imagination.

I make sure I reach for the popcorn only when Brendon’s own hands aren’t in it. It’s hard for me to relax when Brendon is sitting right next to me in the dark.

After the movie, I go to the toilet to empty my flask. Brendon waits for me outside, and we start walking back to where we think the hotel is. He tries to pay me back for the movie, but I refuse. I’m a hell of a lot richer than he probably is. Brendon looks up to the sky and says, “You can never see stars in cities.”

“Look a bit to your left, and you can see a star.”

He frowns, gazing at the sky, before looking back at me and bursting out laughing. “Oh, I see. You’re the star, huh?”

“Yup,” I shrug not-so-modestly. “So do you come from a big family?”

He looks surprised, but shrugs. “Depends on what you consider big.”

“Six siblings?”

“Four.”

“Ah.” A big ass family but still doesn’t match. But what does Joe know? He’s coked out half of the time, anyway. “You one of the older or younger ones or..?” I go on. Brendon laughs, a bit embarrassed and averting his eyes. “Well, I mean. Psychologists say it defines a person later in life. The middle kids are the bridge builders, for example. And the oldest are the responsible ones and so on. I didn’t have any siblings growing up so that means I’m selfish and can’t compromise.”

“I’m the youngest.”

“The wild rascal, then. And how –”

“Jesus,” Brendon laughs as we walk along.

“What?”

“You pay for the movie and popcorn, now you’re asking these getting-to-know-you questions. Why don’t we just kiss so we can officially call it a date?”

I laugh along with him, trying fast to say something. “No, man, just making small talk.” Nothing suspicious about wanting to know what his story is. Definitely not letting myself think about kissing him. Or this being a date. I don’t want either one of those things; I’m not a faggot.

“I’m sort of excited about doing the Canadian dates next. I’ve never been out of the country,” Brendon says, changing the subject so smoothly that I don’t even realise it for two blocks. Instead, I reminisce about the shows we’ve done in Montreal and how I was drunk enough to think I could speak French. I only made an ass of myself, but the crowd loved me being talkative for once.

“I think we’re lost,” I finally conclude when we clearly are not in the downtown area anymore, and I am sure nothing around our hotel looks this shabby.

“I probably should have told you I have the worst sense of direction,” Brendon admits and looks around in confusion. “But you were leading us, so –”

“You were leading us!” I argue until I realise I was following him and he was following me. Well, that doesn’t get us anywhere. I ask the first person we come across, who kindly informs us that we are completely in the wrong direction. “Tell me if you spot a cab,” I grumble as we now start going to the right direction. “My dad was a cab driver for a while after he came back from Vietnam,” I say conversationally. “Did any of your family go?”

“No. I mean, I don’t know for sure, but – They wouldn’t, no. They don’t believe in that stuff.”

“War?” I clarify, and he nods.

“Shedding blood. It’s a big sin, you know?”

“No one said killing was nice,” I point out, though I bet some soldiers do get off on it. My dad never had a problem with the killing. He didn’t mind that at all. “So you don’t keep in touch?”

“Do you?” he counters before cutting me off with, “Let’s not talk about the past. It never flatters anyone. All that matters is right now when we’re pathetically lost in Detroit, and I’m hanging out with the hottest name in rock ‘n roll. Ah, the prestige I will get for this.”

“Oh, I see, you’re hanging out with me for the fame.” I grin even as his words echo in my head. The past doesn’t flatter anyone. True. Definitely true.

“Of course for the fame. You didn’t think I actually like you as a person?” Brendon asks and quirks an eyebrow at me. I shove him slightly and call him an asshole, his laughter making the night feel that much warmer. He spots a taxi and successfully hails it over, and I don’t ask any more questions of the past he refuses to talk about.

* * *

I find Brendon outside the dressing room as I come back from fetching my temporarily misplaced notebook from the bus. The roadie is leaning against the wall with his arms wrapped tightly around himself, pale and sweating, and I stop to take the sight in. “Whoa, hey, you okay?” I ask as I hurry over, thinking he’s been beaten up again, food poisoning, lack of sleep, a drug overdose. Definitely a drug overdose.

Brendon looks up at me with big eyes, absolutely pale. “Uh...” he begins and points to the dressing room door.

“What?” My fingers curl around his shoulder, keeping him steady.

Brendon swallows. “David Bowie is in there.”

“He’s here?” I ask, delighted.

“No, listen to me! David Bowie is in there.”

“Yup.” I blink at him. He blinks back.

“The man is like a fucking god?” he asks very slowly as if to make sure we are talking about the same person. Well, he’s certainly never been this star-struck around me. To be or not to be offended?

“I’ll introduce you,” I offer easily.

“No way.”

“Yes way.”

“Shit. Fuck. Shit.”

I openly laugh at him, and he looks annoyed. He gingerly follows me to the dressing room, constantly looking like he is about to run the other way. He takes even breaths, reminiscent of a woman giving birth, and he fiddles with his sleeves and mutters something, clearly prepping himself for The Introduction. A party has started in the room in the ten minutes that I was away. David is the first one to spot me, breaking into a smile as I go give him a hug.

“You alright, mate?” he asks, smiling widely, still as tall and skinny as the last time, short and messy orangey hair over a mismatched pair of eyes. Brendon remains by the door, staring, as David and I launch into a discussion about different venues we both consider as our third or fourth homes. Even Brent likes David, not having forgotten the fabulous party David threw us in London on our so far only UK tour. A few more guys from David’s crew are there, having come to see us play.

“You want to come out and do a song with us?” I ask, and David nods eagerly. I feel mildly bad for asking him to come on stage on his night off, but this is what we do. Musicians are all insane and addicted to what they do. Even I am. Addicted to the hell it puts me through. And I am not the least surprised I turned out masochistic. “Oh, you gotta meet this guy,” I interrupt.

Brendon is still by the dressing room door, twisting his hands nervously. “Brendon, this is David.”

“Pleased to meet you,” David says politely, holding out a hand. Brendon looks like he wants to die because this, right here, is the happiest moment of his life and nothing will ever top it.

“You too. Definitely. Oh my god, I just – I saw you in San Francisco last year, and that show changed my life, I – You mean so much to the gay community there, you know? I swear, on Halloween I went to The Hard On, it’s, er, it’s a club in The Castro District, and half of the people there were dressed up as Ziggy. Myself included,” Brendon adds in nervously, babbling away like he is terrified of the words coming out of his mouth.

“Cheers, that’s nice to hear.”

“Yeah,” Brendon exhales dreamily. David is now looking Brendon up and down calculatedly, and I know that look. God, David’s a fucking dog.

The crowd starts screaming so loudly that it echoes to our dressing room, and I realise that Canadian History is on. After their set, they will pack up and be gone. I’d like to see Jon on stage one more time. He looks good there. The heartless bastard belongs to the stage.

It’s hard, somehow, to know that one of the men I’ve had the strongest musical bond with is leaving, and I will never see him again. Even if he was a damn douche and even if our affair was so short-lived it hardly happened. But I keep waking up with those songs stuck in my head. Goddamn Walker.

“Spencer tells me you no longer put on any makeup when you go on stage,” David says disapprovingly, and I nod to confirm it. “We can’t have that!” he gasps, and I let him sit me down and make Brendon fetch Joe’s make up kit.

I close my eyes and keep still as David begins putting makeup on me. Brendon makes approving sounds, sighing, “That is gorgeous!” every five seconds. When I open my eyes, a purple stripe decorates my face, stretching over my eyes and the bridge of my nose. David adds way too much eyeliner, and when I put on one of my feather hats, the combination is absurd.

David says, “Perfect.”

Brendon says, “You are so talented.”

“Thanks, Brendon,” he says smoothly, casting Brendon a long, long look. “Hey, you wanna go out for a fag?”

“Sorry?” Brendon frowns.

David laughs. “A cigarette. We call ‘em fags.”

Brendon blushes, and seriously? Brendon makes an “er, um,” sound as he is clearly flustered that David Bowie wants to fuck him. I’ve been asking groupies to go out for a cigarette with me for years.

William comes into the dressing room with a broad grin. “Ding, dong, the witch is gone! Or, you know, will be. Canadian History is on their way out of this tour; they’re packing up right now. Bren, Zack needs you on stage, and Pete, we’re out of the L-sized red shirts?”

The crew gets their act together and takes off, Brendon giving David an apologetic look, and David goes to the couch and puts his feet on the coffee table, and Joe gets out coke. I hear Tom and Nate’s voices outside our room and then further away. I claim that I need to warm up my voice to get away from the coke, which I know is not good for me, and I also need to be somewhere where I don’t have to acknowledge the departure of our support band.

I find a back corridor and walk up and down it as I hum under my breath, going high, high, high, low, low, low.

“Ryan.”

I swirl around and silently curse my luck. I didn’t want to see Jon. He’s sweaty from their set, but there is a harshness to his jaw line and usually warm eyes. “Here,” Jon says bluntly and presses a piece of paper to my hand. I look down and see a number.

“Whose is this?”

“Mine. It’s for my place in Chicago for the day you realise what you let slip by you. Because those songs we wrote? They were fucking amazing.” Jon cocks an eyebrow at me and turns around, walking out of my life for good with a hell of a lot more arrogance than he had walking into it.

I look at the piece of paper and scoff. Like I’ll need this. Jon needs to be brought down a notch or two. Or twelve. Like I’d go running back to him? Please.

I let the note drop onto the floor and head back to the dressing room. Once nearly there, I turn around, rush back to where I was and pick up the note, pocketing it away.

Just because Jon owes me a beer.

* * *

The large hotel room has turned into a club with a mix of David’s crew, our crew, the girls and a handful of Detroit’s musical finest. Everyone is courting David or Joe or me, but mostly David, and I don’t mind, but Joe clearly does. Brendon is sticking to the background with a slightly offended look on his face. Out of the guys available, I’d go for Brendon. He is clearly the most attractive choice.

If, well, I was David. And wanted to do a guy.

Audrey is winning by a long shot. She is sitting on David’s lap and telling stories of the crazy shit the two of them have done on previous tours. Brendon is nearly fuming. It would suck, watching your sister steal the guy you want, but they’re not siblings. Maybe distant cousins?

“In Santa Fe, Audrey talked me into going to a church and shagging in one of the corners.” David laughs loud enough for me to hear, and Audrey grins wickedly.

“Blasphemy, that,” Brendon comments casually. “Puts the whore of Babylon to shame.”

The others laugh, but Audrey doesn’t. She looks tired as she stands up, sends Brendon an offended look, grabs a champagne bottle and goes out to the balcony. Brendon looks pleased and quickly moves to sit next to David, who wraps an arm around Brendon and offers him a beer bottle. Brendon looks comfortable where he is.

I don’t mind one of our roadies being so openly after David, though now everyone present knows we’ve got a fag in the crew. Well, it doesn’t mean that the rest of us are. And I know what this courting accumulates to: a twenty-minute panting session and then they part ways. David is pretty irresistible, anyway. Hell, even I might do him if someone gave me the right combination of recreational drugs. This isn’t like it was in Cleveland with that guy, that sleazy guy with those muscles and Brendon all cornered and tiny and looking like a coked up slut desperate for a fuck. David is a decent guy. Willing fan meets horny musician. Everyone knows how that’ll go. They have my blessing to fuck.

The party is getting louder, but Audrey isn’t back yet. I leave my own admiring crowd and go out to the balcony. Audrey is sitting on the bottom end of a wooden deck chair with a champagne bottle dangling between her slender legs, pink hair blowing slightly in the cool breeze. She is leaning forward, and she looks so much smaller than she usually does.

I close the door to the hotel room and go take the chair next to hers, letting my eyes wash over Canada on the other side of the river. Audrey glances at me, her eyeliner having smeared in the corners. I clear my throat. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, sure,” she nods drunkenly and looks out. The city is a sea of a million little lights, but it feels like we’re in the middle of a glimmering desert and everyone else is far away. “Just, you know. One of those nights.”

She leans back in the chair and sighs. If I play this right, her admitting that something is off is a pathway to a whole bunch of more truths. Brendon won’t talk, and I don’t want to push him. Audrey, though... “Is it about Brendon?”

She turns her head to me, eyes widening in surprise. “No,” she says after a long pause. “And yes.” She giggles, and I take the champagne bottle she’s offering. “It’s not him exactly, just the things he reminds me of, and it just- It’s weird here. In this place. Makes me kinda uneasy. I know him, you know. I mean I knew him.” She licks her lips as if to taste the traces of champagne on them. I wait for her to go on, my insides squeezing together as she dangles the truth in front of me. “You’re not surprised.”

“No,” I admit. Audrey and Brendon aren’t very good actors. “How do you know him?” I help myself to a cigarette.

“We grew up on the same street,” she explains, a cloudy look in her eyes like she can see it right in front of her eyes. My brother and sister theory suddenly doesn’t seem as ridiculous. “It was a shitty town, not even worth mentioning. An hour’s drive from Salt Lake City, which we hardly got to visit since it was the cesspool of depravity,” she says in a booming voice and smiles. “Dad always said that. And that was Salt Lake City. Los Angeles? New York? He paled just thinking about them! But not me, no. I always wanted to go myself, see what the fuss was about... Small town, everyone knew everyone. Really small place. I suppose it was cosy in its own way. Brendon was a few years younger than me, but we played together sometimes. All kids played together back there.”

I try to see Brendon as a small boy in this tiny place. I can’t really picture it, especially not him playing together with Audrey. “A small town in Utah,” I repeat, trying to take it in.

“Mormons.”

I do a double-take. “Mormons?”

“Yup,” she laughs and shakes her head disbelievingly. Audrey, a Mormon? Brendon a Mormon? She’s a groupie. He’s gay. What kind of Mormons are they? Audrey smiles lopsidedly, pushing long, pink hair behind her ear. She sways to the left slightly as she offers her hand. “Alma, pleased to meet you.”

I shake her hand in disbelief.

“It’s one of the Books in the Book of Mormon. Book of Alma,” she explains. “That town alone had fifty Almas in it. I always hated the name; there was nothing unique in it. But I thought I was, you know? I thought I... I listened to the radio at night. I snuck downstairs after everyone had gone to bed and tuned into the only rock station we got around there. And I’d listen with my ear pressed to the speaker... The music. It just ran down my spine, and let me tell you, let me tell you, you listening? Good, here’s some truth: that music was the only religious experience that I’ve ever felt. And when I was seventeen, I left the place. The Doors were playing in Salt Lake City. I had to see them, had to. Had to see Jim Morrison, you know? And it was like... I was reborn. Right there, that night. I got backstage too. Jim told me I was beautiful. It was the first time anyone had ever said that to me, and he asked me what my name was and – it just came out. ‘Audrey,’ I said. Audrey.” She laughs at the memory, and I don’t have the heart to tell her that, although Jim probably meant what he said, he didn’t feel it. It was just words. I know how we musicians think, and what we say is beauty in others we only see as reflections of ourselves.

Audrey takes the bottle back from me and takes two gulps. “So I met Jim that night. Met these amazing people, and that was that. I had left my family a note, saying that I had gone, so my parents knew. And then I was Audrey Kitching. I made up the last name later, it kind of sounds like the sound a cash register makes? You know, ka-ching? And it rhymes with bitching. I kind of mixed those two. Audrey Kitching,” she repeats with a pleased smile. “You like the name? I like the name. I never went back after that.”

I look over my shoulder and into the hotel room, seeing the guys hanging out. I see Brendon, who is from the same small town where there are fifty Almas and rock ‘n roll is a sin. How did that boy become that man?

“Is Brendon his real name?” I ask quietly. Something aches inside me at the thought of him having lied about that.

“Oh, yeah. He hasn’t changed that.” I relax slightly. I don’t know why it matters so much. “God, I couldn’t believe it when I saw him on that bus. I thought he was dead, you know.”

The sip of champagne I was taking gets caught in my throat, and I end up coughing into my fist.“D-Dead?”

“Uh huh,” she nods and now takes a slug. She finishes the bottle. “I think they all think he’s dead! Brendon disappeared back in...” Her eyebrows knit together, her concentrated expression nearly comical. “Back in ’66? ’67? He must have been around fifteen, I think. Poof! Gone! Didn’t come to school one day. No one knew anything. The Elders told us not to bother his family with it, not to ask questions. I remember how heartbroken all the Uries were.”

“Who?” I frown.

“The Uries. Brendon Urie?” she laughs, and it occurs to me that I don’t know what his last name is. “I forgot about him, I guess,” Audrey muses. “Most of us just forgot, though Bill Hinckley said that he saw Brendon’s dad digging a grave in the back of their house. Someone told the teacher, and Bill got into so much trouble. Most people just forgot about him. And then he was on that bus, and I recognised him, and not only was he breathing, but he was all grown up too. I couldn’t believe it! The dead Urie kid. And we lived two houses apart. I broke free from the place, and here I am now! And here he is too, ended up right here too. It’s like that, what’s it called? Karma? No, like, uh...”

“Kismet.”

“Yeah, kismet!” she nods eagerly, eventually shrugging. “No idea what happened to him. I didn’t ask. Up until then, I didn’t know people could disappear like that... And he seems oddly fascinated with David too.”

“Well, he’s gay. All gays are fascinated by David.”

“Brendon is gay?” Audrey gasps, eyes widening, and broken free or not, I can tell what the tiny Mormon part of her brain thinks about that. “I-I mean, I have gay friends, but they are – They are not from where I’m from, I mean – Maybe it’s good he disappeared. They would have killed him there. Shit. Are you sure he’s gay?” she asks desperately.

“Yeah,” I confirm. Brendon, disappearing at the age of fifteen, off the map until showing up in San Francisco less than two years ago. That’s over five years of where the hell was he and what did he do? Did he run away or was he thrown out? Or maybe he didn’t leave willingly at all, maybe he was taken?

Audrey laughs and covers her face with her hands. She laughs and laughs, and no wonder when I think of all the men she and Brendon have fucked, the drugs they’ve taken, the church gatherings they never attended, all in the name of rock ‘n roll, both of them.

“His family adored him,” Audrey says, smiling emptily and shrugging it off as a mystery of life. It leaves me with a haunting feeling I can’t shake off.

I finally go back inside and spot Brendon, who is now dancing on the table with Meryl, and they are both laughing their heads off. Of course his family adored him. That bright smile, those warm eyes? Who wouldn’t adore the kid?

But he vanished, and he won’t tell anyone what happened. It must have been bad. Worry swirls in me at the thought, and I hope it wasn’t anything too bad. He seems intact enough, but maybe it’s just another cover up.

I keep my eyes on Brendon and Meryl dancing, and David comes to me, following my gaze and saying, “Alright, you can have that one.”

“She’s all yours,” I say half-heartedly, happy that the girls will be leaving with David. That way our band will stop letting their dicks dictate all of our actions.

“I was talking about the guy,” David smirks and pats my shoulder. I freeze up. I wasn’t aware that I wanted him.

Next chapter

Vol.1: Over the Tracks - I [Chapter 7]

Tue, 08 Dec 2009 13:54:59 GMT

Previous chapter

Chapter 7: Tales of San Francisco/I Hold It Above My Head

The exhaustion creeps up on me slowly but surely, sucking away the energy I try to preserve for the evenings. It’s like sleep-walking, dozing off in dressing rooms and the bus lounge, constantly having someone shaking me awake. And the first small break I get when I can lie down on a hotel bed, Jac finally decides to call me. I listen to her stories of parties and mutual friends with a half-interested ear, eyes drooping and the hotel bed beneath me feeling so inviting. I was waiting for her to call me. She knows all the hotels we’re staying in and the name I go under: Angel Eyes. I liked that movie. And I’ve got fairly pretty eyes.

It took Jac weeks to call. I counted the days.

“Seems like he’s made an impression on you,” Jac says after I’ve done my part of vague, abbreviated sharing. My eyes flicker on the hotel room’s TV screen, waiting for Pete to come get me for another radio interview that I will probably fall asleep during.

“Huh?”

“This Brendon.”

“He’s a nice guy,” I amend, and Jac admits that she forgot to go to my place to water the plants and now they are all dead. The conversation feels like my now former plants, dry and resentful because she didn’t call me and I didn’t call her, and when she finally called, her timing was wrong and just ticked me off.

She says Los Angeles seems to be waking up to The Followers frenzy, that she keeps getting outed as my girlfriend. That it will be insane when we finally play the East Coast. That I better not forget about her.

She has to go before I do, the line clicking dead but the phone still pressed to my ear, and that’s two weeks of waiting for her to make the first move for a lot of nothing.

Spencer’s right. Maybe I need a new girlfriend, someone who dotes on me more than she does. But that’d never work either, because fuck anyone who thinks I can’t take care of myself.

Pete knocks on the door, and, half-asleep, half-awake, I force myself out of bed.

Spencer and I are doing the interview plus one song for a campus radio station, and the amateurism shows in the arrangements as the guy that walks us through campus just fusses and claims he is our number one fan. Luckily, he has to go to his Psychology 101 class after we arrive to the radio headquarters. Spencer scribbles postcards as we wait in the lounge, the crackling speakers in the corners carrying the host’s voice on how their team lost in the final round of the North American Debating Championship and that Swan University’s team won yet again. Echoes from a life I never had any interest in living.

Spencer had bought two postcards from the hotel lobby, and he offers me one, so I take it and contemplate on whom to address it to. Dad, definitely not. Probably doesn’t even know I’m on tour. Jac, maybe, but I don’t want to give her the pleasure. I could send it to myself, but that’d be sad. I could address it to ‘Brendon Urie’s parents’ and write Your son is alive and well, but it’s not like I know where they live.

It’s weird now that I know so much about the roadie, and he doesn’t know that I know. I won’t tell him I know either, since he clearly doesn’t want to talk about it. I look across the room at Andy and Brendon, who came with us. Andy is getting one of my guitars out of a gig bag, and Brendon is playing around with Spencer’s tambourine.

“Here you go,” Pete says, offering me a mug of black coffee. I push hair out of my eyes and take a long sip of it, the porcelain hot beneath my fingers. “No sugar?” I ask unhappily, Pete blinking at me. God, he can’t even do his job.

“We need stamps,” Spencer says and keeps scribbling, and Pete makes Andy go get us some. My eyes focus on what Spencer is writing on the back of a card, curiosity getting the best of me as I snatch it from his fingers. “Hey!” he protests.

“I hope you know that I think about you every day, from sunrise to sunset,” I read sceptically, eyeing the address line and mouthing ‘Suzie Smith’, who apparently lives in Cincinnati. Spencer takes the card back, glaring. “Who’s Suzie?”

“My cousin.”

“Well, that’s fucking creepy.”

“Fuck off, Ryan.”

Spencer punches my shoulder, and I grin and punch him back. “Hey, if incest is what it takes for you to get over Haley...”

Spencer groans loudly. “Pete, get this moron away from me, please?”

“Who’s Haley?” Brendon asks, and my eyes fly from him to Pete to Spencer. Spencer’s smile is gone, and Pete is trying hard not to look at the drummer as he examines his nails instead. Brendon’s realised he has said something wrong. I remember when Pete told Spencer the news, and if I stopped Spencer from punching Pete twice, it wasn’t for Pete’s sake. Brendon mutters a confused, “Sorry, uh...”

“Not at all. It seems she is out, anyway, and this Suzie, Spencer’s hot cousin, is in,” I say, trying to turn it into a joke. I get up and walk to the couch Brendon is on, sitting down and taking a pen to my still empty postcard. I clear my throat and start writing. “My dearest beloved. Being on the road is lonely without thee here. My heart aches to be with thine, my soul only complete when blessed by thy presence. Thy silky, brown hair –”

“Jac’s blonde, you idiot,” Spencer laughs, and I grin at him, glad that he is letting it be.

Brendon, apparently not having learned that sometimes silence is golden, asks, “Who’s Jac?”

“Ryan’s better half. If he has a better half,” Spencer says, giving me a cruel smile, and I stick my tongue out. If the immature schoolboy part of me manages to make Spencer smile, then I’ll let it roam free.

“I didn’t know you have a girlfriend,” Brendon says, sounding genuinely put off. “You’ve never mentioned her.”

“Not much to mention,” I shrug, finishing the card with an ‘RR xxxxxxxx’. I look at the ridiculous love letter on the back of the card and throw it on the coffee table. “Besides, she’s not a girlfriend in the traditional sense. She’s a girl and she’s a friend, you know? I’m telling you, in the future, there will be no such words as ‘girlfriend’ and ‘boyfriend’. They sound so goddamn archaic to me.”

Brendon looks at me in amusement, and yeah, he would be surprised to hear Jac exists. I’m pretty sure Brendon knows I haven’t exactly been living like a monk on this tour so far. Sex and affection are two completely different things, though. Jac knows that. Sex is just sex; you can have it with just about anyone. Affection, well. I’m fond of Jac. It doesn’t mean I’m telling her the shit I’ve done, and in return, she’s not telling me the shit she’s done.

“You’re a pioneer,” Spencer mumbles and finishes writing the card. “No one talked about this free love idea in the sixties.”

“Smart.”

“That I am,” he admits and grins at me.

The radio host walks out, just another kid, and we make the introductions and head over to the studio’s side with the guitar and tambourine while Pete and the roadies stay behind. I’ve finished my cup of coffee, but I desperately need another one. “If you fall asleep, I’ll poke you awake,” Spencer promises, and I nod tiredly and rub my eyes. I spot Brendon behind the glass and I motion at my mug, and he nods and gives a thumbs up.

“Okay, okay, okay! This is Nelson and you’re listening to the best, and well, only, Toronto University radio station, Radio Varsity!” He presses a button, and we hear a theme tune. “And we’ve got some special guests here with me. Remember how I told you there’d be something big happening today? We only kept it secret so that you crazy kids wouldn’t bombard these rockers as they made their way to the studio just a minute ago! So in the studio with me are Brian Ross and Spencer Smith of The –”

I bury my face in my hands and let Spencer correct the clueless fucker as the interview kicks off. Spencer answers the questions, and I nod and hum.

“What do you think of Toronto?”

Brendon carefully slides into the studio, handing me another mug of coffee. He mouths ‘two sugars’, and I smile, mouthing ‘Thanks’. He makes a show of bowing and tipping a hat he doesn’t have as he exits the room.

“Your tour is calling Jackie, Me and This Lady, and I read in your recent Creem interview that these are real people. So, who’s Jackie?”

By now, Jackie has become an on running gag. All interviewers ask it, and we’ve picked up the joke, going around the bus and venues while yelling at each other, “Hey, you seen Jackie around?”

Spencer shrugs and gives the kid an easy smile. “Jackie can be whoever you want her to be.”

“That’s really interesting. Now Ryan, how do you see the future of The Followers?”

I tear my eyes off of Brendon and look at this college kid instead. “Um, I don’t, really. Just taking it a day at a time. We’ll be touring well into September, then we’re probably taking some time off before recording again.”

“No long term plans?”

“Nope.”

You can’t make long term plans for a rock band. Will we still be recording and touring in thirty years’ time? God, I hope not. Three years into the future, okay, I can swing that. But who would want to live this life forever? Well, apart from Jagger, but he’s a crazy son of a bitch, anyway, and he was on heroin when he told me he’d still be jumping on stage when he’s sixty.

It’s harder getting out of the building than it was coming in. We end up delayed by an hour as Spencer and I patiently sign records and magazine covers for all the students who have turned up outside during our interview. There’s a guy who tells me he’s been to a number of shows already, and then he says, “Hey, Brendon and Andy!” really loudly, and the two roadies lift eyebrows and awkwardly wave back, and the guy looks pleased.

When we finally get back to the van driving us to the venue, Brendon grins. “I’m famous by association. This is awesome.”

“Uh huh,” I mutter and settle to sleep with my head against the window, the exhaustion finally taking over, and I have weird dreams of Jac, but she’s headless and floating; weightless, not anything I could touch, but I don’t have hands anyway, I don’t even have arms –

“Ryan, wake up!”

I open my eyes and realise we’re at the venue. The van is parked in the back. Brendon is quirking an eyebrow at me. We’re alone. “Soundcheck.”

“Riiiight,” I mumble tiredly and frown. “What city are we in?”

“Toronto. Still. Come on, I’ll lead the way,” Brendon offers, and I follow him out of the van and into the venue. “So hey, I just, uh, did I say something wrong back there? About this Haley or whoever?”

We snake in the crowd of venue workers, lights people, sound techs, cleaners, promoters. They blur together in my tired eyes, and I have to rake my brain to catch myself up with Brendon. “Spencer’s ex-girlfriend. They split up a long time ago, but he’s still on the broken heart wagon.”

“That it? Pete just looked kinda...” he trails off.

We stop to give way to the support band’s dancers. The band’s local, and they think it’s great to have the stage full of crap like these half a dozen chicks dancing to their music. Sure, the girls are hot, but why try to draw attention away from the music? The girls all bat their eyelashes at me, someone giggles, and someone says, “Come on, Keltie, let’s go warm up!”

The girls are gone in a flash of blonde and brown, leg warmers on their perfectly shaped legs. I stare after them absentmindedly and address Brendon. “Tell you what. I’ll spill all about Haley if you give me a story of your own in return.”

Brendon frowns as we reach the stage, the rest of my band and crew already setting things up. “I don’t have any stories.”

“Let me be the judge of that,” I say firmly. Brendon looks surprised but nods anyway before he begins pushing one of the amp cases on stage.

* * *

I say, “So you go first.”

It’s quarter past four in the morning and I’m digging into my early-breakfast cheeseburger, fries, and strawberry milkshake. I haven’t gone to bed yet. I’m awake whenever I could be asleep, and I’m sleepy whenever I need to be awake. The fluorescent lamp hanging above our booth is nearly hurting my stinging eyes, its light shooting back up at me from the table’s black surface. I look like a goddamn mess, and I sigh, taking another bite of the tasteless burger. I’m too tired to care. Brendon looks slightly nauseated as he sits across from me in the roadside diner. “What?” I ask, still chewing.

“Your mother ever taught you any table manners?”

“I’m hungry.”

“I can see that.”

I suck the straw, and Brendon watches. Yummy strawberry milkshake is yummy.

Brendon laughs. “Any idea how many calories you’re consuming before it’s even dawn?”

“Calories? What are those? Look, man, I’ll tell you a tour secret: whenever you’ve got the opportunity to sleep, you sleep. Every chance you get to eat, you eat. Fries?”

He shakes his head. His loss.

We’re the only ones awake. Brendon’s driving the rest of the way and we pulled over to refill the tank. The support band imitated us, and their bus is parked next to ours outside. It’s a weird type of night this far north, where it doesn’t get dark properly. The world outside is light blue, like the sun is wrapped up in a shroud and is hiding just behind the corner somewhere.

On the other side of the diner are the support’s dancers and a few guys from the band, too excited about being on the road to sleep. It’s easy for them, doing a handful of shows with us. It’s not long enough for them to learn or to relate, not that I wish more people could relate to me.

Twelve down, forty-three to go.

I focus on Brendon again, who is sipping his coffee slowly, waiting for it to cool down. “You should tell me something about you before I tell you about the Haley business.”

“See, I’ve thought about it, and I honestly have nothing interesting to share.”

“Nothing’s ever happened to you?” I ask sceptically, and he nods. Well, that’s a fucking lie. How about his disappearance? Or even his childhood in Mormon paradise? But he doesn’t know that I know about any of that, and it’s more than clear he doesn’t want anyone asking about his past either. I tried already. “Well, what kind of things do you know about?”

Brendon laughs. “I know the good bars in The Castro.”

“Okay, tell me about those, then. But you better be honest.”

He hesitates. “Don’t know, man. It might, uh... upset a straight man of such upstanding morals such as yourself.”

I wave him off with my left hand. “Please, I have no morals. I once had a thing with a girl who wanted me to choke her until she passed out. And, for the record, I did.”

Brendon’s eyebrows go up to his hairline. “Well, okay then.”

And he begins telling me tales of San Francisco, a potential promised land for guys like him. I can’t picture it in my head, though I try. More and more homosexuals move there all the time; every week there are new faces in the area. Some are young kids who have run away, some are older, in their thirties or forties who only now have had the courage to admit who they are. Brendon says that his last apartment was on Castro Street, right at the spot where it all comes together. (“Where do you live now, then?” I ask, and he shrugs, a faint blush on his cheeks as he looks out of the window. “I’m kind of in between places right now. What with this tour and all, I’m living on that bus this summer.”) You can walk down the main street and see men kissing. Sometimes women, they do get some lesbians too. But sometimes you leave your apartment only to hear that someone got beaten up last night, not only two blocks from where you live. And you get the occasional Christian trying to give out flyers on the street, screaming that you’re an abomination and sick and twisted. Brendon’s politically active, but not everyone cares. Most don’t bother looking at the bigger picture at all.

He describes the street where the young hookers are. New in town, no money, they’ll sleep with anyone and do anything. And despite what they’re doing, they are good kids, but too many disappear with a client and never come back. Married middle-aged men pick them up and fuck them in dirty motels and feel guilty that God hates them for wanting young boy meat. The boy gets twenty bucks and a load up his ass, bruises on his waist. But those boys, those hookers, are for the closet cases that aren’t a part of the community. If you want sex, you can get it. Anywhere. Anytime.

“We call them glory holes,” he explains, and I stare in disbelief as he describes a bar that is no bar at all, just a place to go and have sex. And they don’t even keep it to the back rooms, no. There’s one bar, loud music, dim, dim lights and plenty of dark corners and couches. And there are these mazes that you go into with holes in the walls, and you can just put your dick through one of them, and some guy on the other side sucks you off. You’ve no idea who it is. Brendon knows a guy who accidentally blew his brother.

“That is disgusting, you know that, right?” I deadpan, genuinely disgusted as he laughs hysterically.

“Yeah, I know, man, but it was all anyone talked about for weeks! Seriously, it was the funniest thing!” He wipes the corners of his eyes. “Ah, where was I? Yeah, the sex. Right, okay. I mean, I’ve never been down the heterosexual path, but I’ve seen plenty of that side. And straight people have these ridiculous courting rituals. If you’re gay, it’s easy. You see a guy you like, you look them in the eye and nod towards a corner; if they’re game, they come with you. You don’t even need to speak, man.”

“Fuck.” Why aren’t girls that easy? “Is there, like... a certain thing you do with your eyes or...? I mean, how do you do it? Give me the look.”

“Uh, okay.” He glances down and clears his throat. He lifts his gaze, and oh. Oh. His eyes are staring right into my goddamn soul, or maybe deeper than that, soft and inviting, his plump bottom lip playfully between his white teeth, lips curved in a suave smile, and that’s seduction. Right there.

No wonder they go with him.

“Huh,” I manage.

Brendon breaks into laughter, seduction evaporating in an instant, and he’s back to his usual self. He snatches one of my fries. “I don’t go to those places. Been to once or twice, but that was enough, you know? I mean, the focus tends to be on the sex because that’s the thing that separates us from you. But that doesn’t mean it’s all to do with sex. There’s love and friendship and partners too.”

“Except for you, of course. You’re too cute to settle down.”

“You remember,” he grins. The dancers giggle loudly, and we look their way. They giggle louder. Brendon sighs. “I think that brunette has got a crush on me. Poor girl, no gaydar.”

“Sure,” I chuckle. It’s obvious it’s me she wants. Just then the girl stands up and makes her way over to us. Brendon and I exchange glances.

She beams. “Hi. I’m Tracy. I’m one of the dancers?”

“Yeah, I know,” Brendon smiles back. “I saw you on stage back in Toronto. You’re very flexible.”

“It’s a gift!” she laughs, squeezes to sit next to Brendon without an invitation, and adds, “Though, honestly, it’s hard work, you’ve no idea.” She’s drunk. I’m sobering up from the night before. What a perfect balance.

“I’m sure it is,” I grant her and finish my milkshake. I’m pathetically homeostatic – now that I’m full, my body is telling me to sleep.

“You guys taking off soon? I know we are. But I was just thinking if maybe you two would want to give me a tour around your bus? It’s so shiny and new! I bet it, uh, would be just magical. If I would come along... with both of you. The three of us. Going back to your bus.”

Brendon pales visibly, but Joe and I get threesome suggestions all the time. I would never, nuh-uh, not with Joe. God, that is a million times wrong. And there was that one girl who wanted me and Spencer, which is even more wrong. With two girls, sure, and I have been down that road before. Tracy is smiling drunkenly. For a guy who has visited glory holes, Brendon shouldn’t be so shocked.

“Thanks, Tracy, but that’s never gonna happen,” I laugh sweetly. “And it’s not me or Brendon, by the way. It’s you.”

She frowns. “Well, you’re a jerk.”

“And you’re a slut, so what gives?”

Tracy shoots up, clearly angered. “You should hear the shit they say about you, Ryan Ross! You’re in no position to judge me! I was homecoming queen!”

One of the other dancers has hurried over and is gently trying to take a hold of Tracy, beckoning, “Trace, come on! Please? Sorry, you guys, she’s had a bit too much –”

Tracy huffs and swirls around, snapping, “Don’t touch me! Keltie, don’t touch me!”

The blonde girl sends another apologetic look our way, her eyes lingering on me for a while, as she and the rest of the dancers leave the diner, and Brendon hums loudly under his breath. “Awkward.”

“Bitch,” I remark, gathering the last bits of ketchup from the plate with my thumb and licking it off. Brendon is staring. “I can eat my ketchup if I want to! Fuck!” I stand up and head for the door, and Brendon follows me.

The things they say about me. Who’s “they” and what do they know, anyway? No one’s perfect. No one’s goddamn perfect, and, whatever, they can say what the fuck they want. See if I care. What have they accomplished? Have they given their life to music like I have? Sacrificed as much as I have? That stupid, drunken bitch.

“Ryan, you okay?” Brendon asks as we reach the bus, his face disbelieving. I ignore him. He rolls his eyes. “Look, don’t give me an attitude if –”

“Technically, you’re working for me, so I can give you an attitude if I want to. Got it?”

Brendon doesn’t back off. Everyone I know, except for Spencer and Jac, would back off.

“Dude, who cares what she said? Are you really that sensitive to criticism? I bet you can’t even read the album reviews –”

“Oh, I can, that’s no problem. They always praise us, anyway.”

Brendon makes a ‘tut’ with his tongue, and it speaks more than words would, meaning I’m spoiled, self-centred, arrogant, acting like a bit of an asshole right now, and who cares what Brendon thinks either? He’s just some homeless fag.

He opens the door to the bus, and I hurry inside, shrugging off my jacket and throwing it on the couch of the messy lounge, beer bottles and setlist sketches lying on the floor. Brendon follows me, lowering his voice so that he doesn’t disturb the rest of the guys sleeping in their bunks. “You still owe me your story, but we’ll save it for another time when your ego’s in check.”

I pull my shirt off and throw it on the floor, shaking my head at him. “You’re this close to losing your job, Brendon. This fucking close.”

I go to my back lounge nest without another word to him, kicking off my jeans and sliding under the covers. The bus takes off a minute later, and I wait for sleep to finally take over as I watch the light coming from the two small windows, creating changing, eerie shadows on the walls.

But sleep doesn’t come.

* * *

The audience roars like a starving dragon, and the stage lights hit my skin, being the flame that scorches me. My fingers ache as we launch into our last song, my shirt glued to my back. Brent walks over to me, moving with the music, his bass pressed to his lower stomach and crotch. I flip my head and try to get wet bangs off my forehead.

Joe yells, “Yeah!” into his microphone. We don’t have any fucking “yeah”s in this song.

The lights keep changing, bright yellow and red and blue, and I move to sing into the microphone and the audience sings back at me. Everyone knows the lyrics now. I stop playing the guitar after the second verse, and we kick into a new part. I catch the tambourine Zack throws me from the side of the stage. I hold it above my head first and then start beating it in front of my chest, smacking it to my open palm so that the microphone will catch the sound.

Eventually, the drum beats stop, leaving only the bass, tambourine and guitar. Then the bass stops, and eventually Joe plucks the last string, and it’s just me and my voice and the tambourine, and the audience sings the final line with me as the guys stand around me, taking in the moment, and the edge of the tambourine hits my palm one last time. I close my eyes. A drop of sweat dips off my nose. One, two –

They start screaming and applauding. I step away from the mic, out of the spotlight, a wounded animal taking a step away from its predator. Joe is speaking to the crowd. “Thank you so much, Ottawa, you’re beautiful!”

We leave the stage, high five the crew, who are waiting around to start packing everything up. My gaze meet’s Brendon’s. “Meet me by the bus in twenty,” I say, and it sounds like an order without me having to try. He looks surprised but nods, and Pete shrugs as an okay that Brendon will be sliding from his duties prematurely. The audience is now trying to leave, thousands of feet moving restlessly.

After I’ve had a quick shower and have put clean clothes on, I throw my duffel bag over my shoulder and go outside to smoke. The rest of the band hasn’t even gotten out of their stage clothes as they buzz with adrenalin from the show. They enjoy playing live, the rest of them.

Brendon shows up as I’m halfway through my first cigarette. The tour buses are in a fenced area in the back, and I don’t have to worry about getting targeted here. I lean against the silvery metal side of our bus, my bag at my feet and hair wet from the shower. Brendon looks at me cautiously, a hint of resentment in his eyes. I cough and wipe my nose. “Hey.”

“You wanted to see me?”

I nod to confirm it.

“You’re gonna fire me, maybe?” He sounds mocking. I force myself not to think about the shitty things he said to me, because if I think about them, I’ll just get pissed again. I’ve spent the entire day trying to forget about it.

“It was a few years ago, before we were famous like this,” I kick off, and he instantly silences, interested eyes fixing on me. “We’d just released the second album, and I think Haley came to a show with a friend of hers, who was a big fan. And it was more relaxed back then, I mean, I never liked talking to fans, but it happened more back then, kids just sticking around while we packed up our gear. And Haley and Spencer got talking, sparks flying. She drove to the next town to see us again. I mean, I figured she was just another groupie, but then Spencer fell for her.”

“Was she a groupie?”

“No,” I laugh. “Not that girl, not ever. She’s far too respectable for that. Or so I thought.” I finish my cigarette quietly, scraping the asphalt with the soles of my shoes. There’s something about Brendon that makes me nervous. “She never liked me. Thought I was kind of a bad influence on Spencer. She’s known Spencer for, what, a few months and she concludes that? I’ve known Spencer since he was a kid. But I still know that she got to see sides of Spencer I never will, that’s to be expected. I mean, Spencer changed during that time he was with her. We kept getting more and more famous, and this is where Pete comes in. The thing you gotta understand is that this band is a product. That’s the first thing Pete said when we signed to Capitol and he became our manager. And we gotta make sure that kids want to buy us, and a lot of those kids are female with these fantasies of us, so girlfriends? A bad idea, will damage the band. So we don’t want that. And that’s why Haley had to go.”

Brendon frowns. “Spencer dumped his girlfriend because Pete told him to?”

“No. Spencer refused to do it. He was in love, remember? Love of his life, wanted to marry her and grow old with her, all those things. So Pete made her an offer that she could have refused, but she didn’t. She took the money, and when Spencer went home after a day of recording, she was gone. Even took their dogs with her.”

“So it wasn’t love.”

“And she wasn’t that respectable either,” I conclude, lighting a second cigarette. I smoke like a chimney, but so what? It’s not like smoking damages my health. Brendon looks upset, but what I told him is the truth. Yes, it was an asshole move from Pete, but she could have told him to fuck off, couldn’t she? And Spencer threatened to quit after that, but he made the right decisions and stayed. I need him in this band.

He’s not the same anymore, though. I feel like Spencer shut me out after that, and I didn’t take sides, not really. I was happy that Haley was out of the picture. Nothing against her, but she never fit into this world of ours. She was too uncompromising. But I didn’t exactly tell Pete to go to hell either, just shrugged and concluded that it was just how things were now. And some six months down the line, Spencer still keeps his secrets to himself, and he won’t come to me if something’s wrong. Probably doesn’t trust me.

“That’s horrible,” Brendon whispers eventually. “That you... share so much with another person, give your heart to them, and they – they accept a bribe to leave. That you didn’t even matter?”

“And still Spencer won’t say a bad thing about her. Love is not only blind, it’s stupid as well. And we’ve all made sacrifices to be in this band, you know? His was just a bit more personal.”

“But what about Jac? Why can you have a girlfriend?”

I shake my head. “Totally different thing. Haley and Spencer were like the super couple, attached from the hip, finishing each other’s sentences, googly eyes, future plans. Jac is a girl and a friend. The end.”

“So you said,” Brendon recalls, extending his arm with a questioning eyebrow, and I pass him my cigarette. He takes a deep drag.

“I’d never let her get in the way of the music. She doesn’t pose a threat to the band. And I know Spencer’s still angry, but he’s young! He’s a famous drummer. He should enjoy his freedom, you know?” Except that Spencer’s not living it up in any way, and Brendon probably knows that too if he has paid any attention. “Anyway, that’s the story. You’re better off not mentioning Haley. I’ve kind of been trying to help him move on, to get him laid, but it’s been to no avail.”

Brendon nods and tips the end of the cigarette. “Getting laid on this tour is damn difficult. Everyone’s too straight.”

I smirk. “What about the party in Cleveland?”

Brendon shrugs it off, doesn’t ask how I know about that. “That was days and days ago. Who remembers Cleveland anymore? I should’ve known better. Prog rock, but no one’s that progressive.”

“Aw, the poor gay kid, stuck with chick loving rockers,” I laugh, and he glares at me before rolling his eyes. “You might have some luck with Tracy the dancer.”

He winces. “Let’s not go down that road. Ever. I mean, I know that our generation is the reckless one that’s doing all the insane shit our parents never even dreamt of doing, and I want to have all kinds of life experiences, too. I could kiss a girl. I’ve kissed girls; that doesn’t gross me out. But Tracy? No, that’s where I draw the line.”

“If you’re desperate,” I suggest, but he shakes his head like he will never be that desperate. He flicks the cigarette onto the ground and steps on it, and I watch him, feeling suddenly playful. “Come here,” I say, and he lifts an eyebrow as I step closer.

“What?”

“I was a dick to you last night. Believe it or not, I do know when I’m being a dick.”

“Count me amazed.”

I take another step and am in his space. Brendon is looking at me with a puzzled expression. I begin to lean in as I whisper a teasing and smug, “Let me apologise.”

Brendon freezes slightly, eyes widening. “What are you doing?”

“Pitying you,” I shrug with a smirk, amused by the thought of all the action he thought he’d be getting on this tour, leaning in the rest of the way until my lips find his. It doesn’t gross me out either, a kiss one way or another has never meant anything. Just skin on skin. That’s what I expect, and I have already visualised his snappy comeback and me laughing at him some more after this. But then the joke is gone. Our lips touch, and it’s not funny anymore.

The touch is barely there, but I feel his warmth, the smell of cigarettes in his breath. And maybe, maybe if his lips weren’t slightly parted like they are, I wouldn’t notice the slight moistness of his lower lip. But I notice it, and I recoil in surprise, but only an inch, if even that. It shoots straight to me. My eyes are focused on his cheek as our breaths mix together.

Brendon swallows. My stomach twists.

And that. That was. That –

I move towards him as he moves towards me, his head tilting slightly, our lips hovering, trying to find something, searching, then it fits – it must fit, because our lips press together again. I feel the kiss in all of my body. His hand curls around my hip, and I fist his hair and pull his head closer, our lips suddenly bruising together. Jolts of excitement fly up and down my spine, all from the hungry movements of our mouths, and his lips, god, they are so soft. His stubble scratches my chin, and his hand comes up to caress my neck, all calloused fingertips.

His tongue swipes over my lower lip before going in deeper, and I don’t object. Maybe I should. I don’t. This isn’t pity anymore. No, pity, definitely not.

His hair is short as it swipes beneath my fingers, our bodies pressing together. A shuddery breath from my throat gets lost as our tongues move together, so dirty and willing. Brendon moans, a short, aroused sound, and my crotch is pressed to his, our stomachs together, our chests. His body mirrors mine in a way that terrifies and fascinates me. I keep kissing him, pulse picking up, my thumb brushing his jaw line as he opens up for me.

What am I doing? What the fucking fuck do I think I’m doing?

His hand moves to the small of my back, to the top of my jeans where his nails dig into my skin. A sudden wave of heat washes over me from the touch.

Then I hear high heels against the ground, a distinctive click-click-click sound from somewhere close by. I pull back from the kiss, or kisses, kissing, the battle of our mouths, a strand of saliva stretching from my lower lip to his before breaking off.

I step back, horrified. Brendon looks as shocked as me.

Click-click-click –

“Brendon?”

Brendon flinches, wipes his mouth, and I focus on the girl who has just rounded the bus. The blonde dancer who took Tracy away last night. She looks hesitant. I hurry to get out a cigarette to give my hands something to do, but I know I just fumble aimlessly.

“Yeah?” Brendon asks. His voice is rough.

“Pete sent me to get you? Brent won’t let the other roadies pack up his bass, so they need you.” She smiles expectantly. My heart races, trapped in my ribcage with no hope of escape. What the hell did I just...?

“Oh. Yeah. Course.” Brendon looks at me. I avoid it by lighting the cigarette and taking a deep drag.

I watch his shoes walking away and vanishing around the front of the bus.

A distancing click-click-click and her friendly voice chattering, and Brendon makes no sound at all as he walks, no, he wouldn’t. He’s the kind that sneaks up on you, and then he’s on you, you’re on him, before you even had the tiniest fucking clue that it was going to happen.

Next chapter

Vol.1: Over the Tracks - I [Chapter 8]

Tue, 08 Dec 2009 13:53:23 GMT

Previous chapter

Chapter 8: An Absurd Notion

So maybe I am attracted to him. His full lips and beautiful eyes, his slender body, the round ass... But acknowledging that doesn’t mean that I’m not a straight man. I admire beauty. There is absolutely nothing wrong with that. Though, if I asked Spencer, he would say that it’s one thing to admire beauty from afar and another to want to touch it and feel it in your hands.

I’m not going to consult Spencer on this. No, that is a definite, definite no. I’m never going to tell anyone about anything. Not their business what I do.

I keep watching the light of the street lamps sweep across the lounge table as our bus treads more and more miles in the quiet summer night. An orangey glow goes across the table, and then the shadow is back, then the light, the shadow. I watch the way the lights play on the opened notebook, the pen, my knuckles and the empty vodka flask.

The page remains empty. I haven’t written anything since Ottawa.

And, besides, the more I think about it, the more I realise that I’m not attracted to him. It’s an absurd notion that I would be, and the fact that he kissed me doesn’t prove anything. I’m famous. I’m not exactly ugly. He’s gay, and he’s lonely. I’m one of the few people around here who bother socialising with him. So he misread the situation, and I went along with it. Could happen to anyone, I’m sure.

I’m so not attracted to him.

The door separating the bunk area from the lounge opens. My eyes, which have adjusted to the dark, instantly spot a sleepy looking Brendon, who doesn’t look my way as he simply enters the toilet, pyjama bottoms hanging low on his skinny hips. The lock clicks to its place. The bus hums silently around me.

My pulse has picked up.

I muffle a frustrated groan and bring the flask to my lips. One drop drips into my mouth. I stare at the flask disappointedly. “Et tu, Brute?”

The toilet is flushed, the swoosh sound coming through the paper thin walls. I slide the flask back into my pocket, trying to hide evidence.

Maybe I’m a bit drunk, but I certainly am not attracted to the roadie. I should sneak to my nest before he comes out, or maybe I should go to the front to chat with William, but I’ve been trying to figure out if William knows. Brendon might have told him, them being friends and all. William’s not said anything. William’s not the kind of guy who could hide a thing like that; he’d tell half the world and send letters to the rest.

The lounge is dark, the lights switched off. I’m in the shadows, so I stay where I am, knowing I’m pretty invisible in my corner. Good plan.

The bathroom door reopens. The light inside casts a narrow beam across the lounge. Straight on me.

Well, shit.

Brendon stops. “Oh. Hi. Didn’t see you there.” He closes the door. I hum.

Apart from the “Morning,” “Where’s the dressing room?”, “Where am I?”, “Can you pass me the capo/guitar cable/weed/setlist?” comments, we’ve not talked, and we’ve not been in private without others around. I don’t know much about the guy, but I know he’s not stupid, so my avoiding-all-eye-contact technique was pretty easy to read. It still should be.

He asks, “What are you doing?”

I shrug, lifting my shoulders more than necessary. “Sitting in the dark bus lounge in the middle of the night.”

Silence. I didn’t look, it’s not like I looked, but I still saw the flat plane of his stomach, the V of his hips, his bare chest. “Want some company?” he asks.

I tense up. Is that gay code for something?

I take my pen and tap it onto the still empty page, letting my eyes focus on it. “I’m good, thanks.”

He scoffs. “Whatever.”

I look up in time to watch him turn away, surprised by the scorn because I haven’t done anything, have I? The flash of the streetlights hits his turned away form, and I can see two identical indents on his lower back, just above where his pyjama bottoms end. Back dimples, surrounded by smooth skin, crowned by the cut of his spine, moving up to pale, strong shoulders and back down again, shoulder blades, spine, dimples. Skin. Muscle. Bone. Within my reach.

The bunk area door closes. My breathing is shallow.

So maybe I am attracted to him.

* * *

I have no idea why I bitched about our five New York shows. In fact, I should really congratulate Pete for being such an amazing manager and tell the guys not to throw litter around the bus to piss Pete off. The way he acts around the vehicle is comical to say the least, petting the walls, talking to it, asking if we all want to get together and give it a good, loving wash before soundcheck. Which, for the record, we do not want. Getting out of the claustrophobic bus and staying in a hotel for practically a week? No chance of bumping into a half-dressed Brendon? Pete’s a goddamn genius.

We’re all staying on the same floor in the hotel, the crew guys sharing rooms, but the four of us move into a suite with four bedrooms. It’s a bit too close to Joe Trohman than I’d like to be, but I can always just stay in my room. I have interviews all day, and Pete is so awesome for arranging those too. No crew needed in interviews.

As I open the door to our suite, I note from the corner of my eye that William and Brendon are staying in the room next door. Brendon will be just on the other side of the wall, but at least it’s further away than two steps from my bed, behind the door, upper bunk immediately on the left.

The day flies by as the four of us are stuck in interviews where they all ask the same goddamn questions. But I suck it up and enjoy the Brendonless environment where I don’t need to try and process having sexual desires towards a fucking guy. Joe and Spencer do most of the talking. Brent is clearly suffering as he snaps a few replies, and I can relate to his frustration. It’s too much work to make an effort in every interview.

We don’t have a show tonight. Instead, our five sold out New York gigs start tomorrow, but it shouldn’t be too bad. We don’t need to drive to a new place every night, we don’t need to pack up and unpack again. This almost feels like a vacation. Spencer counts the days until we’re done with the East Coast and have a month’s break before the tour’s second leg: seventeen days. If I can avoid Brendon for seventeen days, I can be free of him for a month, go home, clear my head, get this thing out of my system where my thoughts inevitably gravitate towards his lips.

When we finally return to our suite, we try and work on tomorrow’s setlist, but instead, we just start drinking. We’re heading out to a club. We’ve been invited. It’s refreshing that we no longer have to try and get invites. Rewind five years back before we got signed, Joe and I going around and promoting us, trying to get gigs in shitty LA clubs. Now: New York City, four star hotel, top floor suite, complimentary beer.

But Spencer, who is the biggest supporter of unity among us, says we should go get the roadies too, have fun together. And so fifteen minutes later, William, Andy, Brendon and Zack come back with Spencer, and Andy asks if anyone wants to do some LSD with him. Joe and William do. Brendon keeps talking to Spencer, not even acknowledging me. The suite’s living room isn’t that big, so Brendon could at least acknowledge me.

A sharp knock sounds on the door, and Brent groans. “That’s gonna be the hotel telling us to shut up.”

“Or maybe fans. You know those few kids that have been following us since Montreal?” Joe points out.

Brent nods as he heads over. “I’ll get it.”

I keep talking to Zack, but then I hear her voice. The hair at the back of my neck sticks up at the sound. Zack is already looking towards the door, and I follow his gaze. There she is with her arms around Brent, and Brent is happily hugging her back. And she is all fair skin with short, short hot pants, her stomach bare, a tiny t-shirt that covers her chest, enough make up on for ten girls, four inch platform shoes, and she lets go of Brent and looks at the rest of us, beaming.

I stare at her like she has stepped out of some alternative reality and suddenly made her way into this hotel room scene full of swear words, sweat, dirty clothes, exhausted musicians and stressed out roadies. She beams at me. “Missed me?”

I manage to say, “Jac.”

She laughs. “Did you forget I was coming?”

Yes.

“Of course not!” I say as I go greet her, kissing her on the lips and wrapping my arm around her shoulders. With the shoes she’s wearing, she is practically my height. She waves at the others, and there she goes. A natural star and centre of attention.

“He’s been a good boy, hasn’t he?” she asks, and the guys nod and assure I’ve been nothing but innocent and loyal and talking about her constantly. My eyes meet Brendon’s, and I’m not sure if I’ve ever felt quite as uncomfortable.

Jac grabs a beer bottle and blends in. She can blend into any crowd.

I forgot she was coming, but she brings with her dry land, something for me to hold onto, and I let my hand rest on her shoulders, her long, silky hair sweeping my fingertips, and I drink up, finding it easier to smile as she jokes with Andy and Joe. Long and silky. Blonde. Not short and brown.

“Bren, you’ve never met Jac, have you?” Andy says, and then Brendon is there. He offers his hand cordially.

“Brendon?” Jac clarifies and shakes hands with the roadie. “Ryan’s told me so much about you!”

Jac’s called me once during this tour. I merely mentioned the guy, so what the hell? Okay, maybe I did talk about Brendon for ten minutes, but I was just trying to fill up the silence. He’s the only new crew member, the only one Jac hasn’t met. Joe is quirking an amused eyebrow at me, a slight tease in it, and oh come on. I’m the straightest guy in this room, so ha ha, could we please not even go there?

Jac nudges my side. “You didn’t tell me he’s gorgeous!”

Brendon looks at her, completely unimpressed. “What is it about women on this tour not having gaydars?” he asks Andy and simply walks away. The drugs are kicking in with Andy since he doesn’t seem to notice Brendon’s departure and instead asks Joe if the furniture is moving or if it’s just him.

No one is ever rude to Jac. Well, maybe Spencer is a bit cold towards her, but everyone else is like melted butter. Guys, at least. A lot of chicks seem to think of her as a threat, though, and Brendon technically is one of the chicks.

Maybe he’s jealous. Maybe he’s completely in love with me. Well, I wouldn’t be surprised. He did kiss me, after all. But as flattering as that is, he needs to know that I won’t make a habit of pity make out sessions. Not that it was full on making out, of course, it just got a bit out of hand. It’s in the past. I’ve fucked girls with less retrospect than this. And what was it that Brendon said to me about that annoying Tracy chick? That it was a big deal if I made it a big deal. Good advice, actually.

So we kissed. So I do find him attractive, for some completely fucked up reason. But it’s not a big deal, and it doesn’t mean anything, either.

Jac is still staring after Brendon with a slightly affronted expression. “Never mind him, baby,” I tell her.

“Brendon’s on his period,” Joe supplies with a chuckle. “So we going to this club or what?”

We leave before Pete can follow us and bother everyone by saying when we should go, what we should drink, who we should fuck, who we shouldn’t fuck. Pete can ruin any party. It’s a magical skill, really.

I’m not sure if it’s meant to be a gag, but the club is actually a disco. It’s still a blur of alcohol and drugs, people dancing and laughing. A group of Joe’s acquaintances are already there, and we mix into a huge group wanting to have a good time. Jac disappears at some point, and I can’t find her, and I can’t find Brent either, or Joe, or Spencer, and I don’t recognise anyone around me for at least an hour, but I end up talking to some guy at the bar and doing tequila shots with him. I then find Spencer talking to some chick who is explaining about her one-year-old son, and Spencer, to my horror, seems genuinely interested as he asks if the son can talk or walk yet, and she explains eagerly, asking us if we’ve got kids, which we don’t, thank you, so I swerve in to save him from his boring fate.

Joe’s been getting shitfaced with some red-haired girl, and then Zack is telling me he thinks I’ve had a bit too much. Goddamn Pete’s minion, he should just relax. Jac and Brent return at the same time, and Jac and I go dancing as we kiss sloppily. She laughs against my mouth, and I’m glad she’s here.

“So he is gay,” she says, and I follow her gaze to the corner table hidden from most of the club, but visible from where we are. And there Brendon is with some guy. Again. Lips locked. “I thought maybe he was trying to make himself seem interesting.”

“He uses foreign versions of ‘Thank you’ for that,” I tell her. The guy he’s with isn’t even that good-looking. This isn’t a homo bar. He should be careful someone doesn’t beat him and lover boy unconscious. They’d deserve it too.

“Hey, eyes on me!” Jac demands. I wasn’t staring. Brendon sure goes around.

If we can see them, they can see us. I kiss Jac again.

Club, people, bodies. ‘Staff Only’ door, back hallway. She laughs. We share a joint. I want to get off. We skip goodbyes on the way out. The street is dark, but New York is hot as hell during summer. Taxi. Her hair, soft, soft. Indian taxi driver. I’m on the top of the world. Back at the hotel, can’t find my keys. A few fans in the lobby, waiting for the band. One says, “I’m Sisky! I’m your biggest fan!” The doorman intervenes and throws them out. I tip him. Jac laughs and swirls like she can hear music no one else can. The suite and into my room, finally. Bed. Pull my shirt off. Kiss her stomach, go down on her. My hard-on aching for release. I suck on her clit, try to focus on it. I practically rub myself against the mattress. Fucking hell, Brendon.

Jac sighs. “You did miss me.”

I’m brought back to the reality of the situation, and that’s what I need her for.

I missed knowing who I am.

Her pussy is slightly swollen. She says not to go too fast when I push in. She doesn’t say it, but I know she’s sore. Who’s fucked her and when, I don’t know, but she could at least try to cover it up a bit more. She could make an effort to focus on the person she is with, not the person she secretly wishes it was.

The way I do.

* * *

The bell rings above the door, and I self-consciously hang my head and keep my sunglasses on as I step into the record store. If I get recognised some place, it would definitely be here. They’re even playing our new record, for god’s sake, though I smile at that.

I walk straight to the counter, and the black-haired man behind it asks, “What can I do for you?” as he keeps his eyes on the paperwork in front of him.

“I had a look around, but I can’t find any of the best disco music.”

He scoffs. “You so have the wrong pla –” He looks up and breaks into a grin. “Ryan! You goddamn dog!”

I grin. “Hey, man.”

Eric rounds the counter and comes to give me a big hug, quickly ushering me into the backroom. “Take over, would you?” he calls to the kid that is putting new records on display. The girl nods distractedly, singing along to my song. For once, I don’t mind.

The back room is separated from the main shop only by a purple beaded curtain, but it’s enough shelter for me to take my sunglasses off. Eric’s gotten two beers from the fridge and he motions me to sit down in the clutter of the back room. I sit by the table after lifting a pile of Court and Spark LPs off the chair. The backroom is full of unopened deliveries, broken records, ads for gigs that have been already. There’s a notice board above the table with instructions like, ‘Wash your hands, you filthy pig’, ‘NO ONE IS ALLOWED TO PLAY SONNY AND CHER IN THIS SHOP’ and a more official ‘Eric’s Record Store’s Shift List’.

“How you been? How’s the tour going? I was wondering when you’d show your ugly face around here,” Eric beams. I know him from when he used to live in LA, moving to New York two years back when his band fell through. Not all of us can be famous. He started up his own record shop, made a nice fortune selling signed copies of our second album, and he’s already casually putting a dozen copies of Boneless on the table. I take the marker from the clutter and start signing without him having to ask.

“This tour’s killing me, and I’m hungover,” I recap.

“Yeah, you look like shit.”

“Thanks,” I note sourly. Eric reminds me of a hawk with his beak-like nose that shoots down to his wide mouth. He has big, brown eyes and high cheekbones, black hair that he keeps short, and a well-formed, muscular body. He’s older than me, around thirty, and maybe it’s the combination of age and his personality – sensible and calm – that has always made me feel like he knows things about life I could never hope to grasp. “So you’re coming to the show tonight?”

“Yeah, man. Backstage and all, it’ll be sweet. I was gonna come to the hotel like we agreed, but I’m happy to see you. Boneless has been selling well, I ran out of copies two times last week.”

I finish signing the copies, and Eric smiles appreciatively. “So what’s up?” he asks. Yeah, I didn’t come here for nothing, and he knows it.

“Everything,” I chuckle and finally reach for my beer. “The band’s barely holding together. Joe and I, we just... His ego is too big for me to be in the same room with. And something’s up with Spencer, too, but I don’t know what. The only one I still have faith in is Brent. Well, as much faith as I can have in the guy, you know? I know he’d sell me out, that he’d put his own needs before the band’s, so that doesn’t necessarily get me far, but it’s something. And Jac, you remember her, right?”

“She makes an impression.”

“She’s here now. And it’s like... I don’t miss her when she’s gone. And that’s good, I never expected myself to miss her, you know? But now it’s like I wish I missed her. I wish she’d mean more to me than she does, that there’d at least be this one solid thing in my life, and it’s fucking crazy trying to find it in her. Just goes to show how desperate I’m getting. That scares me, man. It really does.”

Eric blinks at me from across the table. “And you’ve been keeping that inside for how long? Since Montreal?”

“Try since ‘73,” I laugh before finally coming to the big issue at hand. I just need to tell someone neutral, someone who won’t judge. “Have you ever slept with a guy?”

Eric’s eyebrows lift to his hairline in surprise. “No. Can’t say I have.” I try not to feel disappointed. I was hoping he might have. He kinda looks it. “Though I know people who have. Friends, you know.”

So I’m not the only freak he’s come across. Thank god. Well, here goes. To get it off my chest, to get feedback. Maybe he will knock some sense into me.

“I’ve been thinking about it lately. I never have either, I mean I’m not... like that. But there’s this guy.” This is where it gets difficult. Eric nods for me to go on, but I don’t know how. It’s bothering me how, as I fucked Jac, I wondered if Brendon was behind the wall listening, or if he never made it back to the hotel last night. Like maybe I want the disastrous kissing in Ottawa to mean something to him, that he can’t just brush it off. But I’ve been brushing it off. I’m not gay, just curious. He fascinates me, where he’s from, what he’s done... I’d want to know more, and the more he doesn’t tell me, the worse it is. I keep having this insane desire to be able to say that I know that man better than anyone.

“Some fan?” he asks, and I nod, though I know it’s a lie. Can’t say it’s one of the roadies since Eric will probably meet them all tonight.

“Let’s name him, um...”

“Brian,” Eric suggest, pointing at the cover of a copy of Here Come the Warm Jets. Damn good album. “Ryan and Brian. Cute.”

I try not to roll my eyes. “Okay, Brian. And I think that I’m attracted to him. He’s attracted to me, I know that.” Not that Brendon’s ever said it, but he is. The way his fingers dug into my hip when we kissed... He was as into it as I was. “It’s me that’s stopping it going anywhere. I mean, I think if I... made a move, it might progress... But it confuses the hell out of me. I’ve never looked at a guy that way before. I’m not a fag, you know? I mean, you know.”

“Yeah, I totally know,” he assures me. He’s seen me with girls. Anyone who knows me has, so this whole thing is ridiculous. Eric hums and takes a long sip of his beer. He needs to talk some sense into me. Someone has to, and Brent, I don’t trust enough, and Spencer and I have grown apart too much this year. He doesn’t talk about Haley, and I won’t talk about my sexual identity crisis. Eric says, “Go for it.”

I choke on my beer. “Excuse me?”

“Why not? You’re clearly trying to suppress these urges, and it’s just driving you up the wall. Fuck the guy, get it out of your system. I mean, honestly, who isn’t trying what these days? Doing one guy won’t make you a fag, man. It’s not like you actually have feelings for the guy, is it?”

“Of course not.”

“So there you go! Just make sure he doesn’t tell anyone. I wouldn’t brag about it either, you know? You don’t want that reputation. But if you’re discrete, then there is no reason for you not to do it.”

“Maybe,” I grant. I feel relieved and repulsed at the same time.

I finally have permission.

* * *

Do it and get it out of my system. Okay, it sounds fine in theory, but what about in practice? I oversimplified it with Eric, because what if after I’ve fucked Brendon, I’ll just want to do it again? What if this irrational want is so bad that it can last multiple reruns? What then? And why is the thought of me sticking my cock up Brendon’s ass not grossing me out? Lack of a father figure, of course, that’s why I’m this messed up. I keep picturing the way Brendon’s entire body jerks when I push in...

But I decide to test out Eric’s theory, anyway. In a roundabout way. It takes three days before I gather up the nerve to do it during which Brendon continues his ignoring-my-existence thing as well as ignoring Jac. Well, he certainly doesn’t forgive and forget... Moody little bitch. It’s like he wanted me to declare my undying love for him after one kiss. Sorry to disappoint the disillusioned fucker.

Jac spends her days shopping and meeting up with her NYC friends while I do my band duties. She comes to the show every night, though, and the after-party, and she always ends up in my bed sometime around dawn when we’ve both had enough to drink. And my patience to get here, gather the courage, is soothing in itself: if I was desperate to fuck Brendon and get it done, I could conveniently have squeezed it between lunch and soundcheck by now.

“Hey, Jac?” I say in between kisses, my fingers restlessly flexing on her inner thigh. We’re still mostly dressed.

“Yeah, baby?”

At least I’ll go down swinging...

“Can I, uh... Would you mind if I... go to the... other. Orifice?”

She freezes and breaks the kiss. She blinks beneath me. “You wanna fuck my ass?”

Pause.

“That’s what I was going for, yeah.”

I bite on my lower lip. We stare at each other. “You got anything to help us along?” she asks.

“No. But I could get something?”

Jac considers this. “Well, I’d need to go get ready first, so if I go do that, you go buy some lotion or whatever, and meet me back here in twenty?”

Well, that was easy. Eric was right. Everyone’s trying everything these days – no restrictions, no judging.

The sex is not quite what I expect. It’s different. Jac tells me to go slow, so I do, grabbing her hips as she stays on her hands and knees on the bed. She says it stings and laughs. The pressure around my cock is new. Pussies can be tight, and when chicks come, yeah, definitely tight. But this feels tighter without her even being close yet, provided she can come from this. And it’s hotter, somehow, and the slide is easier, I can go deep without having to worry I’ll hit bottom and have her bitch that I’m making her barren. Tighter, warmer, deeper. My mouth hangs open as I try not to be too overwhelmed. Jac is rubbing her clit with one hand, telling me to go faster now. God yes, finally.

My eyes roll to the back of my head as my eyelids flutter shut, and I let my hips snap forward, pushing into her, enjoying it far more than I thought I would. I figured it’d be weird, uncomfortable, would somehow feel like an abomination. I didn’t realise it’d feel like heaven. And Jac, well, she doesn’t even know what to do here, she’s staying still. Someone who knows, though, someone who knows how to move their body to this, take the thrusts, respond to it, how would that feel, how would Brendon feel –

“I’m gonna come,” I inform her with a rushed grunt though she’s not done. A flash of light takes over my mind as the orgasm washes over me, the best one I’ve had in a long, long time, and I ride it out, thrusting into her ass.

She comes a bit after from her nimble fingers working on herself. She says, “Huh,” like that was interesting, but then, “Ow, fuck,” when I pull out.

“Huh,” I agree, getting out of bed and pulling on a hotel robe, mumbling about getting a glass of water, anything, to not let her see that I’m goddamn weak at the knees from that. Can’t let her know I enjoyed it too much, god knows what kind of a wrong impression that’d give. I bump into Brent in the living room despite it being around five in the morning, and he glares at me, and I mumble a sorry because I know we were not being quiet. But if the “oh god, oh god!”s are anything to go by, Joe and his visitor for the night are not being quiet either. On tour, you know so much more about your friends’ sex lives than you’d want to.

Brent follows me with his disapproving gaze, and I hope that he somehow magically doesn’t know what we did, what I talked Jac into, what I enjoyed far too much.

But even if he heard or suspects what we did, it’s not a big deal. My own idea worked: I got to experience the sexual act without getting involved with the roadie. And I enjoyed it, now I know, now my desire towards Brendon has vanished. There is nothing he could offer that I can’t already get.

Jac is already asleep when I get back. I could fall in love with her, I think. If I tried hard enough.

* * *

I spend all of the following day playing around with scenarios where Jac and I find it in ourselves to settle down, get married, have kids, move to the country. It’s funny what a bit of anal sex can do to a relationship. She winces whenever she sits down, and we both start laughing hysterically when Pete asks her if she is feeling alright.

Maybe it’s time for us all to grow up, and I could start with my relationship with her.

“It’s gonna be massive,” Joe says eagerly about the party we’re heading to after tonight’s show. We are in the dressing room, and I’m copying the night’s setlist for the rest of the guys out of boredom.

Andy and William are jamming with two of my guitars. I gave permission. Eric is there too, asking Spencer what he thinks of this whole Watergate scandal, and I have absolutely no idea what they’re referring to. Then my head snaps to the door, the cocktail party effect kicking in as my brain tunes out the rest when Brendon speaks. “Shit.”

Brendon is staring at his stained shirt, and Brent is dangling his beer bottle loosely. “Oops. Sorry,” Brent sneers. I can see that Brendon is suppressing a glare because we both know what kind of drama Brent could start from that. Brent’s made sure Brendon knows he is his slave on this tour.

“No biggie,” Brendon mutters and begins pulling his beer-drenched shirt off. I instantly focus on something else.

The room is filled with pre-show nervousness. It’s not quite as bad as on the first night here. Pete was right about them loving us in New York. He keeps saying how we should’ve played Madison Square Garden, and that’s what? Twenty thousand people? There is no way I could possibly do that.

It’s worrying how no one seems to understand that I have already been pushed to my limits.

Before we go on, Spencer comes over to tell me how we’ll be fine, how it’s just another show, how amazing I am on stage. And I believe him, and we go on, the crowd chanting and chanting. Jac remains by the side of the stage, waving at us happily. Only Brent waves back.

“Good evening, New York!” Joe screams into his microphone. “Again,” he adds with a grin, and we kick off. I usually don’t look at the crowds much, but I recognise the group of people in the front row, right ahead of me. They’ve been there the three previous nights too.

For some reason, every show seems to take longer than the previous one. Our ninety minutes feel like four hours, a six-minute song stretching to thirty in my mind. Joe basks in it, launching into a guitar solo, fingers swiping the frets as his hair flips around his head to the quick movements. I’ve started stepping backwards whenever I don’t need to sing, but it’s no use because the lights follow me, anyway.

We get off stage, wait for them to yell us back, go do the encore. The penultimate song, and Brent says, “We’d like to dedicate this song to a wonderful young woman who’s with us here tonight, so this is for you, Jac.”

I stare at my bassist in astonishment, but Spencer’s already shouting “One, two, three!” so I launch into the song which has nothing to do with Jac or girls or even love for that matter. Brent’s never been this considerate, and I realise that I am probably the worst boyfriend around when my bandmates need to step in and do the boyfriend-y things for me.

Once we’re off the stage, I ask, “What was that about?”

Brent shrugs. “Just being polite.”

Jac hurries over, beaming at us. “That was so sweet, thank you!”

I’m still frowning at Brent, but I make the best of the situation. “Anything for my girl,” I say with faux modesty, and Jac beams twice as much. Brent vanishes from sight.

The party takes place in the home of a multimillionaire producer, who hasn’t produced any of our stuff but is digging the new album. Pete tries to convince me to use the party as a business meeting, but I’m a bit too drunk for that, so I kindly tell him to fuck off. The guy’s place takes up the entire floor of the building, and it takes me five minutes to find a bathroom.

I’m taking a piss when someone walks in, the voices and music pouring in through the opened door. I look over my shoulder and spot Brendon, who’s stopped abruptly. “Sorry.”

He backs away, but I say, “I’m almost done, no problem. Not like you haven’t seen a dick before, right?”

His eyes thin dangerously as he closes the door. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I finish up, give my dick a tiny shake and zip myself up again. “I think I’ve seen you with three different guys this week, that’s what. Pretty soon you’ll have done every occasional homosexual we know in this city.” Our first proper conversation since the kiss, and this is the topic I choose.

“Just because you see me with some guy doesn’t mean I fuck them,” he snaps. “And secondly, it is not any of your business what I do.”

“Oh, it is. The band’s reputation could be at stake.”

“With Joe’s asshole superstar act and your pathetic woe-is-me show, I don’t think you guys need help from me.”

I take a moment to register his words before realising that the idiot just insulted me. “Hey!” I object.

“And you’re drunk like always, so what the hell is new?” He pushes past me and flushes the toilet. “Wash your hands, for god’s sake.” He proceeds to take a leak, and I mutter under my breath as I place my hands under the faucet.

I glare at him. “I get it now. This whole attitude you’ve been giving me. You’re just jealous.”

Brendon laughs loudly. “Of what?”

I wipe my hands to my jeans and lean against the counter. “Of Jac. You’re a bitch to her, you know.”

“Oh yeah, the girl and the friend, but not the girlfriend, and yet you’ve been trying to be the super couple this week. Don’t think I’ve not noticed that,” Brendon states and flushes the toilet. I watch him tuck himself away, trying not to make any sort of conclusions about the size of his flaccid cock, how big it’d be erected. “I know when a straight boy’s freaked out. You’ve got all the symptoms.”

“Don’t make this about me when it’s not!” I scoff. Brendon not-so-gently nudges me aside with his hip as he moves to wash his own hands. “I’ve got a loving, mature relationship, and it’s pissing you the hell off. Look, man, it was just a onetime kiss in another fucking country, and this is the reality. But I’m flattered, so thanks. Or merci, really.”

“No,” Brendon corrects me, now taking steps back. He’s beautiful when he’s angry. Jac never is. “I’m pissed off because you can’t take responsibility for your actions. That you think you can go around avoiding me. The rest, though? It’s just pity. You think Jac is the love of your life, but you can’t even see what’s right in front of your fucking eyes.”

“A nagging faggot?”

Brendon laughs disbelievingly. “I just might punch you right now. It’d be worth losing this job over it.” I partly hope he’ll punch me, that way he won’t be around anymore, everywhere I go. Jac and I have something real, but I was never sure of it until this week. I should thank Brendon, really. “I wasn’t going to say anything because it’s not my place. It’s obvious, but you all are too busy examining your own hands to even notice. And you’re messed up as it is, so maybe I don’t want to see you get even worse.”

I’m having difficulty deciphering his words. One whisky too many. “What the hell are you on about?”

Brendon has a weird mix of pity and anger in his eyes. “Just saying that maybe you should go check out the master bedroom.” He exits the bathroom, and a girl walks in, demanding that I let her pee in peace. I stumble out, not knowing what the hell Brendon tried to tell me. I ask a guy if he knows where the master bedroom is, and I end up stumbling down a quieter corridor, the walls covered in pictures of the producer with famous musicians. We want to get on that wall.

I find the right door, not at all sure what I am expected to find on the other side. I turn the knob and push the door open, partly expecting to see Brendon there, waiting for me to take him, thinking in his small brain that he can seduce me. But Brendon isn’t there.

Someone else is.

The bed is straight across from me, the large windows letting the lights of the city in, illuminating the couple fucking on the bed. The girl is riding the guy, her moans loud.

Jac and Brent are far too into it to acknowledge my presence.

I stare at the way Jac is moving wantonly on Brent’s cock, the way he pulls her down for a kiss, with familiarity that says this is not the first time, that they waited all day for this, for me to get drunk enough for them to slip away. Again.

My girlfriend and my bassist.

I don’t know how long I stand there, too shocked to say anything. Or to think.

I take hold of the doorknob and pull the door closed, then remain staring at its wooden surface, but still vividly seeing the porno taking place on the other side.

I close my eyes and count to ten before I walk away.

Next chapter

Vol.1: Over the Tracks - I [Chapter 9]

Tue, 08 Dec 2009 13:48:05 GMT

Previous chapter

Chapter 9: The Disappearing Act

I remember the first time I visited New York back in the summer of 1969. I was eighteen, Spencer was seventeen. I had already erased high school from my brain, and Spencer wasn’t sure if he’d go back for his senior year. He didn’t in the end. I was going away for the summer, anywhere and everywhere. Spencer wasn’t sure if he could, though he had saved up money like I had. His mother did the whole ‘if you’re going to go down that road with that no-good Ross boy, then don’t you dare come back’ speech. We left the following day and hitchhiked across the country to stay with a girl Spencer had a thing with back then.

They had met during spring break. Carla was older than us, had just turned twenty, and she lived in a nice apartment in Soho that her dad had paid for. I spent my summer circling the New York music scene, staying in the guest bedroom, doing local mic nights and busking for pocket change. I just fucked about, no idea what to do with the sudden freedom. No Dad watching over my shoulder, no Dad for me to keep an eye on, no school, no expectations, no responsibilities. No one cared what I did. It was just me and the world and one beaten down guitar.

I had no idea who the hell I was, so I figured I could be just about anything.

When Spencer and Carla broke up loudly and irreparably in early August, we both got kicked out as plates came flying from the kitchen. I was bored of the city at that point, convinced I had grown past it, so when we heard of the music festival upstate, we left. Woodstock. The music clicked in the back of my brain there. I could see everything that was being played in a mix of colourful flashes, with shades and swirls, and the music was alive.

I finally got laid in Woodstock, which was a nice change. I got laid beyond belief, but so did everyone. I had wasted my own summer trying to woo a friend of Carla’s, this posh Upper East Side girl, who I should have known from the start would never give it up to a wannabe rocker from Las Vegas with no life ambitions or short-term plans, not even to cover the next ten minutes. In Woodstock, we met Brent, and he said that he was moving to Los Angeles, that it was the place to be right then. Spencer and I got a lift as far as Colorado Springs, and we hitchhiked back to Vegas from there. We packed our stuff and bought a ’56 van with our last cash. We had to live in it for a week before Brent found an apartment for the three of us.

Three months later, Brent, Spencer, Joe and I sat down at Chuck’s and decided on a band name.

I came to Radio City Music Hall a handful of times over our New York summer, always stuck on the third mezzanine somewhere, which was the best ticket I could afford. It’s a hell of a lot different headlining here – it’s a different world now, a different life, a different me.

Our gear is on stage, facing an empty venue. I gaze down from the first mezzanine, counting seats to give myself something to do.

“Hey.” I look to my side and spot Brendon smiling at me cautiously. “Everyone’s looking for you.”

I turn back to face the floor and the empty stage below. Zack crosses the stage, carrying guitar cables in his arms. He looks small from over here.

“Let them look.”

Brendon sits down next to me without an invite. I go back to counting seats. One, two, three – “I’m sorry,” he mutters – six, seven, eight... I lean back in my seat and shrug, lifting my legs on the railing. Brendon’s fingers nervously flex on his knees. “I didn’t want to be the one to tell you.”

But he did, anyway. Maybe because he was angry with me. I still didn’t deserve it, though.

“So what did they say?” he asks, and I quirk an eyebrow at him. “Jac and Brent.”

As if this were her cue, I hear Jac’s voice echoing from somewhere far away, from the stage. I don’t crane my neck to see her, and she probably can’t spot us among the thousands of seats waiting for tonight’s crowd. Last night in New York, and I feel the need to get the hell out, just like I did six years ago.

“Nothing,” I shrug, and when Brendon looks scandalised, I add, “They don’t know I know.”

“You did nothing?”

“It’s not my place. I know she’s not faithful. I’m not either,” I recap. Jac is not tied down to me.

I’ve been trying to figure out which surprises me more, Brent’s recklessness or Jac’s. This thing could end up in a shit storm. Is that how little Brent cares about the band? That he has to go and screw the one girl I’m involved with? Maybe that’s the exact reason why he’s done it. More rivalry, my own bandmates giving me the middle finger behind my back.

As for Jac... I always knew what she was like. But this past week, I so desperately wanted to love her. And now I know why Brent was trying to kill me with an icy glare. I hope Brent hasn’t been stupid enough to actually fall for her. I was never that stupid; I merely hoped I’d be.

“So who knows about them?” I ask Brendon.

Brendon hesitates. “Just you and me, I think. Andy would notice if he wasn’t high all the damn time, and I think Zack suspects it, but that’s only because he keeps an eye on Jac. He thinks she’s hot, so... But I figured it out. Call it an outsider’s intuition, I guess. And they’re not as subtle as they think.”

It was subtle enough for me to be blind to the fact. But it’s comforting to hear that not everyone’s known this entire time and haven’t all been laughing at me behind my back.

“So what are you going to do?” he asks, and I give him a blank look. “With all this hermit-like contemplation you’re doing up here, I figured you must’ve been thinking about what to do next.”

Call them out on it, make a scene, watch Jac yell and cry, punch Brent, quit the band, call her a whore, call Brent a backstabber, pretend to care. But the thing is that I do care.

“What to do now, what to do now...” I mumble in a wondering voice. I look at Brendon and cock my head to the side. “I was thinking I could let you blow me.”

Brendon stares at me in disbelief before scoffing loudly. His soft and concerned tone vanishes as his eyes narrow. “Contrary to what you might believe, I don’t wake up every day with an overwhelming desire to get on my knees and suck you off.”

“You sure about that?” I ask playfully, faux confidence he can probably see through.

What does he want me to say? That it hurts?

Fine, fuck. It hurts.

He shakes his head and stands up, and the dark cloud above me gets darker. He begins to walk away. I can’t win with anyone, moping around, being an asshole, trying to be okay, trying to change the subject.

“Hey,” I call after him, and Brendon stops reluctantly, his arms crossed over his chest. I take a deep breath and sit up straight, eyeing the stage where I will bear my soul in a handful of hours. “It’s just that...” I swallow and close my eyes. “You have this sudden realisation that you have no one you can trust. No one at all. Do you have any idea what that’s like?”

Brendon’s arms drop to his sides. I look at him, needing for him to understand. “I do.”

Once he is gone, I go back to counting seats.

* * *

Jac leaves New York on the same day we do. We are now swirling down south and waiting for Florida, where we will finish the east leg. I kiss and hug Jac, tell her I love her and wonder if Brent did the same ten minutes before I did.

Brent clearly wants to be alone as he volunteers to drive us to Philadelphia. It’s rare for us to be driving during the day, but we waste time in the lounge, Spencer and William playing cards by the small table. Like the world is moving on and nothing is different now.

This feels a bit like drowning, watching this charade. Pete is complaining about beer stains on the couches, reminding us how the bus cost a fortune, and Joe is smoking a joint languidly, occasionally eyeing me like I’m a cockroach. Spencer moved to live inside his head approximately six and a half states ago, so he doesn’t even notice. Brent is most likely in love with my girlfriend, and Brendon. God, I don’t even know where to start with that guy.

Andy tries to start a conversation with me, but I snap an abrupt reply and hide behind my notebook, scribbling furiously.

I have no friends left on this bus. No one’s looking out for me; it’s every man for himself. I’m not stupid. I always knew Brent wasn’t a guy I should trust too much, but I still thought that, beneath all of his bullshit, he considered me his brother. Or even a distant fucking cousin. They all secretly despise me, so I despise them back.

But, of course, they don’t understand this, too wrapped up in their pathetic, meaningless lives to even suspect that I’m onto them. Joe has the nerve to ask if I’m feeling alright, and Pete eyes me worriedly, asking if I’ve caught a cold. And Brent asks me to go out for a beer with him once we get to our hotel. We’re doing another row of shows in Philly and are leaving the bus to wait for us to be done with the place. I don’t want to go for a beer with Brent. Does he want to compare notes, determine which one of us gets Jac off quicker? I’d rather stick nails into my eyes.

So I find the nearest liquor store, buy four packs of cigarettes and two bottles of vodka, find my goddamned hotel room, and I successfully avoid all human contact until the next day. I do the soundcheck on automatic, the show on automatic, the after-gig high-fives on automatic, decline the afterparty invite on automatic, and go get drunk in my room on automatic.

On our second day in Philadelphia, Zack is sent to drag my ass to the venue. I’m late for soundcheck when I walk on stage, the rest of the band and crew ready. Zack had to knock and yell for a good twenty minutes before I opened the hotel door. The world is still spinning. Good.

Spencer’s talking to Brent, but he stops at the sight of me. “Fuck, Ryan, what happened? You look like shit.”

“I’m peachy,” I say, shrugging my jacket off, letting it fall on the stage floor. I grab a guitar from Andy, plug it in, switch the amp on and go to my mic. The buzz of the guitar fills the air. The venue is empty except for a few cleaners. They’ll do as a crowd.

Pete hurries over to me. “Have you slept?”

“No.”

“You want me to get you sleeping pills?”

“I think they’d go well with the vodka,” I muse. “You know, that sounds good. Yeah, please give me some.”

All the respectable musicians are gone anyway: Alan, Jim, Duane, Danny, Janis, Jimi, Berry. Dying young is the newest fad. I sure as hell don’t want to miss the boat.

Pete glances at the microphone, which has carried our voices for everyone to hear. He covers it with his hand, a metal screech echoing through the PA. He lowers his voice. “Ryan, look. If you’re going through some shit... Or is this about Jac leaving? I’ll get her on this tour, man. I’ll call her, fly her over, you say the word. Whatever it takes for you to pull your shit together.”

As he’s been babbling, I’ve gotten out a cigarette and lit it. He stares at me expectantly, and I blow the smoke in his face. “Like I said, Petey, I’m peachy. Now let’s play some fucking music!” I snap, already strumming a few chords impatiently.

The soundcheck ends when I’m pleased with the result and walk off stage without any proper warning to the others. Brendon is standing backstage with a half-finished beer bottle in his hand, and I take it from him, mumbling, “Thanks.” Brendon stares at me like I’m trouble embodied. Pete calls after me, but I find my way out of the venue without stopping.

I’m not pushing them – they have pushed me to push them.

I stop outside, blinking at the sun and fumbling my pockets for sunglasses. God, the sun is way too bright today.

“Ryan, would you slow down?!” Spencer’s voice comes demandingly, the venue backdoor slamming. I’m still looking for sunglasses as he glares at me. “Look at me! Jesus, look at me when I’m talking to you!” he complains. “What the hell is this, coming for a soundcheck late and drunk?”

“Are you Pete now?”

“I’m your friend! I’m just about the only person who hasn’t given up on you, but for some reason you want to change that!”

I try to think of something Spencer’s done, but can’t think of anything. Surely, he’s done something. Well, he’s shut me out, I could be mad for that. But he chose me, chose this band, so maybe I don’t have the right to tell him that I miss him. I fucking miss him. I know he doesn’t have his heart in this anymore. “If you’re my friend, you’ll let me be,” I tell him instead.

“Sometimes, I don’t even know who you are anymore,” he whispers sadly, and the backdoors open as the rest of my band comes out with Pete on their heels.

“That’s my cue,” I tell him, sliding the sunglasses on. I disappear in between tour busses and finish Brendon’s beer as I go.

I don’t show up until fifteen minutes before we go on that night. They’re furious, but at least I show up and play the songs and sing my words, and then I take off again, having found a good bar down the road, so sleazy no one would ever look for me there. I go to the payphones around one in the morning and call Dad. He’s not home, of course; he’s in a bar of his own. What the hell would I say to him, anyway? I’d probably just call him an asshole and hang up. Unproductive, but satisfying.

They throw me and Davey out of the bar when it closes. Davey’s had a fight with his wife and doesn’t want to go back to his house, and I don’t want to go to the hotel where they will find me. We find a park and sit on a bench, sharing stories about our lives. I make mine up as I go along. I always do.

“My wife, I tell you she’ll be the death of me. That- that bitch! Only married her because she said it was tying the knot or breaking up. You know what that is? Blackmail! That’s blackmail, right? Right?” Davey demands to know. “So you’ve been married four times?”

“Five, but I don’t count that Vegas one. Got it annulled,” I tell him.

“Oh, wow.”

“Yeah.”

Then someone is pointing at me with a bright light, a cop telling us to move along. It’s a public park. We’re not even drinking anymore, which is a shame, all things considered. Davey tells the cop to fuck off, so I do too. Then there’s another cop, and they’re talking big and making threats.

I stand up. A bit wobbly, but I manage it. “You two, officers of the law. Listen, okay? Just listen. Me and my good, good friend Davey are just... having a good time. A good time right here in –” I take a look around and start laughing, “– whatever city this is. But you won’t let us. So... So the thing I want to say is...” I hold a dramatic pause until I just snicker. “That you can suck my cock.”

Davey howls in laughter, hand on my shoulder, slurring, “Good one, oh man, good one!”

I wipe my eyes and laugh uncontrollably. I focus my eyes on the cops and frown. “Hey, what do you need the handcuffs for?”

* * *

Pete hands me my sunglasses, and I put them on, needing something to protect me from the sunlight. Pete keeps a guiding hand on my shoulder, and a simple thank you dies in my dry throat. I only feel nauseous and achy from spending my night on a jail bed. My stomach burns from last night’s alcohol, even more so than usual.

“You missed soundcheck, but you’ll be alright for the show,” Pete smiles in a friendly, confident tone. A car is waiting for us outside the police station, and Pete hands me the cup of coffee he had with him. Black, and I scrunch my nose. “It’ll sober you up,” he explains. He gives me a few painkillers.

When we get to the venue, I sulk behind Pete, wanting to go sleep this off. Venue workers and members of the support band are waving and greeting me with obvious curiosity. Everyone knows I went MIA. Everyone knows of the huge search party. I know nothing, I was passed out.

The dressing room quiets down when Pete and I walk in. I slowly remove my sunglasses, taking them in. Spencer is standing by the mirrors. Brent and Joe are on one of the couches. Half-eaten food lies on the table, and my stomach grumbles at the sight. I have no idea when I last ate.

“So, Ryan is back, alive and well. We don’t need to cancel the show. Everything’s fine,” Pete announces calmingly. “Anything you need, Ry?”

“Fries?” I ask hopefully.

“William?” Pete asks.

“I’m on it,” William says slightly grudgingly and leaves the room. I go to an unoccupied couch and sit down, finishing the coffee and battling my hangover from hell. They are all staring at me. Brendon is in the far corner, silently cleaning Brent’s bass.

“How about you, uh... go for a shower?” Pete suggests, handing me my toiletries bag.

I spend a good five minutes brushing my teeth, getting off the layer of shit that is covering my mouth. I shower off the cigarettes, alcohol, Davey – a good guy, really – last night’s show, the stale smell of piss that lingered in the jail cell. Pete’s picked out clean clothes from my bag, and I pull on a pair of black jeans, a brown button down shirt and throw a vest on top. The guys are talking in argumentative tones when I re-enter from the bathroom, but they quiet down instantly.

A full plate of fries is on the table by one of the couches, so I sit down and start munching. Fuck, I’m starving. “What’s tonight’s setlist?” I ask distractedly, and Andy passes me a tiny piece of paper with a list of songs in Spencer’s messy handwriting. I take a quick look through it. “You guys sure you want Go to the City after Alienation? I think that might create an anticlimactic moment.” I lift a questioning eyebrow. My bandmates look at me disbelievingly.

The tension breaks when Joe snaps, “That’s it? That’s all you have to fucking say?!”

Pete intervenes with, “We talked about this, guys! It happens! It’s no big deal! What matters is that the show goes on!”

“He got fucking arrested! Are we going to sit here and pretend that’s okay?!” Joe demands and stands up, cold, blue eyes piercing through me. “Look, I drink and take drugs just as much as the next guy, but I never disappear or jeopardise a show! This entire tour we’ve been keeping our mouths shut like we don’t know, but I’m done! We know, man! You can’t fucking handle the pressure! You’re just not cut out to be a professional musician –”

“Are you saying I’m not professional?” I ask. Joe quiets down, a finger still pointed at me and hovering in the air. “At least I don’t go around acting like I’m the greatest gift to music since Elvis Presley. You think that the crowd out there has come to see you? It’s the music that matters! The fucking music, Joe! But your ego has inflated so much that you can’t see past it anymore! You love yourself more than this band or the music, and I have to deal with that! If I go on stage drunk, then take a look in the mirror and ask yourself why!”

“Oh, it’s my fault?! Someone needs to entertain the crowd, and guess what? You don’t. Unless this is your entertainment value, the attitude, the martyrdom, the disappearing act and then coming back here and bitching about the setlist when you fucking well know we’ve been obsessing over the tracks like we do every night!”

“Just chill,” Brent says.

“No!” Joe refuses while I stare at Brent in disbelief.

“Chill?” I repeat, astonished. “You’ve got some nerve to tell me what to do, you backstabbing piece of shit.”

“Okay, time out!” Pete yells as Brent looks at me in surprise.

“I’m not finished!” Joe objects. “You fucking left last night! We’ve been calling local hospitals, not sure if you bailed on us and took the first bus out of here! Not sure if this tour is over! Not sure if you’re lying somewhere, suffocating on your own vomit! You don’t just walk out on us, you arrogant prick!”

I stand up so fast that the plate of fries gets knocked over when my shins bump against the table. “You’d want me to go, huh? Maybe then you could sing the vocals too and play the frontman of my band!”

“This band is collective! It’s not yours, man! Fuck!”

Spencer sighs audibly. “We don’t really have time for this.”

“Oh, like you even care anymore,” I spit angrily.

“Excuse me? I’m here, aren’t I? Don’t start with me, Ryan. I’ve given up so fucking much for this band.”

“My god, here we go with the Haley thing again!” I laugh. “Here’s advice for you: get over it. This sad puppy thing lost its charm months ago! She used you! She fucking used you, and you still think she was the love of your life! Wake up and smell your own bullshit!”

“You have no right to talk to me that way! You know nothing about her, and if you don’t stop now, I swear to god –”

“Oh, please,” I snort.

“I’m fucking tired of you getting special treatment!” Joe barks. “I’ve had it up to here with your own room on the bus, your holier-than-thou attitude, letting you get away with all your fuck ups. Spencer might be doing his sad puppy thing, but it’s a fucking lot better than your tortured artist act! Look around! We’ve got it all! And yet, you don’t get it. You just don’t.”

“Okay, alright,” Pete rushes out, “let’s get that negative energy out! Good, good!”

“I try to enjoy being in this band, but you make it practically impossible,” Joe states.

“Then I quit,” I reply.

“Whoa! Too much negative energy!” Pete says, slightly panicked.

“Then quit! It’s what you’ve wanted to do for the past year!” Joe snarls.

“And I’m finally doing it. Good luck trying to conquer the world without me,” I spit and walk out, the door slamming into the wall as I go. Pete is yelling how we all need to calm down and how no one is quitting the band, but I am.

I am done.

One of the sound engineers walks past me, saying, “Yo, Ryan, forty minutes before you go on!” He gives me a thumbs-up. I can hear the crowd that I will never see.

I get to our bus outside the venue, but realise I have no means of getting inside the vehicle. I swear and kick the bus. Fine, I don’t need my stuff. I will hitchhike back to Los Angeles if I have to, or I’ll steal a car, or something. I look down at my tour pass hanging around my neck, and I quickly take it off. I throw it onto the ground and stomp on it. Fuckers, fuckers, fuckers –

“That’s mature.”

Brendon is leaning against the bus with his arms crossed over his chest. He’s got an eyebrow cocked, and he looks highly unimpressed.

“What do you want?” I snap.

“I’m making sure you don’t leave. Pete’s orders. He’s doing damage control at the other end.”

“You got a fucking key for this thing?”

Brendon goes through his pockets before pulling out a bundle of keys, and I motion for him to open the damn bus. He obeys, and I hurry inside, through the lounge, the bunks and into the back nest.

I stop and look around. “Shit!” I groan. My stuff is in the hotel. I still have clothes and books and drugs on the bus, though, but no bag to throw them in. Plus, I want to take my guitars too, all of my equipment to the last goddamn bridge pin. It’s my stuff, not theirs. I can carry it all with me somehow. Brendon has followed me, and I squeeze past him back to the lounge where I find a plastic bag. He remains by the door when I return and start collecting my belongings.

“Don’t try talking me out of this! It’s final!” I bark, though he hasn’t said anything. He closes the door, though, maybe thinking that he can lock me up in here until Pete comes to try and make me change my mind.

I stuff shirts into the plastic bag. Brendon places a hand on my shoulder, and I try to pull away from the grip. But he’s strong because suddenly he’s got me pressed against the wall by the door. I stare at him, confused. His eyes fly over my face, the brown of his eyes darker than usual. “Get off me,” I snarl and try to push him, but he slams me right back to the wall. Air escapes my lungs.

Brendon launches forward and kisses me. My stomach flips, a burning desire to kiss him back taking over. His lips over mine, aggressive and demanding, coaxing my mouth open. I respond without thinking, attacking his mouth fervently, still so goddamn angry.

Here I am again. Fuck, I –

Our tongues brush unapologetically, a jolt of electricity running up and down my spine. I push him off me violently, and he stumbles backwards. “Don’t,” I command, but he takes a step towards me. “I’m not like that. I’m not into this stuff.”

“I didn’t say you were,” he says simply, his voice rough and pupils blown. I lick my lips, trying to regain control.

Fuck it.

I fist his shirt and pull him back for a kiss, our tongues pressing together. His hands are instantly on my belt, unbuckling. He whispers, “Can you get hard for me?” That’s a useless question because my dick has been very intrigued ever since his lips first met mine. He cups my half-hard cock and smiles against my mouth wickedly. “Good.”

No, this is fucking bad.

And then he’s pulled my jeans down. I’m not wearing underwear. I stop to consider this, to take a moment, but he nips at my jaw before he sinks down onto his knees. He’s not actually – Guys don’t do these things to each other, so there is no way that he –

“You’re beautiful,” Brendon says, addressing either me or my cock, I’m not sure. His fingers dance over the length, one hand curling around the base and squeezing. I bite on my lip so as not to whimper. His other hand is brushing the inside of my left thigh, incredibly distracting. He wraps his soft lips around the tip of my erection, tongue flicking over the slit. I grunt, trying to catch up, my bones instantly melting. He takes more of me into his wet mouth, so clearly used to doing this. He sucks hard, and my hands move to his short, soft hair. Okay, yeah. I can live with this. I can – No. Fuck, fuck, what am I doing?

He takes me in deeper. God, his mouth feels amazing. My body relaxes into it, fire flickering at the pit of my stomach as my entire body feels overly sensitive. I wanted him on his knees for me, and he is. Fuck, he’s so hot.

Just when I think I’m used to the rhythm and suction he is applying, he removes the hand he has at the base and swallows me down. “Shit,” I hiss, and my grip of his hair tightens. Holy fucking hell. His head is moving steadily, taking me deeper, pulling back, then deeper again. I stare down at him, amazed, and he’s got his eyes closed, long lashes against flushed cheeks. His lips are stretched around my cock, shiny with his spit. I try to remember how to breathe.

“Fuck,” I practically whine, the back of my head banging against the wall. He opens his eyes and looks up at me, and I swallow as a flame flickers in me violently. I grab the back of his head with both hands, and he lets me, my hips trying to move to his rhythm. My cock just slides into his wet and hot mouth, and he doesn’t gag at all. His hands settle on my thighs where his blunt nails dig in. My hips are working, small movements but enough to be fucking his mouth, and he meets my thrusts with his mouth, my thick cock sliding between his swollen lips.

My breathing is shaky, and my body is trembling. Fuck, fuck, fuck, that’s good. Brendon’s hands move to my ass, gripping the flesh, kneeing, and I moan helplessly and begin to fuck his mouth with more force.

A dirty feeling keeps flashing in my head, having Brendon on his knees for me here. I still hear the echoes of the fight in my head, and how they don’t understand, no one does. But Brendon might. He’s gotten on his knees for me, mouth full of my cock, and he just might understand.

He pulls back, though, having to push my hand away from his head. His hair is a mess, his eyes wide and dark. My cock slips out of his mouth, and his pink lips are swollen and slick. He grabs the base of my cock, giving me a few strokes that make my toes curl. “You taste good,” he whispers, lips brushing over the head with a moist slide. His lips feel fucking soft. His voice is rough and thick with want, and it hits me how turned on he is from this. Fuck, he shouldn’t be. I, at least, have the excuse of getting head, and of course I get off on it, regardless of who is doing it. Even if it’s another man doing it. But Brendon is getting off on having my cock in his mouth, and I can’t wrap my head around it, what the appeal is, what turns him on about it.

Brendon places hungry, wet kisses along the shaft. Fuck, it’s like he is taking care to worship every inch of me. He licks up a trail before slipping his mouth over the swollen, leaking head. I groan, hips automatically thrusting forward. He responds with a moan that vibrates around me and flies up and down my spine, and then he takes me in all the way again, hands on my hips.

It doesn’t take me long to come. It’s not sexual frustration, but somehow, it is. Finally, he’s where I wanted him a dozen shows ago, and he’s loving it. I fucking knew he’d love it, but I didn’t realise how much I’d love it. “Brendon, fucking hell,” I rasp. “I’m gonna come, gonna come...”

He pulls back, hand curling around the base, quick strokes there, sucking the tip of my cock into his mouth with hollow cheeks, his tongue licking and brushing over the slit. I come with all of my body, nearly doubling over and with my hips thrusting, holding his head still as the rush takes over. My cock twitches, and Brendon moans, tongue still moving, swallowing. And I come and come and –

“Fuuuuck, fuck,” I pant, finally coming to a stop.

I let go of him, absolutely wrecked. He pulls back, my spent cock slipping out of his mouth. He moves to place small, wet kisses on my stomach where the muscles are still quivering, tongue tracing my hipbone. My arms hang by my sides as I lean against the wall for support, trying to come down. I’m weak at the knees. His mouth. Fucking hell, his mouth.

Brendon zips me up and buckles my belt before standing up. His cheeks are flushed, and I grab him, pulling him in for a kiss. His mouth is still so slick, and he responds, hot and pliant. I can taste myself on his tongue and lips, I can smell myself on him, my crotch and come, mixing with his own scent in a perverse way. His erection presses against my thigh. A slight sense of panic flies in me from it, but at the same time, my guts twist with the excitement of it. Something new, something I shouldn’t do.

Brendon breaks the kiss, but our foreheads keep touching, our noses brushing together. We’re both equally out of breath. “You’re going to go to the venue and get on stage. Okay?” he whispers. His tone is firm but gentle, and I find myself nodding.

“Okay.” If he says so. Okay.

“Good,” he says with a small smile, kissing me again, and I hungrily pull him closer.

If we keep kissing, I’ll get hard again, and I can’t come again this soon, not after that. No way after that. I break the kiss and press my face to his neck and breathe him in, hanging onto him. I have to let go of him. Just a fucking blowjob, I need to get a grip. Now. Okay, now. Fuck. One, two, three –

We break apart, and Brendon wipes his swollen lips and wet mouth. “Your clothes,” he says, and I look down, confused, brain not working. Then I start straightening my dishevelled shirt and vest, realising how obvious that’d make it for the others. “I need a minute,” he says roughly. My eyes land on his crotch. I can see the outline of his cock through his jeans.

“Yeah, sure,” I swallow, wondering if he is going to jerk off – he probably is – if he’d let me watch, would I want to? And I somehow feel stuck to where I am, but once I’ve walked out, it’s easy.

I get out of the bus and let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Fucking hell.

My backstage pass is still lying on the ground. With shaking hands, I pick it up and put it around my neck.

* * *

Brendon plays it off better than I do. I’m not pretending it didn’t happen, but I don’t plan on letting the others in on it either. Brendon, though, acts exactly like he did before. I try to go for the same effect, but my thoughts are so muddled that I can’t.

The guys assume it’s because of the fight. We all mumble bitter and forced apologies, and Pete goes around patting shoulders, convincing us that we all need each other.

The only thing I feel sorry for is saying the things I said to Spencer. I can’t be angry with him just because we’ve grown apart. It’s not like he has done anything like Brent and Joe have. I try to apologise, but he brushes me off.

We get to Pittsburgh in one piece, but with a deafening silence on the bus. Brent is counting days until our break with his fingers. I haven’t gotten drunk since the night I got arrested, followed by the day Brendon... I can relive the incident better when I’m sober. And maybe I do feel bad for the guys. I’m not completely heartless. I disappeared, and they freaked out. But I had my reasons. I had my rights.

Spencer is helping the roadies on stage when I walk over to him. “So we’re leaving for Cincinnati tonight?” he asks Brendon, who nods. “How long that’ll take us?”

Brendon stretches, a pondering look on his face and arms raised above his head. His t-shirt lifts up, exposing a slice of his stomach. “Like, six hours?” I focus on the exposed V of his hips.

“If we manage to leave around midnight,” Spencer muses thoughtfully.

“What’s the hurry?” I ask him, and he flinches, clearly unaware I was present. “I think we’ve got a day off after tomorrow. What the hell is there to do in Cincinnati?”

Spencer shrugs, and Brendon goes back to putting together Spencer’s drum kit. “Can I talk to you?” I ask Spencer, who takes his time before reluctantly nodding. We walk to the edge of the stage, and I lower my voice. “Look, I’m sorry about the things I said. You know I didn’t mean them, right? I was just pissed off.”

“Sure,” he nods.

“You’re still my best friend, despite everything,” I add with just slight desperation. “I’d want to... talk to you. When you’ve got time.” We both have plenty of time right then, but he just nods again.

“What do you want to talk about?”

My eyes land on Brendon behind his shoulder, now talking to William animatedly and laughing brightly. I tear my eyes off of him. “I just... feel like I’m being sucked into this thing. And I don’t know if I should because, no matter what I tell myself, I just know it can’t end well. But despite that, I want to. It’s kind of terrifying, actually,” I laugh nervously, but Spencer seems unaffected.

“Sure, when we’ve got time,” he shrugs, concluding the conversation. I have no idea how to make it up to him. I probably just can’t.

I cross the stage again, and Brendon says, “Hi.” I stop in my tracks, overly aware of the people around us. He is setting up the hi-hat, sitting on Spencer’s stool behind the kit. “You okay?”

“Yeah, sure.” I pause. “You?”

“Just fine,” he smiles. Unlike after the kiss in Ottowa, I haven’t been avoiding him. We haven’t talked about it, but that’s because we haven’t had the opportunity to. Brendon is eyeing me up and down slowly now, and I can feel warmth at the back of my neck.

“What?”

“You just...” He bites on his bottom lip and laughs slightly. “You just look good today.”

Obvious flirting. Walk away now before this gets even worse.

“You too,” I say casually. I’m flirting back. God, my mother must have accidentally bashed my brain in when I was a baby.

“We get to stay in a hotel in Cincinnati. That’ll be good,” he comments.

“Never nice when we have to stay on the bus for a long time.”

“I complete agree. Hey, uh, when we get there, I could drop by your room,” he suggests. “Just like to hang out or whatever.”

Or whatever.

“Um, yeah, I don’t know what our schedule is gonna be, but, uh, I’ll let you know when I know?”

“Okay,” he says, and I’m trying to determine whether he’s pissed off. He doesn’t seem to be.

“But I’ll probably have time,” I blurt out. He smiles. I smile back and walk away, trying not to notice how my fingertips are tingling.

What the hell am I doing?

* * *

I finally understand why the boys were upset when we get to Cincinnati. Spencer vanishes. Most of us were asleep when he left, but Brendon drove us here, and he says that Spencer left the bus the second we arrived, hailed a taxi and was gone. Spencer said to tell us that he’d be back later.

“Now I know why you were so pissed,” I tell Joe, who is gritting his teeth and looking around like he wants a knife so he can cut his wrists open because he has given up on this band.

“You, I can imagine taking off, even Brent, but Spencer?! He’s already missed soundcheck! We’ve got a show in two fucking hours!” Joe complains, walking in circles in the dressing room. “That’s it, I am so quitting this band.”

“Joe, just sit back, have a drink, snort some heroin,” Pete offers hurriedly, sitting him down. Joe groans, and Pete starts rubbing his shoulders with steady circular motions. “I’ll find him, no worries.”

The radio in the corner is playing CCR, and Brendon is singing along quietly. “I like the way you walk, I like the way you talk,” he hums in his perfect voice, creating a surprisingly soothing effect for the rest of us. I feel myself split in two: worry and nervousness. Spencer’s missing, and it’s hotel night. Everything is falling apart, falling on me, and I can’t stop any of it. Brendon looks at me, heat in his gaze. He wants me. I know he does.

I can’t think about it now. I have to focus. And besides, I’m not going to. I might let him blow me again, but that’s as far as that’ll go.

“I’ll go see if he’s around. You never know,” Andy offers. As he exists the dressing room, I’m pretty sure he only wants a stress free environment.

“Baby, I love you,” Brendon sings, drumming against his thigh, “Suzie Q.”

I stop. I blink at him.

Shit.

“Be right back,” I hurry to tell the others and run after Andy. I find him eventually in the canteen, smoking a joint with the support’s bassist. “Andy! Dude, fuck, remember when we were in, uh... Toronto! Remember Toronto?”

“Vaguely,” he agrees.

“Remember we sent postcards?” I go on urgently, and he is quirking an interested eyebrow at me. “Spencer sent this postcard! To Suzie Smith in Cincinnati! His cousin? You put the stamps on, remember?”

His expression brightens. “I remember! Give me a minute... Hang on...” He closes his eyes, and I hold my breath. He’s got a photographic memory. He must have read the address line. He must have. Andy opens his eyes. “3 Eliza Street.”

“You sure? You really fucking sure?”

Andy nods in confirmation, and I feel relieved. “Tell them I’ve gone to get Spencer, alright?” I ask him, my eyes spotting an exit sign.

“What if he’s not there, man?” he asks as I’m already heading out.

“He better fucking be!” I tell him, and Spencer will be. I’ve known that kid since forever. I’ve got him figured out.

But when the taxi stops outside 3 Eliza Street twenty minutes later, I no longer feel too sure. It’s a small, cosy looking house in an area of small, cosy looking, family friendly houses. I get out of the car, feeling as out of place as a Satanist in Sunday mass.

The mailbox next to the driveway says ‘The Smiths’. It’s the right place. If Spencer wants to visit family, then fine, but it’s not cool to just disappear on us.

I firmly walk to the steps of the house, ringing the doorbell. Maybe they’ll invite me in for dinner, too, seeing as I’m technically Spencer’s family. I haven’t had a homemade meal since Chicago, since Cassie fixed up something for me and Jon. But mostly, though, I plan to scold Spencer and then drag him back with me before we all lose our minds.

A young woman opens the door with a bright smile, an apron around her, shiny, brown hair hanging to her shoulders, and my voice dies in my throat. She sees me and freezes. Blood leaves her face as her expression goes from friendly and inquisitive to shocked.

What is she doing here?

“Ryan,” Haley manages, voice alarmed.

“Hi,” I spit out. I push past her into the house without an invite. “You think this is fucking funny?” I snarl, spinning around to glare at her, and Spencer’s ex-girlfriend is at a loss for words. I look around the small entrance hall, seeing pictures framed on the wall – Spencer and Haley, Haley’s parents – And then. Then there’s one of Spencer and Haley. He’s in a tuxedo. She’s in a white dress. She’s holding a bouquet of red roses. “What the hell is going on here?” I ask in astonishment.

“Honey!” Spencer’s voice comes from the next room over, and when Haley is too afraid to move or even speak, I follow the sound. I walk into a kitchen that is decorated in bright yellow and smells of apple pie. Spencer’s got his back to the door, his messy and dirty on-tour hair sticking out in places, everything in him not fitting in this picture. “Come look at how natural your husband is at feeding our little girl!”

“What?” I whisper quietly.

Spencer spins around and sees me. He is holding a newborn baby, a bottle of milk in his hand. His eyes go wide, and his mouth drops open. The baby lets out a cry.

My best friend is speechless. That makes two of us.

Next chapter

Vol.1: Over the Tracks - I [Chapter 10]

Tue, 08 Dec 2009 13:46:22 GMT

Previous chapter

Chapter 10: If He Can Feel My Heart

“Ryan! Would you just wait up?!”

I ignore the request and keep heading down the street. Two blocks isn’t far enough from that house, three blocks isn’t enough.

“Okay, you’re mad! I get that!”

Mad? Spencer thinks I’m mad? I’m leaving in an attempt not to goddamn kill him, but no, now he is concerned, now he wants to talk.

Spencer finally catches up with me, blocking my way. I round him, but he only blocks me again, now taking a hold of my shoulders. I snap free and punch him, my fist flying forward on its own accord, my knuckles hitting his jaw. It’s a lousy punch, but I wince and protectively pull my hand back. Spencer is holding his jaw with a pained expression. “Fuck, man! Was that necessary?!” He looks up at me, meets my gaze, and instantly adds, “That was necessary.” I try to get past him again, but he stops me. “Let me explain, would you? It’s not what you think it is!”

“So you haven’t married Haley behind our backs? You don’t have a fucking kid with her?!” I ask pointedly.

“So maybe it is what you think it is.”

“Fuck you! You know that? Fuck you!” I snap, spotting a taxi coming down the street and hailing it over. It drives past me. I swear more, going through my pockets hastily. Spencer offers me a cigarette, and I snatch it, bringing it to my lips hastily.

I light it as Spencer whispers, “I’m sorry.” He looks sorry. He sounds sorry too, but it’s not good enough.

“You’ve had all this time to tell me, but you haven’t. Instead, you’ve lied. Constantly. To my face,” I recap furiously, not sure what pisses me off the most. The betrayal. The wife. The kid? Lying to the band, lying to me. I’m his best friend. I thought I was. “I knew something was up, but I never,” I snarl.

I thought they broke up months ago, last goddamn year. Months of lying? It sickens me. He’s an actor, nothing more.

“I had no choice,” Spencer hurries to say, and my hand curls into a fist again, wanting to take another hit. Had no choice? No one forced him. Whatever decisions he made, he made them willingly.

And a kid is for life. What was he thinking? Was he thinking? Spencer’s not in my world like I thought. All this time he has been living here instead, down the road in that shitty house with that slice of picket fence America, a wife and kid and a handful of values that would never survive in my world.

I lost my best friend months ago and didn’t even know.

Another taxi is coming down the street, and it slows down as I hail it over. “Look, let’s talk about this!” Spencer says hurriedly.

“We’ve got a show in an hour. I don’t have time to talk about it; I only came to get you.” The car stops in front of me, and I open the back door. Spencer is looking over his shoulder worriedly. “Oh my god,” I whisper, closing my eyes and trying to calm down. “You go say goodbye. I’ll wait in the car. Two minutes.”

“Okay,” Spencer mutters, probably realising that he shouldn’t argue with me right now.

I try not to look to the door of the house when Spencer comes out, but I do, anyway. Haley’s there, the picture perfect wife holding a baby. That baby can’t even be a month old. Spencer kisses them both before he jogs to the taxi, knowing the schedule we’re on. Haley waves. I don’t wave back.

We take off. I’m too angry to speak, so I focus on grinding my teeth together and staring into the distance. Spencer sighs once, maybe trying to get my attention. He sighs again, louder. Finally, he says, “I didn’t want you to find out like this.”

“No, no – You didn’t want me to find out. Period.”

“Because I knew you’d react like this!”

“Don’t! Don’t turn this around and make it my fucking problem!” I growl, and the taxi driver starts eyeing us through the rear-view mirror with a worried expression. I don’t plan to bleed on his backseat. “How old is it?” Spencer lifts an eyebrow, and I hiss, “The baby.”

“Suzie,” he says with this messed up, proud dad voice. “Three weeks. We were, uh... We were in Cleveland when Haley...”

“And the wedding?”

“In January.”

One blow after another. I was with Spencer when his daughter was born. He didn’t tell me. I try to think back to January, but can’t. We were busy finishing recording, so I have no idea when he found the time to elope. They had already split up then. They must have planned it all. Haley bought a wedding gown with the money Pete supposedly bribed her with. Pete was happy she was out of the picture. So were we. She was pregnant. Spencer knew. Spencer pretended to be heartbroken.

It’s too much deceit and betrayal for me to handle. All those months of faux-moping around, pretending to be upset? And I bought it. All of it. And the Oscar goes to –

“You son of a bitch,” I snarl just as the taxi slows down in front of the venue. “He’s paying,” I tell the driver and get out, not even caring that I’m right in front of the fans queuing to get in. The support’s on; I can hear them all the way here.

Someone spots me. “It’s Ryan!” They start screaming, even louder as I head straight for the doors, haphazardly feeling my neck and finding the strap of my pass. “It’s Spencer!” And they scream louder. The security is confused as I impatiently show them my backstage pass, shoving them out of the way, pushing off the few girls who have grabbed onto me, screaming. The security intervenes, and I manage to untangle myself.

Spencer is right behind me as we flash our passes to get to the employees-only areas, and I begin heading down a long corridor without actually knowing where the hell I am.

“We gotta talk about this! Just yell at me and get it over and done with!”

“Like that will make me feel better,” I point out venomously. “Like that will change anything!”

“Ryan –”

“Don’t talk to me!” I snap just as my eyes finally spot a dressing room sign. I come to an abrupt stop, and Spencer nearly slams into my back. I make sure to shove him away. He looks hurt by the gesture. “I don’t want to see you, I don’t want to talk to you, so you stay the fuck away.”

His guilty expression changes to worry. “Are you going to tell the others?”

“Wouldn’t you love to know,” I spit, feeling triumphant that I can hold this sword above his head.

I leave Spencer in the corridor, alone and miserable and so fucking caught in his web of lies. And if I feel sorry for him, only for one second, I push the thought out of my head and focus on the numbing hurt in my chest.

* * *

Spencer plays the show, apologises to the guys for vanishing like that, and disappears afterwards. To go to Haley’s, of course. Or maybe he bought the house, so he is going back to his own place. To watch his daughter sleep. To sleep by his wife for the first time in however long.

He didn’t bother talking to me again. I didn’t tell the others. It was a mess as it was with Joe and Brent’s accusations and Spencer’s apologies.

After I’ve showered and changed, I gather my shit and find my way out of the venue, a sympathetic security guy showing me to a second back entrance to avoid the waiting fans. We have nothing tomorrow until the evening when we get back on the road and leave this miserable place. Spencer’s probably counting the hours, dreading the moment of departure. They’re probably running around with a camera and taking pictures of the happy family, united for the first time.

Spencer’s got a kid. I can’t believe it. We’re too young for that.

I don’t want a family. I don’t think I want one, anyway. I’ve never thought about it. In its own way, it would be interesting to pass on my shit genes, see what kind of chaos that would create. To have this one thing to call my own. My son. My daughter.

I can’t keep plants alive, let alone children.

And then I’d walk around with a ring on my finger, arm wrapped around my wife’s shoulders (not Jac, that has been established clearly enough), and then I can say, “Oh yes, this is my youngest, named him George. George Ross IV. No, you’re right. I am just one more cunt who has never had a single original thought. I’m very proud, thank you. Yes, he is in the chess club, how did you know?” and then we will all chuckle and invite each other over for Sunday roast dinner, and exclaim, “Well, maybe this once I’ll have a second glass of red wine!” And my wife and children smile at me adoringly.

But where’s the sweat? The blood? Life isn’t about smiles and forced politeness. Life is raw, it’s meant to leave marks on you. If you can’t remember anything from the last two years, it’s because you’ve done nothing memorable during them. Fuck that. Fuck my imaginary wife and my bastard children. I want loud music, so loud it hurts my ears, and I want sincerity and vomit and honesty.

If only Spencer hadn’t lied. It somehow feels worse because he lied. He could have told me, and then we could have kept the lie together. If he had let me in just a little bit, but he shut me out, threw me out, closed the door and wiped his hands.

If only he hadn’t lied.

There’s a knock on the door of my hotel room. I look at the vodka bottle on the table. I haven’t opened it yet. I’m about to, and then I will drink myself into oblivion, but now someone wants to take that away from me, too. Joe detests me, Brent is fucking my girlfriend, Spencer is worse than the two combined. Friends, best friends, childhood friends, all vanishing, so what the hell is left?

I open the door.

New friends.

Brendon is standing in the hotel corridor, clearly nervous, and my stomach twists almost painfully. He said he’d visit. Hotel night. He said he’d come around for whatever.

To have me fuck him. Potentially.

“Hey,” he smiles, and I stare at him stupidly. I forgot. I was somewhat preoccupied. Brendon lowers his gaze quickly and rubs his nose. “So you alright? You were acting... weirder than usual tonight.” His hair is wet from a shower. It’s pretty amazing how much roadies can sweat during the shows even though they’re not on stage.

“Yeah, just – I just. Things on my mind.”

Brendon looks over his shoulder and down the corridor. I can hear the sounds of a party not too many rooms away. Joe and Brent for sure. They didn’t even bother inviting me.

“I could help you take your mind off of those things,” Brendon says calculatedly, and when he looks at me again, my brain stops working.

The Look. He is giving me The Look: long lashes, soulful eyes, plump bottom lip snugly between his teeth, and right then rationality evaporates, and I want to fuck him. Pull him into my room and fuck him, and I wouldn’t even care what it’d say about me, as a person, psychologically, sexually, permanently, temporarily.

Brendon probably knows I’m under his spell as he takes a step closer, the tips of his shoes pressing against my bare toes. “You should invite me in,” he whispers, and I can feel his breath against my lips. It’d be so easy to reach out, curl my hand around the Jack Daniel’s t-shirt he’s wearing, and pull him in.

It’d be so easy. Too easy.

“No, yeah. I mean yes. No, I mean – Fuck, I don’t know what I mean,” I laugh slightly hysterically.

He blinks and steps back, clearly confused. “You don’t know?”

“I don’t.” I’m being honest with him. I hope he can figure out how rare that is, how it means something.

But he doesn’t get it. His smile turns into a stony expression of barely hidden anger. His jaw line tightens. “Right.”

I try to keep it simple: I’m just not inviting him in. That’s all I’m doing. Though we both know it’s me turning down whatever we had going on. I just can’t. I’ve got too much on my hands without him, his mouth and lips and smile confusing the hell out of me. I’ve never been attracted to a man before. What does it mean? Sure, Eric claimed that it doesn’t mean shit, but I just don’t find it in myself to believe him. I’ve got no one to talk about it with, either. God, I can’t believe I wanted to confide in Spencer of all people.

I’m too messed up to start screwing around with Brendon.

“Goodnight,” I mumble and close the door to his face. I exhale shakily once I have something between us, my forehead pressing against the smooth wooden surface. I wait until I hear him walk away. And he will go back to scolding me instead of undressing me with his gaze, but it’s what we’ve been doing the entire tour so far, circling each other in some fucked up way.

A few more shows, and then we’ll finish the East leg in Florida. If I can remain sane for that long, avoid Brendon, Spencer too, then I don’t have to see any of them for four sweet weeks.

I sulk back into the room, my steps taking me to the vodka bottle. I could have chosen Brendon’s body. I could’ve chosen his companionship. I could’ve chosen forgiving Spencer, or Brent, or Joe, or myself. But I choose the bottle instead.

Like father, like son.

I don’t have anything to mix the alcohol with, so I drink it straight from a small plastic cup I find in the bathroom, meant for water or to hold a toothbrush or something slightly less depraved.

I drown the second shot and feel the alcohol welling at the pit of my stomach. Tonight was the first time on this tour that I went on stage completely sober. It was just as scary as I thought, but I could only focus on Spencer behind me, the way he drummed, effortlessly, brilliantly, like nothing was wrong, and I hated him.

I’ve never hated him before.

A knock on the door again. I put my plastic cup on the nightstand next to the bottle. It aches somewhere inside, but Brendon can make me forget about that. I can let him in, sit on the edge of the bed, push his head down, and focus on his talented tongue and moist mouth. Neither of us would have to talk.

I go to the door, still unsure whether to tell him to come in or not. I had the strength to turn him down once. Twice, though? I feel a jolt of lust settling in my gut. No one can expect me to do the right thing twice.

The door reveals Spencer, and I freeze, not having expected him. “Hey,” he says tiredly.

“What are you doing here?” I ask sharply because he should be curled up with his wife right about now. He left the venue straight after to do just that.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he informs me and pushes past me into the room where I don’t want him. He looks at the vodka bottle on the nightstand, then at me, and he has that goddamned look in his eyes like he can read me perfectly. He can’t. No one can. I’m keeping secrets too, and it feels oddly satisfying.

“I’m gonna say what I have to say, regardless of what you want,” Spencer says and sits on the edge of my bed. I slowly close the door. He can talk, sure, but I don’t necessarily have to listen. Defiantly, I fetch my vodka bottle first, dangling it in my grip easily as I go to the big armchair by the window, kicking my feet up on the small coffee table next to it. Spencer doesn’t wait for me to signal him to go on as he launches into it himself. “I didn’t choose Haley.”

Thank god.

“She blackmailed you into it, didn’t she? Because of the baby,” I say, because this has been the only even half-sensible scenario I’ve come up with.

“No!” Spencer says, horrified. “No, nothing like that. I mean, we didn’t mean to have Suzie. She was purely accidental. I don’t regret it, though.” He has that proud parent smile on his face again. “I knew Pete wanted her gone, but I refused. You know that, you were there. And then she found out she was pregnant, and we were trying to figure out what to do. I mean, when she gave me the news, I proposed to her on the spot.”

I try not to snort. How valiant of him. How stupid.

“Then Pete went to her with the money. She refused, of course, and she told me what had happened, and it was... an eye opener for me. That Pete had the fucking arrogance to try and do something like that. The music world is so ruthless. It’s not an environment for a family. For a little baby.”

“So you and Haley came up with this master plan,” I supply for him, my tone bitter.

“I came up with it and talked her into it. The shittiest thing I’ve ever had to do,” he mumbles, and I would strongly like to disagree. “She called Pete and said she’d agree, and then you know the rest.”

“Yeah, I do. The way you pretended that you were heartbroken. You even punched Pete,” I recall.

Spencer sits up straighter. “I had every damn reason to punch him! After what he did? Believe me, I had the right! And I’ve been heartbroken. My pregnant wife moving to Cincinnati where I have to pretend she doesn’t exist? Missing her, wondering how she’s doing? I’ve been fucking miserable. When our break starts, I’m coming right back here. But you gotta understand that I didn’t choose her. I chose both.”

“Well, maybe you can’t have both. You ever thought about that?” I snap.

Spencer looks older than he is as he whispers, “I’ve been slowly coming to terms with that, yeah. But...” His voice fades away, and his hands twist in his lap restlessly as his eyes nail to the floor. “I don’t know if I’d make a very good husband. Or if I’d make a decent dad.” He has that tone of intimacy he uses when he is voicing a thought he’s had for the very first time. He swallows hard and tries to smile. “But I know I’m a brilliant drummer. That’s something I know I can do. She wants me to quit the band, but I feel like I’ll only disappoint her more if I do. That I won’t be able to be the guy she wants me to be, the guy she needs. This part, being on the road, nightly shows, the fans, this part I know I’m good at. But I don’t know if I’m good at anything else. What if she only loves me because I’m gone?”

Spencer looks at me with big, sorrowful eyes, like he wants my advice or a brotherly hug or just even a bit of sympathy. I only focus on Haley wanting him to quit the band. Bitch.

“So that’s why you’re still here? Because you feel sorry for yourself?”

Spencer laughs, shaking his head. “God, I keep forgetting how you’ve become so goddamn cruel.”

“I was always cruel.”

“No,” he smiles sadly. “You just wished you were.” He stands up and runs fingers through his hair. I hold my vodka closer to my chest and refuse to look at him. Spencer’s just there, but he’s never felt further away. I love him, despite everything. He has been the only constant thing in my life since the age of seven, but now, he is slipping through my hands.

The only things I’ve ever loved have been things that are bad for me. Not necessarily at the time, but in the end. The idea of Jac, then Spencer, Jackie, me and this lady.

Spencer stops pacing. “I’m sorry I lied to you. I was in a situation where I didn’t know what the right thing was, and I made some bad decisions. You have the right to be angry with me. But just twenty hours ago, I finally got to hold my daughter for the first time, and I... I did right by her. You know that the fans and the press would harass Haley if she was public knowledge, and I gotta protect my girls. They deserve their privacy. My little girl isn’t for sale, not to Pete, not as a publicity stunt or for anything. So I made the right decision. And I think that, that after you get to think about it, you’ll understand where I’m coming from, and, and maybe after that... you won’t be so angry with me anymore.”

“I’m glad you feel that way. It must make it easier for you to sleep at night telling yourself all those useless justifications.” I sit up straight and let my eyes focus on the view out of the window, facing the inner court where the pool is, and people are by it even at this time of night. I feel Spencer’s eyes on me, and he’s sorry. I know he is, and I want to forgive him and get him back on my team. I want to. “If you’re done, feel free to show yourself out.”

My voice manages to break on the last syllable. But it’s not that easy as just forgiving him. What does it change, anyway? Spencer loves his family, more than he loves this band, and I can’t blame him. I don’t blame him for not liking me much anymore.

For the first time, I realise that The Followers will be over sooner than I ever realised. After this tour, Spencer will quit. He didn’t even hint he might, but I know him. He hasn’t changed quite enough for me not to know him.

Give it time.

The door closes behind Spencer.

* * *

The East leg finishes in Tampa, hot and humid in the July weather. It feels like a miracle that we have made it this far, and everyone’s packing up and getting ready for our break. The bus looks clean for the first time since St. Paul, and Pete beams from the achievement as we try to figure out which bit of clothing belongs to whom.

We have two shows in Tampa, but as I gather my bags and walk into the hotel from the bus, briefly signing a few albums for fans waiting outside, I know I won’t be getting back on that bus until weeks from now, and it feels freeing. My nest was not that comforting in the end, just more room for me to label as absence of people. My hotel room is one of the best ones yet with an enormous bed and a small welcome gift bag on the table next to the mirror, inside of which I find two mini whisky bottles. Excellent.

Soon, I will be going back to Los Angeles, to my own place. Jac is in Paris, I think, but she should be in LA in a week or two. I don’t remember why she went to Paris. Someone asked her to. Spencer is off to Cincinnati, and I already know I won’t see either Joe or Brent during the break. The roadies will go to their respective homes, Zack to San Diego, Andy to Milwaukee, William and Brendon to San Francisco. And Pete will probably go back to his place of origin: hell.

It’s the penultimate show, and even I have the energy for it. It’s so close to the end. I don’t usually pay attention, but I’m pretty sure it’s the best gig we’ve done on this tour, or maybe they just really, really love us here. After we’re done, even I say, “Thanks,” into the microphone.

It’s also surprising that I’m sober. I can’t drink with Spencer in the room, the way he silently signals that I am turning into my father. Well, what else is new? What more did anyone ever expect of me?

Joe’s hotel room turns into party central with girls and roadies, and we’re all there, celebrating that tomorrow is the last show of the leg. Twenty-nine down, twenty-six to go.

I sit on the couch and talk to Andy, who is high as a kite but still pleasant to talk to. But I find myself scanning the room for Brendon. He’s with William, always with William. Brendon doesn’t handle rejection well, I’ve learned that since Cincinnati. His pissed off bitch act is in no way endearing, not with how he ignores me, addresses me with short, blunt sentences, and occasionally glares.

Brendon clearly has some growing up to do.

“So,” Spencer’s voice comes from behind me when Andy goes to the bathroom, and I turn to see Spencer leaning over the backrest of the couch. “You ever going to talk to me again?”

“Not if I can help it,” I shoot back instantly.

Spencer’s small smile falters. “Look, man, I’m so –”

I get up before he gets the chance to finish. I don’t care what he has to say. Spencer lets me walk away, doesn’t even have the decency to try and stop me. I find myself a girl, who is immediately taken by me. Of course she is. We start talking, and Brendon keeps shooting us death glares from across the room. Like I let him down too.

“Spence, you’re not leaving already, are you?” Zack calls out, and Spencer is already at the door.

“Need some sleep,” he replies, wary eyes landing on me. “Got a phone call to make.”

He’s going to call Haley, of course. He waves us goodbye, leaving me. The girl comes back with new drinks, but my eyes keep returning to Brendon, who now leaves the crowded room, heading towards the bathroom. For no particular reason, I decide to follow him like us followers do. To give him a piece of my mind.

Brendon is leaning against the wall next to the bathroom door, arms crossed and a bored expression on his face. He gives me a side-glance as I approach him, his lips forming a thin line. I don’t say anything, just keep my eyes on him.

I lean casually against the wall opposite him, our shoes almost touching in the narrow space. He persistently keeps looking away. “I’m not flattered, just so you know,” I tell him flatly, and he casts me a look like he supposes he must acknowledge my presence. “That you’re upset I’d rather fuck that girl than you.”

Brendon scoffs. “I’m not upset. It’s your loss.” He stands up straighter. “I’m a better fuck than any boy – or girl – you’ll ever meet. You had your chance, and you missed it. So I’m not upset.”

His ranting suggests the opposite. He also has got balls for saying something like that. What if I made him prove he is as good as he claims?

The chattering from the party around the corner seems to fade away. Brendon has this way of making the rest of the world disappear for me.

He bangs the bathroom door impatiently, but gets no response. Maybe someone’s passed out in there. “So did you and Spencer break up, or what?” he now shoots at me, and I feel like he has just plunged his hand into my guts and ripped them out. “I pay attention,” he says obnoxiously.

“You know nothing about that.”

“Funny thing is that you’re so blatantly heartbroken over it, yet Spencer seems to be doing just fine.”

Without thinking about it, I curl my hand into a fist and punch the wall right next to his head. His eyes widen in surprise, but he stands his ground in defiance. That’s his problem. He doesn’t know when to back off. He stares me down, and I have never met anyone who has been able to read me as easily as he does.

The space between us is minimal, and my blood boils. “Fuck you.”

“Fuck you,” he counters just as venomously.

I close the gap between us and kiss him hard. He responds with a desperate sounding grunt, and my hands fly to his hair, fisting forcefully. I don’t care who might come around the corner, who might emerge from the bathroom. Let them see, I don’t care anymore. No one has the moral upper hand around here, and no one certainly has the right to tell me what to do. And screw all the decisions I’ve ever made so far. They’ve only made me miserable. And fuck Brendon and the way he makes me feel, restless and unsettled, on the brink of something I should leave undiscovered. Fuck him. Just fuck him.

I will.

My other hand finds the hem of his shirt, and I pull up the fabric, fingers sliding on smooth, warm skin. He arches into it. God, he’s so desperate for me.

But then Brendon pushes me off him, and I stumble backwards, my back hitting the wall. He is wiping his mouth, his neck flushed. He shakes his head quickly, breathing fast. “Oh no, you had your chance.”

I scoff. “You wanted me, remember?”

“I’ve since seen the light.”

“You don’t say no to me,” I laugh disbelievingly, stepping right back into his space. My hand curls around his left hip, thumb brushing the skin. Brendon’s lips are a gorgeous red, and I admire them. Our breaths mix together. “If I want to fuck you, I’ll fuck you.”

Brendon’s breathing hitches, and I press my crotch right against his. He looks so angry, nearly livid, and his cheeks are flushed and his eyes are dark and swirling with emotions I don’t want to read. Is he going to punch me or not?

He launches forward and kisses me, desperate and rough. I bang him back against the wall, our hands everywhere, bruising and needing to touch. I suck on his bottom lip too hard, then push my tongue between his parted lips and fuck his mouth. It feels so heavy and hot all of a sudden. He’s all I can think about, all I can feel.

God, I’m going to fuck him until he passes out of exhaustion.

The bathroom door opens right then, and we pull apart instantly, a wet smack sounding from our starving mouths. Brendon is trying to pull his shirt down a bit, and I just focus on breathing. Joe pokes his head out, too drunk to have noticed anything. It takes him a while to focus on us. “Oh. Hey, guys.”

“Hi,” Brendon replies breathlessly. His voice is low, and I feel my skin crawling with want. I don’t look at Joe at all. Instead, I keep my eyes on Brendon.

“I’m, uh, probably gonna be in here for a while,” Joe explains, and I hear giggling coming from behind him. A girl. Possibly two girls. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly, though he is blatantly enjoying himself.

“That’s okay,” I say, not taking my eyes off of Brendon. “I think we were just leaving anyway.”

“Far out. Have a good night now,” Joe grins, and the door slams shut.

Without a word to Brendon, I begin to walk away. I know he will follow.

We snake through the party, and I don’t even care if they see us leaving together. Let them draw their own conclusions if they dare. No one would even suspect that I’d fuck a guy, anyway. It wouldn’t occur to them.

Once we’re out of the hotel room and in the deserted corridor, we walk two steps side by side, and then I have him against the wall again. I push him back from one shoulder, snatching one wrist and feeling his rapid pulse between my fingertips. He fists my hair and groans against my mouth. So hot. Everything feels urgent and rushed. He grinds up against me. Want him naked on a bed, want him begging for it –

“I’m gonna fuck you so hard,” I mumble against his swollen lips. Brendon groans and tilts his head back in surrender, and I attack his neck, biting on the skin. He smells of sweat and cigarettes and him, that underlining scent that is just him. Something about it is helping my cock get hard really damn fast. “Your room.”

He swallows, I watch his Adam’s apple bob and give into the urge of sucking on it. “Just a few doors down, but it’s with William. Wouldn’t yours –”

“No,” I interrupt him. “Can’t have people hear me fuck you.”

Two men moaning in Brendon’s room? Nothing out of the ordinary. My room? No.

Brendon’s jaw tightens slightly, but I simply let my nose trace his jaw line. He is breathing heavily, and I smile against his cheek cruelly. “God, it pisses you off, doesn’t it?” I ask quietly, shamelessly moving to cup his cock. He gasps and pushes against my hand. He’s a good size. All of that, every inch – “It pisses you off that I make you this hard.”

He grits his teeth. “Just shut up.”

I attack his mouth again, a wet slide of tongues. I tighten my grip of his wrist and guide his hand between us, onto my erection. I want to feel his hand there, want him more than I’ve wanted anyone. He rubs me through my clothes, a small whine escaping his throat. I could push him onto his knees right here, and he’d do it. “Room,” I order.

We manage to make it to his room, and he digs out the key. He suddenly takes off his shoe, though, pulling a sock off. I stare in confusion as he puts the sock over the doorknob. “So William knows not to come in,” he explains.

They have a system. I scoff.

Then I instantly forget all about it.

The hotel door slams shut behind us, and I’m on him, all over him. Brendon groans against my mouth, undoing my tie and pulling it off. We crash against something, a side table. I pull him closer from the belt loops of his jeans, wrapping my arms around his narrow waist. It’s not close enough.

Our noses press together, the stubble on his chin scratching against mine. I let myself have this without any analysis. I can process it all later, what this means, if anything. Now, though, now I know what I want, and I don’t give a fuck about anything else except getting it.

I pull his shirt off, hearing the tearing of fabric, but not caring what got damaged. He doesn’t seem to care either as he goes for my shirt, the top button coming loose. Our mouths smack together loudly, wantonly, and he unbuttons from the top as I unbutton from the bottom, and our rushed hands meet in the middle. His palms press against my bare chest, and I wonder if he can feel my heart.

We fight the shirt off me, stumbling towards the bed closer to us. We go for each other’s zippers at the same time. The kiss breaks, our foreheads still pressed together. Brendon’s hands are shaking. So are mine.

“Fuck,” Brendon manages, sounding wrecked already. “Fuck, fuck.”

I get him unzipped, shove his jeans to mid-thigh and wrap my fingers around his cock. A barrier of some kind dissolves in me: another guy’s cock. The air feels too hot to breathe. Brendon rocks into my hand, pressing his face into the crook of my neck, panting. He’s as thick as me, but maybe an inch shorter. He’s rock hard.

“Jesus,” I manage, feeling him hot in my hand. I move to cup his balls, the skin tight, run my hand over his length again. Brendon latches onto my neck, muffling a groan. He’s pushed my jeans down, and my cock brushes against his.

I want to try and jerk us off together, I want to watch him jerk off, I want to watch him finger himself, want to see him come, his hips snap, his cock twitch. Want every little dirty thing my vivid imagination has been able to come up with on the occasions I have not been thinking about this.

“I’ll have you know I like foreplay,” Brendon pants heavily, a hint of desperate amusement in his tone, “but we’re just skipping it this time.”

“You fucking bet we are,” I agree, finding his lips again. “Off.”

We part only to undress all the way, and I’m far too focused on him to be self-conscious. I’ve stood in front of the mirror naked, I know what I look like. The hungry look on Brendon’s face suggests that I don’t know, but I merely focus on him.

I snatch his wrist, pull him to me, his naked skin against mine, and then I shove him backwards onto the bed. The mattress bounces; it’s not meant for two people. I straddle him, and his hands are on my hips, warm and firm. Our cocks brush, and the rush in my veins just gets worse. I feel dizzy as the world seems out of focus and surreal.

Then the nervousness hits. Fuck, I don’t want to feel nervous. I had a plan: fuck him long, fuck him hard, but the anger that supported the notion is fading away. My chest feels constricted as we keep kissing, him laid out beneath me, hungrily reaching up to touch me. I keep cupping his cock, trying to familiarise myself with it.

I’ve got all night to familiarise myself with his body if I want to. Now I need to focus on the actual point.

Brendon clearly agrees as he says, “The lube’s in the bag.” I take bites at his mouth and keep him where he is. I make the rules here. He does what I say.

He would do anything I say.

It takes me a while to find the lube from the mess of clothes in his bag, but then it’s in my hand. It’s half-empty, and Brendon automatically spreads his legs as I get back on the bed. “How much?” I ask, already pouring some on my palm. I throw the lube on the floor, dipping two fingers in the cool substance.

“Not too much. I prefer less, so I can really feel the burn.”

Fuck, my cock throbs at his words, just picturing him.

I move over him, leaning down to suck on a nipple. No idea what kind of a reaction that will get me, if any, he’s not a chick, and his body is still driving me insane in all the ways it mirrors mine. But it’s more the fact that it’s him, it’s Brendon, and all the things that he keeps to himself, all the fight in him, all the things I can’t figure out, and yet, his body is at my disposal. I need to find at least one way to break his spine and make him sweat.

My fingers clumsily reach between his legs, pushing between his ass cheeks. I don’t look, my coordination is definitely lacking, but I find his hole, a tight ring of muscle. I press two fingers against it, and his body tenses in anticipation. He’s fucking wanton.

There’s no going back from this.

I push my fingers inside. He jerks and pushes into it, a choked, “Fuck,” sounding in the room. God, he’s tight.

I focus on the rhythm, slick fingers tentatively moving in and out of him. Brendon’s fingernails dig into my back, and I keep studying his face: the closed eyes, knitted eyebrows, open mouth, tongue licking his lips. I’ve never seen such concentration on his face, and when I push my fingers in deeper, his features flash with pleasure.

“Just a- Ngh, a steady rhythm will- Fuck, your fingers,” he pants. I push them deeper, and he groans helplessly. I keep the rhythm as steady as I can, in and out, a slight twist to make him tremble, in and out...

“Tell me when,” I manage, my throat feeling dry. “Say when you’re ready to be fucked.”

He groans, head twisting backwards into the pillow. I watch the way his body arches, chest flushed, the muscles of his stomach quivering, legs parted wide, all this from my two fingers in him. His other arm is flung over his eyes now, and he is biting on his bottom lip. His hips are thrusting against my hand. This is nothing like I thought, nothing like I –

He cries out suddenly, body freezing up, the muscles around my fingers squeezing. “God, right there. That’s the spot, that’s –” he babbles incoherently. The spot? There’s a spot?

He sounds more aroused than I’ve ever heard him, and I decide he’s ready because I need to do something about my own aching hard-on. I pull my fingers out and find the lube again. I take care not to put too much on. If he says he wants to feel it, then I’ll let him feel it.

I place a hand on his hip, let my nails dig in, and I attempt to guide him a little. Brendon looks at me, clearly not getting it. “Don’t you want to get on your hands and knees?” I ask impatiently.

“No,” he replies simply, eyes dark. He spreads his legs further. My stomach drops. My scenarios never included us face to face, no space between us, me deep inside him, him watching me, tangling together.

I take a hold of his hips and pull him closer, and he wraps his legs around my waist automatically. My lube covered cock slides against his ass cheek as I settle, balancing myself with an elbow next to his head. He instantly turns to kiss my arm, tongue tracing my skin wantonly. His entire body is in constant motion, turned on, sex in itself.

“You gotta tell me if I’m not doing something right,” I say, hating having to admit it, but he just nods. I already know that I’ll get off, no problem there, but him?

Brendon fists my hair and brings me down to kiss him. His other hand flies down my spine, over the vertebrae, and settles on my lower back. He whines against my mouth and applies pressure just above my ass. I get the hint, grab my cock, and guide it to his moist and hastily stretched entrance.

The fit in itself is already off. The flushed and red head of my cock is too large for the hole it’s pressing against, and I try to keep my head. “Don’t be a jerk,” Brendon pleas urgently, tone desperate. Is he sure? Do men actually do this with each other? “God, just– just do it, fucking need you, I –”

I push into him, forcing my way inside. Air escapes my lungs. Brendon’s mouth drops open, and he moans. He just – He moans loudly, back arching, looking straight into my eyes. His nails are clawing my back as his body trembles.

I fucked Jac up the ass that one time, but that has got nothing on this. Nothing. Fucking nothing.

Brendon is hot and tight, squeezing every inch of me. I look down to where we’re joined, trying to regain control. Holy fucking hell, I didn’t think it’d feel like this.

Brendon keeps staring at me, pupils blown, and that’s the worst part, how I can’t look away once we lock eyes. I thrust experimentally, and he moans, breathing laboured. “God, you’re so tight,” I groan helplessly, dropping my head against his shoulder.

“You’re fucking huge,” he counters, voice raspy. “Filling me up, you– And fuck, you’re so hard,” he moans, tone helpless and wretched. We both catch our breaths, but I guess I miss my cue because he asks, “You gonna fuck me or what?”

“Until you can’t fucking walk,” I snarl, but I need another minute to feel like I can move without instantly coming. I keep my thrusts steady but hard to start off with, seeing how he’ll react. I snatch his wrists and pin them above his head, using my weight to keep him trapped. He clearly gets off on being held down, his moans even more guttural. He sounds so fucking dirty when he’s getting fucked, his uneven breathing, the hitches in breath, and then he moans and groans and hisses and gasps –

“Try-” He stops to groan. “Try aiming up when you – Fucking hell, fucking fuck –”

“Try what? Tell me how you want me to fuck you,” I order, and he likes that too. His body shudders, and his cock twitches, brushing against my stomach on each thrust. “Tell me.”

“The angle,” he tries again, licking his swollen and red lips. I have to interrupt him then, just to kiss him. I fuck him hard as our tongues battle fervently. My nails dig into his wrists, and he thrusts up against me. I suck off the sweat that has gathered on his upper lip before pulling back with a wet smack. “Aim up when you push in, just a- God, just a little.”

He’s the expert, so I do. Nothing changes, though, so I keep trying, unsure of what he wants. Then it happens, and his body jolts so violently I have to use force to keep him pinned down like I want him. His muscles quiver and squeeze around my cock, pure fucking bliss, and he nods hurriedly.

“Yeah, like that, like – Ry, you just- Please, don’t stop. Don’t fucking –”

“Not gonna,” I interrupt him, making sure to keep my hips working at the right angle. Brendon is leaking between us now, and I let his wrists go. I curl my fingers in his damp hair, our foreheads pressed together. We pant against each other’s mouths, lips touching every now and then. He meets my thrusts, and I slide in so fucking deep into him. He just takes it. He fucking loves it. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt this far gone.

He fists the sheets as the headboard bangs loudly against the wall.

I find his hand, our fingers lacing together. This is nothing like I had planned, but I had no idea how intense this would feel, being with him, being in him. I guide his hand between us, and he instantly starts to stroke himself.

“Can I come inside you?” I groan hurriedly. We’re both drawing close now. I’ve been close since New York.

“Please,” he says, choking on the word, and I kiss him. God, he wants me to. My imminent orgasm is pounding in my veins, heavy in my brain, my chest, my stomach, heat curling up, and it’s all him now, all him and this burning –

Brendon comes with a sudden groan, body seizing up, jerking. His muscles all contract at the same time, squeezing me, even tighter than before. My entire body feels it, and I have never felt anything like it. I keep fucking him, pounding into him, and he rides out his orgasm, his body radiating heat against mine. My eyes take in the mess, the white substance now rolling down his flushed cock, over his fist. I pinned him down, pushed inside him, fucked him, made him come and lose control.

I climax instantly with such a force it takes me by surprise. My mind blacks out, but then it’s taken over by a bright light, and my hips snap and snap, and I keep coming, keep coming. My toes curl, and I tremble. Oh god. Brendon murmurs something into my ear. I can’t understand what he says.

I’m surrounded by a haze when I’m finally done.

I’m completely out of breath and worn out, muscles aching, covered in sweat, my body tingling from the orgasm. Brendon is staring up at me, also trying to catch his breath. I try to say something, but my brain won’t work. Instead, I pull out. He winces, his legs loosening their deadlock around me. I will have bruised hips tomorrow. So will he.

He is still close to me. We’re now pressed together, crotch to crotch, stomach to stomach, chest to chest. It feels comfortable, and I want to tangle onto him, fall asleep, wake up and do this again. Our legs begin to entwine. I want to kiss him, slow and soft. I –

I snap into reality. I roll off of him onto the limited space between him and the wall. The pillow and the duvet are now on the floor. Brendon exhales loudly, wiping his stomach with his hand, but only ends up smearing his semen on a wider surface. He makes a face and retrieves a pair of boxers from the floor, cleaning himself up.

“Those are mine,” I manage to say. My boxers now covered in his come. I notice that I’ve got some on me too.

“Sorry,” he mutters, clearly not bothered. His hand is trembling slightly, still from the aftershocks. I stare at him, feeling fucking shaken up. I don’t – I was just gonna fuck him. That is all I had planned, I swear. He smiles to himself. “You just broke the law, you know that?”

“What?”

“This is illegal. Two guys fucking.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I say. How could that be illegal?

He drops the boxers back onto the floor, lying back down, gorgeous, naked and glowing. I wish I could smirk, make a sleazy comment, brush this off, but it feels so heavy.

“Fuck it,” I whisper, and Brendon quirks an eyebrow at me. I reach over him, snatching the corner of the duvet on the floor. I pull it over us and pull him to me, thinking for a second that maybe he will push me off. He doesn’t.

He smells like me.

My heart swells up.

He doesn’t speak, but neither do I. But our hands keep moving, tracing patterns until I’ve fallen asleep, curled up in him.

* * *

I’m sleepily moving my hand on the sheets that are still warm, cracking open one eye. Light has flooded the room. I’m alone in bed. God, I feel so well rested.

I roll onto my back, sighing quietly and feeling content. The shower is running. My cock is half-hard, and I absently reach down to grab it, letting my fingers move on it. This is going to be a good day, I can already tell. Jac can blow me once she comes out of the shower.

My head rolls to the side, and I breathe in the sheets. They smell good. But they don’t smell like her. It’s better, it’s...

Brendon.

I jerk to sit up on the bed, bewildered. The shower keeps running. Brendon’s in there. My back feels sensitive. His fingernails. My hips feel sore. His hands. My fucking mouth feels raw. His lips.

Our clothes are scattered across the floor. The sheets are a mess.

He’s in the shower. Naked. I’m here. Naked.

We fucked.

I’m fucked.

Last night plays itself in my head in flashes of hands and lips, our bodies tangling, moving, but most of all I remember him. I feel short of breath.

I need to get dressed so I can get the hell out of here.

My boxers are covered with dried come – I remember him wiping himself off, his lower stomach, white streaks decorating, his cock softening, how he looked, how it made me feel. I pull them on, ignore the dried come on me. Clothes. Need more clothes. Can’t come out of his room half-dressed.

My shirt is next to a knocked over side table. I manage to get it on, and it’s hanging off me when the bathroom door opens. Brendon is towelling his wet hair. His eyes land on the bed first before spotting me. “Hey.”

He’s absolutely naked and clearly not even the tiniest bit self-conscious about it. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen anything as attractive.

“Morning,” I manage.

His eyes take me in silently. I can’t read his thoughts. I really wish I could.

“Your tie’s over there,” he says in this annoyingly neutral tone, and I spot my tie next to his suitcase. I quietly retrieve it, twisting it in my hands. Brendon sits on the edge of the bed and keeps towelling his hair. “So are you leaving already?”

“I was just...”

Running away.

“You got interviews today?”

“No,” I rush to say, glad to have something tangible. “No interviews. Last show tonight. Insane, huh? Can’t wait for the break, a whole month without shows. Sounds like heaven right about now.” Pause. “God, I’m starving. Breakfast’s included, right? I could really do with some bacon and egg scramble.”

Brendon smiles to himself, a hint of a smirk in it. “I knew it.”

“Knew what?” I ask, now buttoning my shirt hurriedly. A few are missing. They must have come off when we...

“You’re freaking out.” He stands up, wrapping the towel around his waist where I just manage to catch a few bruises. He has bite marks here and there on his chest and neck. I really fucking went for it, didn’t I?

“I’m not freaking out,” I scoff. He rolls his eyes. “Hey, we fucked. I’m completely fine with that. I’m not freaked out.”

“No?” he asks disbelievingly.

“No.”

“Well, then we should do it again. You’ve got nothing to do, I’m always horny in the mornings...” he trails off, and I am relatively sure I gulp loud enough for him to hear. He shakes his head, scorn in his eyes. “Such a typical conflicted faux heterosexual.”

“Don’t try and analyse me,” I snap. Something keeps beating wildly in my chest, a yearning, a burning sensation. I want to touch him. I want to take him up on his offer. And fuck him, I’m totally not gay. “I gotta go,” I mutter before we start fighting again.

Brendon shrugs like it’s all the same to him. The thought pierces through me painfully. Last night wasn’t just –

It should matter. That’s all.

I find my jeans and pull them back on, and he turns the TV on, not paying attention to me. I see the tension in his shoulders. I could make it vanish with one kiss to the nape of his neck. The sunlight hits his pale skin, making him glow.

He’s not looking my way as I tie my shoelaces, finally good to go. “I’ll catch you later,” I mumble more to myself and finally head to the door.

“Ryan?”

I pause with my hand on the doorknob. My heart is racing.

“Just that,” he begins and pauses. “If you change your mind or whatever, I’ve got nothing to do until soundcheck. Even if you want to just hang out.” He finally looks at me.

I made him sweat, broke his spine. I got under his skin.

I nod in response and leave. I do a paranoid check to make sure no one I know seems me coming out of his room, but there’s only a hotel cleaner down the hallway. I don’t remember my room number and initially get the direction wrong.

My bed hasn’t been slept in. It feels empty. Hotel rooms always feel clinical somehow with the tailored sheets, the mint on the pillow placed just in the very middle. Like anyone would actually live here.

Brendon’s room felt different. It felt lived in.

I should be over it now. Eric said it’d be out of my system.

I go for a shower to get his smell and come off me. My cock’s been hard since Brendon said we should do it again. He probably noticed, but was kind enough not to say anything. I jerk off in the shower, biting my own arm to keep quiet as I fist myself with the other. I can’t believe how hard I come, the fresh memories still playing in my head.

The TV entertains itself as I get dressed. It’s the same channel Brendon had on, some local one. They promise hot, humid weather, a lovely summer day in Florida. I sit on the edge of my large, cold bed and stare at the screen.

If I go back, what then?

Maybe it’d be like this: I go back, knock on his door. He is waiting for me. I fuck him again, but now the room is full of light, now I can see him better. I see him for the second time. The first time was last night. I saw him.

And then we lie there, basking in the afterglow, and it’s insane how I’m instantly ready for more. His body is amazing, is hot and willing. Then we have to head for the venue, and I play the show, and he smiles at me from the side of the stage. Afterwards, in the midst of the party signifying the end of the first leg, I lean into his ear and say, “You want to come to LA with me?” He is currently homeless, after all, sleeping on people’s couches. And he comes with me. I show him all the places I go to, take him out to my favourite bars. We’re just hanging out like he offered. Spencer tries calling me, but I’m so busy with Brendon that I don’t have time for him. Spencer ceases to exist. Then Jac flies in from Paris, but I don’t want to see her because all I can think of is Brent fucking her, so we leave for San Francisco. Jac and Brent cease to exist. I get us a room in an expensive hotel, and then it’s his turn to show me all the places that make up his life. This new one he has made up. I want to see it in detail.

And he sees all the fucked up baggage I carry around, but he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t try changing me, because he gets it. He’s the only one who gets it. It’s worth more than gold. And knowing that, I hold it somewhere safe where no one else can see it. We’d be the only ones who’d know.

I burst out laughing at my own scenario. What the hell has gotten into me? I barely know him. He’s just some arrogant, lying faggot of an ex-Mormon, who has to use fancy foreign words to give himself a personality. And there’s me: a fucking star.

And yet...

And yet.

I look to the door of my room. My feet are already anticipating my decision, tips aimed towards my way to him.

What should I do? What do I do now that I’ve gotten myself into this?

My eyes land on the TV screen. The anchorwoman is talking about a restaurant shooting. Brendon is watching the same thing, probably waiting to hear a knock on the door. What’s the worst thing that could happen?

“You are going to see another first,” the news anchor says. “Attempted suicide.”

On screen, a young anchorwoman takes out a gun. She shoots herself in the head. It happens fast. She falls forward onto the table, and the camera films her twitching body.

She just blew her brains out on live television.

I can’t breathe.

The program switches to a public service announcement.

I’m shaking violently.

The worst thing that could happen.

end of Vol.1 – I

Masterpost

The Heart Rate of a Mouse [Prologue]

Sun, 06 Dec 2009 22:12:32 GMT

Prologue

I should never be trusted to drive a vehicle of any kind; not because I am a lousy driver, but because I tighten my grip of the wheel with every passing truck. I look in the newspaper every day for that one headline of a car crash where they simply don’t know what happened. Maybe the driver lost control of the car. Suffered a seizure. Was trying to dodge a child running across the street. Something to explain why his car and insides ended up painting the front of a Canadian frozen goods truck on its way from Montreal to Detroit.

I drove from Portland to Los Angeles once. It was a pleasant trip, heading south, the air getting warmer and the people more tanned. It took me four days to drive because I kept getting distracted and took a small detour in Nevada where I got drunk as hell with a guy who had worked as a circus clown all of his life. We were exactly alike, me and him. It’s easy to distract me because I never know what I should be paying attention to. Is it a new guitar model, the glimpse of something better and more dignified, a pair of brown eyes that always amplified the smile on perfectly shaped lips? During my West Coast road trip, I lost count of the times I saw an oncoming car and considered twisting the wheel to the left. Crash. Bang. Smoke.

I don’t know if anyone else has these thoughts when they drive. I’ve never asked. When I crashed the tour bus back in ’74, I found myself wondering if it was on purpose or not. I didn’t mean to do it, but maybe I subconsciously wanted to.

For a while, we thought Joe would never walk again.

Now I’m driving in a Chevy rental, navigating from O’Hare to an address scribbled on a napkin in messy handwriting that isn’t mine. The car is brown, a light brown that resembles baby shit. It was the only one they had left. The wipers make a wheezing sound as they try to battle away the heavy, wet snowfall.

“Are you nervous?”

I don’t bother looking at the kid on the passenger seat. “No.”

“Brent said,” he begins, launching into yet another lie someone has said about me. People love to talk and talk and talk about me, “that, during Jackie, you were so nervous that you got drunk before every show.”

“He flatters me,” I note, annoyed that this one isn’t a lie at all – the only way I could deal with the pressure of a ten thousand-headed crowd was alcohol. Thanks, Brent, that one will make me look good. No. It will make me look like a victim. Maybe that’s a good thing.

“He also said that it got better during the second leg. You drank less, were more focused. You know, after you met him,” he points out obnoxiously. I resist the urge to steer the car off the road just to shut him up, and when he takes in his dying breath, mouthing an anguished ‘Why?’, I’ll tell him why: because he couldn’t hold his damn tongue. The white snow turns an ugly shade of traffic fume black when it hits the ground, making the surface of the road slippery, but I keep us on the road for now. “Now Gabe. He said that you were never nervous during the Pearl tour. I suppose you changed.”

“You love the sound of your own voice, huh?”

“Yup,” he beams, light brown locks falling in front of his enthusiastic eyes. He has got a young, good-natured face he tries to mature with stubble, but it’s still irrevocably made childlike by the bright energy that’s always there in his words and actions. He’s got slightly hollow cheeks and narrow line-like lips, and a forehead just a fraction tall enough to look like a mismatch. I concentrate on driving, and he falls silent for a while. When he speaks, he sounds troubled. “What if he’s forgotten? Or what if he’s still mad at you?”

“What if I’m still mad at him?”

“You’re not,” he says knowingly. I hate it when he’s right. The snowfall is slowing down, and I shift in my seat uncomfortably and feel the seatbelt scraping the side of my neck. “I’m nervous for you,” he concludes, the excitement now back. I don’t need his nerves, support or shoulder to cry on. He has no idea how much his enthusiasm wears me out. He looks at the map in his lap. “Take the next left,” he commands, and I change lanes. “You know, I wonder what he’s like. I’ve heard so much about him. It’s slightly surreal to meet a stranger that you’ve pictured naked a dozen times. Well, actually, I found this one picture in your house where he was in the nude, so –”

I pull up to the curb, coming to a fast stop. He tenses up, eyes wild as he looks around. “What are you doing?”

“I’ve told you not to touch my fucking stuff,” I say again. Again. The nosy little bastard. “Here, your stop,” I tell him and point out of his window to a shop door that has green, cursive letters: C-A-F-É. “Go get yourself coffee.” Like he needs to be more hyper.

His mouth drops open dramatically. “I’m coming with you!”

I grit my teeth and smile. “No, you’re not.” I glare at him, and he glares back. “Out, Sisky! Out!”

Sisky throws his hands up into the air. “You’re seriously not letting me witness the reunion that would make Romeo and Juliet seem like –”

“There was no reunion for those two – they died.”

“Oh.” Sisky pulls on his bottom lip uncertainly, but recovers quickly. “I never finished the movie, truth be told. They spoke English in such a weird way.”

I unbuckle myself and get out of the car. Chicago is cold, snowflakes landing on my black coat and melting into it. I round the Chevy and open Sisky’s door.

“Okay, okay!” the kid shouts, lifting up his hands. “I’m out! See! Look at how out I am!” He scrunches his nose at the cold, looking more comic than hurt as he shoots me a nasty look.

“I’ll come get you later,” I promise.

“If you don’t, I know where he lives!” He has taken out his black leather notebook and is scribbling in it furiously, completely ignoring the sleet.

I stop at my open door and give him a disbelieving look. “Don’t take notes now.”

“As the infamous Ryan Ross nervously re-entered the car, dumping his devoted and loyal companion by the side of the road like yet another groupie he had loved then abandoned like an unwanted kitten –”

I don’t hear the rest as the door slams shut and I take off. Sisky’s reflection sulks into the café in the rear-view mirror, and I glance at the map on his now empty seat. It doesn’t take me long to get where I’m going.

The car on the driveway is black and classy, this year’s model, a ‘79. It’s much more tasteful than what I park in front of the house, and for a wild moment, I hope none of the Chicagoans living on Brendon’s street notice the has-been rock star arriving in such a tacky excuse of four tyres and a wheel. If it is Brendon’s house, which I have my doubts about. A young man with a guitar case is coming down the street, and I wait for him to pass. It’s paranoia to fear he’d recognise me, but I never did know what to say to the fans to begin with.

Music is not about the man behind it, and therefore any interest people have in me is unwarranted. All they need to know, all they should want to know, is already there in the music. And no one ever understood that apart from me. They never –

But I don’t want to think about it anymore.

I take my bag to the door with me. It’s presumptuous, but with the final shows being local, I’m assuming Brendon is staying at home. I shouldn’t assume anything when it comes to him. I learned that the hard way.

The door opens on the fifth ring.

“Ye –”

The rest of Brendon’s sentence fades away as his eyes land on me. Brendon looks a little older, which makes me realise how overdue I am. He has a slightly off look that comes with his line of work, bags under his brown eyes. I would know how that life throws anyone off balance. But if anything, he looks more like a man, more mature. He keeps doing that to me. I don’t mind.

“Heard you’re shacking up in Chicago now,” I explain and state it like a fact I have as much interest in as the heart rate of a mouse, the melting point of silver. None at all.

“Yeah,” he nods tiredly, eyes averting, the cornered prey after an exhausting hunt where he is the deer and I am the wolf. After a long, long time, neither one of us seems to be running. Brendon doesn’t look surprised to see me. I am not a predictable man; he could at least gasp a little. The tiniest bit. Just to amuse me. I’m fucking surprised that I’m here.

“So much for being old friends,” I note and don’t give him a chance to reply. “Invite me in for a beer.”

Brendon shakes his head. “I’m busy.”

Sisky was right. He is still mad.

“I’m busy too, but here I am anyway.”

I stare him down. My stomach curls up now that I am in his presence, but he doesn’t sense it.

Brendon sighs and holds the door open, and I step into the living room, throw my bag onto the couch. Being here, travelling across the country for the one guy, the only guy who ever came out to look at the night sky with me and invent new constellations, and I – Fucking hell. I will stand my ground and act my best to convince myself that it means nothing to me. I lick my lips, remember what he tastes like.

“One beer, but then I have to go,” Brendon mutters and heads for the kitchen, and I stare after him quietly. He slows down and turns back around, a hesitating look on his face. “Are you coming to the show tonight?”

“I was counting on it.”

He looks straight at me, and I am right back there in Ottawa, outside Civic Center where we kissed next to the tour bus that I had not yet smashed. I’m in the cabin up in Bismarck where I handed him some part of me that he politely declined. I’m in San Francisco picking a fight with him, in New York watching him go through records he doesn’t plan on buying as he sneaks glances at me working behind the counter, and then we are on the backroom floor, hoping to god Eric doesn’t come early for his shift. Brendon says, “I can get you a backstage pass.”

“Could you get two? I came with this kid.”

“What kid?” His voice is tense.

“My stalker.”

He makes a disbelieving ‘tut’ with his tongue. “You sure know how to pick your friends.”

“And lovers, though he’s not one of those,” I say calculatedly.

Brendon doesn’t deny that that’s what he was asking. “I can get two.”

“Thanks.”

He points at my bag. “You staying here tonight?”

“Sure,” I shrug. He nods nervously and heads for the kitchen.

I have swerved my car onto his lane, and we have collided yet again.

Crash.

Bang.

Smoke.

Vol.1: I - Chapter 1
Masterpost

The Heart Rate of a Mouse [Masterpost]

Sun, 06 Dec 2009 22:06:11 GMT

The Heart Rate of a Mouse
by arctic_grey
Ryan/Brendon
1st POV, Ryan's
NC-17

Prologue

Vol.1: Over the Tracks - visit for full information

I | 65,000 words

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10

II
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8

Vol. 2: Wolves vs. Hearts

I
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5

II
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8

III
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7

Vol.3: tbc

Notes on the story
I will be writing this story for a long time. Feel free to pester me about writing faster, btw.

This story has girlfriends, ex-girlfriends, roommates, ex-band members, and I gave myself the liberty to make them angels or assholes or something in between. A character’s personality does not reflect my own view of the real life correspondent in any way. I also let the story imitate certain aspects of real life chronology – the appearance and disappearance of people, for instance. I don’t know any of these people and the characters are entirely fictional.

Here’s an almost full list of pairings: Ryan/Brendon, Ryan/Jac, Spencer/Haley, Jon/Cassie, Brendon/Shane, Ryan/Keltie, Greta/Butcher. Lesser pairings and insinuations can also be found, like Audrey/Joe, but my favourite is definitely Brendon/David Bowie (well, it never specifies if they hooked up, and it was pretty innocent anyway, but they might have!). This list is missing some pairings because secrets are pretty awesome too.

A patronising paragraph: gay men do not practise safe sex in this story. The 70’s were before the AIDS epidemic and most gay men simply did not use protection. However, now we know better and act accordingly. This story in no way promotes unprotected sex – it is simply trying to accurately depict the time period.

As far as accuracy is concerned, I did do plenty of research. I have not witnessed a day of the 70's myself, however, and I am sure that at some point there will be something I messed up. Feel free to point this out to me, though, like, "Hey, I don't think they had iPods in 1976". I tried fact checking whenever I could, e.g. they did have frisbees in the 70's! But I am still not sure what kind of lubricants were available then. Someone most definitely has written a history of personal lubricants, but I just haven't found it, so I simply decided that they did have lube as we understand the word today. Hopefully errors in accuracy are few.

Relearning How to Breathe [1/7]

Wed, 02 Dec 2009 21:58:53 GMT

Title: Relearning How to Breathe
Author: arctic_grey
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Jon/Spencer (+ background and past pairings)
POV: 3rd, switches between Jon and Spencer
Word count: 71,800
Summary: When Spencer realises that his morally questionable supply closet incident has left him pregnant with his boss’s child, he tries to stay positive. Jon’s entire future gets rearranged upon receiving the news, but they decide to raise the child together even if they are strangers. Friends, vegans, clashing social classes and opinions make the following months a chaotic swirl during which the two men realise that maybe neither one of them wants what they thought they did.
Disclaimer: Not real. Except the bit about veganism + carbon foot print. Totez true.
Beta: uqangela, who endured the crazy schedule and me. Thank you so much for your help and cheerleading! You did a huge job with this, and I’m forever grateful. <3
Warnings: mpreg in a world where it is nothing out of the ordinary. Sex with a pregnant man. Some self-indulgency on my part. A slight sex pollen moment halfway through. Oh, and a Brent Wilson cameo (does that warrant a warning?).
Author Notes: I wanted to write something for the joncerjumpstart + I wanted to explore the world of mpreg again = this story. Although, to be fair, I didn’t realise that wanting Jon to knock up Spencer with his incredibly potent sperm would result in something this lengthy, but who was I to argue with my overly excited brain? Thanks to holycloud who was there every step of the way, from conception to hormonal storms and finally at birth itself, holding my hand as I tried not to panic, giving me suggestions and feedback, being generally awesome and telling me to write her mpreg already, which I clearly did! This story is as much hers as it is mine. Also thanks to watchingthe_sky and spazzyskittles for helping me out with some details! And as my flisters know, I’m plotting a Ryan/Brendon sequel for this, which will hopefully be written at some point. So if you feel like their tale doesn’t come to a conclusion here, it’s because I have plans to conclude it elsewhere! Hope you enjoy the story! xxx

Spencer still isn’t quite used to the sounds of the place. He can hear doors opening and closing, but he’s not sure if it’s the bathroom, the nursery, or maybe the dining room. He keeps his eyes on the ceiling and his hands on the bump, tracing circles on it distractedly to keep the baby calm. He’s relatively sure it’s helping.

This close to the finish line, he spends his time lying on his bed, reading books out loud and watching horrible daytime TV. He is by himself during the day, though he isn’t alone, not really, and in a few weeks’ time he won’t be alone for another twenty years.

He sort of can’t wait.

The baby’s not kicking, so Spencer assumes it’s getting some sleep. It should, the little thing.

The only sounds that Spencer recognises for sure are the footsteps taking a left by the bathroom and coming down the small corridor to his bedroom. He’s not so secretly been waiting for them ever since he realised that he was no longer by himself in the apartment; he’s up before he hears the gentle knock on the door. It takes him extra effort to get up now, to roll off the bed and stand up, trying to keep his balance.

When he opens the door, Jon is smiling at him carefully. He has changed out of his office suit to a more relaxed jeans and t-shirt approach, but even then it’s a nice t-shirt and expensive looking jeans that don’t help all that much with casualness. “Hey,” Jon says. His hands twist slightly, maybe from his efforts not to touch the bump. “You wanna go out for dinner?”

“Sure.” Spencer tries his best to smile, and Jon tries to smile back. It aches inside a little.

Spencer feels roughly like a fridge with how big he is now, but he’s not really bothered by it. It’s what pregnancy is all about, anyway. Nine months of his life is not that much, so he wants to make the most out of the experience.

Jon’s been working late again and the sun has already set. It’s pleasantly warm in the twilight as the last remnants of the summer are still lingering in the air. Spencer keeps watching the still-green leaves of the park that now have a tinge of orange in the very tips. Jon walks next to him quietly, having slowed down his pace to match Spencer’s. They don’t hold hands.

Jon gets money out on the way, anticipating the near future and saying they need tip money for the waitress. Jon is like that, always thinking several steps ahead. Spencer notices the ultrasound picture of their baby that Jon keeps in his wallet.

They get seated by the window. Jon always gets a good table. If Spencer came to this place, he’d be lucky to get the wobbly table next to the toilets. Jon orders a starter and a main dish, and Spencer figures they’re going for a three meal course again.

“And my fiancé wi –” Jon begins before he catches himself, saying, “My companion will –” and then he has to stop again. The waitress’s face remains professionally blank. “Spencer, what are you having?” Jon asks, his tone a bit at a loss, but Spencer appreciates it. Jon’s changed a hell of a lot since the start. Spencer orders spinach gnocchi.

Jon is fiddling with the napkin now, restless. Spencer has already placed his napkin on the bump. He smiles slightly, picturing the way it’s like a roof over the baby. Jon keeps staring at him. Spencer keeps not looking at him.

Then, out of nowhere, Jon says, “So what if I told you I was madly in love with you, regardless of what everyone thinks, regardless of you having my child?”

Spencer looks up from his cutlery, and Jon has an earnest and urgent look in his eyes. Spencer’s mouth drops open. It’s a bit like having all of the oxygen sucked out of the room. He swallows. “I’d say I don’t believe you.”

The waitress comes over with the starters and says, “Bruschetta for you, and mussels for you. Enjoy!” She puts the plates down.

Spencer can’t breathe.

The office Christmas party is never a relaxed occasion, though Spencer hoped it would be and ended up coming in jeans and a band t-shirt. Everyone else stuck to the suits, and now he feels like an idiot. How was he supposed to know? Still, you can’t keep a good man down, so he is trying to make the best of it.

Their accountant is the first one to get ridiculously drunk as Christmas jingles echo from the CD player in the corner. The office is decorated to fit the festivities – Spencer should know; he was up until two in the morning last night putting up cardboard reindeer on the walls of the main area where all the secretaries have their cubicles and desks. He wasn’t allowed to put any religious decorations up, however, because the older Mr. Walker specified that as a law firm they have to be politically correct when they also employ Jews, Muslims and Mr. Thompson is apparently a Buddhist.

Mr. Thompson is currently trying to hit on his own secretary. Poor Bianca, having to put up with the innuendos of a man in his sixties. What would Mr. Walker say about sexual harassment, then?

William, who is the secretary of the younger Mr. Walker, is drowning eggnog shots with him as they talk about Bruce Springsteen. Spencer’s got his ‘Born to Run’ shirt on, and William is trying to convince him to sing Hungry Heart once the karaoke starts. Spencer’s concluded that William is the coolest person that works at Walker & Wentz. Getting drunk together will surely strengthen their friendship further; that way something good will come from this party where he is the underdressed newbie.

Someone finally gets the karaoke machine working, and Spencer realises that it’s time for him to disappear. William seems determined to drag him up there. Just then, Macy walks by and complains someone’s stolen the mistletoe, the traditional way to resolve all that sexual tension that has built up in the workplace over the past year.

“We had one last year! It should be in the storage!” Macy says ponderingly. Spencer doesn’t want to know why a married woman in her fifties such as Macy so desperately wants the mistletoe there.

“I’ll go look for it,” Spencer offers, partly because he genuinely wants to help, partly because he’s not big on the whole drunken-singing thing.

The supply closet is in the back of the office, and Spencer is relatively sure no one even notices the new guy missing. He is now surrounded by two walls of stationary and an old, broken photocopying machine that has been pushed to the back wall. On the top shelf above it, Spencer spots a box with a scribble of ‘Xmas’ on the side.

Just as he is balancing himself on his knees on top of the photocopying machine, the door to the closet opens and closes behind him. He looks over his shoulder and sees that one of the lawyers has walked in, another walking dictionary of legal jargon in a tailored Armani suit.

“Hello,” Spencer offers, giving a small, slightly drunken smile. The man turns around in surprise, and Spencer adds, “Mr. Walker.”

“Off duty, you should really call me Jon,” Mr. Walker says, clearly a bit drunk himself. Spencer is surprised that the younger Mr. Walker – Jon after three beers – actually knows where the supply closet is. Spencer doesn’t like being so cynical about his co-workers because he is not a cynical person. But it’s all divorces and bankruptcies around here, so it’s hard to keep up a positive spirit. Is there even such a thing as a happy lawsuit?

“Jon,” Spencer repeats, now getting his hands on the box and taking it off the shelf. He places it on the photocopy machine and slides back to the floor. “So, uh, are you looking for something?”

“Peace and quiet?” Jon offers hopefully before shrugging. “Father’s out there and he’s had a few too many. I don’t want to be around when he starts telling that one story of when I first beat him at tennis when I was twelve. One of the cons of working for your old man, I guess.”

“I guess,” Spencer agrees, now opening the box and finding tinsel. He begins digging in.

“What are you looking for?”

“A mistletoe. Macy said that the one I put out disappeared, my guess is that Patrick stole it to woo Francis –” he begins before noticing the puzzled gaze Jon is giving him. “That, uh, Mr. Wentz’s secretary stole it to woo Miss Chalcedon’s PA?”

“Oh,” Jon nods, now getting it. The lawyers don’t even know the lesser workforce by name. “I’ll help.”

Jon walks over and begins to go through the contents of the box with him. Spencer can hear the off-key singing of Bianca back in the party. He’s trying to think of a relatively safe small talk topic, something a young lawyer like Jon would appreciate. Sailing? The importance of prenuptial agreements? Maybe bitch about how overeager policemen always get in the lawyer’s way?

“I know you, you know,” Jon says suddenly, turning to Spencer and giving him a big smile. Spencer’s never seen Jon smile before, so he blinks back at him stupidly. “You’re the one that says, ‘Good morning, Mr. Walker’ whenever I come to work.”

“Main receptionist guy. Don’t even have a convenient possessive pronoun to help you along here. I’m everyone’s bitch.”

Jon chuckles, so Spencer offers his hand. “Spencer.”

“Jon.”

“You said that.”

“I know.”

Jon’s grip is firm, and he keeps shaking his hand as he continues to stare right into Spencer’s eyes. A sudden flush of heat runs through Spencer as he catches on with the slight glimpse in Jon’s eyes. Oh. Well.

Spencer slowly pulls his hand back, focusing on the task at hand. He tries to untangle Christmas lights from gold ribbon as Jon picks up a stocking. “So are you having a good time at the party?”

“Yeah.” Being in the supply closet with his employer’s son who might or might not have been undressing him with his eyes a little. Brendon will die when he hears about this. “Though I kind of wish I hadn’t put on this t-shirt. Not many fans of the Boss around.”

Jon stares at his t-shirt. He clearly doesn’t get it.

“The Boss? Bruce Springsteen, you know.”

“I’m more of a classical music fan. Adore Chopin.”

“Cool,” Spencer nods. Things not to discuss: music.

“So did you come to the party with someone or by yourself?” Jon now asks. “A guy like you must have come with someone.”

“Just me,” Spencer informs him, and since this is heading down that road and Jon is definitely kind of handsome, he adds, “I’m not seeing anyone right now.” He might as well let Jon know that he is available. It’s just polite, that’s all.

“Huh.”

“And what do you mean by someone like me?”

Jon shrugs. “Someone graced with good looks?”

Spencer laughs spontaneously. Sure, he is used to flirting, but such blatant and shameless flirting? With one of the lawyers in his firm? At least Jon is his age and not, well, Mr. Thompson. “You’re not exactly hideous either,” he returns.

“No? God, what a relief!” Jon makes a show of wiping his brow before he sends another undressing look Spencer’s way.

Their hands brush as they both reach for the small Santa statue in the box. Jon only flashes him another smile, but Spencer can feel the touch all over. Maybe it’s the beers he’s had or Jon’s handsome face, or perhaps a combination of both, that has Spencer taking a step closer to Jon. He checks Jon’s hands for a ring – he doesn’t have any. Spencer doesn’t know anything about Jon because they have never actually talked before, but if they had Spencer surely would have noticed how irresistibly charming Jon appears to be.

“How long have you been with us?” Jon asks like Spencer is suddenly the most interesting person ever.

“Two months now.”

“And how are you finding it?”

“Extremely –” Boring. Tedious. Repetitive. Still not a bad way to make a living. “– rewarding.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear it,” Jon smiles widely, digging into the box again. “Oh, is this it?” he now asks, pulling out a bunch of green, plastic leaves tied together with red ribbon. It’s definitely the mistletoe, but Spencer is completely distracted from it by something else.

“You, uh... you’ve got a bit of a lisp,” he observes, smiling so hard his cheeks hurt. “It’s cute.”

“It’s not that noticeable, I swear!” Jon laughs. “Only after a few drinks, maybe.”

Spencer leans his hip against the photocopy machine, perhaps angling his body in a way that will complement him. “Well, it’s cute.”

“I’m glad you think so.” Jon’s eyes might sparkle a little. Sparkle. He has these amazing, soulful brown eyes that you can just kind of drown into.

Spencer clears his throat slightly. “We found the mistletoe.”

“That we did.” It’s still in Jon’s hands.

“So maybe we should... get back, Mr. Walker.”

“Jon.”

He laughs. “Jon.”

Jon smiles. “Yes. Karaoke. Mustn’t miss that.”

Spencer feels hot all over. They walk for the door together, reaching for the doorknob at the same time. Jon’s hand lands over his, and Spencer freezes. His skin is tingling. Jon pulls his hand back with a polite smile, and Spencer opens the door before he does something stupid like launch on Jon. They had back to the party, and Jon says, “Enjoy the party,” and it sounds so fucking suggestive somehow. Spencer is pretty sure he’s blushing.

Macy’s forgotten she even wanted the mistletoe. William is singing I Will Survive with a Santa hat on his head. Spencer clearly has some catching up to do in terms of drunkenness. He gets a glass of the punch. He keeps spotting Jon here and there. Mostly because Jon keeps looking his way. Spencer catches Jon looking, Jon catches Spencer looking, and Spencer suddenly feels like he is back in high school.

Jesus Christ.

Suddenly, he has had three more glasses of the punch. Maybe he should do karaoke. He’d kick ass. Jon is totally the hottest guy Spencer has ever seen. He just decided that. Maybe he and Jon should do karaoke. Together. That’d be kind of romantic.

Jon is now talking to the junior partner of their firm, Pete Wentz, the guy whose name is on the door. Pete is in a red suit. That’s the Christmas spirit.

Jon looks over straight at Spencer – again – and Spencer feels his skin prickling. He holds Jon’s gaze, trying to send signals as best he can, and then he turns around and heads straight back to the supply closet. His heart is beating insanely fast. What is he doing? Oh god, what would his mother say to him? She’d turn in her grave if she knew.

Spencer looks over his shoulder as he opens the closet door, and Jon is following him. He followed him. Fuck.

Spencer gets in first, Jon soon entering. The door closes. Just the two of them. In the closet. Again.

“I’m not a big fan of karaoke,” Spencer admits huskily.

“Me neither,” Jon shrugs, and then Spencer is pressed against one of the shelves as Jon kisses him roughly. Spencer kisses back like he hasn’t had sex in years (which is an exaggeration, it’s a matter of months), and Jon is a good kisser, a damn good kisser.

Jon’s hands are already on him, tugging his t-shirt up slightly. Jon’s fingers slide across his bare stomach, and Spencer is frantically tugging on Jon’s tie. “You bottom?” Jon asks breathlessly against his mouth, and Spencer only nods, trying to breathe at almost regular intervals. His head is spinning. Too much wine. Beer. Punch. The lot. “Good,” Jon murmurs.

Jon takes a hold of his hips and walks them backwards as he keeps taking nips at Spencer’s lower lip. Spencer ends up pressed between the photocopy machine and Jon, who is clearly bossy. Lawyers always are.

Jon’s hands are already on his zipper, their mouths mashing together. Spencer goes straight for the prize, cupping Jon’s cock to see what he’s about to get. Jon grunts and pushes into his hand, and fuck, Spencer’s going to get all of that?

Jon breaks the kiss and roughly pulls Spencer’s jeans and underwear down. Spencer gasps a little from the cold air hitting his exposed skin from the waist all the way to mid-thigh. Jon is quick to cop a feel of him, and they pant against each other’s mouths. Red wine clearly makes Spencer goddamn horny, he just never knew that until now.

“You don’t, uh, happen to have...?” Jon asks hopefully. Spencer does, actually.

“Yeah, of course.” He pulls his jeans up a bit to get his wallet out of his back pocket, retrieving a condom. It’s good to be prepared, after all. He looks around the supply room hopefully for something they could use. Glue? Hell no. “But I don’t –”

“Got it covered,” Jon grins, getting out his own wallet and pulling out a small packet of lube.

Spencer laughs. “Yin and yang.”

“Turn around,” Jon orders, unbuttoning his jacket and shrugging it off. Spencer obeys, hearing Jon unzip himself quickly. They can’t exactly take all night.

Spencer leans over the photocopy machine slightly, feeling dirty as hell and loving it. The door isn’t even locked.

Jon’s fingers are on his hole now, applying the lube on him with a quick push of two fingers a few inches inside. Spencer shudders, and his cock twists in response. Jon kisses his neck, and Spencer turns his head, reaching for Jon with one hand, fingers sliding into smooth hair and bringing Jon closer. They are still kissing when Jon pushes his cock into him, hard and fast. Spencer loses his breath, mind blacking out. Oh fuck, the burn of it spreads all over, and Jon fills him up, stretches him, goes in so deep. Fuck, fuck, fuck –

“Good,” Jon grunts. It feels blurred. Spencer’s drunk. Jon is too.

Spencer lets his hands hold onto the edges of the photocopy machine, knuckles white, as Jon begins pounding into him. Spencer bites on his lower lip to keep quiet. It’s not amazing, but it’s good all things considered. Jon is, theoretically, his boss, and if Jon isn’t, Jon’s dad definitely is. And they are in the office’s supply closet. Fucking.

The kink factor of it is what gets Spencer going, has his cock throbbing. Jon’s hands on his hips are bruising, Jon’s rhythm uncoordinated, but hardhardhard and fastfastfast. “Down,” Jon orders, hand on Spencer’s upper back, pushing him to bend over. Spencer does, forearms resting on the photocopy machine as his breathing gets more ragged. Jon keeps a pressing hand on his back to keep him down, Jon’s cock pushing in deeper. Spencer knows Jon is enjoying the view, watching the slide of his thick cock into him.

“Fucking hell,” Spencer moans, about to reach for his cock, but Jon interrupts him with, “You want me to touch you?”

He’s getting full service? He has to thank Jon’s parents for teaching their son manners.

“Please,” he groans, instantly rewarded with Jon reaching around to stroke his cock. Spencer holds on, enjoying getting fucked and jerked off. His toes are curling, and he bites on his lip to keep quiet. Sounds are still coming from the party, talking and distant singing. Then Spencer hears voices just outside, two people talking. Just on the other side of the door. They could walk in any second. See him like this. Bent over. Getting fucked. Loving it. They could hear him moaning like a fucking whore –

Spencer comes, body jerking, biting onto his arm. Jon fucks him half-way through it, then hauls Spencer upright with one arm, holding Spencer flushed against him, hips still moving and thrusting. Jon comes with a low groan to his ear.

Spencer can feel the blood and alcohol rushing in his system as he comes down. Jon buries his face in the crook of his neck, groaning. They stay that way for the aftershocks.

Then Jon is gone, no longer pressed to his back, no longer inside him. Spencer feels a slightly painful throb from his backside from the sudden emptiness. He tries to get the world into focus. Cock still out. Jeans. Pull ‘em up. Good plan.

He turns around, zipping himself up. Jon has got the tied condom in his hand, dropping it into the bin. The cleaner might find that a bit suspicious come Monday...

Jon looks at his hands, then shakes his head and wipes them on his shirt. “Got come on me,” he mutters in half-amusement.

“The condom didn’t break, did it?”

“What? No, no, just being sloppy pulling it off,” Jon assures him a bit drunkenly, now focused on getting dressed again. Spencer clears his throat and flattens his shirt. He can still feel Jon inside, and he's still wet from lube, still stretched.

Once Jon is again presentable, the come stains on his shirt now hidden by the stylish two button jacket, Spencer says, “Well, back to the party we go.” It feels anti-climactic somehow, but how did Spencer think a closet fuck was going to end?

“Yeah. Thanks. For the, uh –”

“Yeah, sure. You too.”

Jon nods. “Okay. Awesome.”

Spencer smiles. “Cool.”

The voices outside the supply closet have gone, and Spencer gives Jon a head start. He counts to fifty before leaving himself.

* * *

“You dog!” Brendon laughs, and Spencer just leans against the café counter, feeling hungover. Brendon wipes his hands on the green apron and starts working on Spencer’s organic black coffee. The café’s not busy this early on Saturday since the shoppers haven’t had that ‘I want some vegan food for lunch!’ craving yet, so Brendon has time to gossip with him.

“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” Spencer grins slightly.

“You dog!” Brendon repeats jubilantly, and Indie barks from behind the counter, looking up at Brendon adoringly. Spencer is pretty sure there are laws against animals in places that serve and make food, but vegans tend to really love animals, so Brendon’s pets actually work in his favour. As long as no hygiene whats-it officials come hanging around. Bogart is sleeping on one of the big armchairs by the window, whimpering in his sleep. A customer is staring at it, as if wondering if it’d be alright to ask the dog to move. Brendon hands Spencer a black mug with a text ‘Got soya milk?’. All the mugs at Bden’s are unique. It’s not even a vegan café as such as an extension of your own living room.

Spencer hangs onto the mug for dear life, going to one of the big couches and flopping down on it. Brendon serves a customer before joining him on the couch. He scoots closer. “So! Was he good?” Brendon wiggles his eyebrows.

“It was okay,” Spencer shrugs. “What I remember of it. Thick cock.”

“That’s good! Thick cocks are good!” Brendon enthuses, and one of the customers by the window looks at them funnily. “And?”

“And...?” Spencer asks.

“Well, what was he like? Handsome? Witty? Is he a vegan?”

“You’re not a vegan, I’m certainly not a vegan, so what do you care?” Spencer asks in confusion. Brendon shrugs. Spencer hates admitting it, but he knows they are both romantics when it comes down to it. They spend half their time talking about that ideal someone, giving them so many required qualities that there is no way anyone could actually be all they claim to be looking for. “Not my type, trust me. He said he likes Chopin.”

“Like that song! You know, the one that goes,” Brendon pauses and sings, “I like Chopin, love me noo-oow and agaa-ain.” Spencer stares at him. Brendon’s face falls. “You don’t know that song?”

“He likes Chopin, Bren. And he said something about tennis too.”

Brendon sighs dramatically and leans into the couch. “Okay, clearly a lost cause, then. It just would have been romantic.”

“Drunken fucking at the office Christmas party? That sure is so romantic, we’ll have to tell that to everyone at the wedding!”

Brendon just gives him one of his ‘you silly thing’ looks, making it impossible to be even slightly annoyed with him. “I’m glad that you got laid, but I’m sorry it was with some boring lawyer with no soul. Better luck next time, eh?”

Spencer shrugs, focusing on the coffee. The hangover is a nasty one. “Can I have some toasted almonds?” he asks hopefully, and Brendon beams.

“You got it. On the house too!”

“Two dollars saved. This is why you’re awesome.”

“I know! But you’re paying for the coffee,” Brendon points out firmly, getting up and hurrying to the kitchen doors. Indie hops onto the couch and snuggles against him. Spencer scratches the dog behind the ear absently.

* * *

Monday morning is a strike contrast from Friday night. Rudolph hangs off the wall awkwardly when he gets to work, and he fixes it before all the lawyers and secretaries start rolling in. He gets two pots of coffee ready, making sure there are biscuits on the coffee room table for the busy day ahead. Coffee and snacks. He really is the lowest in the pecking order around here.

His co-workers start pouring in closer to nine, and the phone starts ringing and the mail gets delivered, and Spencer has got his hands full. William saunters in five minutes late, asking, “Jon’s not here yet, is he?”

Spencer shakes his head.

“Thank god! He gets pissy when I’m late. I was fucking plastered on Friday, man. You?”

“The same,” he admits, handing William the correct pile of mail. William hurries towards Jon’s office. Spencer isn’t really keeping an eye on the door. Really.

Jon walks in twenty-four past nine in a nice suit and a briefcase in his grip, the way he looks every day. He looks pretty damn handsome sober too.

“Good morning, Jon,” Spencer says automatically as he keeps typing on his computer.

“Morning,” Jon returns firmly and without a second look at him. Then Jon pauses. Spencer lifts his head. Jon clears his throat, looking highly uncomfortable. “And that’s Mr. Walker, by the way.”

Spencer stares.

Whoa. What an asshole.

“Sure,” he manages. Jon nods and walks away, disappearing behind the wall of archives behind Spencer’s station, there to impress clients who walk in, not because Spencer has any actual use of them. Spencer stares after Jon in disbelief, then lifts his phone and calls Brendon to tell him all about it.

* * *

Valentine’s Day usually means him and Brendon watching chick flicks together, but this year Brendon’s got a date with some guy who sells him good pot. Spencer could say a million nasty things about dating a drug dealer, but since his plans simply involve Ben & Jerry’s and a jerk off session (these two not related), he wishes Brendon good luck.

He is too tired to do something amazing, anyway. It’s like his new favourite past time is taking naps. He ends up watching Look Who’s Talking, the movie where that guy gets pregnant and the baby talks. Or something else as absurd since everyone knows babies can’t talk. Taxi driver Kristie Allie fusses over a pregnant John Travolta on screen.

“I refuse to watch this,” Spencer mutters to himself. He eats ice cream in his pyjamas, ignoring how this supposedly is the most romantic day of the year. He decides not to think about that sex-on-legs woman who showed up at the office a bit before five, saying she was waiting for Jonathan Walker. That red dress barely covered her. And it’s February. Even that emotionally crippled idiot of a lawyer has got a date, not that Spencer is bitter about it. He isn’t. Some guys just aren’t good with morning afters, or Monday afters, and Jon wasn’t one of those guys. Not everyone is as suave as Spencer. But cornering Spencer in the coffee room to mumble how he doesn’t want office gossip about what might or might not have happened at some lame party was really unnecessary. Spencer is not an old fashioned classy man, but he has tact. He wasn’t about to proudly wear the office slut badge, was he?

Emotionally crippled and hopelessly self-centred. Yup. That’s your average lawyer for you.

But it’s all in ancient history now, so he won’t bother. Bad karma to dwell on it.

Spencer eyes the time display on the DVD player. It’s almost eight o’clock. Too early to go to bed, but he is exhausted these days. Ice cream. He digs into it again, munching happily.

He is not expecting anyone to knock on his door, but someone does. “Who is it?” he calls out from the couch. Maybe it’s his secret admirer. Maybe one of those cute vegans from Brendon’s café has spotted him from all the time he spends over there, and is now picking him up for a mystery date, a dozen red roses and all.

“It’s me,” Brendon’s voice comes.

Well, that’s disappointing.

Spencer goes to the door, and Brendon gets in, sighing dramatically. He’s got his nice clothes on. “Don’t ask! Please, just don’t ask!” he demands. Spencer nods and takes another spoonful of ice cream. Brendon stares. “Well, ask me!”

“What happened to your date?”

“We’re halfway through dinner, and he asks me how I feel about water sports. If you fantasise about pissing on me, you could at least pay for the food first! Jesus Christ!”

Spencer is choking on his ice cream from laughing so much. Brendon glares and then says, “Give me that,” snatching the tube of Ben & Jerry’s. “Men are pigs. We are pigs, Spencer.”

They settle on the couch to watch the rest of Look Who’s Talking. Spencer gets more ice cream – he has a whole stash, it was a good offer and he just had an insane craving – and they dig in, two spoons and lots of calories. Perfect.

Brendon looks at the screen longingly. “I want to start a family already. I’m young, you know? Right now this body could be baby making central. But all I get are freaks.”

Spencer hums in agreement. He needs to stop eating all this ice cream if he wants to attract a suitable family man. He’s been gaining weight lately, and he’s not all that bothered about it because it just happens with him, he gains some, he loses some, a continuing flux, but now it’s like he has just been gaining. Stupid ice cream. Yummy ice cream.

“If we’re both old and sad single fucks when we’re past hope at the age of twenty-seven, please impregnate me. Please?” Brendon begs.

“I so do not want to sleep with you,” Spencer grimaces.

“But our baby! Think of our gorgeous little baby!”

Spencer thinks about it. His heart practically melts.

“Okay.”

“Score,” Brendon grins. “But just so you know, I’ll pretend you’re Brad Pitt.”

“That’s cool. I’m gonna go for Tobey Maguire.”

“A man of taste.”

“You know I am.”

* * *

But as Spencer begins to worry that he will actually have to sleep with Brendon just a few years down the line, he realises he won’t have to. He already has a baby on the way.

He is pregnant.

He’s been feeling weird lately, the constant hunger and sleeping and extra weight, but it’s not like he has been throwing up or feeling nauseous. He’s been feeling pretty damn normal, just different. So it’s just a crazy idea of “What if?” when he picks up the pregnancy test along with the pain killers. He is honestly kidding.

And then it says he’s pregnant.

He hasn’t been having enough sex to be pregnant.

The second and third tests also say he is pregnant.

He is totally knocked up.

“Oh my god,” he manages, staring at the third test and sitting down on the living room couch. How far along is he? No idea. It can’t be that long. But there are symptoms he missed. He’s been having those for at least a few weeks. Who has he been sleeping with? No, that guy at the New Year’s party was just a blowjob thing, not that. Further back in time, a bit further...

Jon.

Fucking hell. It has to be Jon. The Christmas party. The supply closet.

He is pregnant by some dude he doesn’t even know. Jon knocked him up. Jon Walker, the senior partner’s son, has knocked him up. The supply closet. He and Jon conceived a baby in the fucking supply closet? No, Jesus Christ, a baby. The baby.

He places a hand on his stomach, stunned. He is- not alone. He is carrying a –

“Brendon is going to flip,” he whispers.

Then he realises how meaningless it is if his attached-to-the-hip best friend will freak out. He is pregnant.

It’s totally awesome.

Okay, the Jon disaster aside, and the over-the-photocopy-machine thing aside... he is pregnant. It changes everything. He is going to be a dad. He has always wanted to be a dad. This is totally fucking amazing. He is going to have a kid, and his heart just about explodes from love that he didn’t know he could ever feel for someone. It’s this emotion of having this one person you’d do anything for, die for, kill for, spend every damn day trying to make them happy because that’s what you do when you’re a parent. The only thing that matters is the welfare of your kid.

Spencer needs a nursery. He needs college applications. He needs baby clothes. He needs to think about names! He needs to figure out how to give his kid The Talk.

He realises he is hyperventilating. He clutches the arm of the couch for dear life and then he bursts out laughing, and it is very likely that he is slightly hysterical right now.

* * *

Spencer has been waiting for his lunch break all morning, practically running out of Walker & Wentz once the clock hits noon. He cycles like a madman from the dull and grey business district until the areas start to look liveable again, coming to a fast stop outside a café with a bright green shop front on a small dead-end side street filled with vintage shops, second-hand bookshops, vinyl shops and a whole bunch of hipsters.

Lunch hour at Bden’s is always chaotic, and there is a queue to the counter with nearly all of the spread out tables, couches and armchairs taken. A few regulars greet him out of solidarity as he marches to the counter, where Greta is working.

“Spencer! Hi!” she smiles, adding to a customer, “And here is your lemon burst tea. We’ll bring the baba ghanoush to your table.”

“Is Brendon around?” he asks impatiently, and right on cue Brendon comes from the kitchen, plates in both hands and one of the green Bden’s aprons around his waist.

“Spence!” he says, rounding the counter and artfully snaking through people. His tiny size is definitely an advantage there. “What’s up? You heard Butcher’s making peppery pumpkin soup today, huh?”

Spencer follows his friend. “Can I talk to you?”

Brendon puts a plate down for a guy who is rolling a joint on the table. “Just remember you can’t smoke inside,” Brendon says, adding, “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to be able to point me to the right direction there? I kind of fell out with my last supplier. Too kinky even for me, you know?”

“Brendon,” Spencer says impatiently.

“I’m sorry! I’m a bit busy right now, lunch time!” Brendon explains, motioning at the full café.

“Sorry to inconvenience you, then, but I happen to be a bit pregnant.”

Brendon freezes, one plate still in hand. “Excuse me?”

Spencer shrugs. “I’m having a kid.”

“You’re... Hang on.” Brendon passes the plate to a random customer passing him. “You’re pregnant? For real?”

Spencer nods to confirm it, and Brendon breaks into the biggest smile. “Oh my god! Oh my god! This is so exciting!” Brendon launches on him, giving him a hug whilst trying to jump up and down. Spencer doesn’t mind getting crushed and unintentionally humped. Brendon steps back only the little necessary to meet his gaze, eyes shining. “I’ll throw you the most amazing baby shower! Just you wait! Oh my god, will it have your nose? Your cutesy little nose?!” Brendon turns around to face the café. “Everyone! Spencer is having a baby!”

Spencer just smiles, feeling happier about it because of Brendon’s reception. He knew Brendon would have his back. The customers aww and clap enthusiastically. “Congratulations, you two!” someone says.

“I’m not the dad!” Brendon corrects, and the clapping fades away into an awkward silence. “I mean we’re not dating,” he explains hurriedly. The customers instantly look relieved. That’s when Brendon’s eyes widen. “Wait. Who is the dad?”

Spencer lowers his voice significantly. “Uh... That’s where this gets a bit weird...”

* * *

“You could blackmail him,” Brendon ponders aloud, slightly out of breath. Spencer is highly unimpressed. He is not going to blackmail Jon, for god’s sake. “Well, having a baby is expensive.”

“I think you’re jumping the gun. We don’t know what his reaction is going to be,” Spencer points out calmly, feet flying over the concrete beneath them.

They come to a stop at the red lights, both in their running shorts and old t-shirts. They keep up the pace by jumping from one leg to the other.

“But I will tell him,” Spencer adds. “It’s the right thing to do, you know? If he wants to be involved, he has the right to be involved. But I’ll tell him I don’t expect anything of him, I am fine raising this baby on my own. Like a kind of an accidental sperm donor.”

The lights turn green, and they cross to the other side, resuming a steady pace, both slightly out of breath.

“But what if, like, he wants you to – well, terminate it?”

Spencer shakes his head. “Not happening. I’ll quit my job and move to fucking Kansas if I have to.”

“Don’t move to Kansas!” Brendon protests. “I’d be miserable!”

Spencer chuckles. Brendon is grinning at him, not spotting the guy feeding the park meter, and Brendon almost bumps into the man, dodging at the last second. “Sorry!” Brendon calls out as they keep running.

“Watch it, asshole!” the man snaps after them, curls of brown hair around his annoyed face.

Brendon scoffs. “Happy fucking day to you too! Nice suit!”

The man looks down at his mustard suit with a frown on his face. They keep running, Brendon mumbling about idiots with their big, polluting cars and important meetings and calling perfectly good people assholes.

“Uncle Brendon will make sure your baby won’t be one of those people,” he promises earnestly. “Oh, you should totally try and get your baby into one of those music day care places! You know, when it’s older.”

“I can’t really make plans without knowing what Jon wants, though that’d be kick ass,” Spencer notes. “But if our Christmas party encounter was anything to go by, Jon’s not big on the whole facing consequences thing. I don’t think it’ll go down all that well with him.”

“You want me to be there?” Brendon instantly offers. What would Brendon do? Take on Jon? Jon would kick his ass in a heartbeat.

Spencer shakes his head. “I gotta deal with this myself. I just don’t know how to do it. Plus, Jon is damn busy, I know he’s got this big case right now. Some insurance company’s gone bankrupt or something.”

They again stop for a red light. Brendon leans forward slightly, hands on his knees as he pants. Spencer is also trying to catch his breath. “How about you make an appointment with him?” Brendon suggests.

“Sure,” Spencer snorts.

* * *

The appointment is not actually a bad idea. Spencer frets for two days, saying, “Good Morning, Mr. Walker,” and in his head adding, ‘oh, by the by, we’re going to have a baby’. Jon says an automatic reply, looking busy and stressed, completely oblivious to the fact that in seven odd months or so, he will be a father. It’s somehow even more messed up when Victor Walker walks in and Spencer eyes the serious-looking snob who is his child’s grandfather.

He doesn’t know Victor Walker personally; it was Pete Wentz who interviewed him. Victor Walker might be a wonderful man under that tailored suit and dead eyes.

In some other universe.

It’s a bit before lunchtime that William walks over, putting a jacket on. “I’m gonna go get sandwiches from the place across the street. Jon’s too busy to do lunch so sandwich delivery boy I am,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “You want me to bring you something?”

“Oh, yeah,” Spencer nods, still munching on the chocolate bar he ate. His desk is currently littered with wrappers. “Um, can I get the ham and cheese panini? Oh, and a BTL on the side would be great.”

William eyes him worriedly. “Um... You okay? Sometimes eating a lot is, uh... a sign of emotional issues?”

Spencer smiles sweetly. “Don’t forget the white choc chip muffin.”

“Okay, calorie fest for you, and a tuna salad, no dressing for Jon,” William says, now looking towards Jon’s office though it’s not in sight. “The way he’s cooked up in there, going through records and paperwork... Maybe I’ll bring him a muffin too. Might cheer him up. Though Jon doesn’t really like surprises...”

Great.

William hurries off before lunch breaks start all over the business district and the queues get intolerable. Spencer could start his break now. Go to the coffee room. Office gossip. Labelled milk cartons.

But Jon is alone in his office. Spencer has to take the bull by the horns.

He has been putting it off as it is. He sees Jon daily, for god’s sake, and now he’s known nearly for a week. He has to take responsibility for his actions, too.

Spencer diverts all incoming calls to Macy, who has her lunch before he does for that precise purpose. Instead of heading out for lunch or to the coffee room, he heads for the short dead-end corridor with the conference room and opposite it, Jon’s office. He hesitates outside for a minute before knocking briefly and sharply. He makes sure no one sees him there because, really, what business would the receptionist have with one of their successful lawyers?

“Come on in,” Jon’s voice comes, and Spencer enters the office. It occurs to him he has actually never been in there before. The room has plenty of windows, being in the corner of the building, and from their position on the twelfth floor the view outside is as good as you can get in these parts. Jon is sitting behind a massive oak desk, two chairs on the other side. It’s very alike to the other offices with its decorative but fake plant in the corner, but Jon also has a couch right next to the door. Luxury, clearly. The walls are bare except for a few frames: Spencer spots Jon’s degree from Yale and – is that Jon shaking hands with Obama?

“Spencer.”

Spencer snaps back into reality, realising that Jon is staring at him in surprise. “Oh. Uh. Mind if I come in?” He is in already, but...

“I’m swamped with these tax records right now,” Jon explains, motioning at his desk, which is covered in papers. “Embezzlement charges. Not to be taken lightly.”

“Right. And I can see that you’re busy and all, but I really need to talk to you.”

It must be something in his tone as Jon gets a serious look on his face. “Okay. Sit down.”

Spencer takes a seat, nervously rubbing his palms against his knees. Jon is giving him a professional look, the kind that makes you think you can trust your lawyer and consequently blab everything. “I’m not in need of any legal help,” Spencer clarifies.

“Oh.” Jon looks puzzled.

“It’s just that... When you and I,” he begins, now twisting his hands. Fucked. He doesn’t remember all that much of it. The condom did break. “Back at the Christmas party?” he asks hopefully, needing some sort of recognition from Jon.

Jon exhales, nodding. At least he’s not pretending it didn’t happen. He looks uncomfortable, though. He’s about to feel worse.

It hits Spencer just then. He’s been so focused on him having the baby that he has barely given due consideration to Jon. Spencer didn’t have a dad growing up. His mother did a great job, but Spencer knows what it’s like, thinking that your other parent didn’t want you. He knows single fathers and mothers can do it just fine, and he has been full of that ‘I’ll survive’ energy, but now... What if Jon turns his back away from his child? What if Spencer has to tell the baby why his other dad isn’t around? That would break his heart.

And if Jon doesn’t turn his back but does the right thing, to whatever extent, then how will they deal? They don’t even know each other. Having a kid with your significant other can be hard on its own, but with a stranger?

Spencer slowly begins to panic, looking around the room desperately. “Uh... um...” His hands are shaking. He is freaking out.

This isn’t just about him and his unborn child. It’s not only his child.

“When we had sex, we were, uh... careless?” he suggests, voice shaking. Jon’s expression remains the same: puzzled. “Fuck,” Spencer mutters, trying to get his act together. “What I’m trying to tell you is that – is that I’m pregnant. And it’s yours.”

Jon’s eyes go impossibly wide.

“I’m not asking for anything!” Spencer hurries to say. God, he’s nervous. He should’ve prepared a speech. “I’m just letting you know, but it doesn’t have to be this thing. Like, I mean that I’ve had time to come to terms with this and think about this and all, and I can do this on my own. This thing. But I also know that you have the right to decide for yourself, which is why I’m here,” he rambles, but Jon doesn’t say anything, he only has this look of utter disbelief on his face.

Right now, the situation does not feel bubbly or exciting at all. It just feels like they were two drunken and horny idiots, and this is the reality.

“I know we barely know each other,” Spencer amends, feeling more desperate with every passing second. “And I know we also work in the same place, so this is just fucked up beyond good reason, but it’s just how it is. If you- If you want me to kind of disappear, switch jobs, then I will, that won’t be an issue. But I’m not – I’m not getting rid of it. Maybe you should have a say in that, but I’m telling you right now that I just can’t. It’s not something I- just not something I could do. And neither one of us had this planned, so I know it just fucks everything up –” His voice is suddenly cracking and he feels a second away from bursting into tears. “– I was gonna go to Mexico this summer and get really hammered, but now –”

“Okay, just calm down,” Jon says hurriedly, and Spencer blinks more than necessary, wiping the corners of his eyes and nodding excessively.

Jon rounds the table, saying, “Just come on, lie down for a bit, okay?” He leads Spencer to the couch, and Spencer lies down on it, trying to even out his breathing. Jon looks concerned. “You, uh. I’m gonna go get some tea for you, okay? Some tea and then we can- we can talk about this, we can... rationalise this. Just stay there, right?”

Jon hurries out of the room. Rationalise it? There is nothing rational about having a baby, it’s all chaos and confusion. Spencer groans at his own idiocy, having made a disaster of the situation. He covers his face with his hands, trying to control the emotional explosion that came out of nowhere. And he still doesn’t have a reaction either.

Jon wants to have the baby. Jon is happy about the baby. Jon disowns the baby. Jon never wants to hear from Spencer again. Jon is bringing him tea.

Spencer moves to sit, not wanting to lie there like he is some weak thing. He has a headache now, and he feels tired, and he feels hungry, and god, it’s all too much.

Jon comes back shortly. “Here,” he says, offering him a mug. Spencer mumbles ‘thanks’ as he takes it.

Jon sits down next to him. Spencer sips the tea quietly. He is not saying anything. He has said enough. Fuck, he should’ve just written a letter, sent an email, a picture from the kid’s high school graduation.

“I don’t really know what to say,” Jon states after a while. That makes two of them. “I mean, you’re right about- about this not being planned, and we are not all that well acquainted. And I really need, uh, need to get used to the idea, but I-” Jon cuts himself off and stares at nothing at all. “You’re sure, then? That you are... That it’s me?”

“Yeah. There’s been no one else,” he mutters. Then he adds, “Uh, well, there was this one guy, um, three weeks ago, but –”

“That changes things,” Jon points out instantly. “Seems to me that it could be, the, uh, that’s reasonable doubt –”

“If I were three weeks pregnant, I wouldn’t have a clue yet,” Spencer says, noting how Jon is clearly trying to find the loophole here. Spencer’s slept with two guys in the past four, five months. It doesn’t take a scientist. “I’ve made an appointment for next week, the doctor will... fill me in and stuff. But I guess I must be... however long ago the Christmas party was. A few months.”

“Oh. Right. I see.” Jon scratches himself behind the ear. “You’ll know more next week then. But just don’t... do anything rash?”

Spencer laughs desperately. “I came across like a nutcase. God, I’m sorry.”

“You should take rest of the day off. Rest. In your- your condition, you should avoid stress. Really, just take the rest of the day off.”

“Okay,” he agrees. Jon is right, anyway. He could go back to work but he would only be completely freaked out and worried.

“And you should know that I –”

A knock comes on the door, and Jon silences instantly. “Excuse me,” he says. Spencer feels like they were finally getting to the point, to Jon’s actual reaction. There still doesn’t seem to be one apart from slight scepticism.

Jon slides out of the office, and Spencer hears William’s voice. Spencer strains his ears trying to listen, and he catches Jon’s voice, authoritative and commanding, including ‘Spencer’ and ‘unwell’. Jon comes back in carrying muffins and sandwiches.

“Sorry,” Spencer says as he realises most of it is for him.

Jon puts everything down on his desk, fishing out his salad. “Not at all. You, um, you need to – eat. You know, for the – you know.”

Spencer gets up, awkwardly taking his sandwiches and muffin. He’ll probably go eat them home now, having been giving the right to excuse himself. “So...” he begins awkwardly.

“We should have each other’s phone numbers,” Jon suddenly suggests, digging into his jacket pockets and pulling out a small, white business card, which he hands over to Spencer. It reads Jonathan Walker, Junior Attorney with the firm’s contact information and Jon’s personal phone number.

Spencer, in turn, scribbles down his phone number on a Post-It lying about on Jon’s desk, handing it to the other man.

Spencer feels the situation hanging over him like a bad, sardonic joke: this part usually happens before conception.

A second knock on the door, and this time William opens the door without an invite. “Jon, just to remind you of your twelve thirty?”

“Right. Of course. Yes.” Jon looks around in confusion. “Um, Spencer, I have to- But we will talk and figure it out. The thing. Uh... you should go... deal with your cold.”

“Okay,” Spencer nods, very aware of William listening in on them. “There’s no rush. With the... cold. It takes a while, these colds, so... Thanks for the tea.”

“No problem. Sure. But take it easy, alright?”

Jon seems genuinely concerned, and Spencer hangs onto that as he grabs his jacket and leaves for the day.

They exchanged phone numbers, and Jon said they’d talk. That they’d figure it out. Plural. The two of them. Spencer’s fucking grateful for that because now he feels like there is no way he can do this on his own. Even a stranger is better than no one at all.

At least now it’s over and done with.

All things considered, Jon seemed to take it pretty well.

* * *

Jon is not taking it well. The world as he knows it has been nuked. It’s a disaster. It’s more than a disaster, it’s... The End.

The receptionist is pregnant. With his child. He can’t – There are no words for what he’s feeling.

He tries to remember the important bits of what Spencer said, something about Spencer not being able to have an abortion even if he wanted to, and something about Mexico? No, what, that makes no sense.

Nothing makes sense anymore.

“My god,” Ryan says for the hundredth time as he paces around Jon’s office. It’s nearly eight in the evening, and a bottle of bourbon sits on the desk. Jon needed a drink. After he told the news, his friends needed drinks too.

Pete, who has been sitting on the couch Spencer was lying on during the day, now says, “As your lawyer, Jon, can I just say what the hell were you thinking? This is a workplace. He could’ve sued us for sexual harassment. As your friend, however...” Pete begins and breaks into a grin, “You fucked the hot receptionist? Good for you, man.”

“Pete!” Ryan snaps impatiently. It is possible Ryan is taking this worse than Jon is, and that is slightly reassuring.

“You’ve not seen the guy! Amazing smile and sparkly blue eyes? That’s why I hired him. When clients walk in, his beautiful face is the first thing they should see.”

Ryan stops pacing and turns to Jon. “Demand a paternity test. He could be lying.”

“I don’t think he –” Jon begins.

“Don’t be naïve!” Ryan snaps. “You have this apparently attractive receptionist coming onto you at a Christmas party, you’re a bit drunk, you maybe feel flattered, so you fuck him. Your family is absolutely loaded. He magically gets pregnant? I don’t buy that. He is either lying or that little fucker had it all figured out.”

“We came onto each other,” Jon says truthfully. He was wasted, but he remembers being a flirtatious fucker. You couldn’t blame him. Spencer looked good in that tight red t-shirt of his. “And you should’ve seen him today, how freaked out he was. It was not planned.”

“So he was all ‘oh, I’m on the pill, we don’t need to –’”

“We used a condom. He had one.”

Ryan scoffs. “Pierced with a needle, I’m guessing.”

Jon is about to object again, but Pete intervenes with, “Ryan, just sit down, alright?” Ryan grudgingly obeys, annoyed and angry. Pete looks at Jon with his big, sympathetic eyes. “If you want me to make this problem disappear... want me to... pay Spencer off? I can do that for you.”

He’s being given the opportunity to rewind back eight, nine hours. When life was still normal. When he was still perfect. When he hadn’t knocked up some random guy and when responsibility wasn’t weighing down on him like a block of concrete.

But then there’s the baby. Something he created. Something of his. He is not ready to start a family yet, since he hasn’t found that one person. He vaguely hoped to have his first kid in his arms in, say, four years from now, and that is assuming he finds a partner sooner rather than later. That’s why he’s been stuck in the dating scene for the past two years, having most likely been on a date with three quarters of men and women of similar class and status as him. But fatherhood was always in his plans for himself, to carry on the Walker legacy. Some years down the line.

Not seven months down the line. With someone who is neither his husband, fiancé nor boyfriend, but the firm’s receptionist.

He thinks of the scandal. The cream of the city will have a field day over gossip like this. It makes Jon sound like a hormone-driven idiot who doesn’t know any better, like some dirty old man or a sexually frustrated creep. A brainless failure following his impulses. There’s always gossip and there are always scandals, but they have never been about him.

He has never fucked up before.

The temptation to say ‘yes’ to Pete is there, but then what? Send Spencer away? Know that somewhere out there is his son or daughter whom he will never see?

The best way out of this is for Spencer to have an abortion. It sounds cruel, but it’s the truth. The problem will just vanish.

Bullshit. It’d never go away. Jon would think of his could-have-been child every day, wonder if it had been a boy or a girl, what kind of a person he or she would have grown up to be. How much Jon might have loved his child. And if that’s Jon, then what would it be like for Spencer who is carrying it? But Spencer said that he wouldn’t have an abortion, and Jon respects that. It’s Spencer’s body. It’s Spencer’s child too.

Jon knows that an abortion is the best solution, but even if Spencer had said it’s a possibility, Jon isn’t sure if he would have had it in him to go for it.

“I don’t want you to make it disappear,” he says finally and in defeat.

“Okay. In that case, we, as your best friends, are here for you. And I want to be godfather,” Pete adds.

“Hey, I want to –” Ryan begins to object fiercely before he laughs loudly. “No, this is ridiculous! We are not discussing who will be the godfather. Jon, listen to me: this will ruin your reputation, professionally and privately. Your family’s reputation is on the line too.”

Jon knows all of that. He knows.

Before he can answer, someone knocks on the door. It’s late. Jon thought the office was empty. “Yes?” he asks, and his father opens the door. God, definitely not the person he wants to see right then.

“I thought I heard voices,” Victor says, smiling at them. When it comes to Victor, smiling looks a lot like a straight line and dead eyes. “Jonathan, you are joining your mother and I for Sunday dinner this weekend, aren’t you?”

“Of course, Father. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Good.” He now eyes Ryan and Pete. “Is this a meeting?”

“We were just heading to a cocktail bar,” Ryan supplies. Jon knows that Victor likes Ryan and approves of him. The Rosses are a good family. Pete, of course, is a partner in the firm these days, and Victor briefly asks for an update on a case or another before he says goodnight. “And remember –” he starts, now looking at Jon again, and Jon joins his dad in chanting, “Walkers walk first, others follow.”

It’s their motto, what Victor has been telling him since he was three. They never fail. They always succeed.

They’re Walkers. They don’t make mistakes.

“Have a good weekend, then,” Victor says with a brief and authoritative nod before the door closes again. Jon exhales in relief.

Ryan’s expression says Jon is doomed, and that is pretty much how he feels too. Pete says, “Well, I think Victor will make one great grandfather!”

Jon is relatively sure that a bastard grandchild with the receptionist is as welcome in Victor’s world as the abolishment of the judicial system.

* * *

Jon doesn’t go to the cocktail bar, which was their original plan. Instead he sits in his car in the underground parking lot for a good ten minutes, staring at the wheel. Spencer. Baby. Apocalypse. Fuck.

He goes through his pockets and finds Spencer’s phone number, recalling their earlier encounter of ‘We’re having a kid together – call me!’

He hopes Spencer is feeling better now. Pregnancy is physically and emotionally exhausting and challenging. He wants to call Spencer, but it’s late and he doesn’t want to wake him up. And he’s not sure what he’d say, anyway.

But Jon is good at solving problems. It’s what he does for a living, after all. He knows what his main problems currently are: the baby, his relationship with Spencer, his parents, everyone’s expectations. And Jon is also relatively sure he has no solutions to all those things right now, but he’ll start with the most pressing one: his unborn child.

He makes a phone call, scribbling down a date and time in his pocket calendar. That was step one. Step two is informing Spencer.

He reasons that if Spencer doesn’t want to be disturbed, he won’t have his phone on. He can leave a voicemail to give the news and say that he hopes Spencer is feeling better. Show a little sympathy. Spencer’s the one carrying it. Jon’s got it easy.

He dials the number and is surprised to get a reply after a few rings. “Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Jon. I hope I didn’t wake you up, I –”

“No, that’s okay, I wasn’t – I slept this afternoon, then woke up and now can’t sleep, so.”

Jon hears chattering in the background. “Where are you?”

“With my friend. At his café.”

Jon checks his wristwatch. It’s nine thirty. Spencer shouldn’t be out at this hour in his condition. “Okay. Well. I just – You said you had made an appointment for next week, am I right?”

“Yeah.”

“I made you an appointment at one of the city’s best private clinics so you have to cancel it,” Jon informs him, nervously drumming the wheel with his free hand. There’s a pause on the line, and Jon says, “The baby should get the best doctor available. Wednesday at one twenty. I’ll go with you.”

“Right... Okay.”

Spencer doesn’t sound particularly grateful. Jon is pretty sure that, all things considered, gratitude should be due.

“The waiting list was over two weeks long,” Jon notes, hoping that will give him some credit. Spencer remains oddly silent. Jon feels nervous. He isn’t usually a nervous person. He has to stand up in court, perfectly at ease with the jury, the reporters, the judge, and whoever else happens to be there. “Well, I’ll see you on Monday. And we can talk about this more on Wednesday.”

“Until Monday then,” Spencer says and hangs up on him.

Jon doesn’t feel that much better. He remains in the parking lot for another ten minutes before finally heading home.

cont.

Relearning How to Breathe [2/7]

Wed, 02 Dec 2009 21:55:12 GMT

back

Jon shows up to his station five minutes to noon. Spencer smiles at him mildly, and the lawyer looks around before lowering his voice. “Um. I’m gonna go to the parking lot and wait in my car. You should come down when your lunch starts and we’ll go eat before the... appointment.”

“Oh.” Spencer had agreed to go to the Mexican place with Macy. Two for one fajitas on Wednesdays. “I had already –”

“I made us a reservation.”

“Right. Okay,” Spencer concedes, and Jon heads out of the glass double doors of the firm. Spencer sighs heavily and fiddles with the sleeves of his shirt. Jon clearly isn’t big on the whole communication thing.

Things not to discuss with Jon: music, consequences, communication.

Brendon thinks Jon is an asshole for no particular reason, really. Brendon said something about how Jon clearly should have bought him flowers. Spencer disagrees; flowers are for pregnant chicks. Pregnant men are more about... food. Jon could bring him food. That’d be great.

But Jon did ask him how he felt on Monday, which was something. Jon is coming with him to the doctor’s too. Jon is clearly getting involved, or then he is making sure Spencer actually is pregnant, which is also a possibility.

Pete looks at him in a funny way now, and Spencer wonders if he knows. He knows Pete is friends with Jon. But no one is saying anything, and Spencer keeps floating in this limbo where he doesn’t know what’s what.

But now he’ll get to talk to Jon, who has had days to think about everything. It’s progress, but Spencer feels put off and nervous.

When he gets to the parking lot, where he never goes since he himself cycles to work, he looks around until he spots Jon. Jon is talking on the phone, arguing about a contract that should have been signed already. Spencer walks over slowly, taking in Jon’s car: a two-seater Jaguar. You can’t get un-baby-friendlier than that.

Jon finishes the call, and Spencer says, “Nice car.”

“Bought her last year.” Jon opens up the passenger seat door for him. “Get in,” he beckons, and they are soon out of the building. Jon has a classical radio station on. Spencer has never wanted to hear a bass line this badly in his life. “So how are you, uh, feeling?” Jon asks.

“Good. Just fine. Got some rest over the weekend.”

“Good. That’s great.”

Spencer busies himself studying his fingernails.

“So your friend owns a café?” Jon now asks, and Spencer is puzzled at first. “You said on the phone...”

“Right. Yeah. My best friend Brendon. He owns the most amazing vegan café; the food is to die for. Mostly thanks to Butcher, though. He’s one of the cooks.”

“You’re vegan?” Jon asks sharply, sounding alarmed. “I didn’t know, we’re going to a seafood restaurant –”

“I’m not vegan,” Spencer clarifies. He’s not that crazy about seafood, though. Jon manages to smile at the misunderstanding.

They arrive at the restaurant, and Spencer instantly concludes two things. Firstly, the place is expensive as hell. Secondly, it’s a place where you go when you don’t want to be seen. Though it’s posh looking inside, the tables are surrounded by small partition walls that you can’t see over when sitting down. Spencer can hear the other guests, but he can’t see them. Ideal for privacy.

Spencer looks at the menu the waitress brings over. He wishes it’d say ‘tasty fish’ and ‘tastier fish’ instead of being confusing with a generous dash of French cooking terminology. When the waitress comes back to take their orders, however, Jon studies the menu with a concentrated expression and then says, “My companion will have the pan seared scallops to start with, and then the salmon escalope.”

Spencer blinks. He isn’t ordering for himself? He isn’t ordering for himself. He had settled on the tuna, but no. He has a mind of his own that he wants to exercise, and it’s just rude to treat him like thinking might hurt his brain, like he doesn’t have a say.

What poorly-written, fifties-abusive-husband manual has Jon stepped out of?

Jon doesn’t even seem to notice, however, as he then moves on to his own order as though he had done nothing out of the ordinary a moment ago. Spencer eyes the three forks on his left and three knives on his right. Spencer is quite fond of the spork himself.

The waitress leaves and silence lands on them yet again. Jon smiles, but it’s strained.

Spencer’s counted to fifty-four when Jon says, “So does your friend Brendan –”

“Brendon.”

“Brendon,” Jon corrects. “Does he know of your... situation?”

“He was the first one I told, actually. He’s already calling himself uncle.” It’s easy to talk about Brendon since it always makes him smile. It’s familiar ground in this new and strange world.

“Right. For- For now, could you... refrain from telling people? Until we figure it out, I mean.” Jon looks pale, a bit sickly. Spencer nods. He doesn’t really have anyone else to tell, anyway. His mother passed away a few years back. “I also... really hate having to say this,” Jon begins, and Spencer instantly pays attention. “But, um... I have been advised to... ask for a paternity test.”

Jon thinks he’s a liar.

“Okay,” he manages after a long pause. He won’t fight over this. Only Jon can be the father, but Jon doesn’t know that. “Sure, whatever.”

Jon thinks Spencer’s lying. Pulling a scam. It just goes to show how they don’t know each other at all. Can’t even trust each other.

God, he feels like shit now.

“It’s just that- I’m an only child,” Jon explains. “I’m going to inherit everything, and my family is wealthy, so any child of mine will one day inherit it all, and I’m just –”

“Making sure,” Spencer supplies for him. “I get it. That’s fine.”

Spencer doesn’t feel at all hungry when they get their starters. He looks at the scallops he didn’t order.

Jon has apparently received some legal advice on the situation. It’s a baby. A happy thing. It shouldn’t require legal advice.

Spencer barely eats anything, and he feels guilty that Jon is paying for overpriced food that he doesn’t even consume. They are mostly silent, exchanging comments on how the food is. If the situation was different, would Jon be more talkative? Or is he always like this? He seemed so charming on the night they fucked, but, then again, Spencer was drunk. Maybe Jon was exactly like he is now, and Spencer thought him irresistible because of the booze.

“We should get going,” Jon says, checking his wristwatch. Spencer hasn’t worn a wristwatch in his life.

They arrive at the private clinic right on time. Spencer suspects Jon practised driving the route yesterday, estimating how long it’d take, then adding lunch hour traffic to his estimations.

The woman at the reception is smiling at them widely as she asks for a name. “Spencer Smith,” he says, looking around the clinic worriedly, at the light pink walls and the pictures of newborn babies. Everything is shiny and new. In Spencer’s world, everything is vintage and seventh hand. He doesn’t belong here.

The receptionist laughs. “Here we make appointments for the baby.”

“Oh,” he frowns. It’s actually kind of sweet, now that he thinks about it.

“Baby Walker,” Jon now says with a completely closed up expression. She finds their appointment instantly.

They move to the waiting room where other couples are waiting, except that they’re not a couple.

Spencer forgets about the xenophobia, though, and the paternity test and not getting to order his own food and the baby being a ‘Walker’, and all of the crap he is enduring, as he looks at a woman sitting opposite them, at least eight months pregnant. She’s huge. It looks amazing.

Jon is looking around like he is way out of his comfort zone, but not for the same reasons Spencer is. The place is a hell of a lot better than what he had planned or could have afforded. He agrees with Jon on one thing: the baby does deserve the best. And if using Jon’s position in society guarantees the baby’s health, then Spencer will roll with it. But this is a clinic for snobs. For rich people. Hell, the heavily pregnant lady is perfectly dressed with a gold necklace around her neck, every single strand of hair in place.

There’s another male couple next to them. Spencer guesses the pregnant man is roughly five months pregnant. He’s not sure; he hasn’t honestly spent that much time with pregnant people. The couple is talking to each other, apparently going over the finer details of a dinner party. “You will pick up the twins from the early development centre, won’t you?” the pregnant one asks, the other replying, “I will, honey.”

Spencer wants to get the hell out of here.

“Baby Walker?”

Spencer lifts his head, spotting a male nurse who has appeared at the door of the waiting room, a clipboard in his hands. He and Jon automatically stand up. The nurse smiles. “Come right this way.”

They follow the man down the corridor, and the nurse begins talking animatedly. “How are you two doing today? Excellent! Excited, I bet! My name’s Gabriel, but everyone calls be Gabe. You should too! We’ll be seeing each other quite a bit until the little one is here! Which one of you is carrying it?”

“I am,” Spencer manages.

Gabe eyes him up and down. “Yes, you do have that expecting father glow about you! Your first? I thought so! You both have that first-timer paleness!”

Gabe finally opens a door and ushers them inside. Spencer’s never liked going to the doctor’s, and this is no different. It feels clinical and too white. Interestingly, though, on one wall is a collage of ultrasound pictures. Spencer eyes it, wondering if it’s meant to be art of some kind.

“The doctor will be with you shortly,” Gabe beams, motioning them to sit down on the chairs by the doctor’s desk. The nurse exists the room. Spencer eyes all the different awards and certificates on the walls. This doctor is clearly the big thing.

Jon shifts uncomfortably. “Do you know what we do on the first visit?”

“No,” Spencer admits.

“It’ll be fine,” Jon says, and Spencer’s not sure who he’s talking to. “This guy’s the best in town. Having him as the doctor is the ultimate dream for expecting couples. Or that’s what I’ve heard.”

A snobby, rich doctor for snobby, rich couples who try to brainwash their children by listening to Mozart during pregnancy and then they ship them off to early development playschools, convinced that their child is exceptionally intelligent. Spencer plans on going for The Clash and letting his kid eat soil as much as he or she wishes. The early development will be the baby’s eventual realisation that soil isn’t tasty.

Spencer doesn’t want some upper class doctor who will take one look at him and assume he’s some lying skank who managed to get knocked up by a rich guy. He hates feeling this way about himself.

They both flinch when the door opens and a white coated man walks in with Gabe, thick eyebrows furrowing as he reads the papers on the clipboard. “Hello! I’m Dr. Hurley –”

“Andy?” Spencer asks in astonishment, staring at the bespectacled man with long hair to his shoulders, tattooed arms peaking from the sleeves of his shirt.

Andy looks up from the clipboard. “Spencer?” He breaks into a huge smile. “Dude, what’s up?” he asks enthusiastically before rolling his eyes and chuckling. “Silly question considering where we are! You’re pregnant?”

“You’re a doctor?” Spencer counters in utter disbelief.

“Yeah, man!” Andy smiles, his voice switched from the official tone he was using to a friendlier one. He takes a seat behind the desk. “God, what a small world!”

Jon, who looks speechless that their doctor looks like a mix of Jesus Christ and Ozzy Osbourne, says, “You two know each other?”

“I see Andy all the time at Bden’s!” Spencer explains enthusiastically, delighted over the prospect of Andy being their doctor. He’s spoken to Andy a dozen times, but they’ve never discussed what they do for a living. He likes Andy, who isn’t one of those vegans who would kill for a bit of cheese, but is a charming regular Spencer bumps into all the time.

“Best vegan food in town. I am addicted,” Andy sighs wistfully, then leans over the table and extends his hand. “Andy Hurley.”

Jon shakes his hand. “Jon Walker.”

“The lawyer?” Andy asks as he takes his seat again. “Best not to accidentally kill your baby then!” he laughs. Spencer joins in and Jon stares. “So you two...?” Andy asks with a quirked eyebrow. He looks at Spencer. “I thought you and Brendon were kinda... you know?”

“Oh, no!” Spencer corrects him. “No, no. As much as I love that man...”

“Clearly. Instead, uh, Victor Walker’s son...”

Jon is looking highly distressed. “This is all in the highest confidence, right?”

“Of course!” Andy assures him. “Of course it is! Don’t often get patients who I personally know, so I got carried away there. We should get cracking! Got less than nine months here!” Andy looks around his desk, frowning. “Now where did I leave my...? Would you excuse me for a minute? I’m being the forgetful genius today.”

Andy hurries out of the office, and Spencer smiles happily, suddenly falling in love with the clinic.

Gabe is still in the room, and Jon turns to him to ask, “So Dr. Hurley is...?”

“Do not worry at all, your baby is in the best of hands! He is one of the best obstetricians in the world and definitely the absolute best on the West coast!” Gabe says with a big smile.

Jon doesn’t look happy at all. Spencer lowers his voice, saying, “Jon, I know him. I trust him completely.”

“But the tattoos!” Jon mutters back, clearly suspicious. “I was expecting someone... more professional looking, someone older, someone more... conventional. Maybe we should switch doctors?”

Spencer sits up straighter. “But I want Andy,” he says with as much authority as he can. Spencer doesn’t see how tattoos are in any way connected to someone’s ability to do their job.

Jon casts Gabe a worried look. “How about we talk about this later...?” he asks quietly.

Spencer shrugs, but he isn’t going to change his mind. It’s clear by now that Jon has a tendency to be incredibly bossy, but Spencer will put his foot down here. Andy should be their doctor. No one else will do.

It’s like Brendon says: you can always trust a vegan.

When Andy returns, they start with a basic examination. He takes Spencer’s height and weight, his blood pressure, asking for symptoms and their estimated date of conception. “No morning sickness at all?” Andy asks in surprise, and Spencer confirms it. He hasn’t felt nauseous once. “Your body is clearly meant for pregnancy,” Andy muses.

Jon sits next to him as Spencer has to recite his entire medical history, but luckily he has nothing overly embarrassing there, just a removed appendix when he was seven and a broken arm when he was twelve. He doubts those incidents affect having children. And, okay, he had chlamydia when he was eighteen, which is still pretty goddamn embarrassing, but he took the antibiotics and he’s okay now and has been clean for years and years. He learned from the one time.

Except for the whole accidentally pregnant thing now.

Spencer’s not crazy about needles and looks away when Andy takes a blood sample. When all the examinations and tests are complete, Andy schedules their next visit, a scan in two weeks time, which Jon grudgingly scribbles down into a pocket calendar. Spencer figures Jon is realising they won’t be able to weasel out of Andy’s care. Andy also feels around his abdomen, humming and nodding in approval. “Well, you’ve certainly got one in the oven,” Andy jokes brightly. Spencer feels like marrying the man.

Spencer doesn’t see a bump or anything resembling one yet. He is definitely a bit bigger, though. He’s disappointed that they are not doing a ultrasound right away, and that they won’t hear the heartbeat yet either. “It’s too early right now, but in a few weeks time, we’ll get there,” Andy promises.

In the end, Andy asks if they have any questions.

“So can I smoke pot while I’m pregnant?” Spencer asks. Jon looks at him in shock.

“I strongly advise you not to. There is research suggesting that it might damage your baby’s nervous system. Drugs, alcohol, smoking are all out of the picture while you’re pregnant. Also I recommend switching coffee to herbal teas, since I’ve seen you go for that organic black coffee at Bden’s. Do you think you’ll have a problem making those changes?”

“No,” Spencer says. He’s not addicted to anything. “What about sex?” he now asks. Jon goes from shocked to clearly uncomfortable. Spencer is slightly annoyed. He has to ask these questions, how else will he know?

Andy nods. “A lot of couples ask about that. My advice is to listen to your body. Having sex is safe and also encouraged. We are sexual creatures, after all, and having your sexual desires met while pregnant will guarantee your sexual satisfaction, in turn making you happier and more stable emotionally. Some people lose their sex drive during pregnancy, which is also quite normal. As you get bigger, you will have to take that into consideration in terms of sexual activities and positions. I would advise against anything too adventurous later on in the pregnancy, but you can have sex right up until birth.”

That’s some good news at least. Spencer better try and get lucky before he really starts showing. Or would that be weird? Does he want his baby to be present when some guy pounds away at him? Maybe not.

“Jon, do you have any questions?” Andy now asks.

Jon clears his throat. “What about paternity tests?”

Spencer decides to stare at the ultrasound collage on the wall, not wanting to know what Andy thinks about that. Andy maintains his professionalism, however, explaining how it can be done during pregnancy or after birth. “I would, however, suggest that you wait as paternity tests during pregnancy carry a chance of miscarriage. Once the baby is born, the test can be done on the same day.”

“Okay,” Jon nods. Spencer feels like there’s a lump in his throat that he can’t swallow down.

“Now,” Andy says with surprising kindness in his tone, and Spencer looks to see him smiling at them from the other side of the table. “We are not simply concerned for the welfare of your child, but also the parents. Both of you. We here at Stork Private Clinic provide a full service, and couple’s counselling is available if you feel you might benefit from it. Having a baby changes the dynamic of any couple. I’ll give you a leaflet.” Andy looks in his drawers before producing a green leaflet he puts on top of the ten other leaflets he has decided they should have by now. “I hope you don’t mind if I ask what your relationship is? Even if it’s loosely defined.”

They look at each other. Jon seems to be at a loss of words. “We’re not together,” Spencer says eventually.

“I had gathered that,” the doctor says with a smile. “But you are embarking on this exciting road of parenthood and pregnancy together?”

When Jon says, “Yes,” Spencer feels more relieved than he’d like.

“Good!” Andy says. “You would be surprised just how many friends decide to have a baby together.”

Spencer isn’t sure how to tell Andy that, truthfully, they are not even friends.

* * *

Jon comes over to Spencer’s for dinner, since Spencer asked and it felt rude to say no to the bearer of his child. Spencer’s place is in an okay neighbourhood, but definitely not a child friendly one. No schools or parks anywhere nearby, and it’s far from where Jon lives. Jon hopes that no one steals his car while he’s there.

Spencer’s place itself is... strange. It’s a typical apartment, one bedroom, living room, kitchen and bathroom, but nothing matches. The couch might be from the 70’s, the side table looks slightly antique, and Spencer has little trinkets and half-burnt candles everywhere, and Jon is also pretty sure he saw a bong.

He realises that he doesn’t know Spencer at all. In the office, they all wear smart clothes. Lawyers wear their suits, the lesser workforce can go for smart casual. In the end, what they wear says nothing about their personalities.

Spencer is a different being outside the doors of Walker & Wentz. He does drugs, hangs out with vegans, once had an STD (that somehow stuck with Jon from the doctor’s appointment), and he lives with a ridiculous amount of clutter. To sum up, Spencer is the opposite of Jon.

Yet they both ended up in that supply closet after a few drinks, so Jon doesn’t know what to think.

“So do you do a lot of drugs?” Jon asks from the kitchen doorway as Spencer fusses about with the food he is making. “Not that I’m judging or anything.” Except for the part where he is.

“I only smoke pot sometimes. I once took E at this rave when I was nineteen and that was enough for me,” Spencer says, shaking his head at the memory. Jon moves into the kitchen further, eyes landing on pictures on the fridge door. “I’m not a drug addict if that’s what you’re thinking,” Spencer adds. “I won’t be smoking when I’m pregnant or around the baby once it’s born. I’m not stupid.”

Jon nods solemnly. Now that Spencer is carrying his child, Spencer simply can’t do whatever he wants. It’s good that they work together. Jon can keep an eye on Spencer. But it’s not good enough... Jon has to come up with a better way to make this work.

“Is this Brendon?” he now asks, pointing at the guy in most of the pictures. Spencer nods, stirring the pasta sauce. Jon eyes Brendon, who, as it turns out, is extremely good-looking. Dr. Hurley thought Brendon was seeing Spencer. They might as well be if the fridge door is anything to go by: the two of them at a baseball game, in Halloween costumes, in New York, and the list goes on.

“Please, sit down,” Spencer says, and Jon takes a seat at the small table with two mismatched chairs.

He looks at the cutlery in confusion. “What’s this?” he asks, pointing.

“A spork!” Spencer smiles happily.

Right.

The food, at least, is tasty. Spencer’s clearly a good cook. Jon usually just eats out. They go over most of what Dr. Hurley said, and Jon keeps discussing the baby since it’s the only thing they have in common. They both want to be involved, they know that. But Jon thinks it’s needless to say that they shouldn’t even bother to try being anything more than civil. It crossed his mind to ask Spencer out on a date, see where that’d go, but he knows it’d be a dead end and would make things weirder for them.

They would never actually be interested in each other.

“We should raise the baby as friends,” Spencer says thoughtfully halfway through dinner, and Jon agrees. Spencer, after all, seems like a relatively sensible person, therefore they can come to a sensible solution.

“This place is too small for a baby,” Jon notes. All the clutter. Sharp edges. Things that will fit into a baby’s mouth. This apartment will be a baby kill zone once it starts crawling about. Spencer only shrugs like he’s not worried about it yet. “Have you told your parents?” Jon asks instead.

“No one to tell. I never knew my father and my mother passed away a few years back.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

Spencer smiles sadly. “Brendon’s dads are apparently really excited. Surrogate grandfathers, maybe. I’m guessing your parents don’t know yet?”

Jon stabs at the penne on his plate. “No. I actually... I need to think about that. How to tell them. Find some way to...”

“We’ve got plenty of time,” Spencer says reassuringly.

They have a handful of months. Jon doesn’t think Spencer really understands that.

* * *

Brendon buys him a book titled Inspirational Thoughts for Pregnant Men and Women, which they both agree really makes you think and puts things in perspective. Spencer likes “pregnancy is getting company inside one’s skin”. It’s a bit how he feels.

Spencer isn’t sure, however, why Brendon felt it was necessary to come to the office to give him the gift. His co-workers don’t know he’s pregnant yet, and neither do they know that Jon is the other father. Brendon has never visited the law firm before.

“Well, I also brought you some falafel!” Brendon just smiles as Spencer hides the book in one of his drawers for now. Brendon digs a yellow Tupperware container from his messenger bag and opens it, handing him a pita stuffed with falafel, lettuce and hot sauce. Spencer’s stomach grumbles.

“Okay, lunch time it is!” Spencer decides.

They go to the coffee room to sit down. Spencer knows Brendon technically has no business here, but no one’s bothering to pay much attention to him. Brendon keeps looking around, eyes taking in all of Spencer’s colleagues.

“Just curious!” Brendon smiles sweetly. “You’ve been working here for six months or something and I’ve never been here! Looks very... professional. Fax machines. Photocopy machines. Suits. Lawyers. Clients. Very impressive.”

Spencer finally catches up with Brendon. “For god’s sake... You totally came by to see Jon.”

Brendon instantly stops looking around and leans over the table eagerly, urgently whispering, “So which one is he?” Brendon is eyeing through the window of the coffee room into the main area. “Him?” He is pointing at William, which is pretty close since he is Jon’s secretary. “The baby might have those cheek bones! Epic!”

“No, that’s –”

“Him?” Brendon asks sceptically, now pointing at Patrick, Pete’s secretary. “You honestly let him fuck you? That’s –”

“No!” Spencer objects, slapping Brendon’s wrist to stop him from pointing. “Be quiet, alright?” he murmurs, eyeing Francis worriedly who is by the counter getting some coffee. Brendon is a lot of things, but if there’s one thing he isn’t, it’s subtle. “You will meet him eventually,” Spencer mutters quietly.

Brendon sighs dramatically. “Fine.” He leans back in the chair, sighing again for good measure. Spencer eats his lunch, noting how Brendon is still trying to look around at all the people there.

But just then Jon enters the coffee room. Spencer instantly decides to stare at the table and not give anything away as Jon is behind Brendon’s back and, last time he checked, Brendon didn’t have eyes in the back of his head. But the world hates Spencer. Clearly.

“Mr. Walker,” Francis says, and Brendon jolts, eyes widening. Spencer shakes his head silently to signal Brendon to keep his mouth shut.

Francis is now talking to Jon about a court date that got postponed, with Jon responding he already knows as he pours himself a cup of coffee. Brendon has turned to look at the two men, eyes gleaming. Francis leaves the room, leaving only the three of them. Jon turns around with his mug, spotting them by the table. “Oh. Hi.” He smiles as his eyes focus on Brendon. “I know you.”

Brendon stands up, giving Jon a cordial but reserved smile. “Brendon Urie.”

“You’re the café owner,” Jon notes as he shakes Brendon’s hand.

“And you’re the sperm donor,” Brendon says coolly.

“Brendon,” Spencer intervenes.

Brendon couldn’t care less, however, as he now eyes Jon like a piece of meat. Jon’s expression goes from friendly to perfectly blank. “Just checking you for any horrible genetic malfunctions, that’s all,” Brendon says thoughtfully.

“My uncle is diabetic,” Jon supplies. “Now if you’ll excuse me.” He heads for the door before stopping to say, “Spencer, we’re meeting Dr. Hurley at nine o’clock so I’ll come pick you up. Probably the easiest.”

“Sure,” Spencer smiles. Jon nods coldly, looking so alike his father right then that it’s uncanny. Once Jon is gone, Spencer focuses on glaring at his best friend. “What the hell did you do that for?”

Brendon sits back down. “Uh, hello? Were you not there when he was a douche after screwing you, a douche after finding out he impregnated you, a douche who is now demanding a paternity test?”

“He was trying there. Did you not see him trying?”

“I’m not going to automatically like him just for his super masculine sperm. He has to earn it. He has to earn you,” Brendon points out, and Spencer groans. They had this conversation already. He and Jon decided to be friends, or as friendly as they can be, for the baby’s sake. They are stuck with each other for life now, aren’t they? But Brendon keeps acting like they have agreed to have their grave spots next to each other. Out of all the people in this world, he expected Brendon to understand his situation and his and Jon’s mutual decision.

Brendon is now picking at the label of a water bottle someone’s left on the table. “So what he’s handsome, rich and successful...? Corporate slaves have no souls.”

Spencer rolls his eyes and resumes eating. At least the introduction is done now, though it was frosty. Anyone who plans to get to know Spencer will have to deal with Brendon as well.

“I bet he’s never even had proper vegan food,” Brendon now says like it’s the most atrocious crime. It’s not omnivores’ fault that they think vegan food consists only of salads.

“Who cares what Jon eats?” Spencer points out. “I’m not marrying the guy.”

* * *

“And here are our engagement rings,” Jon says, offering Spencer his. Spencer stares.

Take a deep breath. Rewind.

Second meeting with Andy, and they get to hear the heartbeat of the baby. It’s life-changing, to say the least. Even Jon seems awed. Andy tells him all about the prenatal vitamins he should be taking. Spencer mostly focuses on the heartbeats of his unborn child. Gabe says that, if they want to, they could bring a recorder next time and try and get it on tape (or mp3 in this time and age). Spencer genuinely considers it. Andy tells them to start thinking about who they want present at the birth, and Spencer kind of wants Brendon there but doesn’t say it. He can figure that out later.

The day passes with Spencer trying to clone the baby’s heartbeat onto the desk with his tapping fingers. He has to linger around for a bit after five since Jon picked him up this morning and also promised to drive him home. Since they can’t arrive or leave together, Spencer goes to the underground parking lot to wait. Jon comes down eventually, apologising that his conference took longer than expected.

“I want you to come back to my place,” Jon says once they’re in the car.

“Why?”

“It’d be handy for you to know where I live, for one thing. In case of an emergency,” Jon explains, and Spencer shrugs. He had nothing planned for tonight, anyway, except read baby books and stuff his face with ice cream.

Jon’s building has an underground parking lot much like their office building has. Spencer tries not to look around too curiously at all the expensive cars parked around Jon’s Jaguar. “That’s also mine,” Jon says, pointing at another car. It doesn’t sound like Jon is trying to show off, he’s just informing.

Two cars. The ozone layer is weeping.

Jon lives on the sixth floor, in 604. Jon lets him in first – Spencer has noticed by now that Jon always does that, keeping the door open for him – and Spencer walks into a goddamn huge apartment. He looks around the living room area. “I’ll give you a tour,” Jon offers, dropping his keys on a side table.

Jon shows him the modern kitchen he says he rarely uses, which opens into a “humble” dining area fit for six people. Jon has a drinking cabinet in the corner of it. Only people over fifty have drinking cabinets. The open-plan living room is too bare to Spencer’s liking. It looks like it’s been taken from one of those furniture catalogues, where the room usually never looks the same in practice because now everything is covered in your belongings instead of the one book the photographer’s assistant placed on the coffee table to evoke a homely atmosphere.

Jon is the guy who only has that one book out. Yes, Jon has damn expensive looking furniture, but where is all of his stuff?

The master bedroom is impressive. The bed in itself is huge. Jon also has a den and a guest bedroom, and then they are finally back in the living room, and Spencer is no longer sure where everything is. “Your place is kind of huge,” Spencer notes. He doesn’t ask if Jon rents or owns it. He already knows Jon owns it. Jon is only a few years older than him – he thinks – and he has this huge place. It’s unfair, but Spencer’s family isn’t rich like Jon’s. It must be an easy life.

“Do you like it?” Jon asks, and Spencer nods. Lots of space, big windows – he wishes he had a place like this. Then he’d cover it with all of his things, put paintings and vinyl covers on the walls, some candles, vases of dried flowers, more bold colours and rugs. Definitely rugs. “I’m glad you do because I want you to move in.”

Spencer stops redecorating the place in his head. “Excuse me?” He must have misheard Jon.

Jon is looking at him calmly. “I think you should move in. I will now tell you why.”

Only a lawyer would say something like that. Spencer is glad Jon is not expecting him to speak since he can’t think of anything to say.

“Firstly, my place is better situated. There are some good schools around here, and there’s a park just two blocks down which, if you visit during the weekend, is full of families with babies and small children. This area is really family friendly. It’s safe, it’s got a good reputation, a low level of crime and violence. I think I can say it most likely exceeds your neighbourhood in all of these categories. Also, your current place have room for a nursery. Mine does. My den can easily be turned into anything that a baby might need. As for you, you could have the guest room. I firmly believe that us living together would be beneficial and in the best interest of the child, not only because of the bettered neighbourhood but also in ensuring the child’s emotional and physical well-being.”

Spencer has a feeling that Jon wrote down this speech and memorised it at some point.

“Pregnancy is a challenging time for you, and especially later on you should not be alone. If something happens, how could you get yourself to the hospital? You couldn’t. You don’t even own a car. You need someone to keep an eye on you. That can be me. Now, once the baby is born, you will need even further assistance, which I intend to be a part of. However, I can’t get up in the middle of the night when the baby is crying if you and my child are on the other side of the city. We both have equal rights to be involved, and I think that means we have equal right to be present for the child. That, essentially, requires us to live together. Suffice to say we are still more strangers than friends. This way we could also get to know each other better, which again will benefit the child. Once our child is past the critical years and more manageable and independent, we can then further discuss our future living arrangements, but for now I think it would be advantageous and productive for all parties involved if you moved in.”

Spencer blinks. He looks around the place again. Moving here? Into the guest room?

“I don’t know...” he mumbles. It’s all too much to take in. He’s feeling more than overwhelmed. He hasn’t thought about all of the technicalities yet. Jon’s words sound sensible and logical. Jon clearly has a better understanding of this.

“You wouldn’t be a guest. This would be your home in the way your place is to you now. You can come and go as you wish, do what you normally do. It’s in the best interest of the baby once it’s born, and for you during pregnancy.”

Spencer feels like Jon is abusing the fact that he is pretty determined to do what’s best for the baby. Jon’s place is better, and Spencer thinks of his father, who he never knew. Jon has the right to be there when Spencer leaves the hospital with their child. They agreed to do this together without either one of them being a weekend father.

“Okay,” Spencer says, surprising even himself. Fuck, his life is going to change anyway. Moving to another place that is better for the baby is only a smart move on his part.

Jon smiles in a way Spencer hasn’t seen him smile before. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“We’ll be like roommates,” Spencer offers, wondering if he has to start labelling his food again.

“You should move in as soon as you can. We’ll have other things on our minds in a few months. I know a good moving company, I’ll give them a call. They’ll even pack everything for you. Then we can talk about the nursery, though I also know an interior designer who can probably take on the task.”

How much of this had Jon planned out before even mentioning it to him? All of it, probably.

“Now I have to ask you for a favour,” Jon says. “Sooner or later, we have to make the announcement that we’re having a child together. It will be especially difficult since we work together but at that point we will also be living together as friends. But...”

Jon looks unsure now. So far he has been stating everything as blatant facts, unquestionable logic Spencer simply can’t argue with.

“I can’t have a child with a stranger. Or an acquaintance,” Jon finishes.

Spencer frowns. Tough luck?

“This kind of thing is going to create a scandal. Not only for me, but for my family. Take Dr. Hurley, for example. He knew my name, even though he had never met me. It’s about the reputation of a lot of people, including the firm itself. I’m a bachelor, and having a kid is going to look bad anyway, so I have to come up with ways to minimise the damage. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“I do.”

Spencer isn’t known anywhere – apart from Bden’s – so he has to go out on a limb and imagine a life where he is known. Spencer’s been working with some of the most prominent lawyers of LA for a handful of months know. Appearance is everything. It’s old fashioned, snobbish and conservative, and no one can afford to have skeletons in their closets.

He hasn’t really taken the time to ponder how all of this will reflect on Jon. A scandal? Spencer hates admitting that Jon is right. He remembers when there was talk of Pete, perhaps, having gone out on a date with Patrick, his secretary, and everyone was absolutely shocked by such unprofessional behaviour. Spencer remembers how stressed and pale Pete looked the few days that mill was going around. It turned out to be a load of ill-placed rumours, however, but Spencer remembers the furore. And all it had been was gossip about a might-have-been date. Pete certainly didn’t impregnate Patrick in a supply closet.

“Great,” Jon says, obviously relieved. “Then I am sure you understand why I have to ask you to... pretend. Pretend that you are actually engaged. To me.”

“Wait. Wait, wait.” Spencer blinks. “What?”

“I thought about it!” Jon says urgently, and it’s clear he is a lot more unsure now about this than he was of his moving in idea. “We pretend we’re engaged, and they will leave us be. We live together, we’re having a child. I mean, they will assume we are together, anyway. It will make the whole scandal part less... scandalous. We say we are madly in love and the baby is just, um, an expression of our love or whatever it is that they say. When they ask when the wedding is, we say we’re in no rush, we’re focusing on the baby right now. That is about as unconventional as they can stomach, but I think it should be fine.”

Spencer is even more speechless.

Faking a relationship? Spencer can just about move in with the father of his child who he has nothing in common with. That he can do. But pretending to be a couple? Who would buy that? Spencer’s not much of an actor. He gets where Jon is coming from, the expectations that undoubtedly have been placed on a man of Jon’s calibre, but that doesn’t mean Spencer likes this idea. At all.

When he celebrated his dream engagement in his head, it was always with the love of his life. Not... this. But this is what he has.

“I know it’s asking a lot,” Jon admits. He seems a bit ashamed about the whole scheme he’s drafted. “But for now it’d... it’s something I’m asking you to do. I, uh, I was thinking that- that if you do this for me, in return I can cover all of the baby’s expenses. You wouldn’t need to pay for any of it. I know we agreed to go fifty-fifty, but I have the money to cover all of it.”

“I don’t want you to bribe me to –”

“Not bribing! Don’t be mad! You’re getting mad,” Jon notes, and he’s right, Spencer is. He feels damn insulted right now. “Having a baby is expensive. I am rich. You are not. I cannot afford a public scandal about my private life. These are all facts, and I have come up with this solution that I know is unsatisfactory on many accounts, but it’s the best I’ve got. So please consider it. Pretending we are a couple is going to make things easier for you too. People won’t only care about me, but also about who is having my child. People can be mean. It’d protect you.”

Spencer stands up to his full height, arms crossed over his chest. “You mean they’d think I’m a gold digger?”

Jon shrugs. “Maybe something like that.”

At least Jon seems convinced that the baby is his. Jon was very apologetic about having to ask Spencer for proof, and he did mention he only did so because he had been advised by someone. But if Jon is willing to have Spencer move in, fix up a nursery, pay for everything, pretend they are engaged, then Jon, at least, has to believe that the baby is his. He wouldn’t go through all this trouble if he honestly thought Spencer was lying. And that’s something.

Jon trusts him. At least a little.

“This is a bad idea,” Spencer sighs, but then he thinks of the persecution he might face, and he just. He can’t handle that on top of everything else. If he can grab Jon’s arm and pretend they’re in love and engaged, he might feel a bit better about it. No one else needs to know it’s a lie. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Jon asks pressingly, tone slightly desperate.

“Okay,” Spencer repeats and against his better judgement.

And then Jon talks some more about scandals and cocktail parties and how they’ll figure it all out, it will all work out just fine, no need to panic, Jon will take care of it, and then there are rings – Jon had bought them already, god, does he ever consider to ask Spencer before doing these things? – and they put theirs on, and it fits, and Spencer stares at the engagement ring that is fake.

Fake, fake, fake.

It’s an expensive ring, though. It’s the kind of ring Jon might pick up for a real engagement, and that is clearly the point.

“This is a temporary solution, right?” Spencer asks desperately.

“Yeah, absolutely. We can fake a break up when the time comes, which will cause another scandal, but they can say we at least planned to be together forever. I don’t want my kid labelled as some accidental lovechild of an illicit affair.”

Spencer doesn’t want that either.

“So we’re doing this for the baby,” Spencer concludes, still trying to talk himself into this.

“For all of us,” Jon says.

The ring feels foreign on his finger.

* * *

The cocktail bar is busy on a Friday night, and he, Pete and Ryan are at their regular table. Usually they talk about work, dates they’ve been on, arguing about the future of classical music while drinking just a bit too much and keeping an eye out for someone hot. The place is classy and expensive, so anyone they see is most likely going to be a suitable person to approach.

Ever since he was a teenager, Jon knew he had to find himself someone suitable.

Now, however, they are not focusing on the other people there. Ryan says, “You are so fucked. I honestly can’t help you anymore.”

“How exactly am I fucked?” Jon argues back, eyeing the engagement ring he keeps fiddling with. He can’t wear it yet, not before they make the announcement. Just a platinum band. That’s all it is. “It’s going to work out. It has to work out.”

“Jon’s doing the right thing for the kid,” Pete amends, and Jon appreciates that someone thinks he has done something decent recently.

“You’re not the good Samaritan!” Ryan snaps impatiently. “You’re stuck with that receptionist now, you get that, don’t you? Raising the baby as friends, okay, that I can get. Moving in together? I can just about stretch my sympathies that far. But this? How exactly are you going to find someone you really want to be with if the entire city thinks you’re engaged?”

Jon shrugs, leaning back in his chair. He doesn’t know. “The child is the priority right now,” he argues. He is pretty sure that dating is out of the picture for at least a few years now. In all honesty, he is pretty relieved about that. He doesn’t particularly enjoy dating. It’s always the same: the discussion, the mild flirtation, the attempt to determine whether or not it might be the start of a fruitful and mutually beneficial union.

“What about that colleague of mine I set you up with on Valentine’s Day?” Ryan now asks. “She keeps asking me why you haven’t called.”

“Um, Spencer got pregnant and I got distracted?”

Ryan shakes his head. “You weren’t calling her even before that.” He’s right. Ryan knows him too damn well.

“She was nice, she just wasn’t... what I want,” he tries to explain. He doesn’t know what he wants. He thought he wanted Tom, but then that vanished right before his eyes, and he’s been confused ever since. He figured the confusion would fade with time, but his vision keeps getting blurrier and blurrier with each date he’s been on.

“She was fucking hot. She was smart, successful, funny, she was from a damn good family. She was into you. Jon, what the hell do you want?” Ryan asks. No one’s asked him to play Cupid.

“Why don’t you date her, then?”

“This is not about my love life,” Ryan says sharply. Ryan goes on even more dates than Jon does, only to find himself just as equally unsatisfied after. Ryan keeps saying he can’t find anyone who challenges him, whatever that means. It’s most likely that Ryan’s list of requirements is just so, so long that no one can be all that.

“So I won’t be able to date for a few years. I’ll deal. There are high-class prostitutes,” Jon adds as a sly joke, and even Ryan has to join him and Pete in laughing.

“It’ll work in your favour,” Pete adds. “Lots of men and women will find the thought of being your mistress or lover totally hot. Seriously, you put that ring on and they’ll be queuing around the block.”

Jon rolls his eyes, and they start planning the announcement. Jon’s parents are throwing a cocktail party, and it seems like the occasion to do it. His parents and family friends will be there. If he and Spencer arrive a little late, they can show up, make the announcement and leave, all within two hours. Two hours of faux coupledom. They can pull that off.

He can barely imagine what it’ll be like, what his parents will say. Even if he and Spencer claim they have been seeing each other for however long, everyone will think the engagement was their response to an unexpected pregnancy. They’ll need to emphasise how very much in love they were even before that.

Fuck, they’re doomed.

Pete says, “It’s easy. Just hold his hand, brush away stray hair, smile at him a lot and look into his eyes. Act like it hurts you to leave his side for a second. Also, remember how disgustingly happy you feel that he’s carrying your child. Fuss around. Be touchy. Spencer’s the most amazing person you’ve ever met. But do all of that in good taste.”

Maybe he and Spencer should practice beforehand.

“I still think this is a horrible arrangement. It will come back and bite you in the ass,” Ryan says firmly. “And I still think you are ruining your chances of finding someone suitable. Someone sensible.”

From what little Jon knows, he is pretty sure that love should be a lot of things, but definitely not sensible.

He doesn’t have the heart to tell Ryan that, though.

* * *

Spencer moves in on a Saturday, showing up at his door with Brendon, both carrying boxes. “Where are the movers?” Jon asks as he lets them in.

“The crew’s got this,” Brendon says simply, and then two more people walk in, a pretty girl carrying a lamp and a man with a plant.

Spencer lifts the big box that keeps slipping from his grip. “Jon, this is Greta and this is Butcher. They’re giving me a hand.”

The hippies smile. Jon knows they are hippies because, well, Butcher. What kind of a name is that? And the tattoos. Jesus Christ, the man’s a walking painting. The girl just has that slightly dreamy look in her eyes, marking someone not quite connected with this world.

“Where’s the bedroom?” Brendon now asks.

“Just this –” Spencer begins, but Jon intervenes this sudden burst of questionable people in his home with, “You shouldn’t be carrying that.” Spencer frowns, but Jon persistently takes the box from him and shows Spencer’s friends to the bedroom. He feels slightly uncomfortably to have them there, like it’s an invasion not just of people, but of values and thoughts and lifestyles, and they’re just – They’re not Jon’s kind of people.

It requires effort to make Spencer sit down on the living room couch and not participate in the lifting and carrying in any way. Brendon rolls his eyes at Jon like he is being overbearing. Is Jon the only one who seems to acknowledge Spencer’s condition here?

Butcher’s van is parked outside the building (flowers painted on the sides, Jon notes, hoping the other people living there don’t spot him with these people who think it’s still the sixties), and when he and Butcher go to get more of the boxes, Jon sees that the van is completely packed. How is Spencer going to fit all of that stuff into his apartment? And all the clutter. Jon was hoping Spencer would find moving a good excuse to get rid of some things. Clearly this didn’t occur to Spencer.

They need help.

A highly reluctant Ryan shows up twenty minutes later just as Jon is trying to figure out how to get Spencer’s couch from the van through the doors and up to the sixth floor. Ryan crosses his arms and peers into the back of the van. “You expect me to carry this stuff?” he asks pointedly.

“Spencer didn’t want to use the movers,” Jon shrugs, lifting a record player hastily wrapped in a towel, and he passes it to Ryan, who takes it with a look that says this is way beneath him. Jon has certainly never done a move by himself either.

“He is going to ruin your interior design,” Ryan notes and looks at the building. “So he’s in there?”

“Yeah. For god’s sake, be civil,” Jon adds. Ryan’s never met Spencer, but Jon knows Ryan is already dead set against the man.

“I am nothing if not socially accomplished,” Ryan says.

When Jon gets back to his apartment, carrying a rather heavy box of books, he spots Ryan talking to Spencer in the doorway of the guest room. Spencer’s room. It’s two rooms from the master bedroom, the den-soon-to-be-nursery in between their rooms. Jon thinks it’s the perfect place for their child: the middle ground.

“Coming through,” Jon says loudly, and Spencer and Ryan move to give way.

“Well, it’s not like being a receptionist is a real job, is it?” Ryan asks Spencer just as Jon puts the box down, and he curses Ryan in his head.

“It’s a real job,” Brendon now cuts in, moving a few boxes into the corners to make more room. The room is already packed, and they’re only half-done.

“Are there receptionist schools?” Ryan asks pointedly.

“I just kind of ended up doing it after I dropped out of college,” Spencer shrugs calmly.

“Huh.”

Brendon crosses his arms. “And what do you do?”

“I’m an architect,” Ryan says instantly, magically pulling out two business cards, handing one to Spencer and one to Brendon.

“You draw pretty pictures! Now that’s a real job,” Brendon smiles.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch what it is that you do?”

“I own a café.”

“How very middle class of you.”

“Uh, how about we –” Jon begins to interrupt, but Ryan and Brendon, who are both eyeing each other like vermin, couldn’t care less.

“You still think in social classes? Wow. Not only are your clothes stuck in the seventies but your brain too,” Brendon retorts.

Ryan’s eyes narrow. If there’s one thing he hates, it’s someone giving him shit about what he wears. Jon mostly likes what Ryan wears, the different suits and flower patterned shirts.

“I like the tattoo,” Ryan says, nodding at Brendon’s left arm, “but was it really wise to let your five-year-old niece play with the tattoo machine?”

Brendon laughs as he shakes his head, arms crossed over his chest.

“Come on,” Spencer says to his friend. “Let’s go see how Greta and Butcher are getting on.”

Brendon and Spencer leave the room, and Ryan scoffs loudly, picking a wooden Buddha statue from one of Spencer’s boxes and looking at it with a ‘what the hell is this for?’ expression.

“Put that back,” Jon instructs. “And could you please not fight with Spencer’s best friend since the dawn of time?”

“But did you hear that guy?” Ryan hisses instantly, eyes flashing dangerously. What does Ryan want him to say? That Brendon’s got a tongue like a loaded gun? Jon already knows that. Unfortunately, Ryan’s got one too, and the mixing of the two is clearly dangerous.

“For me,” Jon says impatiently, and Ryan mumbles that he’ll rearrange the boxes in the room.

Ryan doesn’t carry anything more after that, and it’s him, Brendon and Butcher who carry the couch up the stairs to his apartment while Spencer stands by and says he could easily take one corner. Greta keeps urging them on, saying, “You go, honey!” to Butcher, who grins at her.

Once they have the couch covered, Butcher says, “Snack time!” and Greta hurries to the van to get a huge picnic basket. They sit in the living room, and Jon silently follows the conversation between Spencer and his friends, watching Spencer laugh and joke around. He and Ryan munch on the mixed bean salad silently.

“This place is totally amazing!” Greta enthuses, grabbing Butcher’s hand and lacing their fingers together. “We’d love a place like this, wouldn’t we?”

“Don’t care as long as you’re in it,” Butcher says with complete sincerity, and Greta playfully shoves his shoulder before cuddling closer to him. Butcher feeds her a piece of flatbread with hummus on it, smiling brightly. Jon is taking mental notes of the body language. It’s obvious Greta and Butcher aren’t even aware of the little things they do and how they are practically glued to each other.

“What are these?” Ryan now demands to know, pointing at his plate.

“Seasoned tofu bites,” Brendon says. “Butcher’s the best cook.”

“Rabbit food,” Ryan mutters, and just as Brendon’s mouth opens to shoot something back, Ryan says, “Well! Now that Spencer is mostly moved in, some of us have a new hotel to design. It was interesting to meet you all.”

Jon walks Ryan to the door, who says, “You are even more fucked than I thought. Just look at the company Spencer keeps.”

Jon looks over his shoulder, and okay, the hippies look like the kind of people Jon would never have anything to do with and, should he come across them on the street, he’d probably focus his gaze somewhere far away and most likely try to cross the street.

“I, at least, thought that this Spencer would be normal. You have nothing in common except for the baby,” Ryan points out as a goodbye.

Ryan’s observations aren’t helping. This isn’t easy. For god’s sake, there’s a broken harmonica in the living room that Spencer says he uses as a decorative piece, and Jon is confused and overwhelmed and he could really do with Ryan just telling him that it’ll be alright instead of pointing out all the leaks.

After they’ve finished lunch, they do a few more rounds of carrying Spencer’s belongings, and finally they’re done. Greta and Butcher rush off to their yoga class, both hugging Jon and welcoming him to the tribe (tribe? What tribe?). Brendon stays longer to help Spencer start unpacking, but then he has to leave for the café.

And just like that, everyone’s gone.

Jon shuts the door after Brendon leaves and closes his eyes. Music is coming from Spencer’s room, echoing in the apartment. It’s rock or punk or something aggressive with a lot of drumming and screaming.

Jon goes to the guest room – Spencer’s room – stopping in the doorway. Spencer spots him and asks, “Hey, you mind if I put some shelves up here?” He motions at one of the walls.

“Not at all. Sure. I can get guys to come in and do that for you.”

“I’ve got it. I’m really good with my hands.”

Jon looks at the mess of the guest room. Not all of it will fit, so Spencer will presumably spread all over the apartment. “Do you need help with anything?”

“No, I’m good. Thanks.” Spencer smiles at him appreciatively, but Jon feels horribly out of place in his own home.

He goes to the den to go over some testimonies for Monday’s trial. He can’t concentrate, though, because the music pierces the wall, echoing in his ears. He exhales and pulls out the engagement ring again, fiddling with it.

Well, Spencer’s here now. The baby’s here now. It’s what he wanted. That’s all that should matter, but yet he’s sitting in his den, hoping he doesn’t have to go out anytime soon because he honestly has exhausted all possible conversation topics with Spencer.

He never thought that having someone move in with him could feel this lonely.

cont.

Relearning How to Breathe [3/7]

Wed, 02 Dec 2009 21:53:42 GMT

back

“I’m in love with you,” Jon says.

“And I’m madly in love with you. Got it,” Spencer repeats. He’s wearing the only suit he owns, the one he wore to his mother’s funeral. They’re walking down a corridor in Jon’s parents’ ridiculously huge and expensive house, closing in on the party as the chattering becomes louder and louder.

They’re wearing their rings now. They’ve spent the entire week prepping for this moment, crafting a history, asking each other the things that normal couples would know. Jon’s hand feels sweaty against his. “So when did we start seeing each other again?” Spencer asks nervously.

“I asked you out a week after you started working for us.”

“And we went to a baseball match together.”

“What? No, we went to an art gallery.”

“I thought it was baseball.”

“No, it –” Jon begins, but just then they reach the opened double doors. Jon lets go of his hand, and Spencer looks at the party, at all the women and men in formal wear, talking to each other amiably with champagne classes and mini-quiches while classical music floats in the background. Jon takes a shuddery breath. “Fuck it, we went to an art gallery and then to a baseball match.”

“Yeah. Sure. Okay.” Spencer’s actually nervous. That has a lot to do with him meeting his child’s only living grandparents, and he wants them to get along, but it’s also a lot to do with the whole faking thing. What if they can’t pull it off?

They finally got to see their baby for the first time yesterday in the sonogram. Spencer couldn’t really make anything out on the screen, though Andy and Gabe were enthusiastically pointing and explaining what they were seeing. Jon couldn’t really visualise it either, but there definitely was something on the screen.

Spencer doesn’t look pregnant yet, not with the jacket on him, blocking the view. He spent a good while in front of the mirror yesterday, examining his profile. He can definitely see it now at twelve weeks, how halfway through his belly the skin just bounces forwards, creating a slope. He thought he’d be bigger by now, actually, since one of his pregnancy books had a picture of a man who was hell of a lot more distinctive at twelve weeks, but Andy said not to panic because the rate and size of the growth is dependent on each individual.

So far, Spencer has woken up every morning wondering where the hell he is. But Jon works a lot, and Spencer spends a lot of his time with Brendon or just unpacking and trying to get his life organised. He can count with one hand the number of times he and Jon have been in the apartment at the same time so far.

But all that chaos aside, it’s a good week to announce their supposed engagement and the arrival of the baby because the first trimester is over. Brendon even made Butcher bake him blueberry vegan pancakes in celebration.

Jon places a hand on the small of Spencer’s back as they walk into the party. A waiter instantly comes over, and Jon takes a champagne glass. “And some apple juice for my companion,” he says.

“Certainly, Mr. Walker.”

Spencer looks around nervously, spotting Victor Walker with a woman who has to be Jon’s mother Charlene. Jon has the woman’s eyes. Pete is also there, lifting a glass their way with a warm smile. Pete clearly isn’t surprised that Spencer is there, so Pete must be in on the scam. Spencer figured he was, but he hasn’t asked Jon to verify that.

The waiter comes back with Spencer’s apple juice, and he takes it, sipping it nervously. “You ready to go say hi?” Jon asks, and no, Spencer’s not, but Jon places a hand on his lower back again, guiding, and they march over to Victor and Charlene.

“Jonathan! We were beginning to wonder where you were!” Charlene says with a dry smile, and Jon moves in to kiss her on the cheek. Everything about her says rich and classy, from the clothes to her mannerisms, to the tone of her voice. Spencer is instantly intimidated. If he saw Charlene walking down the street, he’d instantly feel resentment, despite not knowing her at all. She sends off a vibe that clearly says she thinks she’s superior to everyone else, and Spencer has never wanted to associate himself with people like that.

“I’m sorry I’m late. Mother, father, there’s someone I’d want you to meet. This is Spencer Smith. Spencer, these are my parents.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Spencer says, shaking hands politely.

“I know you from somewhere...” Victor says with a searching look. Spencer fucking works for the guy. Spencer is there whenever Victor comes to work, leaves for lunch, comes back from the court house, and he can’t place Spencer? Is the man that absorbed in his own world?

“I work for you,” Spencer supplies, rather unimpressed.

“Oh! Are you one of the lawyers?” Charlene asks.

“No, I’m the receptionist.”

“Oh.” Charlene’s smile fades into a frown of confusion, clearly not understanding why Spencer is at their exclusive cocktail party.

“Ah, yes! I remember now! You’re the one Pete hired even though you didn’t even have a college degree!” Victor now muses.

Despite all the typical pregnant stereotypes, Spencer has not been a hormonal nutcase. He feels happy and energetic most of the time, excited about the baby. He hasn’t had any major mood swings, but now he suddenly has an overwhelming desire to punch Victor.

“Jonathan, can I talk to you for a minute?” Victor now asks, leaving Spencer with Charlene. Spencer wishes he could hear what Jon and Victor are talking about as they huddle together, Victor speaking rapidly but too far away for Spencer to hear. Charlene looks uncomfortable.

“It’s a... lovely party,” Spencer says.

“Thank you, that’s so kind,” Charlene says airily, tone indicating Spencer’s opinion isn’t worth shit. He’s just a receptionist. “Look, there’s the Mayor’s wife! If you’ll excuse me.” Charlene hurries off.

Spencer really wishes he could drink right now.

Suddenly, Jon is back, taking Spencer’s glass and setting it on the table next to them. “Okay, we’re on,” Jon says hurriedly, grabbing his hand, and Spencer looks at Jon in bewilderment.

“Already? But –”

“He saw the ring. I better make it public before he has someone escort you out or something to stop us from making the announcement,” Jon recaps, and then Spencer is in the middle of the room, and Jon lets go of his hand and clears his throat and says, “Excuse me, if I could have your attention!”

People stop talking and turn to look at them with curious expressions. Spencer repeats a mantra of I’m madly in love, I’m madly in love in his head. Jon begins speaking eloquently, no nerves at all in his voice though Spencer knows Jon is freaking out. A man who is amazingly good at public speaking. Now Spencer’s seen everything.

“– and so I am saddened to say that I am no longer on the market,” Jon says with a grin and lifts his left hand where the ring is. Their audience gasps.

Charlene, who is first row, holds a hand to her chest. “You and Tom have gotten back together?!” she shrieks happily. Spencer frowns. Who the hell is Tom?

Jon manages to laugh it off. “No. But I can safely say I have met the most amazing person I have ever come across, someone who simply... takes my breath away.” Jon turns to look at him, and, at that instant, Spencer wishes this was real. To have someone say that about him. That the affection in Jon’s gaze was real. Jon moves in and wraps his arm around Spencer’s shoulders. “I’d like you to meet my fiancé Spencer.”

Spencer tries to smile. He is happy. His big day. Jon is the love of his life, et cetera, et cetera. The guests are murmuring amongst themselves. The tension could be cut with a knife.

Someone starts to clap but Jon holds his hand up. “That’s not all! Not only do we want to announce our engagement, but we- Since we are sharing big news, we would- we would also like to...” Jon clears his throat. This is the punch line. As far as Spencer is concerned, this is the real news. “We’re having a baby.” Jon’s smile is way too wide to be genuine. Spencer is focusing on also smiling.

Charlene goes as white as a ghost. The room is perfectly quiet.

“Baby. Yay,” Spencer says, wishing he could vanish off the face of the earth.

“That is absolutely wonderful!” Pete says, now stepping out of the crowd. “I’m so happy for you two!” Pete rushes to give him a huge hug, and Spencer clings to him for longer than necessary, just fucking grateful that Jon has at least one decent friend.

Pete’s outburst breaks the spell, and people are now coming in to congratulate them, to share their astonishment and noting how this all is a bit unexpected. Spencer notices how neither Charlene nor Victor comes to congratulate them. Spencer goes into lying mode, showing his ring, babbling how Jon hid it in homemade desert when he proposed (like Jon could even cook), telling them how far along he is, how they are excited and so happy, oh the wedding, not sure, they’re going to have the baby first and discuss the wedding later. He’s not one of the Massachusetts Smiths, and no, not one of the Houston Smiths, he is just a random Smith. He’s just a guy.

“I propose a toast to the happy couple!” Pete says, and the guests Spencer doesn’t know lift their drinks, and Jon wraps an arm around his waist, solid and comforting next to him and someone says, “Oh, go on, you lovebirds!”

Spencer forces himself to chuckle along with everyone else, and then Jon leans in for a kiss, and Spencer meets him halfway, their lips unfamiliar and fumbling slightly. Jon smells nice. His lips are soft too.

They pull apart. Pete comes over and demands that he let Spencer feel his belly, and Spencer does just to distract himself from the way Jon is now looking at him.

An hour later, they are back in Jon’s Jaguar. Spencer exhales and loosens his tie. “Fuck. God. Fuck, I’m glad that’s over.”

“Me too,” Jon laughs. “My parents didn’t even talk to me after the announcement.”

Spencer doesn’t know what to say to that. He didn’t mean to fuck up Jon’s relationship with his parents. “They’ll come around,” he says, not knowing if they actually will. What if they disinherit Jon? That’d be bad. Spencer focuses on happy things. “Pete was pretty awesome.”

“Pete is pretty awesome,” Jon agrees, but he looks pale and stressed, and Spencer doesn’t like it. He wants to reach over, to give Jon’s shoulder a squeeze, kiss his cheek, something. Jon did a huge fucking thing back there.

“Do you think they bought it?”

“I don’t know. I hope so.” Jon looks over at him, eyes travelling down. Spencer’s unbuttoned his jacket, and the roundness of his belly is visible now. “We’re doing it for the little guy, right?” Jon asks, reaching out to place his hand on the belly. Spencer doesn’t mean to jerk in surprise, but he does, and Jon pulls his hand back. “Sorry. Um. I just- Sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“No, that’s –”

“Just curious, I –”

“No, you should,” Spencer interrupts, grabbing Jon’s hand and placing it on his stomach. Jon exhales, letting his hand rest there. Jon’s hand feels warm through the fabric.

“Wow,” Jon whispers eventually, hand still in place.

“Yeah,” Spencer agrees, placing his hand over Jon’s, and they stay that way in the car, not speaking, until their breaths have returned to normal, the chaos and the stress and the entire disaster slowly draining out of them.

* * *

Jon makes a similar announcement in the office on Monday to put a stop to all the mixed rumours already flying about on his marital and parental status.

One of the secretaries Jon knows that Spencer is friendly with stares at them in astonishment. “You two have been seeing each other all this time behind our backs?”

Jon grins, trying to act cocky like he’s gotten away with something. “Afraid so.”

“I knew it!” William gasps much to Jon’s surprise. “For months now I’ve been thinking to myself that something is up with you two! Like, ever since Spencer started working here! I could sense the sparks!”

Spencer looks as baffled as Jon feels. What sparks? When exactly? Was Jon present?

Luckily they recover quickly. Jon nudges Spencer gently. “Guess we weren’t as subtle as we thought, were we, honey?”

“Guess not!” Spencer laughs, casting Jon a ‘your secretary is both insane and paranoid’ look.

But it’s easier now that they no longer have to sneak around. Jon can talk to Spencer without people wondering what he wants, they can leave together for the doctor’s appointments, Jon can ask Spencer how he’s feeling, and no one will lift an eyebrow. It’s what they expect of him, anyway. But Jon also realises that they can no longer save their spectacular couple antics for cocktail parties: they now need to be a couple at work too. Jon’s part-time lies just became full-time.

Maybe Ryan was right about this being a bad idea.

Jon’s co-workers are in an uproar about it the entire day, congratulations flying in from left and right, none particularly heartfelt from the partners and lawyers, but the secretaries seem to be more genuine with their well wishes. When Jon goes to get a cup of coffee in the afternoon, Patrick is jokingly telling Spencer that at least he won’t have trouble breaking the news of paternity leave to the boss.

“I’m probably gonna be working late tonight,” Jon tells Spencer, because he is and now he can say it without calling the firm’s reception or sending Spencer an email (and then deleting it from his outbox, just in case).

“Okay,” Spencer nods, and that’s it for that exchange, but Patrick grins at them like they just exchanged vows.

Jon’s expecting it when he finally gets a call from his father, asking him to come to his office. It’s after five, and only those working extra hours are left. Jon obediently makes his way over to the biggest office there – his father’s.

Victor is sitting behind his oak desk, laced fingers resting on the table as Jon takes a seat. He makes sure to sit up straight, keep his posture firm and his eyes calm. This is going to be a man-to-man talk and Jon has to act like a man. He’s going to be a father soon. He needs to be more than he is.

“Quite frankly, Jonathan, your mother and I don’t know what to say,” Victor states.

That makes the three of them.

“I know it was unexpected,” Jon admits. “I didn’t mean to withhold information, but seeing as Spencer and I both work here, I thought it inappropriate to go public about our relationship until now.” God, what bullshit. If Jon’s witnesses were this good at lying, the world would be an amazing place.

Victor sighs heavily and leans forward. “This... Spencer. He isn’t... He isn’t what we had envisaged for you. And I’d tell you that it’s infatuation, you’re still young, it will pass and someone more appropriate will come along, but it’s clearly too late for that. Much too late for that.”

Jon can almost feel his engagement ring burning his finger. His parents haven’t even congratulated him about becoming a father. It’s their grandchild, for god’s sake.

Jon is slowly realising that he won’t receive a pat on the shoulder or fatherly advice. He can count the times his father has hugged him on one hand.

“You want a scotch?” Victor now asks, and Jon nods. Alcohol, yes please. Victor goes to the cabinet in the corner, getting out two small glasses and pours them the drinks. He hands Jon his, and Jon can’t quite look his father in the eye.

Jon is not used to being a disappointment. Now he is, and he wants to feel sorry for it, but it’s hard somehow. After all that he has done, never stepping out of line for the twenty-seven years of his life, they could cut him some slack. They could ask when the wedding is. Be happy that he’s found love, even if it’s not real.

“Spencer will need some guidance. His lack of pedigree is something we have no control over, but he can exceed himself in other ways,” Victor now says in a pondering voice. “He is handsome, at least.”

His father is telling him to turn Spencer into a socialite. From rags to riches. From a receptionist to the respectable husband of a lawyer.

Jon can only imagine what Spencer would say about that, or Brendon, who clearly has plenty against men and women of their status. Yes, Jon’s had everything handed to him on a silver platter – he did have to go to Yale to study law, but he always had a job waiting. And yes, he bought his apartment with money that he hadn’t earned, with money that was just there, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t worked his ass off to be everything he is expected to be.

He’s not complaining; he loves being a lawyer. He loves helping people, and when he’s stuck defending someone who is in the wrong – he still remembers the first time he had a rapist as a client – he has to make sure they get a fair trial, that all aspects are considered, if there were special circumstances.

That’s what it comes down to. Being fair. Being just.

Jon thinks that his father is neither right now.

“If you had come to me with this sooner –” Victor begins, but Jon stops him with, “But I didn’t. There’s no use crying over spilt milk. I made my own decisions.”

“But the baby?”

“Wasn’t planned,” Jon admits. It’s obvious it wasn’t. And it’s also obvious that the engagement was the follow-up of an unexpected pregnancy, which is why their supposed love is an important factor in justifying all of this.

Victor sits back down, eyeing his drink. “We just expected more of you.”

Jon focuses on the clock ticking on the wall behind his father’s rigid figure. He has nothing to say.

* * *

Jon notices that Spencer clearly isn’t resting enough. On Thursday, Brendon comes over to watch the game, and he and Spencer cheer and jump and yell in the living room with three boxes of pizza to keep them stuffed, and that’s how Jon finds them when he comes home sometime between seven and eight after an exhausting day. Jon notices that, when Brendon stops jumping and sits back down, he places his feet on the coffee table. Food on the couch is not something he tolerates either, but he bites his tongue and forces himself to smile. Spencer is having fun and Jon doesn’t want to give Brendon more ammunition against him. Jon feels like it’s not his apartment at all, so he decides to do some more work in the den after a ten hour day.

The empty pizza boxes are still in the living room the next day along with scattered popcorn.

Spencer shouldn’t let himself get worked up like he was during the match. Jon is sure it causes high blood pressure or something that’s potentially harmful for their kid.

On Friday, Spencer shows no signs of taking it easy as he decides to attend an Indiana Jones all-nighter marathon. Spencer says they are showing all three films in a row for only twenty-five bucks and it’s going to be amazing and how he and Brendon are so going, see you tomorrow, bye. Just like that. Jon hasn’t even taken his jacket off yet.

Jon stares after his roommate-or-whatever in astonishment. Spencer should have regular sleeping patterns instead of staying up all night to see some crazed archaeologist jumping on the roof of a moving train.

With Spencer gone, Jon finally takes on the task of rearranging the living room. They don’t need this many candles around, and Jon also thinks that the multicoloured polka dot rug would look really damn amazing in the closet. He puts on Bach, pours himself a glass of Argentinean white wine and feels himself relax at the sight of an environment that now looks vaguely familiar with the mess fixed and random shit removed.

He could have gone to the cocktail bar with Ryan and Pete, but he is trying to act more like a man in a steady relationship. Keep up appearances. He didn’t know Spencer was going out, so he thought that maybe they’d be home simultaneously for once, and they could have planned the nursery a little.

Spencer never bothers to tell him his plans because Spencer seems to make them up as he goes. Jon can’t relate to that at all, and what the hell is this all-nighter thing?

Not that it’s all awful. Spencer is not a bad sight the first thing in the morning, for one thing. It’s soothing to have Spencer and the baby there. Jon’s not sure if it’s a parenting instinct kicking in, but seeing Spencer getting bigger and bigger leaves him oddly awed. He also thinks Spencer looks more beautiful now. Spencer was before too. At the Christmas party. On his first day at the firm. Jon wasn’t blind to the fact that Spencer was good-looking, and somehow a few drinks helped him see it a lot better, reducing him into a hormonal idiot and, well, here they are now.

It must be the carrying-my-child thing that makes Spencer even more gorgeous now. Goddamn gorgeous and out all night, who knows with whom, doing what... Okay, fine, movies with Brendon, but that could be code for all kinds of dubious activities.

Jon hears Spencer coming home in the morning, and he rolls over on the bed to check the screen of the digital clock he keeps on the nightstand. It’s a little to seven, and his pretend fiancé just came back. At seven in the morning.

He finds Spencer in the living room, munching on cereal and looking around with a frown on his face. Spencer looks exhausted, and yeah, no wonder.

“Morning,” Jon offers, and Spencer flinches slightly, swallowing quickly.

“Morning. Hey. Did I wake you up?”

“No, I was up.” He barely slept. It wasn’t right, Spencer being out all night when he’s pregnant. A lot of things just aren’t right. “How were the movies?”

“Oh, excellent. Half the people had dressed up as Indy,” Spencer grins. “Um, have you cleaned up in here or...?”

Jon looks around the living room. “Yeah. I organised it a little.”

“Right. It’s just that a lot of my stuff is gone.” Spencer heaves a dramatic sigh. “Was the Che Guevara bust too much? It was too much, wasn’t it?”

“No, it –” Jon begins, not wanting to upset Spencer or his lurking Marxist sympathies, but then he says, “Yeah. It was too much. I just like a lot of space. Keeping it simple. Uncluttered.”

“But I like clutter,” Spencer says absently.

Jon scratches the side of his neck. “I also cleaned up after you and Brendon from Thursday. I don’t mind him coming around, but you should clean up after yourselves.”

“It was just two pizza boxes.”

“Three. That you left lying around. Plus popcorn. Also a few empty beer cans.” Which he hopes to god were Brendon’s.

Spencer gives him a disbelieving look. “Okay. Well, sorry. I didn’t know it was that big of a deal. Anything else?”

“Yes. Actually.” Dr. Hurley said how it’s important for expecting couples to communicate about their fears and concerns. Okay. Jon will communicate. “I don’t think you should stay up all night in your condition.”

Spencer lowers the cereal bowl, blue eyes narrowing. “Excuse me?”

“You heard what I said.”

“I’m not an invalid,” Spencer says disbelievingly. “I’m pregnant, and I am very aware of that, thanks. It’s a natural part of the cycle of life, not a disability.”

“I happen to be the other father, so I have a say too, and I’m telling you that it’s unacceptable to –”

“Unacceptable?” Spencer barks angrily. “What the fuck is this? Am I a teenager sneaking out and coming back home to my parents’ preaching? Don’t talk to me like I’m an idiot.”

Hormones. Clearly.

And Spencer is acting like a teenager. They’re adults by now, surely. They have responsibilities, so they can’t stay up all night and eat excessive amounts of junk food. Jon gave all of that up years ago and began acting like he was thirty when he was eighteen. It was the decent thing to do.

Jon decides to remain calm. “I am concerned for the welfare of my child. I don’t think that’s uncalled for.”

“Are you saying I’m endangering my child? I would never –” Spencer begins, seething, but stops. “I just came ho – to this place to get some sleep after the most relaxing night I’ve had in weeks, and then you – Well, I’m sorry for cluttering the place and acting like a fucking human being! Goddammit!”

Spencer swirls around and heads straight for the door and, wait, what, that’s no good either. He didn’t expect Spencer to be this obstreperous about it.

“Look, let’s just talk about this!” Jon demands. He was simply sharing his concerns, and Spencer’s acting like it’s the end of the world.

Spencer puts the cereal bowl onto the side table by the door and grabs his jacket from the coat hanger. “Oh yeah, I’m leaving the bowl there,” he says venomously.

“You don’t have to leave! I was just pointing out a thing or two, and you are clearly feeling a bit too sensitive right now to take criticism –”

“Criticism?!” Spencer spits. “To suggest that I’m harming my unborn child?! You know what, Jon? You can just –”

Spencer doesn’t finish but wrenches the door open instead. “Where are you going?” Jon demands to know, having no idea what the hell to do. He didn’t want to fight.

“Brendon’s.”

And the door slams shut.

Jon stares, completely speechless. And he is never speechless.

Well, at least they’re fighting like a couple.

* * *

Jon manages to get Brendon’s address off of Greta in the café. He has never been to Bden’s before, but he can easily picture Spencer there. He also bumps into Dr. Hurley, who smiles at him politely and then turns back to his companions, resuming a heated argument over death metal.

Sometimes it terrifies Jon that his baby’s life is in the hands of that man.

When Jon rings the doorbell of Brendon’s small house, which is located in a pretty well-off neighbourhood (Jon doesn’t mean to be surprised), he is greeted by the sound of dogs barking.

Jon could have done the waiting-at-home thing, but then he got bored of that. He’s forgotten how relationships work, not that this is one, not that type of relationship, anyway. He and Tom never fought because Tom never took off for the entire night. Jon sometimes has to deal with a hot-headed client or an upset witness telling him to fuck off, but it’s never personal. Spencer yelling at him, though, felt pretty personal.

What bothers him the most is how they don’t seem to be able to find any common ground. If Spencer’s from Mercury, Jon is clearly all the way from Neptune.

Brendon finally opens the door, two dogs at his feet wagging their tails and staring up at Jon curiously, and Jon instantly says, “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Sorry?” Brendon asks, brows furrowing.

“You think I’m an asshole, but at least I’m here.”

“Sad it’s the only thing you’ve got going for you,” Brendon mumbles and leans against the doorframe, clearly with no actual intention of letting him in. It was just a misunderstanding. Spencer was clearly tired and he’s probably one hormonal mess as well, and Jon had barely slept and he was worried, not overbearing, because he still believes he has a point.

Spencer can’t act like he’s a carefree twenty-something when he is supposedly the future Mr. Jon Walker and, more importantly, a soon-to-be father.

“He’s here, right?” Jon asks worriedly, because what if Spencer didn’t come here, what if he’s out there somewhere?

“Yeah, he’s here. He’s asleep.”

As he should be.

Jon feels stupid now. He doesn’t want to ask Brendon to wake Spencer up, so he doesn’t know why he bothered coming. He didn’t mean to criticise Spencer, he just – did it, anyway.

“Right, so... Can you tell him that- Um. Tell him that I dropped by and that I’m sorry. I didn’t word myself properly and it came out all wrong. And I’d like him to come back. And that I’m sorry.”

“You said that.”

“Right.” Jon is not very good at apologising either. It just got blown way out of proportion. Brendon’s still standing in the doorway and blocking the way, arms crossed, and Jon gives up. “Just tell him that we can keep Ernesto in the living room.”

It’s a concession, an attempt to meet halfway. Jon hopes that Spencer gets that.

Brendon clearly doesn’t get it, but Jon lets it be, walking back to his car. If Spencer still doesn’t come back, Jon will need to come up with new ways to grovel. He really doesn’t think he knows Spencer well enough to be grovelling.

* * *

The bed dips under Brendon’s weight, and Spencer is pretty sure he can hear the sound of Jon’s car driving away. Indie and Bogart follow their owner, also hopping onto the bed, and Spencer thinks Brendon should be firmer with the dogs and tell them not to.

“Thanks,” Spencer mumbles when Brendon, never acknowledging personal space, presses against his back and hooks his chin over Spencer’s shoulder.

“That’s okay. You were asleep before, anyway. Half-lies don’t count.”

Spencer feels warm and comfy under the covers, keeping up his pointless staring competition with the wall. He’s not that mad anymore. If anything, he feels guilty Jon has to hunt for him all over the city, like they’re two teenagers caught up in self-inflicted, inane drama.

Not that Spencer is to blame. How did Jon think he’d react to such unfounded accusations?

“Jon’s sorry and wants you to go back. He also said something about some guy called Ernesto? Like, he can be in the living room?”

Spencer smiles despite himself. “The Che Guevara bust.”

“Ah. I thought one of you had a hot Latin lover or something.”

If only. Spencer wouldn’t mind having a hot-blooded stud keeping him up all night, though Jon’s point was that he shouldn’t be up all night. He sleeps more and tires more easily, too, but other than that he is full of sudden energy. He needs to do things to stay sane.

“Maybe I’m just not much of a roommate,” Spencer concludes. Maybe he was hoarding up all the space. It’s been ages since he lived with someone. He can appreciate Jon’s feedback on him being a slob (which he really even isn’t, he was just feeling a bit lazy); that was still within the boundaries of reason. But the rest of it was completely uncalled for. Does Jon expect him to lie in bed until the baby is born? Hell no is that happening. “If we can’t agree on what’s best for the baby now, then what about when it’s born?” he whispers quietly.

It worries him that they come from different worlds. Spencer wants the baby to be happy and curious about the world, and most of all he wants the baby to be loved. And what if Jon just wants that baby to become a third-generation lawyer? Spencer wants his child to have the right to choose. What if it ends up in a bitter fight when Jon has it all planned out and Spencer wants their kid to grab a rucksack and go travel in South America for six months?

“You guys should talk about it,” Brendon says. He’s right. Spencer hates it when Brendon is so goddamn right and when it’s so obvious. He and Jon just never seem to be around at the same time. “If it doesn’t work out, like, you guys living together, you can always crash here as you look for a new place.”

“Thanks.” Spencer pauses to think about it before asking, “Do you think I overreacted?”

“Maybe a little,” Brendon admits. “I mean, it’s his first time too. He should be overbearing to a fault. He was out of line, but he cares, you know? He obviously cares. And maybe hormones were just messing you up. That and tiredness.”

Spencer hums in agreement and moves to lie on his back, one hand automatically moving to rest on his belly. He doesn’t usually blow up like that, so maybe Brendon’s right. “A mood swing,” he says ponderingly. He honestly doesn’t think he’s suffered from those yet.

Brendon leans his head against his hand. “I think you’ve been relatively sane. Anything else going on? I’m curious.”

Spencer knows that, up to a certain extent, Brendon’s jealous that he’s having a kid. They both want a family, but Brendon’s always talked about it more and how many kids he wants and what their names might potentially be. And now Spencer’s having a kid, even though he is sure they both always assumed Brendon would get there first.

At least they both still complain about other men. He bitched about Jon when he got there, and Brendon bitched about the cute guy he recently went out with a few times, only to come home to a voicemail in which the man said he wouldn’t be calling for a while because his wife was suspicious, and Brendon had known nothing about a wife. Taking that into consideration, Jon isn’t bad. Jon is a pretty good guy.

“It’s mostly smooth sailing,” Spencer shrugs. “Cravings, though, constantly get those. Also been pretty horny lately.”

Brendon scoffs. “You’re always horny.”

“So am not!” he objects, because he isn’t. Really. Lust has been bubbling under his skin recently, though. He needs to get laid soon but it’s weird going to a bar. He could put on a loose shirt and get away with it, but when clothes come off it will be obvious, and, really, that will probably ruin the mood. Unless he goes online to find someone who gets off on fucking pregnant men, which just clearly makes the other guy a pervert of some kind if it’s the only thing he gets kicks out of. No, Spencer definitely isn’t letting someone like that near his unborn child.

Maybe if the guy he picks up at the bar is just really drunk...

He is only getting bigger with every passing day. He needs to come up with something. Plus, there is the whole engaged-to-Jon facade he needs to keep up. He definitely doesn’t want rumours of him cheating on Jon going around. Next thing you know, they’ll claim the baby isn’t even Jon’s.

Spencer groans in frustration. “What if I hire myself a tasteful escort who will go all the way for extra?”

“Since when did you have to pay for it?”

“Since this?” Spencer asks, motioning at his midsection.

“Some days you just feel horny. It’ll pass. Just jerk off like the rest of us.”

Spencer’s done that. He kind of wants to get out his vibrator and roll around in the sheets, moaning and groaning until he comes, but Jon is in the same goddamn apartment, and what if he hears?

“This is why pregnancies is for real couples. You could at least expect regular sex. No, you can demand sex because they knocked you up in the first place.”

Brendon hums. “Well... what about Jon? I do recall you complimenting his thick member.” Brendon grins, wiggling his eyebrows, and Spencer smacks his arm half-heartedly.

“No. That is not going to happen.”

Not that Jon isn’t good-looking because he is, and not because Jon’s cock isn’t a sufficient size, because it most certainly is (though it’s not the size, it’s how you use it). They can barely get along, so the chances of Spencer turning to Jon for sexual healing are zero. Jon’s done more than enough: provided their child with a home, promised to make sure their child has everything a baby could possibly need and then some. Spencer is not going to fuck up that arrangement by suggesting Jon has liabilities to him as well, like fucking him. Just a little. Five minutes would do. Or maybe some grinding. Grinding would be nice.

“It’s just a phase. It’s nothing,” Spencer repeats Brendon’s words.

* * *

It is so not a phase. Spencer is crawling out of his skin, having been reduced to a hormonal sixteen-year-old. He wakes up one day and realises all he can think about is sex. Sex, sex, sex.

He jerks off in the shower (a cold shower, which doesn’t work in making the problem go away) and gets dressed quickly, running a bit late. Jon is in the kitchen, drinking a cup of coffee and reading the paper, hair still tousled from sleep, and Spencer wants to crawl into Jon’s lap, fist his hair and lick him all over. Spencer’s throat feels tight.

“Morning,” Jon says with a polite smile. Since the fight, they’ve been nothing but polite. Maybe even too much so. Spencer makes some kind of a noise that is meant to be ‘Good morning to you too, Jon’ but sounds more like a whine. “You feeling alright?” Jon now asks, brows furrowing.

“Yeah. Just –” He licks his lips. God, he just wants someone’s hot, naked, sweaty body pressed against his. “I-I didn’t sleep well.”

Jon stands up, and he’s wearing a white tank top with a pair of black boxers, and it’s way too much clothing on him, covering all the best parts. Jon walks over and places a hand on Spencer’s forehead. It’s quite probable Spencer instinctively pushes into Jon’s hand. Touching is good.

“You’re flushed but you’re not burning up,” Jon comments, confusion in his tone. Spencer is burning up. “Should we call Dr. Hurley?”

Spencer shakes his head, stepping away before he does something stupid like launch on Jon, who is clearly sex on legs. Clearly. Spencer gets a vivid flash of Jon’s hot, ragged breath in his ear as Jon fucked him.

God, he’s going to get hard again. Fuck.

“I’m gonna be late for work,” he mumbles instead, palms sweating, heart racing.

“You can’t go without breakfast,” Jon protests, but Spencer can’t stay because Jon. Ngh. Jon fucking Walker.

“I’ll get something on the way. Bye!” he rushes out.

Jon has convinced him to stop cycling to work, giving him a speech about traffic accidents and what if he fell off in his condition, and Spencer’s now started using Jon’s BMW. It’s relatively baby-friendly, unlike the Jaguar. The BMW has got leather seats, though. Spencer has never noticed how unbelievably sensual leather seats can be.

He stops in a Starbucks on the way, getting coffee to go with a big muffin and going to the toilet to jerk off.

Jerking off at Starbucks. This has got to be the lowest point of his life.

He gets to work ten minutes late. It’s not even nine o’clock and he’s had two orgasms. Really, he should be satisfied for the rest of the day.

Then William Beckett walks in. Spencer sees William in slow motion, his handsome face, long, long limbs, and why has he never noticed how attractive William is?

“Morning!” William beams, walking over. “Your husband-to-be here yet?”

“N-No,” Spencer manages, swallowing hard. Maybe William would want to fuck in the bathroom? In the conference room? On his desk?

“You alright?” William frowns, and Spencer manages to assure William he’s just fine.

Patrick shows up ten minutes later. Patrick Stump. Clearly a sex machine. With those... glasses, a silly hat and a grey-blue sweater and those chubby cheeks. That guy could go on and on and on, pinning Spencer down, taking him again and again –

Spencer snaps out of his trance and tries to focus. Jesus. Fuck. What the hell is wrong with him? This is worrying. Is this normal?

Of course it’s normal. What could be more normal than having sex? With... Victor Walker who just walked in. If Spencer closed his eyes and – What, no, with the grandfather of his child? No. That’s where he draws the line.

Pete walks in next as Spencer is looking for documents in one of the cabinets, smiling at him widely. “Morning! Wow, look at you!” Pete enthuses. “May I?” he then asks, rounding the desk and feeling up his belly. Pete does that daily, and Spencer lets him. It’s nice that someone shares his enthusiasm. Pete, who was always friendly anyway, has now dropped all professionalism and treats Spencer as a friend – or his friend’s fiancé – rather than as an employer. Pete is the only lawyer who acts warmer towards him instead of colder. Spencer’s opinion on Pete has greatly improved, but he has never given Pete much consideration before. Now, though, Pete is in his space, and shit. Pete... is gorgeous. Those kind eyes and long lashes, that ravishingly handsome face.

“You’re getting bigger and bigger,” Pete smiles happily.

“Uh huh,” he manages and bites on his lower lip. “Have you... uh, got your hair cut? You look really good.”

“No,” Pete frowns, still smiling. “But thanks.”

“Oh, you’re welcome,” Spencer laughs, tilting his hips. “I guess it just comes naturally to you . Being so... so very...”

Pete’s face flashes with realisation and his eyes widen in disbelief. “Um...”

“Wow, have you been working out?” Spencer now asks, placing his hand on Pete’s arm. Those arms tightening around him, taking, pulling and touching, god yes –

“No, but –”

“Guess being muscular is in the genes, then,” Spencer suggests, batting his eyelashes.

“Morning,” Jon’s voice comes sharply, cutting through the thick air, and Spencer flinches, letting go of Pete. Jon is staring at them with a raised eyebrow before his eyes fix on Pete.

Pete is now taking hurried steps back, saying, “Hey, Jon! Um, uh, I’ll just be... in my office. I was just saying hi to- But I’ll go. To my office.”

Spencer looks after Pete, excitement curling in his stomach. Was that an invitation? Yes? No? Maybe?

Pete sends him another confused look before he hurries off. Goddammit. That was going so well.

“Spencer, are you feeling alright?” Jon asks again. Spencer sighs and sits down. He’s fine. Just fine. No big deal. Whatever. He just wants. He needs. Oh god, how many more months of this does he have to endure? He’d take a pity fuck even. A pity fuck would be awesome. Hey, maybe Brendon could hook him up with one of those immoral losers he’s dated? Spencer clearly is in no position to be picky.

If he doesn’t get laid, he is going to die. Or rape someone. But rape in a nice way. Totally nice.

Jon places his briefcase on the table and rounds the desk, again placing a hand on his forehead. “I’m fine, really,” Spencer persists, standing up instantly without Jon moving away, and wow, Jon is close. Too close.

Jon’s mouth. He has a gorgeous, gorgeous mouth. Spencer wants to ravish it.

“I’m fine,” Spencer adds quietly, feeling light-headed. Oh god, he just wants hours and hours of fucking and sucking and licking and moaning and groaning and coming and –

Macy walks in through the main doors just then, saying a cheerful, “Morning, you two!” She gives them an all-knowing look.

People think they’re a couple. Nothing weird about lack of personal space. “Morning, Macy,” Spencer smiles, reaching for Jon’s hand, thumb brushing over Jon’s knuckles, and then he shamelessly moves in to give Jon a full-body hug.

Jon’s goes stiff before he wraps arms around him. Spencer melts into it, practically swooning, drawn to Jon like a magnet. God, body contact. Yes. Yes, this is good. He exhales against Jon’s neck, nose brushing Jon’s skin. He smells so nice too, so, so nice...

Spencer’s never been this desperate to get laid in all of his life.

Barely controlling himself, Spencer kisses Jon on the cheek. Just to feel heat radiate against his skin, to taste someone on his lips. Jon goes even more immobile, and Spencer mumbles, “I’m fine but, uh... thanks for... asking.” He hopes it sounds more like TAKE ME.

“Okay,” Jon nods, stepping back from the hug. He still looks worried but grabs his briefcase and heads for his office.

Spencer stares after him, feeling like he wants to throw a tantrum right there and then unless he gets some goddamn cock already.

He groans and buries his face in his hands. This is so not good.

* * *

“So what’s up with Spencer?” Pete asks curiously as they get out of the car. Jon spots Ryan waiting for them further down the street. “He’s been acting... weird these past few days.”

“Has he?” Jon asks distractedly like he doesn’t know. He knows. He is very aware that Spencer is acting odd, but he doesn’t really want to talk about it because talking would lead to thinking, and he just- He doesn’t want to think about it.

“Yeah. How’s living together working for you guys?”

“Fine,” Jon says, hoping to kill the conversation. He definitely does not want to discuss the living arrangement, which might be backfiring a little because last night – Fuck, last night.

He isn’t thinking about it.

Ryan is looking up and down the street sceptically. They’ve never met up here for lunch, but why not? It’s not like they stand out in their suits. At all. It was a last-minute decision too, him calling up Ryan and changing their plans.

“We’re going in here,” Jon explains as casually as he can when they reach Ryan, who without being aware of it, is already standing outside Bden’s. Ryan eyes the light green exterior disbelievingly. “You guys like vegan food, right?” Jon asks, and then he is already walking inside.

Bden’s is bustling with hipsters, and Jon swears there is a lull in the chattering and clinging when they walk in, and someone mutters “cops” before someone mutters “IRS”. Then Ryan walks in with his plum suit and flower tie, and the hipsters seem to relax and turn back to their foods.

Jon instantly spots Spencer occupying an armchair by the window with one of Brendon’s dogs sitting by him, begging for food. Spencer is talking to some guy Jon has never seen before, a man with long, greasy hair who has a slightly dumb look to him.

“Jon!” Greta smiles brightly, stopping in her round of collecting dishes from the tables. “Are these members of your tribe?” she asks curiously. “Hello! Sit down, sit down!”

Greta finds them a free table, and Ryan hisses, “What is this place?” once they’ve sat down. “That hippie girl is here! What if one of my clients sees me here, huh?”

“Relax!” Pete smiles. “Look, there’s Spencer!”

Pete begins to wave, but Jon snatches his wrist. “Let Spencer have his peace,” he mutters. It doesn’t matter if they sit in different places. None of these café goers know they are supposedly engaged, anyway. Jon doesn’t want to announce his arrival or have Spencer think that Jon is following him around.

Except that maybe he is following Spencer around. A little.

Jon doesn’t mean to be a domineering fake fiancé, but he is just worried. Even Pete’s noticed by now that Spencer is acting weird. Jon is relatively sure the entire office has noticed by now because this week Spencer has probably already tried chatting up the fax machine.

And then last night. Jon didn’t mean to hear; it wasn’t his fault that the Schumann CD came to an end when it did, leaving him with nothing except silence, silence, silence and –

Not to mention that they are finally getting the nursery done, so the apartment is chaotic with the interior designer and his crew, consisting of two rather butch men, and the way Spencer just lingers around, staring at them like they are pieces of meat –

Jon has reasons to keep an eye on Spencer. That is all.

Jon gets himself a tofu scramble, whatever that may be, and angles his chair to face the windows so that he can see Spencer if he wants to.

“Wait. Don’t tell me that arrogant hipster runs this place!” Ryan says suddenly, eyes nailed towards the counter where Jon can hear Brendon laughing brightly. Ryan’s eyes flash instantly, and he leans over conspiratorially. “We’re in Brendon’s café?! What the hell?” Ryan looks at his napkin. “He named it Bden’s? What is he, twelve? My god, I don’t want to be seen socialising with the likes of him!”

“Sure,” Jon mutters, eyes now focused on the way Spencer is laughing at something the guy said, leaning over and placing a hand on the man’s arm. Yup. There’s the touching.

It’s an awkward situation. From what Jon knows, pregnancy is supposed to kill sexual urges, not turn someone into a cat in heat, which is what Spencer seems to be. It actually took Jon a while to catch on what exactly was wrong. He thought Spencer just felt lonely, hence all the touching, that it was an emotional need and not so blatantly physical. It took Jon to hear the buzzing and moaning from Spencer’s room to realise that – oh. Oh. And then he had all these mental images of vibrators and sex toys and, no, no no, it’s not cool picturing your roommate doing those activities. Even if he once fucked the man himself.

God, it’s beyond awkward. Jon doesn’t want to know the sexual urges of his friends. It’s completely inappropriate and it definitely lacks tact.

But at the same time Jon doesn’t want some sleazebag fucking the man who is carrying his child. He doesn’t want his child’s first memory to be the sound of a greasy haired pervert banging away at Spencer. If babies can have prenatal memories, which they probably can’t, but that is clearly beside the point.

“Here’s your tofu scramble,” Brendon’s voice comes, snapping Jon out of his watchdog duties. “And fajitas for you, which do not come with loads of slaughtered baby animal meat as you put it at the counter, Ryan Ross.”

Ryan stares at his plate before looking up at Brendon. “What about cheese? Could I have cheese?”

A girl next to their table gasps and looks at them with big, shocked eyes.

“You think you’re hilarious, don’t you?” Brendon says coldly. “This is my place. One snap of my fucking fingers and you’ll be thrown out, you inconsiderate, corporate weasel.” Brendon smiles. “Enjoy your food.”

Ryan stares after Brendon in astonishment, mouth hanging open. “That pompous son of a bitch...”

“Oh, this green pea soup is delicious,” Pete says enthusiastically. The sleazy guy is now whispering something to Spencer’s ear. Spencer’s got that glassy look in his eyes that he got when one of the renovators took their shirt off. Not good. Clearly not good at all.

Ryan growls, “How dare he assume he knows anything about me?!” as Jon stands up and heads over to Spencer.

Jon clears his throat loudly once he gets there, successfully making the two men pull apart. Spencer looks up at him in surprise, eyes wide and cheeks instantly flushing crimson, and the sleazebag says, “Dude, can’t you see we’re kind of busy?”

“Jon,” Spencer smiles awkwardly. “Um, Jon, this is Brent. He has a rotating bed.”

“Makes your world spin,” this Brent guy says with a sly smile.

“Fascinating.”

“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it!”

“I’m sure. Now excuse me while I talk to my fiancé,” Jon says smoothly and officially, and Brent quirks a curious eyebrow at him. “We’re sitting just over there if you want to come join us.” Spencer looks hesitating. “You should join us. I insist.”

Brent looks at Jon like he is seriously cock-blocking him, which Jon is, but doesn’t the word ‘fiancé’ ring any bells for this guy? Not to mention Spencer is four months pregnant now. A wacky hormonal chaos is clearly swirling beneath Spencer’s skin, and this guy is fine taking advantage of that.

Spencer reluctantly gets up, looking at Brent longingly. “Call me,” Brent winks, and seriously? Jon is right there. They are wearing matching engagement rings. Seriously, what the fuck?

“Okay,” Spencer says, batting his eyelashes, and wait. Wait.

What?

“Come on,” Jon says impatiently. Spencer sighs miserably, looking torn, but then he spots Pete and his expression lights up. Jon instantly looks back to their table. Pete? No, really. Pete?

“Can I talk to you outside?” Jon asks instead, placing a hand on Spencer’s shoulder and gently but firmly guiding him out of the café.

Once outside, Spencer crosses his arms defiantly. He looks damn upset. His lower lip might even be jutted out in a pout, and Jon is honestly speechless. “What?” Spencer demands.

Jon scratches the side of his head helplessly. “Um... I just- Do you...” No, they can’t talk about it. “Take the rest of the day off.”

Spencer seems confused, but Jon assures him that it’s a good idea. Spencer is feeling under the weather and time alone is clearly the way to go. Away from people. Brent. Pete. Anything that moves.

It’s actually handy that Jon, in a roundabout way, is Spencer’s boss and can send him home. Spencer reluctantly leaves, and Jon instantly calls their interior designer, asking them to stop for the day and get out of there, please. No shirtless DIY guys in the apartment when Spencer gets there. He only hopes to god Spencer will stay home.

When he finally rejoins his companions, Ryan has eaten his tofu scramble and is loudly complaining that you have to eat twice the food to feel at all satisfied. Spencer might be acting like an immature (and horny) brat, but he has an excuse. Ryan doesn’t have one apart from seemingly want to piss off vegans.

“Stop acting like a brat,” Jon tells him, now letting his own frustration pour out.

Ryan glares at him. “This?” he asks and motions around the café. “This isn’t us. It’s their thing, but not ours. I get that you and Spencer are trying to find a middle ground or whatever, but you know as well as I do that you have absolutely nothing in common. I mean, look at these people!” Ryan says again, and Jon is overly conscious of them in their suits in the midst of dread-locked vintage vegans who focus on making the world a better place while creating good vibes and worrying about karma. “This crowd is not in touch with our world in any way, so if this lunch thing was some attempt to assimilate us, then you’re wrong. And for your information, we’re not the ones that need to be assimilated.”

Ryan stands up dramatically and throws his napkin on his empty plate, holding his head high as he walks out.

Jon stares after him. Oh. Well. Someone’s having a bad day.

Pete shrugs. “Don’t listen to him, you know how Ryan is. Drama, drama. I have nothing against dread locks. Do you think we could get soya milkshakes to go?”

Thank god Pete persists in finding the positive in everything.

Jon knows that they can come into the café for lunch, but that’s pretty much all they can do because their half-hour stay is minimal exposure. Jon’s life consists of fine wines and string quartets, restaurants where the entrée costs more than a main course normally would. There are cocktail parties, business meetings and conference calls to Japan while covering up the inhuman amounts of work with artificial smiles for the sake of their houses and cars getting bigger.

These people are not about space. They’re about what’s in that space.

Brendon comes over to pick up their dirty dishes, mouth a thin line. “Did Ryan leave already?” he asks coldly, saying, “Good,” before they can reply. “Greta said his aura was practically black. You know, sometimes that’s a sign of miscarriage.”

“Um, I don’t think Ryan’s ever –”

“Must be an emotional miscarriage. Like his soul got aborted,” Brendon muses, picking up another plate before looking up and saying, “Spencer and Brent didn’t work out, huh?”

Brent is now sitting by himself, absently biting his fingernails. What a catch.

“If you ask me,” Brendon says calculatedly, balancing plates on one hand and resting the other on his hip, “If you ask me, Spencer should be conversing with someone he has already conversed with.” Then Brendon looks at Jon with a raised eyebrow, and Jon is sure blood leaves his face, because did Brendon just –

Pete says that they will be late for work if they don’t hurry, so Jon leaves quietly, happily even, because back at the office they are the rule and not the exception.

Jon tries not to think about what Spencer might or might not be doing back home.

cont.

Relearning How to Breathe [4/7]

Wed, 02 Dec 2009 21:52:32 GMT

back

All Jon can think about is what Spencer might or might not be doing back home and who with. Maybe Spencer did call that Brent and went over to his place. Maybe he invited Brent over. What if Jon goes home to find them fucking on the kitchen table? That is completely not sanitary.

And Jon still does not want that pile of grease near his unborn child.

He can’t concentrate on work. He has a meeting with a client, asking her how the divorce is going when she is there for a prenup. William comes in twice to remind him to call the courthouse to confirm a new trial date since the main witness failed to show up the last time. Jon tries to read the tax records of a restaurant that has declared bankruptcy, but he only stares at the papers unseeingly, not comprehending and hoping to god that Spencer isn’t doing something Jon wouldn’t do.

Jon wouldn’t do roughly eighty-five percent of all that one could in this world. He’d never skydive or get a tattoo, for one thing. And he would not sleep with strangers during pregnancy either. There is something fundamentally wrong about the whole idea of Spencer even –

He’s not sure if he even has a say in it. It’s Spencer’s private life, and Jon is already out of his comfort zone from knowing too much. But it’s slutty. Yes, that’s the word he is looking for. It’s downright slutty to go banging away when you’re already knocked up with someone else’s child.

Maybe Spencer’s just generally slutty. He let Jon fuck him, didn’t he?

But then Spencer also said that, between the Christmas party and now, there was only one other guy. That’s not particularly slutty.

Jon has to check up on Spencer. Just to make sure the situation is under control.

“Will, I’m leaving for the day,” he informs his secretary when he walks out of his office. William looks surprised, so he adds, “Spencer’s home sick.” He claimed that Spencer was feeling feverish and in his condition he clearly had to go home and rest.

“Of course! I’m sure he wants you there,” William nods understandingly, eyeing Jon like he is suddenly the catch of the year and Spencer’s so damn lucky and oh how they are in love with a baby on the way, and Jon’s tie feels tight around his throat when he catches a glimpse of the lies he has fed to people.

Jon ignores two red lights on the way home. Once there, he will conveniently get out a book and sit in the living room reading it, keeping an eye on the door so that he knows if anyone is coming in or going out.

It’s clear that not Spencer’s still not in his right mind and not everyone in this world is a decent guy with outstanding morals like Jon is. It’s not only the pregnancy and Jon’s unborn child factor, but it’s also Spencer who is obviously vulnerable right now. Someone could easily take advantage of that. Mistreat him. And Jon, most likely, will be the one who has to deal with the mess of it.

Jon doesn’t know how to handle hormones, so he will try to intercept before anything tragic happens.

When he gets home, he notes silence. Silence is good. Silence is not loud sex. Then he hears Spencer’s voice, eager and rushed but not, say, orgasmic, which is also a relief. Spencer walks from the direction of his bedroom, phone pressed to his ear. “Awesome, see you in a bit then!” he says happily, keys dangling in one hand.

“Hey,” Jon says as Spencer ends the call, and Spencer flinches, surprised by his presence.

“Jon. Oh. I thought –”

“I finished early. I thought I’d make sure you’re alright,” Jon says, forcing the words out and trying not to sound suspicious and accusatory again. He already knows where that leads to. “Are you going somewhere?”

“No,” Spencer says quickly, but he is holding the damn car keys. Spencer is also fidgeting like he can’t keep still. Not to mention the licking of his lips and flushed cheeks and slightly blown pupils like he’s high – he’s not, Jon knows that much.

Jon puts down his briefcase. He has to reason with Spencer. “Were you talking to that Brent guy just now?”

“No. Maybe. I mean – I’m just going out to buy some milk, I’ll be back tomorrow!” Spencer says urgently.

This is where Jon has to put his foot down. This is completely inappropriate.

“No.”

Spencer blinks. “What?”

“I said no. You’re not- you’re not yourself right now. This is a bad decision and you will regret it later. Also, that Brent guy? You could do a lot better, you- That’s not the point. The point is that as my fake fiancé and especially in your condition you –”

“It’s not any of your business!” Spencer snaps impatiently. And he’s right, it’s not really, but it still is. “Okay, you’re concerned or whatever, but I can manage just fine. I’ll be discreet, I swear!”

“Do you even know this Brent?”

“...Vaguely.”

“Well, what does he do?” Jon demands.

Spencer averts his gaze. “Um... Heard a rumour once that he might be a pimp?”

“Okay, that’s it. You are so not going,” Jon decides, walking over and placing a hand on Spencer’s shoulder. He will walk Spencer back to the bedroom if necessary.

Spencer flinches, however, stepping back and snapping, “Don’t touch me! You can’t –” Spencer is panting for no obvious reason. “You’re only making it worse if you touch me. I can’t control this thing! I tried but I can’t, and I just need to –” Spencer sounds absolutely desperate, like he might actually burst into tears.

Jon has never seen anyone this out of control. He’s not sure if he’s ever seen someone as willing.

“Hey –” he begins, hoping to be soothing.

“No, you can’t touch me if you’re not –”

He kisses Spencer right there because it seems like the most logical thing to do. It’s clearly what Spencer needs, and Spencer doesn’t need a moment to recover or to shove him off or anything, Spencer just groans and launches on him, causing Jon to take steps backwards.

“Yes, god, just, yes,” Spencer slurs against his lips, attacking Jon’s mouth, and the force almost hurts. Spencer is tugging his hair, bringing him closer. Jon’s mouth opens from the pressure, and Spencer’s tongue instantly slides in, hungry and searching. Spencer doesn’t taste like alcohol like he did the last time.

Spencer breaks the kiss with a wet smack, and Jon’s brain can’t quite catch up with what’s going on. Spencer’s hands are on his tie, pulling it off. “You wanna fuck, right?” Spencer asks hurriedly, eyes big and pleading, and Jon can’t breathe. This is very, very ill advised.

Spencer doesn’t wait for an answer, though, as he moves to rip Jon’s shirt open – his expensive Armani shirt from the new spring collection that was not cheap – and buttons go flying everywhere, and Spencer just groans, wrapping his arms around Jon’s neck, clinging onto him and locking their mouths again.

They end up pressed against the wall with a loud bang. Jon realises that he pushed them without meaning to, is now kissing back hungrily without meaning to –

When was the last time he got laid? Maybe he should, maybe this is a good idea –

“Bedroom,” he grunts when it’s clear Spencer doesn’t care where they are and would happily have them fuck there. Spencer nods hurriedly and pulls his shirt over his head, his chest and cheeks are flushed, and then he tugs at Jon’s jacket impatiently, and Jon shrugs it off, moving in to kiss Spencer, who is gorgeous.

Spencer gets his shirt off him before they finally move along, and Spencer is everywhere – hands and bites and groans and urgent encouragements of “Please”, “Now” and “Jon”. Jon hushes him calmingly, keeping his hands on Spencer because it’s the one thing that seems to help Spencer relax. Spencer arches into his touch, making Jon feel so fucking wanted.

They end up in Jon’s bed, and Spencer squirms beneath him, latching onto his neck with a wet mouth. Jon’s going on automatic, letting his hard dick do the thinking for him – clothes out of the way, more skin, more touching, more, more – but then he catches up with the sudden nudity of himself and Spencer and – what the fuck is he doing?

Jon breaks the kiss, panting and head swimming.

“Jon, fuck, let’s –” Spencer says, legs spreading, and Jon falls between them easily. He’s never seen Spencer naked before. He’s seen the belly when they’ve had the ultrasounds, but it’s so different now and more real, and is it really a good idea to fuck Spencer?

“What if this complicates our perfectly sensible arrangement of –”

“What? No, don’t think!” Spencer demands, sounding scandalised. “No, no, thinking is bad, don’t- Just don’t stop, Jon, fuck, come on- God, you’re so hot, please –”

Jon swallows, feeling himself shaking. Someone has to do this, and if Jon plans on controlling who gets to satisfy Spencer...

“Come on!” Spencer says impatiently, bucking up and causing his cock to brush Jon’s stomach, and Jon lets himself dip back down and kiss Spencer again. It’s a slow kiss, but Spencer protests with a groan, hands on Jon’s back, sliding down to his ass, grabbing and kneeing.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you,” Jon assures him, letting his mouth leave Spencer’s and travel down to his neck, lapping at the skin. Spencer arches into it wantonly, and Jon feels his body thrumming from excitement. He stops to suck on a nipple, slightly surprised when Spencer moans louder than Jon thought he would. His mouth travels down and over Spencer’s stomach, and Spencer looks good. Jon – and his cock – honestly thinks Spencer looks good the way he is, clearly pregnant with his child, and Spencer’s got these curves now that he didn’t have the last time, not that Jon has that many clear memories of it, but Spencer’s fuller and obviously desperate to get laid, and he looks good and sounds good and tastes good, and Jon’s heart is constricting and his cock is throbbing.

Jon stops to kiss Spencer’s hips, not sure if he is allowed to mouth Spencer’s cock, already leaking and shiny with pre-come, and Jon just wants to lap at it and get the taste into his mouth, but then the temptation becomes too much and he goes for it, hoping Spencer won’t object.

Spencer clearly doesn’t object.

“Yes, yes, yes, Jon, please, more, oh god, your mouth- Please, I need – inside –” Spencer babbles incoherently, spreading his legs further. Jon lets his tongue swirl around the flushed tip of Spencer’s erection, one hand at the base, coarse pubic hair beneath his palm, and the other on Spencer’s stomach, moving in circles.

Spencer is practically writhing, and Jon only stops when he hears the sound of a drawer opening. He moves to sit on his knees to see that Spencer has retrieved lube from the nightstand and is now offering it to him.

“You’ve been through my stuff?” he asks curiously.

“No, but every sensible man keeps his lube there!” Spencer snaps impatiently before groaning, “Get on with it!” Which is not exactly romantic, but it will do.

“Just let me –” Jon begins, reaching over Spencer for the nightstand again, but Spencer wraps one leg around Jon’s waist, pinning him to where he is.

“What’re you going to do?” Spencer asks. “Knock me up?”

Spencer is breathing heavily, chest rising and falling. Spencer kind of has a point.

Spencer pulls Jon down for a kiss, mumbling, “Want you to fuck me so hard, until I can’t walk, I – God, want you to come inside me, deep inside me, filling me up –”

Jon chokes on air. No one has ever said anything like that to him. Sex is usually polite and considerate where the orgasm is something worth feeling guilty about; the unfortunate, primitive consequence of adding one body to another. Sex reduces them from the sensible, intellectual beings they are. Sex is not like this, utterly wanton and desperate with dirty words and bodily fluids and loud groans without any shame whatsoever.

Spencer grabs the lube himself, popping the cork open and applying some onto his palm, and then Spencer moves his hand between them to grab Jon’s cock. Jon groans, his hips bucking into it. Spencer sucks on his earlobe, hot breath in his ear. “Fuck, you’re just as big as I remembered. You’ve got such a nice cock, I jerked off to it for weeks, you have no idea.”

Jon wants to ask, ‘Really?’, his ego feeling chuffed, but then he just thinks fuck shit fuck god fuck.

Spencer is now wrapping his legs around Jon demandingly, and Jon asks, “Don’t you want me to –”

“Fucked myself before you came home. Fucking glad you came, I need you so bad right now,” Spencer whimpers.

Jon can feel it now, Spencer already wet and stretched against the tip of his cock. Jon’s entire body is tense in anticipation, skin prickling hot, and he pushes forwards. He slides in easily and without resistance, feeling Spencer give way to accommodate him. Spencer’s hot and tight around him, the slide is wet and so good, but Jon can’t even concentrate on it because Spencer. Spencer.

Jon has never heard anyone moan as loudly. He has never heard anyone say his name like that, practically screaming it into the room with a “Oh god, yes, fuck me, fuck me, Jon, oh god –”

Spencer’s head rolls to the side, mouth gaping open in absolute bliss. Jon rolls his hips experimentally, and Spencer nods fervently, legs hooking around Jon tighter. Jon goes with it, elbows resting on the bed by Spencer’s sides, and it’s easy to kiss when Spencer tilts his head up a little, their noses brushing. It’s close, really damn close, and it feels intimate, and Jon keeps a steady rhythm into Spencer, who is hot around his cock. Jon tries not to focus on it, on the gloriously tight ass he is pounding into, but on Spencer. He’s doing this for him, after all. Nothing to do with how amazing this feels for him.

“Harder,” Spencer says, swallowing around the word. “Harder, come on.”

“You sure we can?” Jon asks with his last bits of rationality.

Spencer practically mewls. “Yes. Jon, please, just – I need you to –”

Jon breaks away, lifting Spencer’s hips and moving to sit on his knees. He can see all of it now, how his cock slides into Spencer’s widened hole, how Spencer shudders when Jon pushes in all the way. He has more speed and more strength in this position, and Spencer lies on the bed like he is melting into it, filling the air with luscious gasps and moans, keeping his legs far apart and letting himself be fucked like it’s all he wants to do for the rest of his life. Jon complies with Spencer’s wishes and goes harder – not as hard as he could, but harder – and Spencer fists the sheets, crying out and trembling. Jon can barely hear the smack of their bodies hitting together from beneath Spencer’s uninhibited vocals. Jon has never been with someone who’s been as loud or as into it. They’ve been into it, but not like this, when there is obvious lack of control in the other, like they have let go completely. Jon has never, ever seen this before, and he can’t believe how hard he is from it.

“Never stop,” Spencer begs desperately. “So fucking good, Jon, you feel so fucking good –” Spencer reaches down to touch himself, groaning even louder. “Being around you is so hard, just want you all the time, keep thinking how good it’d be –”

Shit.

Jon leans back over Spencer, keeping up the rhythm the best he can. Spencer grabs his left hip, pulling him in deeper and moaning his name loudly, making Jon feel like a sex god. No one’s practically screamed his name before, and okay, Spencer is beyond all control, but still. Jon is clearly blowing his mind.

Spencer whimpers, the fingernails of his free hand digging into Jon’s neck and pulling him down for a kiss. “Fuck me through it,” Spencer gasps against his lips, and then Spencer comes. Jon can barely move when Spencer’s muscles squeeze around him, and it’s so, so tight that Jon can’t move or he’ll come, but he wants to do as was requested. Spencer comes and comes, he just keeps coming, and Jon is awed, studying Spencer’s orgasm face with a bit too much detail, but goddamn.

He can barely breathe from the way Spencer is squeezing around him, but it’s so good. Jon thrusts in once more and lets go, because he did keep it up for longer than is humanly possible, and Spencer whines at the back of his throat as Jon reaches climax, and Jon wonders if Spencer can feel him coming deep inside. His body stutters from the force of it as his parted lips mouth Spencer’s jaw line, mind blacking out, and then waves of pleasure pour in, again and again, dancing on his skin, radiating. Fucking hell.

Spencer finishes with two more strokes of his cock, come smearing them both. Jon feels the substance slicking up his stomach. Spencer slumps beneath him, every limb loose and unmoving. Jon is desperately trying to catch his breath.

“Oh, thank god,” Spencer manages in a rough voice. “That- Thank god.”

Jon doesn’t want to crush Spencer so he pulls out and moves to lie next to Spencer on the bed, still slowly coming down. They are both panting audibly, and Jon blinks at the ceiling. Shame on you, he thinks. Leaving work early to fuck Spencer, like they’re a real couple or something as ridiculous. They’re not. They are not together, have no desire to be, and yet they keep fucking.

He didn’t leave with the intention to come home and get laid.

Did he?

Spencer asks, “You want something to eat?”

“Huh?” Jon has a hard time focusing on anything in his post-orgasmic bliss, but the shame is there, rooted into him by Sunday school and the conservative world in which he grew up.

“I’m thinking pizza. God, I’m starving,” Spencer concludes, now getting out of bed. “Need to shower first, though.”

Jon moves to lean on his elbows, keeping his eyes focused on Spencer, trying to figure out what the hell is going on in Spencer’s head right now. Spencer seems more like himself now, but they fucked, and that’s awkward, though it was hot, and is Spencer just going to go back to business as usual?

Spencer stops at the door, still completely naked. “You coming?” Spencer asks, and Jon just blinks at him, completely confused. “Shower. You. Me. Second round? Then pizza. Then more sex.”

More sex? Didn’t they just have, like, a month’s worth? How much sex are people in this world having? Are Jon’s notions of ‘a lot’ completely disillusioned?

Spencer’s eyes flash with sudden worry, and, okay, he still isn’t in his right mind.

“There will be more sex, won’t there?” Spencer asks miserably, like maybe he is about to cry, and seriously. Hormones. What the hell?

“Sure,” Jon manages, the answer dripping with guilt because how is he better than Brent or any other guy right now? But Spencer smiles brightly, beckoning him with a single finger before walking out. And god, Jon wants to follow.

Jon decides not to think as he grabs his boxers from the floor and hurries after Spencer.

* * *

Spencer wakes up in his bed, feeling utterly satisfied and blissful and quite possibly glowy. The sheets are a mess, and he smiles against them, letting his brain trace the memories of the previous night. Hands and lips and grunts, everything he couldn’t stop thinking about. His ass is sore, but it only turns him on a little, making him even more pleased. If he were a cat, he’d be purring right now.

Such good sex.

With Jon.

Spencer startles, moving to sit up on the bed.

Oh god. What the hell did he do? “Fuck,” he manages, feeling his cheeks turning hot, knowing he is probably bright red right now, but this has got to be the most embarrassing thing that he has ever done.

He totally jumped on Jon. It made sense at the time. Sure, it made a lot of sense, but now?

He gets out of bed, happy that Jon isn’t there because he’s naked, and there should be concepts like personal space and privacy and no, definitely no nudity around Jon. He hastily pulls on his pyjama bottoms, looking around for a shirt, wondering what time it is, if he should be at work already, where Jon is, what they did – he knows what they did, all of it, but he’d rather pretend he is suffering from memory loss – and fuck, he was totally going to let Brent fuck him.

“I’m gonna kill Brendon,” he swears under his breath, since his best friend was clearly willing to let that happen.

Spencer exits his bedroom quietly, trying to hear movement from Jon’s bedroom. He can’t hear anything. That’s good.

He tiptoes into the living room, planning to grab a banana and go, but then Jon’s voice reaches his ears from the direction of the door. “Oh, I didn’t know someone had moved in next door,” Jon says, and his voice might be a bit rough like he has been groaning a lot lately (which he has, Spencer knows that he has) and like he has barely slept all night (which he hasn’t). “I’m Jon Walker, pleased to meet you.”

Spencer stands frozen in the living room, not sure where to go or what to do. He hears giggling from the direction of the door. “So you’re Jon?” a female voice says and then giggles more. “I thought you’d be... taller.”

“Uh, what my wife means is, um... Uh... Are you married yourself?” the male voice asks, trying to direct the conversation elsewhere.

“Engaged.”

“That explains it. There’s still passion!” the woman says.

“Um, I don’t –” Jon starts, voice extremely confused, and how thick is Jon? Spencer has known for the past thirty goddamn seconds that he has been screaming Jon’s name loud enough for the entire building to hear.

Spencer wants to die.

No, he doesn’t. He’s never been a fan of suicide. He just wishes he could momentarily disappear.

Spencer rounds the corner swiftly. “Morning,” he says, feeling his cheeks burn as he sees Jon by the door – in his suit, thank god – and a man and a woman, who are now looking at him curiously, maybe identifying him as the screamer that kept them up all night. And what does Jon think of him now? First there was the supply closet incident and now his more recent horn-dog act?

“This is my fiancé Spencer,” Jon supplies, eyes lingering on him perhaps a second too long, and Spencer walks over, and he’s not thinking – clearly he’s not – when he slips an arm around Jon’s waist habitually. Jon might go rigid for a second before he wraps an arm around Spencer’s shoulders, and Spencer didn’t mean to touch him. False notions left over from last night are causing him to have no concept of personal space. “Ryland and Vicky just moved next door,” Jon explains.

“Pleased to meet you,” Spencer says, and Vicky is eyeing him up and down, her eyes gleaming.

Ryland immediately congratulates them and asks when the baby is due, which Spencer is used to by now when he is clearly showing. Vicky touches his stomach without asking, and he instinctively takes a step back, placing a protective hand on the modest bump he now has.

“We need to invite you over for dinner some time!” Ryland says. “If you’re not too, uh, busy.”

Vicky snickers, and Ryland gives them a sly grin. Jon finally seems to realise what’s going on as blood leaves his face.

“That’s a wonderful idea!” Spencer smiles brightly. “We’d love to, wouldn’t we, hun? We’ll have to discuss specifics later, though, because right now I want to have more sex. So lovely to make your acquaintance and we hope you learn to love this building like we do!”

Spencer slams the door in their faces. One sexual innuendo too many. Goddammit, it’s not that funny.

Jon stares at him, looking slightly scandalised.

“They were making fun of us,” Spencer mumbles, and god, fuck, he was rude. He’s a slut and he’s rude, and what does Jon think of him now? “I’ll bake them some cookies or something,” he amends. Nothing says ‘sorry’ like cookies. In which case he owes Jon a whole batch.

Jon is just looking at him, eyes slightly widened, and fuck. Spencer stutters out, “I didn’t mean – Uh, what I said about more. Um.”

Jon exhales. “Oh. Right. I just- thought you’d be. I mean that after last night, you’d –”

Spencer buries his face in his hands and takes a minute.

Yesterday, he just didn’t care about anything except getting laid. He lost control. He’s not usually like this, and he wants to say that it was a once-in-a-lifetime freak incident, but he can’t. It’s nothing compared to how bad it was yesterday, but Spencer wouldn’t say no to sex right now. He’s not desperate or gagging for it, but he’s got that buzz in his veins, that slow desire burning at the pit of his stomach. And that’s how it started the last time too, and when he didn’t get it, it got worse and worse until he went insane.

He jumped on Jon, fair enough, but Jon kissed him first. Of course Spencer was going to take a kiss as an invitation, but letting go of all of his inhibitions and moaning and begging like a B-class porn star from an 80’s German porno?

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” Spencer finally manages to say. “I guess we should talk about it.”

Jon, to Spencer’s surprise, looks even more horrified than he himself feels. “Oh. Um. No, that’s okay. I was reading one of your baby books in between rounds, um, when you dozed off for a while and stuff, and it said something how this can be normal too, so we don’t need to talk about it.”

“But we fucked. Repeatedly,” Spencer says in confusion, and Jon just nods hurriedly. Spencer’s not even showered yet and he stinks of Jon, and Jon doesn’t even want to talk about it. It makes Spencer feel even worse.

“I made breakfast!” Jon exclaims hurriedly, motioning towards the kitchen. “I was gonna wake you up, but then the Blackintons dropped by. I’m not much of a cook, but I can fry an egg. You should eat.”

Spencer follows Jon to the kitchen, where a plate with a now slightly cold fried egg is waiting for him. He is starving, though, so he happily digs in while Jon sits opposite him, returning to a piece of half-eaten toast. Jon isn’t looking at him, though, and Spencer has a hard time trying to swallow. He already apologised so what else can he do? Maybe Jon feels exploited. Maybe Jon feels a bit raped.

Spencer chokes on his food, and Jon flinches as he coughs into his fist, eyes watering. Shit, he really messed it up. “About last night –”

“Spencer, really. It’s okay.”

It clearly isn’t.

“We should talk about this,” he persists.

Jon gets a small, crooked smile on his face. “People have sex. They don’t talk about it.”

Spencer frowns. “Well, of course they talk about it! It’s healthy to talk about it and it’s- it’s messed up to be intimate with someone without feeling like you can talk about it. Look, I’m sorry if I forced you into anything –”

“You didn’t force me. I mean, I’m sorry if I took advantage of –”

“I wanted to be taken advantage of,” Spencer points out, trying to figure out if that’s Jon’s deal. “Okay, let’s not talk about it as such, but it still complicates the situation. I mean, sex was never a part of the deal, and roommates don’t fuck, you know?”

“Is it gonna be a constant thing? I mean, do you feel... better now?”

“Yeah.. But, uh... Chances are I will want to have sex before the baby’s here, so –”

“So I could- I mean, if you want. I don’t mean to impose –”

“No, you’re –”

“– it’s your body, and I completely respect –”

“I’m fine. With that. If you’re offering. Are you offering?”

“Do you want me to be?”

Spencer’s heart is racing suddenly, but he tries to do what Jon does and think of it logically. He won’t have to be surrounded by dubious sex partners this way. He is attracted to Jon. Jon knocked him up in the first place, and it’s less weird fucking the other father during pregnancy than some random guy who is in no way connected.

Jon seems to be holding his breath, like he is waiting for Spencer to answer.

“Okay,” Spencer says. “We’ll add sex to the arrangement. I’m not beyond pity fucks, clearly.”

Jon frowns. “It’s not... pity.”

“Right.”

It totally is.

He looks at the wall clock and realises he is late for work, and he begins to swear, but Jon says, “I called them and said you’d be taking the day off. I figured you’d be tired after...” and trails off. Jon looks tired now that Spencer looks at him. He tries not to feel guilty. If it was that horrible, Jon wouldn’t be offering, right? Right.

“I need to head down to the courthouse, brief the client before trial,” Jon says, standing up and adjusting his suit. Jon looks good in suits. Jon looks good in just about anything. Jon –

Spencer groans internally, but says, “Um, you guys taking a lunch break at some point?” When Jon nods, Spencer feels his cheeks flushing again. “You should come home.”

Maybe it’s something in his tone, but Jon seems to take no time in understanding what he means. “I can swing that,” Jon says, and then he does this weird thing where he leans down to kiss him goodbye, and Spencer’s not sure where to aim and Jon’s not sure where to aim – lips? Cheek? Lips. Cheek? – and it ends up a bit on the corner of the mouth, and Spencer feels a wave of lust in his blood mixing with something else that’s stronger than pure lust. “Have a good day,” Jon adds politely, maybe trying to cover up their fumbling act.

Spencer pops the fried egg in the microwave, wondering if it’s too presumptuous to wait for Jon’s return in bed.

* * *

Jon receives an invite to the opening of a new exhibition in one of the modern art galleries, whose curator is also a family friend. Everyone worth knowing will be there, and the opening will be followed by dinner in a restaurant just down the block. When Jon informs Spencer that they need to go – as a couple – Spencer looks less than thrilled.

They’ve perfected the office act pretty well. Spencer comes to his office sometimes for no particular reason (though lately it’s been to complain about back aches), and with the door closed, their fellow coworkers can let their imagination roam. They still show up at different times since Spencer goes in earlier, but living together helps the act when they can inform each other of things they’ve run out of. The fucking, admittedly, also helps. Jon’s become pretty good at reading Spencer’s body language, when he can see that once home he’ll end up between Spencer’s parted thighs. Jon’s not sure if it’s to do with the hormones, but there’s a lot more touching now too. He doesn’t know if Spencer’s always aware of it, but if he gets Spencer off practically every night, it isn’t a big deal to touch the bump or let his fingers brush against Spencer’s neck in the coffee room. He will be panting against the patch of skin later, anyway, when he pushes in deep, making them both shudder.

Jon isn’t really thinking about whether or not the sex complicates everything. It’s working right now, it’s what Spencer needs and something that Jon doesn’t mind making sure he gets.

He might be having the best sex of his life, but he isn’t admitting that to anyone.

Spencer looks good in the paternity suit he bought. The old one didn’t fit him anymore, but this one will last him even when he gets bigger. They’re late for the opening, but Jon won’t speed even though he loves hearing his Jaguar roar. But no, Spencer and their child are on board, so he makes sure to drive carefully.

“Modern art, huh?” Spencer repeats lifelessly.

“A new and upcoming talent. She’s got the town in uproar,” Jon explains. His parents will be there, and his mother hasn’t seen Spencer since the announcement. Victor, of course, sees Spencer every day, but Jon has never seen his father talking to or even acknowledging Spencer. They just need to get used to the thought. They will come around. They have to.

“I’m hungry,” Spencer complains. He is always hungry these days.

“It won’t take too long, I promise.”

Jon has always liked art. He took a History of Art course at Yale, and he loved it to bits. He could only take that one course, however, and he can’t draw to save his life either, but he enjoys the work of those who can. Ryan is also a big geek, and together they go to galleries and discuss whether or not Picasso is completely overrated. Jon is looking forward to studying the works on display, but it clearly isn’t Spencer’s idea of a good time. At all.

Apart from the baby and the sex, they still have nothing in common.

The event has already started when they arrive there, hand-in-hand, of course. Jon doesn’t want to preach to Spencer about the significance of the evening, it being their second public appearance ever. By now everyone knows that Jon is engaged to the receptionist and that they are having a child together, and tonight Jon wants to put half a dozen nasty rumours to rest, but he still didn’t want to pressure Spencer. The only thing he asked Spencer to do was to pretend he was having a good time even if he wasn’t.

Spencer is driving them back, so Jon accepts the glass of champagne and the small leaflet handed to them at the entrance. Spencer is looking around in slight disbelief. “What?” Jon asks, slightly confused when he realises that the gallery is playing Metallica.

“Practically every woman in here is wearing a turtle neck and a pearl necklace to go with it. I mean, what’s the point?” Spencer asks, and Jon spots his mother in the crowd, matching Spencer’s description to the dot.

“People just want to look nice,” Jon reasons. The cashmere sweaters and Gucci bags and Armani suits and expensive jewellery are what people normally wear in Jon’s world, but Spencer seems to find it completely alien. “Let’s mingle and check out the art. The exhibition is called –” Jon begins and checks the leaflet, “Bloody Vaginas. So we can – Wait, what?” He reads the leaflet again, once, twice, thrice. “...Bloody Vaginas?” he repeats in horror.

Spencer bursts out laughing, which in the quiet, sophisticated chattering rings loudly, announcing their arrival for them.

Jon decides to start the round in the gallery, looking at one painting at a time. In five minutes Jon has seen more paintings of female genitalia than he’d care for. Some things just aren’t meant to be seen. Spencer, however, stares at the paintings in concentration. “See the broad strokes in the corner there? And the shades of red. I like that! Don’t you like that?”

“It’s a bit... explicit?” Jon offers, deciding instead to focus on making introductions.

Spencer shakes hands with half of the people in the room, and they receive more congratulations and questions on the sex of the baby and the due date and everything else they are used to by now. Quite a few people ask questions on how they managed to keep their relationship secret at work, chuckling off their supposed shenanigans. When asked what it was that first attracted Jon’s attention, he finds himself explaining, “It’s the eyes. The first time I saw Spencer, I just thought he had the most beautiful eyes.”

“Oh, stop,” Spencer says sheepishly with a small smile, and really, who wouldn’t buy into this act?

When Jon sees his mother by herself, he places a hand on Spencer’s lower back and guides them over. She gives them a forced smile as Jon kisses her cheek and asks her what she thinks of the exhibition. “Atrocious if you ask me,” she says with obvious disdain. “Vulgar.”

“I think it’s a passionate statement against the modern world’s hypocrisy,” Spencer says happily, and Jon smiles at Spencer being into it and taking a stand before realising that Spencer has just contradicted his mother’s opinion on art.

Charlene stares at Spencer. “You would say that, I suppose.”

Spencer seems taken aback. “Well, I mean – it’s art. There is no right or wrong opinion.”

“There most certainly is,” Charlene says firmly. “If you excuse me, I need to go powder my nose.”

Charlene walks away with firm steps, high-heels clicking, and Spencer glances at Jon apologetically. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be!” a female voice interrupts them, and Jon’s eyes lock onto a woman whose black hair is in pigtails. She has tattoos everywhere, is wearing too much eyeliner and bright red lipstick. “I think you’re right, art is art. And I also think what you said about the hypocrisy of the modern world is the best compliment I’ve heard of my paintings tonight!”

Spencer breaks into a smile, and Jon studies the leaflet. “You’re Lyn-Z?”

“Yes! And would you look at that bump of yours? Well done knocking him up!” Lyn-Z tells Jon brightly, now touching Spencer’s stomach. Jon’s noticed by now that Spencer doesn’t like strangers touching the bump, but Spencer seems perfectly at ease with her.

“I think modern art is kind of crap, but you’re good!” Spencer says.

“Thank you! I like you! Shall we?” Lyn-Z asks, offering her arm, and Spencer takes it, letting himself be escorted away with a smile sent Jon’s way.

“Figures,” Ryan’s voice now comes, and Jon is alerted to the presence of his friend. “Everyone thinks this exhibition is a disaster, and Spencer’s the only one who likes it. Well, only a matter of time before Mikey held an exhibition that wouldn’t go down well. Rumour has it that Lyn-Z only got this because she’s screwing Mikey’s brother. Nepotism. We build all we’ve got on it, and yet sometimes it just goes so wrong.”

Spencer is now pointing at one of Lyn-Z’s paintings, engaged in enthusiastic conversation with the artist. Spencer is fucking gorgeous when he smiles, and something tightens in Jon’s stomach, like butterflies or sparks or something. “Maybe we don’t all need to be the same, you know?” Jon asks.

“So disillusioned, Jon. So disillusioned,” Ryan sighs and pats his friend’s shoulder sympathetically.

Jon spends some time talking to his parents sans Spencer, and it works better that way. Victor asks if they know for sure yet that it’s a boy, which they don’t. Stork Private Clinic has a non-disclosure policy, but Spencer keeps saying it doesn’t matter, anyway, because he knows it’s a girl. Jon doesn’t tell his parents that, though, he just says that they will have to be surprised on the big day.

“It’s a boy,” Victor says. “Walkers don’t know how to make anything else!”

It’s true. Walkers have been producing nothing but boys for a handful of generations now, so Jon assumes it’s in the genes somehow, though of course he knows that biologically it’s fifty-fifty.

His parents don’t come to the dinner afterwards, but Spencer invites Lyn-Z along, who happily accepts. They sit around a table for ten in the restaurant, Spencer, him, Ryan, Lyn-Z and three more couples Jon knows: a film producer and her husband, a museum director with his wife, and a congressman with his husband.

Usually when Jon attends one of these dinners, the conversation topics are as follows: the stock market, the economy, the right time of year to visit Paris, criticism of youth culture, and an overall conclusion of what is wrong with America and how they would all run it a hell of a lot better if they got their way.

Now Lyn-Z and Spencer keep talking jubilantly, the painter laughing brightly and attracting attention from the other tables in the restaurant. “No way!” Spencer gasps when Lyn-Z moves onto telling them about how she posed for a new edition of the Kama Sutra, but how it was completely tasteful. “I’ll send you a copy!” she promises Spencer.

Jon has also had dinner with everyone there before, except Lyn-Z, and at first he is mortified by the thought of people saying that his future husband (even though they will never marry) enthusiastically discussed pornographic literature with the vagina painter in an exclusive restaurant when in such tasteful and high-class company while pregnant (the pregnancy is significant somehow), but to Jon’s surprise the other people there start laughing and getting into the hang of the situation. Only Ryan refuses to accept Lyn-Z’s offer of a free Kama Sutra, and though the rest accept it bashfully and with a few “Oh my!”s, they still do.

Congressman Strong turns to Jon and says, “Lively, isn’t he? Your fiancé?”

“He is,” Jon agrees, looking across the table at Spencer. They decided to mix couples when it came to the seating order.

“ADHD children are lively too. Hardly an achievement,” Ryan notes and downs the rest of his drink, clearly bored and wanting to go.

When they finally settle down enough to order food (instead of just focusing on the gin and tonics they start off with), Jon is completely thrown off when, after ordering for himself and Spencer, Spencer corrects him and tells the waiter that he’d rather have the chicken.

Jon isn’t sure if he appreciates Spencer second-questioning him in front of everyone.

No one comments on it, though, caught up in the conversation Lyn-Z keeps going. When the food arrives, which is miniscule in size as it the norm in these types of places, Jon keeps looking over to Spencer, desperately trying to figure out why he didn’t want the lobster.

At the end of the evening, Lyn-Z has decided to give Spencer a painting of hers, saying it’s for the baby. Jon insists on paying for the painting, but she refuses. “If I die young, you’ll get so much fucking money for it,” Lyn-Z deadpans. Jon has to settle for offering her legal advice pro bono if she ever needs it. “Where I’m from, we handle things ourselves. We don’t need lawyers meddling with our business, but thanks.” She flashes him a smile.

When he and Spencer leave the restaurant, it’s already dark outside. “That was fun,” Spencer says happily, sounding surprised. “I was expecting to resist the urge of poking my eyes out with a fork halfway through dinner!”

Jon realises they are still holding hands though they don’t really need to. He likes the feel of it, though.

“I’m glad you had a good time,” Jon says. He is pretty sure that their company thought Spencer was charming, even if a bit, well, lively.

“Still starving, though,” Spencer notes, letting go of Jon’s hand and taking determined steps to a hot dog stand at the street corner.

“Um, I can make you something when we get home?” Jon offers uncertainly, reluctantly standing by as Spencer orders two jumbo hot dogs with cheese and lots of ketchup and mustard. Spencer hands him the other, and Jon takes it uncertainly, eyeing the sausage suspiciously. He’s heard stories that it’s actually made of rats.

Spencer resumes heading to where they left their car, taking a huge bite of his hot dog and moaning, “Oh god, this is so good. It’s like having an orgasm.”

Jon’s neck flashes with heat. You don’t say ‘orgasm’ in public.

“Why aren’t you eating?” Spencer now frowns. “Aren’t you hungry? The dishes in there were damn tiny.”

“A food stand in the street corner? They are unhygienic; you’re going to get food poisoning. And these hot dogs have probably zero nutritional value. And rats, did you ever hear what they said about these sausages having been made of rats?”

“If that’s true, rats are yummy,” Spencer says with a shrug, now stopping in the middle of the street. “Go on, eat it!” Spencer lifts a demanding eyebrow. “Jon. Seriously. Eat it.”

Jon lifts the hot dog to his lips, sighing internally. If he ends up puking his guts out, he is blaming Spencer. He takes a bite.

“Hmm?” Spencer asks.

Jon swallows. It kind of is like having an orgasm.

Spencer smirks at him knowingly, and a smile tugs at Jon’s lips. “Whatever,” he mumbles with a roll of his eyes, and Spencer laughs brightly. There’s that burn again, brief and fluttering deep in his guts, and Jon feels breathless for a second.

They get home closer to midnight, and Spencer should rest, he needs it. But when Spencer’s mouth finds his somewhere in the dark of the living room, warm and sweet, Jon responds, hands on the sides of Spencer’s face and pulling him closer.

They’re half-naked by the time they stumble through the bedroom door.

* * *

“This is adorable!” Brendon exclaims, holding up a baby jumpsuit with the text ‘Don’t fucking coo at me’ on it, and he drops it into the shopping basket without waiting for Spencer to reply. Spencer was going to say yes, anyway.

He can shop for the baby just fine without knowing the sex because he has never been archaic enough to believe that pink is for girls and blue is for boys. If he has a boy, then he is welcome to play with Barbies and dolls, and if it’s a girl, she is more than welcome to play with toy cars. Not guns, though. Spencer won’t let any kind of fake plastic gun or sword or weapon pollute the mind of his child. During the ultrasound they did yesterday, Gabe said, “Oh, I know which one you’re having!” in a sing-song voice before Andy glared at the nurse a little, but Spencer knows it’s a girl. He’s ninety percent sure, anyway.

Brendon eyes the pile of ‘Don’t fucking coo at me’ jumpsuits before he takes a second one and adds, “I’ll get one too. For the children I’ll one day have.”

“Good plan,” Spencer says with a smile, nudging his friend’s side slightly. Everyone in the store probably thinks they’re the happy couple – they’ve already gotten a handful of “Your baby is going to be so beautiful!” comments. Spencer tries not to feel bad. His growing bump has only given Brendon severe baby fever, so Spencer spends a lot of time complaining about how his feet and back ache and how he doesn’t fit into his favourite clothes anymore. Brendon, though, just looks at him longingly, like suffering from all the things mentioned would be heavenly. Spencer’s happy he’s over five months now. In his head it’s a hell of a lot closer to the finish line than he was just a few weeks ago.

“Look at these socks!” Brendon exclaims, picking up what must be the tiniest pair of socks Spencer has ever seen. All the tiny clothing is making Spencer realise how damn small the baby is going to be. It’s scary, to say the least, but it also stirs in a primitive, protective urge in him.

“We need socks to keep her feet warm,” he says, throwing ten pairs into the basket before he realises he is probably overreacting, so he puts one pair back.

They’ve already been to four or five shops, and Spencer has spent a ridiculous amount of money on baby things, but it’s all on Jon. Jon, after all, is the one paying for it. Jon also, unbeknownst to him, is paying for a few impulse purchases, like Brendon’s new ‘Cows ♥ vegans’ shirt. (“But you’re not actually vegan,” Spencer pointed out. “Pfft, details shmetails,” Brendon argued.)

“The baby shower will be so cool,” Brendon enthuses as they pay for their purchases. “I know you’re not supposed to know, but it will be awesome! Butcher’s agreed to do all the food, and Greta’s promised to sing! She might do a duet with Butcher. Oh, and then we’ll play Pictionary! We’ll have it at my house, oh, oh, I’ll try and dress up the dogs as storks! It’ll be so cute, I swear!”

Spencer’s phone starts ringing as they are throwing their excessive bags to the back of the car. It’s Jon asking them how they’re getting on, and Spencer promises that he’ll be back home right after grabbing some lunch.

It’s maybe a bit sad that they naturally gravitate towards Bden’s, even if it’s one of Brendon’s rare days off. As the owner, Brendon practically lives in the café, and even when he’s got free time, he likes checking up on the place.

Once they’ve settled down and are eating stuffed baked potatoes, Brendon says, “So you and Jon. What’s up there?”

Spencer lifts an eyebrow and shows his left hand with the fake engagement ring. Brendon knows perfectly well what’s up.

“No, not that,” Brendon says impatiently. “I mean now that you two are doing the nasty. That’s gotta put a new swing on things, am I right?” When Spencer shrugs indifferently, Brendon adds, “You... are aware of the couple likeness of you two these days? Right?”

“We’re pretending,” Spencer says with a roll of his eyes.

“Oh yeah, all the crazy sex you kids are having. Sure that’s fake. I mean, I’m just speaking for myself here, but I couldn’t have a fuck buddy without getting somewhat attached to them.”

“I am attached to Jon. In many ways. But it’s not like that,” Spencer argues, because it’s not. They’re becoming more and more comfortable around each other now, and Jon is definitely more tolerable the more Spencer gets to know him. Not that Jon is intolerable or ever was, but it’s little things like Jon freaking out that he didn’t hold a door open for Spencer when Spencer doesn’t even care. And Jon is beginning to understand that Spencer’s not obsessed with etiquette, and it’s changing Jon’s behaviour to more normal from this... posh, considerate, politically correct, rich snob. The more Jon changes, the more Spencer likes him. But the sex is in their agreement and shouldn’t be read into. “We’re friends,” he concludes. He is pretty sure they’re friends by now in their own way. They’ve got a few inside jokes, at least. It’s a start.

“Friends with benefits,” Brendon adds, and Spencer chooses to ignore him. Not everything is about sex. He and Jon have an agreement; he doesn’t expect anyone else to understand that.

He is eager to go home and show Jon all the things they got for the baby. Brendon is covered in bags when Spencer opens the door for him, saying a cheerful, “Hey, we’re here!” into the apartment. Jon’s tennis bag is by the door, and Spencer went to watch Jon play out of boredom last weekend, and maybe tennis isn’t as dull as he thinks it is. Jon looked good sweating, in any case. Jon gave this whole speech on how he will teach their kid to play, and the thought of Jon throwing a ball for their kid, who will try and take a swing at it, is possibly as adorable as some of the tiny baby hats they just bought.

Jon is in the living room with Ryan, who Spencer didn’t expect to see. Brendon dumps the bags onto the couch, rolling his shoulders slightly.

“Wow, you guys were busy,” Jon says as he walks over, curiously looking at the bags. He absently kisses Spencer’s cheek, hand caressing the bump. Spencer feels light-headed for a second before he focuses on the shopping bags again.

“Wait until I show you everything!” he beams, wondering where to start.

Ryan walks over and picks up one of the bags. “Children of the Earth? There’s a shop called Children of the Earth? It sounds like pseudo hippies giving their capitalistic exploitations a flower power name in hopes of getting vegan hipsters to fall for it. Well, guess it works.”

Brendon was glaring at Ryan before he even opened his mouth. Brendon now says, “All the clothes are organic and fair-trade. They’re earth-aware. These clothes are ethical.”

“They’re clothes.”

“You know, that attitude is not going to help us change this world.”

Ryan chuckles and shakes his head. “You do know that if the entire world turned vegan, it couldn’t support itself, right?”

“It already can’t support itself. Eating vegan food even once a week reduces a person’s carbon footprint by –”

“Just for you guys, I’ll double my long haul flights this year. And what about this?” Ryan now asks, pulling out a tiny baby shirt with two tick boxes, one for ‘War’ and one for ‘Peace’ with the latter ticked. “Antiwar t-shirts on a baby?”

“Well, they’re just clothes, it doesn’t matter what people wear,” Brendon mimics. “Except when it comes to you. It really matters what you wear.” He looks Ryan up and down, who is in a white suit. Ryan’s eyebrow twitches ominously.

“This coming from someone who apparently has spent his life in a nudist commune with his parents and can’t distinguish trash from class.”

Brendon’s eyes thin dangerously. “Like you know anything about me.”

“Okay then!” Jon intervenes loudly, and Spencer appreciates the intervention. Brendon can be bitchy sometimes, and Ryan is kind of a douche, but it’s like Brendon saves up all of his negative energy to unleash on the architect when he’s around. Spencer’s not crazy about Ryan either, but he decides to be above it. But Brendon just lets Ryan get under his skin instead of ignoring Ryan’s comments, and from what Spencer’s seen of Ryan, he is only this big of an asshole when Brendon’s around. If it’s going to be like this for however long they are all involved with each other, Spencer is going to lose his mind.

Jon sends Ryan to the kitchen to get them drinks, and Spencer starts showing Jon what they bought. “These are so tiny,” Jon says in astonishment as he studies a pair of baby shoes. Both of them fit on Jon’s palm.

“Just picture the tiny feet that’ll go in them,” Spencer adds, and Jon looks even more shocked. Spencer shows what they got from Eco Kids and Green Babies, and Jon rolls his eyes at the shirts with all the ridiculous slogans, but he’s got a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, making Spencer smile wider.

Spencer doesn’t even realise that Brendon is missing until he hears two argumentative voices erupting in the kitchen. Jon sighs heavily, and Spencer groans. “Brendon’s not usually this –”

“Ryan neither, I swear. He just starts acting like an immature brat around Brendon.”

Spencer is pretty sure Ryan always acts like an immature brat, but he lets it slide. Ryan now storms out of the kitchen. “Jon, I’m doing the baby shower, right? Right? Remember when we talked about this?”

Spencer blinks. Ryan organising a baby shower? What next? Hitler sets up a school for disadvantaged Jewish kids?

Brendon is at Ryan’s heels, looking extremely upset. “He’s not doing it, is he? Because I’ve already started making the invitations! I mean, it’s the carrier’s friend who organises it! That’s tradition!”

“Oh, like you care!” Ryan snaps. “Aren’t you supposed to be against tradition? Changing the world? You’re being racist. Or, like, a traditionist.”

“That is not a word, Ross. I have already got everything planned! And we’ll even do this baby naming game, trying to come up with names for the boy.”

“They don’t know the sex, Urie.”

“Well, it was conceived in a standing position, and everyone knows that’ll ensure it’s a boy,” Brendon huffs.

Ryan grimaces. “How do you know what position they were in?”

Jon glances at Spencer. “Uh, yeah, how does Brendon know that?”

“Um...” Spencer begins and busies himself with folding baby shirts.

“Look, I’ve already contacted the best party planner in LA about this baby shower, so don’t think you can just- just waltz in here and ruin it for me!” Ryan snaps.

“Why do you even want to have one? I mean, it’s for Spencer and the baby, and last time I checked you didn’t give a crap about either!”

“Hey, I’m gonna be the godfather!”

“No, I’m going to be the godfather!”

Ryan looks scandalised as he turns to them. “Jon, tell him.”

Brendon crosses his arms. “Spencer, you tell him.”

Spencer looks at Jon helplessly, and Jon says, “Let’s rationalise this.” Thank god Jon is a lawyer. Thank god. “The baby can have more than one godfather. If Spencer’s promised that Brendon can be one, then Brendon, I’d be honoured if you were. And Ryan, I’d also be honoured if you were. As far as the baby shower is concerned, I think – I think you two should organise it together. If you put all of that enthusiasm and energy together, I am sure you will come up with something amazing. Don’t you agree, Spencer?”

“Wholeheartedly,” Spencer says sincerely, completely on the same page with Jon. If they force Ryan and Brendon to work together, they will learn to get along. Jon can’t obviously live with this constant bitching either. It will traumatise their baby if every birthday party ends up in a shouting match between Uncle Ryan and Uncle Brendon.

“But –” Brendon starts.

“No. That’s final. We all need to compromise a little,” Jon says with finality.

Brendon glares at Ryan. “Well, we don’t need a party planner for one thing. We’re doing it ourselves, not just supplying the money for it, which is completely impersonal, by the way.”

“It’s not impersonal if you spend a grand on it,” Ryan argues, and more glaring ensues. “This would never have been a problem if you and Tom had stayed together,” Ryan tells Jon, adding to Spencer, “They even had the names of their kids figured out, you know. No chaos, it was all crystal clear.” Ryan glares at Brendon. “But now I’m stuck with this.”

“Oh trust me, the displeasure is all mine.”

Ryan quirks an eyebrow. “Witty.”

Brendon shrugs in faux modesty.

Jon is amazing enough to kindly escort both men out, leaving Spencer to sort out the clothes. There’s a small, nagging sensation in the back of his head now, and he can’t quite put his finger on it.

If he’s honest with himself, he can place it perfectly. He just chooses to pretend he doesn’t.

cont.

Relearning How to Breathe [5/7]

Wed, 02 Dec 2009 21:51:22 GMT

back

Jon must have dozed off at some point because when he wakes up, Spencer’s gone. The sheets aren’t warm with him anymore either, and Jon’s tired eyes focus on the digital clock’s screen. It’s close to four in the morning and he needs to wake up in just a few hours. Jon is usually aware of when Spencer goes back to his own room, even if he is half-asleep by then, but this time he has absolutely no memory of Spencer leaving.

He rolls over and tries to go back to sleep, taking the second pillow and pulling it to his chest as his body tells him that unless he cuddles something, sleep will simply not come. He didn’t use to have that problem.

Then he hears the front door opening, and he shakes the sleep off as he tries to figure out why Spencer would be coming or going at this hour. He pulls on a pair of clean boxers before walking to the living room, trying his best to wake up. The light’s on in the kitchen, cupboards opening and closing, and he pads to the doorway, eyes focusing on Spencer, who’s wearing pyjama bottoms and a hoodie. Keys are on the table, and Jon’s trying to figure out where he’s been.

“Hey,” he croaks and clears his throat.

Spencer turns around and smiles at him. “Hey. I totally woke you up again, didn’t I?”

“Maybe,” Jon grants, now spotting a tub of ice cream on the table. “You went out to get that?”

“Cravings,” Spencer says with a roll of his eyes, now dropping a spoon into the tub and digging in, peacefully resting against the kitchen counter with bed hair that sticks out all over. Jon can see the bump through the baggy hoodie.

He tries not to frown. “Um...”

“Oh, you want some?” Spencer asks, starting to look around for a second spoon. “I also got some milk, we ran out. And then some peanut butter and, I don’t know, I spent thirty bucks when all I wanted was ice cream.”

Spencer offers him a spoon, but Jon declines. He is still trying to wrap his mind around this. “But... shouldn’t I- What I mean is that... I thought I was supposed to go out in the middle of the night to buy ice cream.”

Spencer laughs. “Oh, that’s okay. I don’t mind.”

But Jon kind of does. The nursery is practically done now, which the interior designer did, and Spencer’s done a lot of shopping for the baby with Brendon, which Jon had nothing to do with, and he’s been to nearly all of the doctor’s appointments, but he just sits there and goggles at the ultrasound screen while Dr. Hurley and Gabe fuss around Spencer, and as far as Jon can see he only provides the money and then some sex, and he just- He thought he’d be more involved somehow.

He wants Spencer to wake him up and demand ice cream. He wants to pulls on pyjama pants and a hoodie and drive down to the nearest 24/7 shop and roll his eyes at the cashier and say his pregnant fiancé is making him his slave, and then they can laugh it off and everyone there will know that Jon is going to be a dad, and then he can drive home and deliver the ice cream to bed as was requested. In his head, that’s what it was supposed to be about.

“Next time, just make me do it.”

“No, you really –”

“Really,” Jon insists, and Spencer looks surprised but nods. Jon’s mind races with other possibilities. “You want to go shopping for baby toys and things next weekend? I could cancel tennis if you wanted to go. Or hey, you want to try out that expecting couples yoga thing Greta tried talking us into? We can. If you want to.”

Spencer smiles crookedly. “I so do not want to. I’m pregnant. I don’t bend.”

Phew. Jon didn’t really even want to go.

Spencer puts the ice cream tub down and looks thoughtful. Jon wonders if Spencer wants to have sex. He could live with that. He’s awake now, anyway.

“You do enough,” Spencer says. “You don’t have to, like, try harder or whatever. You already do more than we agreed to. You’ve let me move in, you’re giving our kid a home, you started a see-the-world fund –”

“College fund,” Jon corrects.

“See-the-world fund,” Spencer says stubbornly. “We should not presume that our kid will want to go to college. You can be a perfectly happy and successful human-being without higher education.”

“Even so, our baby will wear that jumpsuit with the Yale logo on it. My friends didn’t buy me and Tom that gag present for nothing,” he says. They both know that they have different plans for their child, but surprisingly they can joke about it. Jon figures that when it comes down to it, they both just want the child to be happy.

This time, however, Spencer’s doesn’t smile. Did he say something wrong?

“Point is that you do enough,” Spencer concludes and goes back to his ice cream silently.

“You okay?”

Spencer nods before suddenly blurting out, “So you and Tom. Like, I know you said you guys dated in college and stuff, but it just seems like everyone was expecting you two to get married. I’m just wondering.”

Jon leans against the doorframe. He doesn’t want to read into why Spencer is bringing this up. “You can ask me.”

“Tell me anything,” Spencer prompts, sounding perfectly sincere.

Jon’s not sure where to start, so he just gives the recap in more detail. His father and Tom’s father are friends, they grew up around each other, were good friends. They both went to Yale, Jon to study law and Tom to do medicine, and when they hooked up, they were the only ones who were surprised. Apparently his and Tom’s parents had been waiting for it to happen since they were kids. They were together for four years, it was pretty serious, but then they split up. They’re still friends. Kind of. They talk sometimes.

“Four years. Wow,” Spencer notes.

“It’s not as long as it sounds. By now we’ve almost been split up longer than we were together,” he says thoughtfully, not even sure how the years have added up.

“I once dated this girl named Haley for seven months, and that’s my record. So, to me, four years is a long, long time.”

Jon shrugs, silently deciding that he doesn’t like Haley, whoever she was. Seven months of Spencer. He hasn’t had that yet. “It didn’t feel long. Tom lives in Chicago these days.”

“Married?”

“Single. A cardiologist.”

Spencer mouths ‘oh’, making Jon smile a little. “You ever miss him?”

Jon’s never talked about this with anyone, so he has never really thought about it. “Sometimes. Like, hanging out or whatever. We were really good friends. He could play all of my favourite Chopin pieces on the piano too.”

“I used to play the drums when I was younger. Not a lot of drums in classical music.”

“Not really, no,” Jon agrees.

“So why did you break up?”

Jon shrugs. There was no major drama involved. Tom didn’t cheat, Jon didn’t cheat, and neither lied or betrayed the other. It wasn’t as much of a break up as them simply dissolving. And Jon doesn’t remember being particularly unhappy during their last year or so together. They were good. They knew how they worked as a couple, they had recently moved in together, everyone was asking when they’d get engaged. They talked about the future, kids, growing old together, an around the world honeymoon. Jon definitely wasn’t unhappy. He was good.

And then one day Tom vocalised the one thought that had been lingering in Jon’s head for a while. “I think I want to see other people.” Jon wanted to be it all for Tom, and he knew Tom wanted to be it all for him, but they weren’t. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, but it would have been easier if it had been. And then they both moved to new apartments, though they remained friends, but it was awkward. Jon remembers calling Tom and having a random man pick up, and it just wasn’t a good time for them to try to be the friends they once had been.

“I don’t know why,” Jon says eventually. Spencer is looking at the floor instead of at him, and that bothers him. “Not that I –”

“Jon.”

Jon shuts up. He was going to say something like he doesn’t regret it. He doesn’t worry much about the past because it’s already happened. He was going to ramble on about something like he’s still pleased with where he ended up, with Spencer in the kitchen at four a.m. with a tub of ice cream and Spencer with bed hair, that he’d rather be here right now than in the life he was supposed to have with Tom, but then he realises that he just might mean it and that he might say it because he wishes it’s something Spencer would want to hear, and both of those things freak him out.

Spencer lets out a shuddery breath, and Jon didn’t mean to make Spencer cry. “Uh, I didn’t mean to –”

“Jon, holy shit, come here,” Spencer says, voice eager, and Jon frowns but steps closer. Spencer laughs brightly, grabbing Jon’s hand, and his blue eyes are sparkling. Jon’s chest constricts. Spencer pulls the hem of the hoodie up, exposing his stomach and placing Jon’s hand on the bump. He moves it around, and Jon is confused to say the least. “There. Right there. Do you feel that?”

Jon does.

It’s a tiny fluttery sensation that isn’t much of anything, except that it’s everything. Their baby is kicking.

“Holy shit,” Jon manages. He doesn’t usually swear, but this is the most amazing thing he has ever experienced. Dr. Hurley told them to expect this. “Has it done this before, has it –”

“No, it – I mean, yeah, I’ve felt these- but I didn’t realise –”

Spencer sounds as amazed and blown away as Jon feels, and Spencer laughs, happy laughter that washes all over Jon and warms him from head to toe. “Fucking hell, it’s moving,” Spencer says, sounding breathless before he giggles. Jon has never heard Spencer giggling before, but maybe this occasion calls for the small, thrilled burst of laughter. “It tickles. Kind of.”

“That’s amazing,” Jon manages. His heart feels like it’s bursting, and he has never felt that in his life.

“Yeah.” Spencer’s voice is thin and he is blinking a lot, breaths uneven and shallow.

“Hey,” Jon whispers, stepping closer and sliding his fingers across Spencer’s neck. Spencer smiles, eyes still wide, and Jon kisses him softly. Something seems to shift into place when Spencer responds.

* * *

It’s a quarter past eight. Is it rude to leave yet? Most likely.

Ryan is bitching about Brendon. It seems like it’s his new favourite hobby. The current topic is the baby shower planning folder, which is colour-coded and has smiley faces in it. Ryan is seething, saying he has never seen anything as ridiculous. Pete is chuckling and sipping his margarita, and Jon is keeping his eyes on his wristwatch.

“And I just found out he’s not even vegan! How much of a hypocrite can a man be?” Ryan now demands to know, scandalised.

“Can we change the subject sometime soon?” Jon asks tentatively. He has listened to Reasons Why I Hate Brendon Urie for the past hour. It’s almost impressive if it weren’t so useless. Brendon’s alright, all things considered. Jon thinks Brendon might even be warming up to him a little.

“No! This man –” Ryan begins and then just stops like he has no words. He waves his hands around, causing Pete to double over in silent laughter. Ryan glares even more venomously. “Fine. You know what, he’s not worthy of my time or my thoughts. Okay, moving on. Jon! You share!”

Ryan now looks at him, finishing his drink in one big gulp. “Same old, same old,” Jon supplies.

“My god, you’re practically a professional orator and that’s all you’ve got?” Ryan asks.

“How are things with Spencer?” Pete enquires instead of just insulting him, which is a welcomed approach.

“Oh, yeah! Must be horrible, right? Everyone knows that pregnant people are hormonal, annoying, demanding, full of insane cravings, not to even mention that they cry all the time,” Ryan says like he’s an expert. “And you look pretty tired too.”

“I’m alright, actually.” Which he is. He just stayed up too late last night, having sex with Spencer, going slow, so slow it was torture, kissing Spencer everywhere, and feeling Spencer respond to the slightest of touches.

Apart from the day when Brent seemed like the catch of the year, Spencer is perfectly level-headed. Jon also thought that pregnant people weren’t supposed to want to have sex, but Spencer is the opposite, which is also alright. More than. Jon can’t remember the last time he’s had regular sex. He has also done a lot of things he never has before, with Spencer making up positions Jon didn’t know existed. He’s had a look through that copy of Kama Sutra with Lyn-Z in it as a model, but then he felt weird looking at the painter in the nude so he stopped. But the positions seem to exist and are also centuries old, and Jon has just been doing missionary for years on end.

Missionary is polite. It’s face to face and intimate. It’s the correct way to have sex. Or so Jon thought.

He’s not sure if Spencer’s aware that, when he panted “I wanna ride you” or “Take me from behind”, Jon tried his best to cover up the fact that he hadn’t actually tried those out before. He likes them, though. A hell of a lot. Though, as much as he loved Spencer riding him, groans deep from his chest and Jon’s head fucking swimming, they have to remove that from the position list soon due to the pregnancy.

Jon has been having mediocre sex for all of his life. He gets that now. None of his partners ever said anything, so maybe they believe mediocre to be good or thought Jon sucked. He’s not about to call up old flings and ask, though. Nor will he ask his friends because, even if they talked about sex, which they don’t, Jon has a feeling Ryan and Pete both have been more creative than he has.

But it’s not all about sex. Spencer’s funny and smart and gorgeous, Jon can tell Spencer’s going to be an amazing dad, so why would he complain? He can’t remember the last time he was this happy.

“It’s going well,” he concludes, feeling himself smile.

Pete quirks an eyebrow at him. “Are you... developing feelings for him?”

“He is not!” Ryan snorts.

“I’m not,” Jon adds in. He is so not. He will let Pete live in his little dreamland, though, if that makes his friend happy.

Ryan and Pete start to argue about Pete’s sanity as Jon feels his phone vibrating. He pulls it out instantly, smiling as he sees it’s from Spencer. could u stop on the way home 2 get white chocolate? craving :/

Jon instantly feels more alert. He’s been given a mission. White chocolate. He can do white chocolate. He can be the guy getting Spencer vast amounts of white chocolate.

“I need to go,” he says to his companions, who stop bickering and frown at him.

“Already?” Ryan asks disbelievingly, and Jon mumbles that something came up and it’s clearly urgent. Cravings are urgent. Surely.

Jon gets home twenty minutes later, shrugging off his jacket and throwing it over the backrest of the couch (he can put it away later. It’s not that big of a deal). He kicks his shoes off on the way too, impatiently knocking on Spencer’s door and walking in to find the other man lying on the bed in pyjamas and a baby book now resting on his chest.

“Chocolate,” Jon explains, lifting both hands with five bars in each. He can’t seem to take his eyes off of Spencer, feeling like he hasn’t seen him in forever, though it was just a few hours ago.

Spencer breaks into a smile. “Awesome. I didn’t expect you back yet, I thought –”

“We were finishing up just as you texted.”

Spencer keeps smiling, patting the space next to him. Jon climbs on the bed, unloosening his tie as he gets comfy next to Spencer. “Whatcha reading?” he asks as he offers Spencer one of the bars, and Spencer instantly digs in, eating and speaking at the same time about how this chapter describes the development of the baby each month, pointing at pictures. Jon moves in closer in order to see better, taking a chocolate bar for himself, his socked feet brushing and tangling with Spencer’s bare ones, and then he’s somehow got his arm around Spencer, who is pressed to his chest and still talking about the things in the book, and Jon keeps his eyes on the page, nodding and asking questions, fingers carding through Spencer’s soft hair, and then the book is forgotten and they’re kissing, soft and languid and not going anywhere, just their mouths, slow and gentle, and when they stop Jon’s mouth feels swollen. Spencer’s definitely is.

Spencer yawns sleepily, hair in front of his drooping eyes, and Jon presses a kiss to his temple. “Sleep,” he whispers, and Spencer hums tiredly, rolling onto his side, taking Jon’s arm with him, and Jon moves to spoon Spencer, their laced fingers on the bump.

Spencer feels solid and good in his arms, presenting something tangible. Jon presses closer and breathes him in.

* * *

“I don’t fit into my black jeans anymore!” Spencer complains loudly.

“That’s what happens when you’re six and a half months pregnant,” Jon points out, patiently waiting outside the room as Spencer is taking forever getting dressed. Jon hopes he’s dressed up appropriately for the occasion. He found a black t-shirt. No buttons or anything. That’s something.

Spencer finally comes out, hands running through his hair. Jon realises he is staring when Spencer asks, “What?” Jon doesn’t know where to start. Maybe from the hair that’s all messed up like they’ve just had excessive amounts of sex, which they even haven’t, or maybe from the eyeliner Spencer’s got on and how his blue eyes just pop out now. Or the clothes, black from shoes to the shirt, and Spencer looks good in black. Or maybe from the way that the tighter choice of paternity clothing just makes the bump really prominent, signalling all kinds of chuffed dad-to-be ideas to Jon’s brain that’s already occupied with fuck, you look good.

“Guess you’ll fit right in.”

Spencer rolls his eyes and points at the bump. “Oh yeah, with this especially.”

Jon drives them to Brendon’s house first, picking him up, and then they head to the venue where the band is playing. It’s some rock band that Spencer and Brendon are friends with. Jon can’t remember the name, it was something weird like My Academy Boy, which sounds like a porn movie to Jon’s ears.

Jon hasn’t been to a rock concert in years, and even the one time he went he felt out of place. He’s only going because Spencer asked him to, and Jon’s noticed how incredibly hard it’s become to say no to Spencer in anything at all. Spencer is quite possibly making Jon his bitch. Jon is kind of okay with that.

Brendon is buzzed, grinning madly when they get to the venue, and Jon looks at all the kids with black eye makeup and dyed hair and black clothes, and it’s a 21+ show, so the kids aren’t even kids. It strikes Jon how far removed he actually is from a life like that. “Wait here,” Brendon instructs and vanishes into the crowd, and Jon is happy to stick to the bar area, an arm securely around Spencer’s shoulders.

“I’m gonna miss this,” Spencer says suddenly over the music of the support band. “Nights like this. Once the baby comes...”

“You can still go. We’ll take turns. I’ll look after the baby if you want to go,” Jon instantly promises. Yup, he is totally Spencer’s bitch.

Spencer turns around and leans against the bar. “That’s the thing, though. Not sure if I’ll have the heart to leave my child for two seconds, let alone for an entire night.”

Spencer’s going to make the most amazing dad. Jon accidentally impregnated the best father candidate in the city.

“So tonight we should party like it’s our last night on earth!” Spencer concludes, grabbing Jon’s hand. “You wanna dance?”

Dance? To this... noise? Jon isn’t much of a dancer. And most of the people in the crowd just seem to be jumping up and down. Is that dancing?

Luckily Brendon comes back. “Backstage passes!” he beams, handing them both one each. Jon looks at it curiously as he hangs it from around his neck, and he lets Brendon and Spencer go dancing as he sticks to the bar. Jon calls a half-warning after them about no mosh pits for pregnant people, but Spencer just rolls his eyes at him. Fine, Spencer knows his limits better than Jon does. Jon sees Brendon and Spencer dancing, and Spencer is clearly enjoyed himself. Maybe the place isn’t that bad. It’s not Jon’s scene, but it doesn’t have to be.

Spencer returns when the actual band comes on stage. He’s out of breath but smiling. “I can’t party like I used to. Feet ache. Back aches.” The eyeliner is slightly smeared in the corners of Spencer’s eyes now and some of Spencer’s hair is glued to his forehead. It’s hot and humid inside the venue, and Spencer’s neck looks like it’s glistening. Jon can’t look away.

“Stay here with me, then,” Jon suggests, handing Spencer a glass of water. Spencer smiles, head nodding to the beat as the singer screams into the microphone.

They find a less loud corner at the back of the venue where they can still see the band. Spencer tells Jon all about the band he and Brendon started up when they were still teenagers, giving a blow by blow account of their big gig in Brendon’s dads’ twentieth anniversary party. Jon would never sing in public, let alone a song of his own. Spencer’s courageous doing all that. Spencer’s actually kind of amazing.

Spencer’s driving them home so Jon has a few beers, and maybe it’s the combination of that, the hot air, the loud music and the dark corner, that’s the reason behind how they end up making out right there. Jon hasn’t done this much kissing in the past three years as he has in the past three weeks, but he likes the thrill of it, reminding him of a time that he thought he had lost for good already. But now he’s overly aware of the people just behind his back, how someone might spot him, and though the chances of anyone recognising him here are low, the potential danger of it leaves him excited, followed instantly by slight guilt, which funnily enough feeds the adrenaline rush.

He is making out in public. At a rock concert.

He is so freaking badass.

“Love your lips,” Spencer smiles against his mouth, and Jon can feel his insides fluttering. Spencer’s lips are way more awesome than his.

A few people come to stand right next to them, chattering away amongst themselves, and Jon can see them from the corner of his eye, and fuck, someone is probably watching them now, which should not be hot or make Jon think that’s right, this one’s his and he can make out with him if he wants to.

Spencer breaks their lip-locked embrace. “I like this song,” he says in a rough voice, and Jon nods, their noses brushing. “We should find Brendon.”

“In a minute,” Jon agrees, curling his hand around Spencer’s hip, pulling him closer and resuming the kissing.

Jon feels like he should have done this when he was seventeen, not twenty-seven. Spencer just smiles against his mouth, and Jon is perfectly content where he is.

Someone taps Jon’s shoulder. “Hey, you got any weed?” a punk asks them. At least he’s got piercings and a pink Mohawk, therefore he’s a punk. Jon saw a documentary once. He has never been asked for drugs in his life. No one has ever considered him to look like he might be carrying.

“If you go to the bar and ask for Jimmy’s special, they should be able to help you out,” Spencer supplies.

“Awesome!” the punk says, offering his fist to Jon, and Jon knocks the guy’s knuckles with his own out of pure confusion. “Oh hey, look at what you’re packing!” the guy now adds as he spots Spencer’s bump. “No wonder with how you’re going at it!” He gives Jon’s shoulder a punch. “Good for you, man.”

“...Thanks?” Jon asks, surprised that a punk would be congratulating them or even smiling at the sight of a pregnant man. Jon thought that punks just spat on you and beat up old people, but he was clearly wrong. Jon is slowly realising that he has been wrong about a lot of things. “Thanks,” Jon repeats, firmer this time, and Spencer leans into him, smile now pressed to his neck, and Jon feels complete somehow as he plays with the mental image of Spencer in his rock gear, lips swollen and eyes shining, and Jon standing there in his black clothes, looking like he actually belongs there.

“We should go,” Spencer repeats, entwining his fingers with Jon’s and pulling him along. Jon doesn’t want to go, he was happy in the corner.

They find Brendon, who seems pissed they vanished on him. Jon only wipes his mouth and hopes they’re not too obvious. Brendon probably knows of their arrangement, anyway, and Jon has hardly been discrete tonight. Still, Ryan and Pete don’t know, and Jon is still giving his friends the fake couple version, not the we’re-actually-fucking-and-kissing-a-lot-anyway version. Jon is realising it’s harder and harder to distinguish between the two, which doesn’t even worry him all that much.

They get backstage with their passes, and Jon has never been backstage for anything before. Brendon and Spencer are hugging and greeting people, and rockers are patting Spencer’s belly excitedly. Spencer keeps introducing him to his musician friends, and Jon shakes hands with, “Jon Walker, pleased to meet you.”

Everyone likes him by default. There is none of the “what family are you from?” suspicion before the stranger identifies himself as being connected to one of the famous dynasties in the US. Neither is it followed by what Jon does for a living to determine how far he’s actually gotten in life. No one asks what university he went to, if he has a holiday home in Cape Cod or Santa Barbara. No one needs those facts to determine whether they like him or not. They don’t care. Jon doesn’t know what to do with the instant friendliness everyone automatically grants him, from the weed seeking punk to the support band’s singer.

“Jon!” someone says enthusiastically, and then Lyn-Z is giving him a huge hug and kissing both of his cheeks, and Jon didn’t even talk to her much that one time they met but apparently they’re buds now. “How do you like the painting I gave you?”

“It’s in the living room,” Jon says. “A definite conversation starter.”

“Fantastic!” she beams. Yes, a conversation starter for sure. Is an abstract rose? Is it a vagina? Is it something in between? “Don’t you love this band? They’re so good!”

“Sure,” Jon offers. The band is better than the support was. Lyn-Z moves to kiss and hug Spencer, and Jon thinks Lyn-Z is a bit too cuddly with his fake fiancé. Spencer just laughs at something Lyn-Z says as he laces his fingers with Jon’s again.

They follow the band’s performance from the side of the stage for two songs before the show is over, and then sweaty musicians are hugging Spencer and hugging Jon too. Jon awkwardly pats their backs.

They move to the dressing room where the band and all their guests are starting up a party.

“Brendon said you’re knocked up, but dude,” the guitarist says, staring at Spencer with wide eyes as he gets out a joint and fiddles with a lighter.

“Joe!” the bassist snaps.

“Yeah, Sisky?”

Sisky looks shocked. “You can’t smoke up! We’re in the presence of an unborn baby!” Sisky motions at Spencer, scandalised. Joe’s eyes widen in realisation and he mumbles sincere and rushed apologies. Jon didn’t think rockers would care, but they do. They might even match Jon’s concern in Spencer’s welfare.

Brendon is all over the tiny, tattooed singer, and Spencer informs Jon that Brendon occasionally has a thing with Frank. Jon might have seen Frank at Bden’s before.

They end up hanging out with the band, and Jon is talking and laughing freely, not wondering if he is remaining professional and appropriate. Brendon leaves with Frank, saving them having to drop Brendon home. Spencer sits next to him on the couch, hand on Jon’s knee. Joe asks how they met, so they tell him the story of Jon asking Spencer out for a date, which never actually happened. For the first time Jon feels bad for lying. He was never comfortable with it, but now it makes him feel sad somehow. He thinks, I wish that... but he leaves it there.

They leave later than planned as they got caught up in chatting with the band. When they get outside, the moon is high up, and Spencer looks irresistible with the messed up hair and makeup, and Jon feels like he’s going crazy just looking at him.

“Come here, fuck,” he urges, grabbing Spencer’s wrist and pulling him in for a kiss. He’s a bit drunk, which is also unheard of because drinking too much is a horrible miscalculation and contrary to good behaviour.

Spencer doesn’t seem to care, though. “You had fun, yeah?” he asks, and Jon nods happily. He did. That was the best night Jon’s had in a long, long time.

Jon is starting to admit that drinking too much might make him horny. Then again, it could simply be Spencer who has that affect on him.

They get home and Jon is quite possibly pulling Spencer to the bedroom. He doesn’t wait for Spencer to initiate the sex anymore. “Let me just wash this off,” Spencer says, motioning at the smeared makeup. Jon’s guts twist.

“No, uh, you should leave it on,” he blurts out, then feels the back of his neck prickling with heat. Fuck, did he just say that?

Spencer looks surprised, one eyebrow quirked. Jon is glad that the lights aren’t on in the bedroom.

“Or whatever,” Jon amends.

“That’s hot,” Spencer whispers quietly in a deep voice, and Jon’s palms are sweating for no apparent reason. “That you think it’s hot.”

“I didn’t –” he begins to explain.

“I like knowing what turns you on,” Spencer cuts him off, taking his bottom lip between his teeth and sucking on it, and Jon groans despite himself. His cheeks feel hot too, and he didn’t mean to share his turns-ons or some other perverted information you should never share with anyone. Better if you don’t even admit it to yourself. God, Spencer must think he’s a freak. A sick, twisted pervert, who gets off on dishevelled men with messed up makeup and swollen lips, who look like they need a good fuck. Jesus, he is clearly sick. Clearly.

But Spencer just moans and directs Jon’s hands on him, like that’s more than okay, that Spencer likes knowing and is into whatever Jon’s into.

Once they’re done, the orgasm bliss slowly fading away as Jon wonders if that was the best orgasm of his life, Spencer buries his face in Jon’s chest and whispers, “We should have more nights like this.”

Jon, who was initially expecting a disastrous evening, is surprised to realise that he strongly agrees.

* * *

“That is so hot,” Spencer agrees, giving Brendon his full attention. He’s killing time at the café, waiting for Jon to pick him up for dinner with his parents. Spencer is not looking forward to it and will happily take Brendon’s sexual conquests as a distraction.

“You have no idea. Frank just went down there, rimming me for ages. I thought I was going to die, I swear!” Brendon laughs as he hands a blushing customer her tea. The café is relatively quiet this late, and Brendon has plenty of time to gossip. “Anyway, I’m now waiting three days before calling him. Don’t want to seem too eager, right?”

“Right,” Spencer agrees. God, dating is a nightmare with all the made up rules and games.

“Though maybe I could cut it down to two days. I think there’s, like, a rule that if rimming is involved, you only have to wait for two.” Brendon’s brows are furrowed as he ponders this, wiping his hands onto the apron. He goes to pick up dirty dishes from the tables as Spencer sips on his smoothie. Brendon puts a pile of used plates onto the counter, and adds, “I thought we connected in any case.”

“His tongue connected with your ass.”

Brendon glares. “Don’t make me tickle you.”

Suddenly, the dogs begin to bark. Indie and Bogart usually aren’t territorial in the café as they love the attention they receive from the costumers. Spencer looks over his shoulder to see that Ryan Ross has walked in. Well, that’s surprising.

Brendon whistles, and the dogs come running to them. Brendon picks up Bogart and coos, “Yes, a bad man came in. You’re so smart! Yes, you are!” Bogart wags his tail happily, his tongue hanging out. Ryan walks over to them, and Indie growls slightly. Spencer wonders if Brendon has managed to do Pavlovian experiments on the dogs where the scent of Ryan has them baring their teeth. He wouldn’t put it past Brendon.

Ryan eyes Spencer suspiciously, a pink folder beneath his arm, before stating, “We need to talk, Brendon.”

Brendon rolls his eyes. “Spencer knows about the baby shower. We can talk about it in his presence.”

“Well, I think we shouldn’t do it in his presence.”

“Well, I think –”

Spencer intervenes with, “I’ll be gone in a minute, anyway. Waiting for Jon to pick me up.”

“Ah. Dinner with the parents-in-law,” Ryan says, looking him up and down briefly. “Good... luck with that.”

Definitely not helping with Spencer’s nerves here. It’s the second time the Walkers have invited them over. The first time Spencer couldn’t make the brunch because he had promised to go surfing with Brendon (or watch Brendon surf to be more precise), which probably pissed Victor and Charlene off even more. Victor has asked Spencer a few times how he’s feeling, but only when someone else has been present and Victor is expected to show interest. The Walkers inviting them for dinner is surely a sign of them finally coming around to the idea of him and Jon having a child together, but Spencer still wants to impress them or at least defrost their relations.

“Oh my god!” Brendon suddenly whispers, eyes wide and nailed to the doorway. “Oh god, Frank just walked in! Shit, fuck, how do I look?”

Spencer spots the tattooed man looking around for an empty table. Brendon shoves Bogart to Spencer and hurries to take his apron off before carding his hair quickly. “You look great,” Spencer assures Brendon, who flashes him a smile, almost pushing Ryan out of the way and heading over.

“Did that guy walk out of a prison?” Ryan asks as he straightens his jacket, eyes thinning at Brendon, who is new chatting with Frank, hips tilted and a hand on Frank’s arm.

“Maybe a recording studio. Musician.”

Ryan scoffs loudly and starts muttering about guys with eyeliner, then asking, “You don’t want a fucking environmental awareness quiz at the baby shower, do you?” Spencer shakes his head. Sounds boring as hell. Ryan breaks into a grin. “I told him you wouldn’t like that! Ha!” Ryan marches over to Frank and Brendon with a triumphant look on his face.

Spencer spots Jon’s Jaguar coming to a stop outside the café, and he decides to leave before the situation escalates. Brendon’s tone is already louder as he snaps something at Ryan, and Frank is looking at the two with a raised eyebrow.

“Have a good night!” Spencer tells them before making an exit.

Jon is on the phone when Spencer gets into the car, giving a wave and buckling himself. Jon smiles and continues, “Yes, that’s – No, for Monday! We’ve been saying Monday all along! You can’t change – No, that’s unacceptable to my client. Completely unacceptable. Yes, that’s what I’m – No, you’re – Yes, exactly! Exactly! Okay. We’re on the same page now. Monday. Yes. Bye.” Jon takes in a deep breath as he ends the call. Spencer doesn’t ask if it’s been a particularly stressful day for Jon because he knows by now that it’s business as usual when Jon is arguing and yelling on the phone.

“Hey,” Spencer offers, smiling widely and watching some of the tension drain from Jon’s shoulders.

“Hey,” Jon returns, leaning over to peck him on the lips. “I meant to come inside, but –”

“That’s okay,” Spencer assures him, happy to have had the excuse of leaving the imminent warzone. Jon spent the entire day in court, so Spencer hasn’t seen him since morning. He feels the knots inside his chest loosening now that Jon is there again, and Spencer slides his hand to the back of Jon’s head just to hold him close for a minute.

“You smell nice,” Jon notes, their foreheads pressing together. Spencer laughs. Maybe they don’t have to go to the Walkers now. Maybe they could just go home.

Spencer has no such luck, however. Jon parks in the enormous driveway where three cars are already parked. A servant lets them in, and Jon places a guiding hand to the small of his back as they head for the ground floor drawing room. The tension in Jon’s shoulders is back.

The servant announces their arrival to Charlene, who is sipping on a glass of red wine when they walk in. They’re not even late, and she still manages to look displeased. She asks Spencer how he is, and Spencer starts to babble on about how much the baby is kicking now, hoping to find common ground with Charlene. She could talk about what it was like when she was pregnant with Jon or something. Anything.

“Fascinating,” she notes as the servant comes back with drinks for them.

“Where’s Father?” Jon asks as they take seats on the loveseat opposite the armchair Charlene occupies. Spencer’s hands are sweating for no real reason at all. The tie around his neck feels too tight.

“He’ll be back in a minute, he’s just showing our guest around.”

“Guest?” Jon asks.

“Didn’t we tell you?” Charlene asks, and Spencer hopes it’s not someone terribly famous and influential because then he’ll just get even more agitated. Oh god, hopefully they don’t make him talk politics. He’ll get shot on the spot when he says weed should be legalised. “Ah, here they are now!”

They all stand up as the door reopens, and Victor walks in with a handsome man some years Spencer’s senior. He’s got dirty blond hair that is a bit unruly, but his smart, grey suit still makes him look professional. Jon goes oddly rigid next to him.

“They’ve arrived then!” Victor says and chuckles. Spencer’s never heard him chuckle before. Victor looks kind of... happy even? “Introductions aren’t necessary, I’m sure.”

The blond man is smiling brightly. “Jon! My god!”

“T-Tom,” Jon manages, sounding shocked.

Spencer freezes up, looking between Jon and the other man. Tom. Tom? The ex-boyfriend? The doctor? The rich, handsome doctor that Jon’s parents loved and clearly still do?

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Tom marches over, still smiling, and gives Jon a hug. Jon hugs him back – tightly, Spencer notes. The two pull apart, and Jon asks, “How are- I mean, how- I just –”

Tom laughs. He’s got a nice laugh. Tom’s happy to be there, and Spencer just stares at him like he has come from some other dimension. Spencer’s going to wake up any second now from this ridiculousness. “Your parents didn’t tell you?” Tom asks.

“Well, we thought it’d be a pleasant surprise!” Victor says, now giving Jon’s shoulder a squeeze.

“Yeah, of course, I –” Jon is flustered. Flustered.

Spencer stands by, thinking someone should notice him already. He’s only seven months pregnant, for god’s sake. It’s Tom who does, still smiling like it’s been carved into his face, and no one can be that smiley. Who is Tom kidding?

“You must be Spencer! And the rumours are true,” he notes, giving the bump a slightly awed look. Spencer places a protective hand on it without meaning to, accepting Tom’s extended hand with the other. “Tom Conrad.”

“Spencer Smith.”

“Not for long, right?” Tom asks. “When’s the wedding?” He turns back to Jon. “I can’t believe you’ve got a kid on the way! And a stunning fiancé carrying it! It’s so... bizarre! It’s surreal!”

Jon laughs nervously. “Surreal, yeah. It’s definitely surreal. We’re not – We’ve not decided on the wedding, we’re focusing on the baby first.”

“Smart. That’s smart,” Tom nods and then he shakes his head. “Can’t believe you’re getting married, Jon. Or that you’re going to be a father soon. It’s so... surreal.”

“You said that,” Spencer notes dryly, and Tom smiles at him.

Spencer is not fooled, however. Did Tom think Jon was going to wait for him forever? Was Jon waiting? Did Tom expect them to get back together? Maybe. Obviously. Shit, what the hell is Spencer going to do if Tom wants Jon back? Throw his heavily pregnant body between them and demand that Tom keep his filthy hands to himself?

Charlene and Victor now take the lead, ushering them along to the dining room. Victor, as the patriarch, sits at the end of the table. They seat Jon and Tom next to each other, and Spencer ends up opposite Tom and next to Charlene.

Spencer can’t believe Jon’s parents. A pleasant surprise? Screw that. They planned this. Spencer is going to have the baby in two months, and Jon’s parents bring the ex-boyfriend back into the mix. Spencer wants to punch their lights out. He can’t compete with that. He can’t compete with the world’s youngest cardiologist. (“No, no, Charlene, you exaggerate. I’m the youngest in the US, not the world.” Whatever.) Charlene and Victor don’t care about the baby. If they are setting Jon up on unexpected blind dates with Tom, then they clearly hope that Jon will come to his senses, and Spencer and the baby will vanish. Well, fuck them too. Maybe Spencer doesn’t want his child to be surrounded by jerks like them either.

But that’s not the worst of it. The worst is Jon laughing about his shared Yale memories with Tom, and then Victor starts a conversation about the stock market, and Spencer eats silently, completely left out of the conversation. No one is paying attention to him. Jon isn’t paying any attention to him, and Spencer feels slightly nauseous. The only person paying attention to him is Tom, who asks if it’s true he is the firm receptionist and then telling Jon he’s a dog and laughing it off, and it’d just. It’d be so much easier if Spencer could hate Tom for the signs of him being a horrible person, but there are none. Tom is so goddamn nice. He doesn’t have the slightest hint of sarcasm in his tone when he asked for confirmation on Spencer’s occupation – it was just curiosity. And Tom tries to involve him in the conversation, though he fails, and Tom is just... nice. The only nice person from Jon’s world he’s met, apart from Pete, and Spencer has to make twice the effort to hate Tom for his decency as a human-being. Jon is laughing and smiling, completely lost in the conversation.

It can’t possibly get any worse.

“What brings you to LA?” Jon asks.

“I’m moving back here.”

Okay, so it can get so much worse.

Tom explains all about the hospital he is transferring to, and it sounds like he will be rolling around in money whilst surrounded by adoring fans. Must be amazing to be Tom. Charlene and Victor are laughing at all of his jokes, and when Charlene exclaims, “Oh, it’s such a shame you two parted ways,” Spencer just has to excuse himself and get the hell out of there.

Charlene and Victor think their engagement is real. You don’t say that you wish your son was dating the ex when the new one is present. That’s impolite, inconsiderate and rude. Victor and Charlene are treating their son’s chosen one like trash, and Jon is only chuckling with Tom.

Spencer takes longer than necessary in the bathroom, trying to calm down.

Why would Jon even look at him twice? Maybe normally Spencer might stand a chance, but now? When Tom is there, better looking, richer, smarter, more amazing in just about every possible way?

He calls Brendon, who picks up so he didn’t go home with Frank, at least. “Is something wrong?” Brendon asks instantly, as if he can sense it.

“Jon’s incredible ex is here,” he groans, looking at his reflection in the mirror. Thinner, too. Tom is definitely thinner and without a huge basketball stuck inside his guts.

He expects Brendon to blow up like he feels like doing, ranting about the Walkers, not to mention Jon, who doesn’t even care. But instead Brendon just says, “So?”

“So?!” Spencer snaps.

“Um... you’re not... a real couple?”

“But they don’t know that!”

“Yeah, but... It’s not real. As long as you both keep up the act, it doesn’t matter, does it?”

“Well, it – I mean that it...”

Brendon has a point. Spencer hates it when he has a point.

“But it bothers you. So the ex is not the problem here, is it?”

Probably not.

Spencer knows where this is going. He doesn’t need Brendon to spell it out for him. Spencer’s been there for all the kisses and touches and Jon generally being kind of breathtaking, so fine. It’s not real, but Spencer wishes it was.

There. He said it.

But he’s also seven months pregnant, so of course he wishes it was real. He wishes he was in a stable, loving relationship with his fiancé instead of actually being single, instead of being the uneducated, stupid, idiotic, useless, unwanted knocked up receptionist he is. Is that so damn surprising?

A knock on the door. “Spencer? You okay in there?”

It’s Jon’s voice. “I gotta go,” he mumbles into the phone.

Jon came looking for him, at least, and Spencer opens the door and assures Jon that he’s just fine. “Just needed a break,” he admits, expecting Jon to heave a sigh and say that he totally gets it and that he can’t believe his parents. Jon just frowns, clearly not aware that Spencer is having the shittiest time in the history of mankind. Even Jesus had more fun on the cross. “So Tom,” Spencer starts.

“Yeah, I know. Totally weird seeing him again,” Jon agrees as they head back to the dining room of hell. “But nice too, you know?”

“Nice?”

“Yeah. It’s good to catch up with him.”

“Sure.”

Spencer is hoping for Jon to take a hold of his hand, place a guiding hand to the small of his back. Something. Anything.

Jon does neither.

* * *

Brendon says that the baby shower will cheer him up. He’s hopefully right. Spencer is done moping because he can’t figure out how to seduce a man he is already sleeping with, and he’s not even sure if he wants that. Tom embodies all Jon wants in a man, and Spencer is none of those things. But he likes Jon. He genuinely likes him, despite that they have nothing in common and that Jon is an emotionless douchebag. Or so Spencer thought before he got to know him. Jon is not emotionless, for one thing, and neither is he a douchebag, and the more time they have spent together, the more they seem to have in common.

Spencer likes Jon. It’s hard not to when Jon is kissing and hugging him, discussing baby names with him, cuddling in bed with him and smiling at him with shiny eyes, and all of it just has this idiotic whoosh-light-headed-butterflies-heart-skips affect on him.

He has a whole well of feelings for Jon, and he was fine ignoring that, hoping Jon maybe had a tiny well of his own too, and then their wells could grow and someday overflow, and it’d be like from a Richard Gere movie. With... wells in it.

He is no longer sure where their agreement starts and where it ends. When is Jon doing things he wants to and when is it out of obligation? And if Jon is running away with Tom tomorrow and abandoning his illegitimate child, then Spencer is better off not exploring his feelings.

The baby shower is a welcome change as it will be Jon-free and he can forget all about the problematic situation. He can also forget about Tom Conrad, who told Jon they “should have lunch some time”. Nothing screams seduction like lunch, and Spencer will lose Jon before he ever even had him.

And what about the baby? What if his child grows up calling Tom ‘dad’?

He hates Tom. God, he hates Tom.

He arrives to Brendon’s house, noting the abundance of cars parked outside. No one could be bothered with the whole secrecy thing, so they just agreed on when he’d show up. When Brendon opens the door and the chattering voices hit him, Brendon looks odd with a strained smile and says, “Hi. Tom’s here.”

Spencer blinks. “What?”

“Ryan invited him behind my back. Don’t worry, I plan to castrate Ross very, very soon.”

“Fuck.” Spencer doesn’t want to attend his own baby shower anymore. He groans and turns around, but Brendon is quick to grab his arm and pull him inside.

“You can’t go,” he hisses under his breath. “It’s your baby shower! Don’t let that hunk of a doctor ruin it for you.”

“You noticed, huh?”

Brendon’s mouth twists. “He’s really nice, Spence,” he says miserably, like it’s hurting him to say it.

“I know.” God, he knows.

Okay, two can play the game of The Most Amazing Human Being of the Year. Spencer will fight back with Tom’s weapons: he’ll kill the bastard with kindness. That’ll show him. It’ll show Jon Spencer’s not petty, that he can be amazingly understanding and welcoming.

But then they’ll all become friends, and it’ll be even worse when he finds Tom and Jon making out in the bedroom, and they’ll say, “We thought you’d understand.”

Spencer grits his teeth. “Okay. Fuck. Just... if you see him talking to me, then come save me.”

“Always,” Brendon says valiantly, linking Spencer’s arm with his and pulling him to the living room.

There are more people than Spencer thought there’d be. William, Macy and Patrick from the office are there, Greta and Butcher from the café, Frank is representing My Academy Boy (and maybe is also there as Brendon’s date), and Spencer is pleasantly surprised to spot Andy, Gabe and Lyn-Z, who he wasn’t expecting. Those are his side. The rest, who are all wearing suits, must be the ones Ryan felt should attend. Pete’s welcome, of course, but then Spencer spots Tom, and right on time the baby kicks, obviously protesting the presence of the infuriating dream son-in-law. Spencer doesn’t recognise the rest. Well, if they came with gifts, maybe it doesn’t matter. Spencer doesn’t like getting gifts, he’s more about giving them. But after he’s said hello and hugged everyone who is not in a suit, he spots the table loaded with presents and, well. All he did was get drunk at the office Christmas party.

Charlene isn’t there, though she was invited out of common courtesy. Luckily, she likewise had the courtesy to say it clashed with her manicure. Spencer doesn’t really want her there, anyway, because every day he manages to like her less. She told Spencer in no uncertain terms that the boy should be called Bernard in honour of her father. Firstly, no fucking way, and secondly, it’s a girl. Spencer knows it’s a girl and he keeps telling that to everyone, but no one seems to listen except Ryan, but Spencer is pretty sure Ryan sides with him only to piss off Brendon.

As for the actual party, Ryan and Brendon really went for it. Really. The plastic cups and paper plates have baby pictures on them, and Indie and Bogart both have wings attached to their backs, presumably trying to be storks. Poor dogs. The living room is decorated accordingly with two banners, one with IT’S A GIRL and the other with IT’S A BOY. Spencer knows without asking that Brendon and Ryan were glaring at each other as they put those up. There are also baby balloons. Balloons... shaped like a baby.

Spencer has no words.

The worst part is not the baby shaped piñata (which Spencer refuses to take a swing at because what will that say about his parenting skills?), it’s the ‘Dad-to-Be’ sash Brendon tries to convince him to wear. No. That’s where he draws the line.

He finally sits on a chair decorated with blue and pink ribbons and starts opening all the presents. It’s pleasant, almost, though they are listening to classical music, which isn’t really festive. Ryan must have twisted Brendon’s arm for that one.

He gets what he was expecting: a few impersonal gift baskets with lotions and soft toy bunnies from those who have no imagination. He gets chocolate too, which is more than welcomed. He gets a ‘My First Book’ from William and Macy in which he and Jon can record the first two years of the baby’s life, slots for ‘First Step’, ‘Lock of Hair’ and the rest of it. It makes it so much more real somehow, and Spencer can’t help but smile brightly as he goes through it. Frank gives him a My Academy Boy t-shirt small enough to fit a baby, and it’s the coolest gift ever. It takes forever for them to go through all the presents, and Spencer feels slightly guilty for being just as excited about each of them. Greta and Butcher give him a gift card for baby yoga classes. Dog yoga, pregnant people yoga, baby yoga. Where will it end? Spencer mutters a ‘thanks’ nonetheless.

Everyone is chatting and gossiping and gushing about the baby, at least his guests are, and Spencer begins to relax as it’s turning out as he wanted it. Then Brendon hands him the next present.

“From the future grandparents,” Spencer reads the card of a small, flat box, and the guests aww. Spencer only lifts a sceptical eyebrow as he opens it, finding a star shaped nameplate meant for bedroom doors. It says ‘Bernard Walker’ on it.

Some people. Some fucking people.

Spencer hands Brendon the gift, not commenting on it. The guests look at each other uncomfortably. “What then?” Spencer asks.

There’s a huge box on the floor, and Ryan says, “Oh, that’s from me.”

Great. A huge box. From Ryan. Possibly a bomb?

“You can just lift the box off it,” Ryan supplies. Brendon does, revealing a wooden toy horse under it. Spencer looks at it, surprised, and Brendon pokes the head, making it rock back and forth. It’s actually a unicorn as it has a horn on its forehead. The unicorn has a tiny seat on its back and handles that stick out from the sides of its head. It’s been painted with several, bright colours. The guests sigh at the sight of it, and Ryan says, “Hope you like the colours. I spent a long time choosing them.”

“You painted it?” Spencer asks disbelievingly.

“I made it,” Ryan corrects.

“Did not!” Brendon laughs spontaneously before his eyes widen. “You made this?”

Ryan shrugs. “Yeah. Kinda good with my hands.” Spencer is speechless. Making a toy unicorn must have taken hours upon hours. And Ryan did it all by himself. “I mean, she won’t be able to play with it yet, but once she grows up a bit –”

“He’ll love it,” Brendon says.

“And whenever she plays with it, she can think of her Uncle Ryan,” the architect adds with a smug grin, and Brendon’s eyes thin slightly.

“That’s amazing,” Spencer says, completely sincere. His throat feels oddly tight as he pictures his daughter rocking back and forth on the horse made especially for her, as unique as she is. “Thank you.”

“Eh,” Ryan says with faux modesty.

Brendon says, “Oh, open mine next!” He hands Spencer an envelope. It turns out that Brendon’s given him fifteen baby-sitting tokens so that the parents get to take the night off and the boy gets to spend some quality time with his Uncle Brendon.

Ryan scoffs. “Cheap.”

“Love and attention,” Brendon snaps back, turning to Spencer with a smile. “But as I didn’t want to seem stingy, I also put a grand on the baby’s see-the-world fund just in case.”

Spencer’s jaw drops. “No. No, you – Brendon, that’s too much!”

Brendon gets a confused expression on his face. “Nothing’s too much for you, silly. And that also applies to my nephew.”

“Brendon,” Spencer says, but his voice breaks and he blinks a lot, and he manoeuvres himself to stand up to give his best friend a huge hug.

Spencer hangs on for too long to blink away the moisture in his eyes, and Brendon just hugs back and kisses his temple, whispering, “I love your stupid face.”

Spencer laughs. “Yours too.”

Spencer pulls himself together, clearing his throat as they pull apart. Ryan looks annoyed despite most of the guests now poking and chattering excitedly about the toy horse he made.

“And that was all of the presents, I think,” Brendon says, looking at the pile of unwrapped presents on the table.

“I’ve still got one,” comes a familiar voice, and then Tom is there. Spencer managed to briefly half-shake his hand before proceeding to ignore him. Tom gives him an apologetic smile. “I came last minute, truth be told, so I didn’t exactly have time to put much thought into it.”

“That’s okay. Nice that... that you came,” Spencer manages to grit out.

“Um, and it’s not – I mean, I suppose it’s more for the parents than the little one, but here you go,” Tom says, handing Spencer an envelope. More envelopes.

Spencer doesn’t want to open it, but he has to. Another gift card, this one to... Los Amantes Resort?

“It’s this weekend getaway package. The place is just a two hour drive away. I figured with, like, the baby stuff and everything, people forget about the parents. But you guys need some time for yourselves too, you know? Last chance before the baby comes,” Tom says, and he might even sound a bit nervous. “It’s also a spa, so there should be massages and things.”

“Sure. Great. Thanks.” Spencer flashes him a smile.

How dare he? Is he saying Spencer isn’t paying attention to Jon? Does he think their love life is dying? Their love life is just fine, thanks. What nerve.

“So,” Tom begins, apparently determined to small talk further, but Brendon says, “Tom! Oh my god! You’re a doctor, right? I need to show you this mole I’ve got!” Brendon successfully drags Tom away from him, and Spencer exhales in relief.

He looks at the gift card in disdain and puts it on the table with all the other presents. Butcher and Greta are getting ready to play for them, so Spencer decides to stuff his face with vegan snacks and enjoy the rest of it, ignoring the ‘Bernard Walker’ star meant for a person Spencer doesn’t want to raise, doesn’t want his kid to turn into, and ignoring Tom’s present, presumptuous and insulting, a direct call to arms from Mr. Perfect.

Magically, the baby shower has not made him feel that much better.

cont.

Relearning How to Breathe [6/7]

Wed, 02 Dec 2009 21:49:06 GMT

back

Jon loves Tom’s gift. Well, of course Jon does. And it hardly matters they had sex twice last night (their love life is not fading, goddammit), the second time at three in the morning when Spencer shamelessly shook Jon awake for it, because now it’s morning and Tom is still winning. Instead of a ‘good morning’, he gets, “That’s so nice of Tom, isn’t it?”

Jon’s fingers slide over the bump, tracing patterns on it and pressing to his side. “You’ve got pillow imprints on your cheek,” Jon chuckles in an amused voice. Well, Spencer’s sorry, he was sleeping. “You okay?” Jon now asks, a frown in his voice.

Spencer keeps his eyes closed and nods. “Got a headache.”

“Huh.” Jon is still pressed against him, perfectly naked like he is, and it’s warm under the covers on a cosy Saturday morning, and Spencer wants to be happy so badly, but he can’t. He just can’t and he wants to fucking cry because he didn’t mean to do this, to get knocked up and ruin Jon’s life. Charlene and Victor don’t even care, and he knows it bothers Jon, and one day Jon will wake up and realise that everything’s all wrong, and it’s Spencer who’s to blame. And then Jon will hate him, and –

“Hey,” Jon’s voice comes, slow and soft in his ear, and Spencer didn’t realise he was starting to hyperventilate.

“Just.” Spencer swallows hard. “Just sometimes I wake up and it- it’s a bit too much, you know? Waking up seven and a half months pregnant and...” With Jon next to him. He likes that. He wishes he didn’t. He somehow figured that it could stay like this after their daughter is born, he and Jon could stay like this, and then they might be a real family. They could try.

“I love seeing you getting bigger and bigger,” Jon says happily. “I can’t wait. Can you? I feel, like, more and more impatient. All nervous, but excited.”

Spencer bites on his lower lip, thinking their future over and over. “Should we talk about the arrangement?”

Pause.

“Why?” Jon sounds genuinely puzzled. “Things are good, right?”

They’re too good, and this happy co-existence they’ve gotten used to is being threatened from all sides. Spencer doesn’t belong in Jon’s world, and no one in it wants him there.

“Sure,” Spencer says because he wants to think about something else.

He drives over to Brendon’s house shortly after breakfast to pick up the rest of the gifts from last night’s successful baby shower. Brendon knows that he has feelings for Jon. Spencer didn’t have to do a big of confession at any point, seeing as Brendon knew before he felt comfortable admitting it. He needs to rant to get it off his chest, come up with ways to convince Tom to join Doctors Without Borders and wave him off as he heads for Sudan. Good luck with that. Spencer knows that Brendon will just say he needs to tell Jon how he feels, but yeah, sure, talking. Since when did that help anyone? Jon would just laugh in his fucking face.

Spencer is in a bad mood when he uses his spare key to get into Brendon’s house. The dogs come to greet him, Bogart stretching like Spencer woke him up, but Brendon is nowhere in sight. He walks into the living room, which is somehow even more chaotic than it was when he left last night. It looks absolutely trashed. He thought Brendon and Ryan were supposed to clean up. He rolls his eyes and lifts a chair that’s been knocked over.

“Spencer,” Brendon’s surprised voice comes from behind him.

“Hey. Came to pick up the rest, but god,” he begins, heaving a dramatic sigh as he turns around.

Brendon’s eyes are wide and he’s got that look. The one he had when he broke Spencer’s bike when they were twelve, the one he had when he accidentally fed hash brownies to his grandmother. Brendon’s got his classic caught red-handed look as he stands there in a white t-shirt and black boxers, hair messy like he just got up.

Spencer quirks an eyebrow. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing!” Brendon laughs. “Nothing, dude, just – Nothing. Absolutely... nothing. Right, gifts! Let’s get your gifts, we should –”

The bedroom door opens and Ryan stumbles out, belt unbuckled and clothes hanging off of him awkwardly, the tie loose around his neck and buttons done wrong. Blood leaves Ryan’s face at the sight of them, and Brendon’s face flushes bright red. Spencer blinks. No. No way.

Holy mother of Christ.

“I’ll be going now,” Ryan blurts out bluntly.

“Okay,” Brendon rushes out, nodding excessively and looking at anything that isn’t Ryan.

“Spencer,” Ryan says with a stiff nod and then the architect is already out of the house.

No. What? No. Wait. He didn’t just see –

But they hate each other.

“You... slept with Ryan?” he finally asks, dumbfounded.

Brendon twists his hands, looking torn. “Yes. No. Maybe? Okay, yes. Yes, I did, but let’s never talk about. Let’s just – Let’s never bring this up again. Please?” Brendon sounds desperate and horrified, so Spencer just nods in agreement. Oh god, he so does not want to know. Fuck, he is traumatised enough. He thought Brendon had a thing with Frank. Brendon still looks as shocked as Spencer feels, so they are most likely equally surprised. His friend says, “Let’s clean up in here, okay?”

“I need to sit down,” Spencer mutters, clearing away space on the couch and carefully sitting down on it. It’s not easy anymore with his bump. Brendon starts gathering paper plates, and he moves slightly awkwardly. Oh god. “Are you limping?” Spencer asks. Too much information. Way too much.

“I am not!” Brendon gasps, sounding scandalised. His mouth open and closes as he turns an even brighter shade of red. “Okay. Maybe.” Brendon swallows hard and then rushes out, “But no wonder after last night, I mean, oh my god, he doesn’t look like much, but Jesus, he just kept going, he –”

“Uh, did we not just agree never to discuss this?!” Spencer pleas. Mental images of Ryan Ross having sex. No, no, think about puppies or car parts or –

“Hello?! I need to talk about this!” Brendon says demandingly. “I’m having a crisis! I just had a fuck marathon with Ross, and it was probably the best sex of my life, and I don’t even like him! But he- he’s good, Spencer, he is so good, and his cock, oh my god, he’s got this perfect and thick nine inch cock –”

“Whoa, whoa!” Spencer interrupts, holding his hands up because Jesus Christ, information overload.

“I loved his cock. I almost couldn’t even take him, but I- Oh god,” Brendon groans and buries his face in his hands. “I’m a slut. I’m the biggest slut in LA. I have no morals. Shame on me! Shame on –”

“Stop being so dramatic and come here,” Spencer says with a roll of his eyes, and Brendon sits next to him on the couch, staring ahead of himself in horror. “So you had a bit of sex. With Ryan, which, you know –”

“Bad. Bad Brendon.”

“It happens! I fucked Jon, didn’t I?”

Spencer is trying to be a supportive in Brendon’s time of temporary insanity.

Brendon shakes his head vigorously. “But that was fate. Greta got out her tarot cards last week and I asked, and that was totally meant to happen. This is different. Ryan infuriates me so much, and I- I hate his stupid face and his ugly clothes and his polluting car and his medieval opinions, and I hate, hate, hate him –”

“So the logical thing was to go to bed with him.”

Brendon whines pathetically. “Stupid Brendon. Bad Brendon.”

“Well,” Spencer says slowly, trying to make the best of this messed up situation. He thought it’d be likelier to discuss where they should hide Ryan’s body, not what to do after a night of animalistic passion. Fuck, what if all that bitching came from Ryan thinking Brendon was hot and vice versa? Surely no one is that childish at their age. “He made the baby that toy horse,” he says and points to the toy. “And he... gave you a good fuck.”

“Fucks. Plural.”

“...Plural. I mean, Ryan is clearly... um, generous?” Spencer offers helplessly. “When he’s not being a dick, anyway.”

Brendon groans. “Please do not say that word in relation to him. Ever. Again.”

“No problem,” Spencer assures him. Really no problem.

Brendon takes a minute or two before his face has returned to a normal colour. He clears his throat. “Okay. It happened. It’s now in the past.”

“Will be even more so after you shower, because, uh... you reek of sex?”

“Oh. Right.” Brendon buries his face in his hands, but then looks up again, trying to smile. “Moving on! You wanted to talk about something?”

Spencer smiles at his friend and shakes his head. “It was nothing.”

* * *

“I so did not want to know that,” Jon says disbelievingly, and Spencer just smiles crookedly at him, both of them reflected in the mirror of the bathroom adjoined to the master bedroom. Jon makes a point of not knowing about Ryan’s love life, and knowing that Ryan and Brendon? God, no. “I didn’t want to know,” he laments miserably, fixing his tie and making sure he looks good.

Ryan better not fuck it all up. Not that there is necessarily anything there, but if Ryan pisses off Brendon, Spencer might get angry, and then Jon will suffer. Ryan is not allowed to fuck up his relationship with Spencer. He’s not that shocked about the incident itself since Ryan has the tendency to sleep with whatever moves and breathes and is attractive, and though he knew Brendon qualified, he still thought Ryan despised Brendon too much to – to pleasure him or whatever they did. Ryan didn’t say a word about it, but of course Ryan wouldn’t.

“You should’ve seen Brendon. It was –” Spencer begins.

“It’s not really our business?” Jon offers as politely as he can. He knows Spencer and Brendon talk, and it’s horrifying enough to know Brendon probably knows what Jon is like in bed. He’s good, he hopes. At least he can get Spencer off like nobody’s business. It’s reassuring to know Brendon is sleeping around, though, because Jon has heard all about the ‘strangely intimate’ relationship a handful of his acquaintances thinks his fiancé has with his good-looking best friend. Not that Jon actually thinks there’s anything there. Though maybe there is. Brendon and Spencer have all these annoying inside jokes and they hug each other a lot. But Spencer doesn’t seem jealous, just shocked and amused, and Jon can live with that.

Spencer’s smile vanishes. “Sorry... Just. I mean, like, I didn’t mean to,” he begins and sighs heavily, “be inappropriate or whatever.”

Spencer’s seemed more tired lately. It’s no wonder this far along. Spencer’s starting his paternity leave in a week, and it will be weird going to work and not having Spencer there. But Spencer needs to rest and be in a non-stress environment. Jon still feels like he will be removed from the equation, not being able to see Spencer in the morning, take him out for lunch, sneak a kiss at some point during the day, receive a few ‘that isn’t very professional’ looks from the partners, but somehow realising that he cares less about it every time.

He’ll miss Spencer and the baby.

He now buttons his jacket and turns to the other man. “Other people’s private lives just aren’t our business,” he shrugs, giving Spencer a smile, but his fiancé doesn’t respond.

Pretend fiancé.

The slip is only due to Jon’s mental prepping for dinner with the Blackintons. It was nice of them to invite them despite all the sex they’ve probably overheard by now. Jon’s noticed that people in the entire building look at him differently these days, but it’s not the ‘oh, there goes Jon Walker, that attorney’ muttering that he hears, it’s the ‘oh, that’s Jon oh my god Jon’. Jon isn’t sure how he is expected to respond to the giggling, and at first he thought it was traumatising, but it’s not like it’s a bad reputation to have, really. So he has a lot of sex. He still isn’t sharing details with anyone, and that’s where he draws the line.

The Blackinton’s apartment isn’t as big as theirs, but it’s tastefully decorated. Ryland is a dentist and Vicky works in real estate. They’re an odd couple, but Jon figures they might be the exactly right type for him and Spencer: they’re weird enough for his fiancé and normal enough for him.

Vicky wants to touch the bump, and Spencer lets her, though Jon can see Spencer doesn’t exactly want to. The smile doesn’t reach Spencer’s eyes, and Jon can’t figure out what’s off. Mood swings, most likely.

“I heard the funniest thing today!” Ryland begins as they have tomato and basil soup for the first course. “I heard that you used to be engaged to Dr. Conrad, that amazing cardiologist that has now started working over at UCLA.”

“That’s not true,” Jon corrects. It’s funny how Tom moving back to LA has caused a stir, and now it seems like Tom is absolutely everywhere.

“Oh?”

“They were never engaged,” Spencer says, smiling down to his bowl of soup. Jon nods in confirmation, placing a hand on Spencer’s knee under the table.

“I was married when I met Ryland!” Vicky then says and proceeds to tell them how she could barely keep her hands to herself, filing her divorce papers two weeks later because she knew Ryland was The One.

Jon’s not sure how you know someone’s The One. Is there a choir of angels behind your shoulder? A big, flashy neon sign? He isn’t sure if he ever thought Tom was The One. He just assumed Tom was.

Spencer becomes more talkative when they discuss the baby, and Jon relaxes slightly. Spencer laughs and explains enthusiastically what they’ve done with the nursery, how everything is ready now. Jon thinks it’s amazing how much Spencer loves their kid already. He had to grow into the idea, but when Spencer walked into his office, sat down and told him, Spencer said he wouldn’t be able to terminate the pregnancy. Spencer loved their kid already then, completely unconditionally.

For the while they discuss the baby, Jon sees the Spencer he has gotten to know over the whirlwind of the handful of months. But then Ryland moves onto the stock market with incredibly valid points on NASDAQ, and Jon gets absorbed in the conversation. Spencer is quiet again, not participating in the conversation through the main course and the dessert.

Vicky and Ryland look slightly surprised that Spencer remains silent, and Jon wishes Spencer would talk. It’s polite. He’s had to sit through dozens of dinners he hated, ever since he was a kid. But you make the effort because it’s expected, because you have to keep up appearances and make a good impression. Jon tries to involve Spencer. “Oh, we’ve been to that exhibition! The artist’s name is Lyn-Z, her work is very unusual. Spencer, you want to tell Vicky and Ryland about it?”

“Oh. No, you tell them,” Spencer says, giving him an artificial smile, and Jon doesn’t push further than that. It’s worse if they start bickering in public, though they never really bicker.

The dinner doesn’t turn out as expected, but Jon promises that they will try and invite them over before the baby is born. They probably won’t have much time after that.

“That was fun, right?” Jon asks when they get back to their apartment. Spencer smiles tiredly, nodding as he takes his jacket off and takes a coat hanger. Jon feels oddly helpless. It wasn’t particularly fun, though Ryland seems like a sensible man. They exchanged business cards: dental care for legal help. He remembers the way Spencer wouldn’t look at anyone when Tom was mentioned. Spencer became more withdrawn after that. It’s ridiculous, but that couldn’t... be an actual issue, could it? “Um,” Jon begins uncertainly. “Tom and I –”

“Oh, you don’t –” Spencer cuts in swiftly, eyes widening slightly. “You don’t have to explain. I mean, I get it.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. I do. I’m fine with it,” Spencer says, but it sounds forced somehow.

It’s good they cleared that one out before Jon made an idiot of himself saying that it means nothing and they’re just friends.

“I’m really tired,” Spencer then adds.

“I’ll bring you hot chocolate in bed?” he offers, knowing Spencer likes that. Spencer flashes him a smile, and Jon always feels pretty pleased with himself when he can do something like this for Spencer.

When he’s got a mug full of steaming hot chocolate, he’s surprised when Spencer isn’t in bed. Not in his bed, anyway, and he is pretty sure Spencer stopped going back to his own over a month ago. He heads for Spencer’s room instead, which is still full of Spencer’s things, though the other man is steadily spreading more and more into the rest of the apartment. Jon likes finding random autobiographical books written by a Tibetan monk in the living room. His place never used to surprise him, but now it does. He likes that.

Spencer’s under the covers of the guestroom bed, and Jon can’t understand why Spencer’s not in their bed. “Hey,” he says quietly, making sure Spencer’s not asleep. The lights aren’t on. Spencer’s not sleeping as he stirs, and Jon walks over, placing the mug on the nightstand. He sits on the edge of the bed, studying Spencer’s face. He softly brushes stray hair from Spencer’s forehead.

Spencer reaches to take a hold of his hand, tugging, and Jon instantly kicks off his shoes. Spencer makes him room, and Jon slides under the covers, Spencer automatically turning so that Jon can spoon him from behind. Face to face is harder now with the bump between them. Spencer shivers for no apparent reason, and Jon places a soft kiss to the side of his neck. He’s not stupid; he knows something’s not right. But he doesn’t know what it is or if he can even fix it, so he just holds Spencer tighter. They don’t have to talk. If Spencer doesn’t want to talk about it, then that’s fine by him, and if Spencer wants to talk about it, then that’s fine by him too.

He clings onto Spencer, getting as close as he can. If he holds Spencer tight enough, then tomorrow will be better. Spencer will let him in without him having to ask.

Spencer lets out a small strangled sound that dies in his throat, and Jon lets his nose brush the nape of his neck.

Tomorrow everything will shift back into place again.

* * *

Spencer can’t walk long distances anymore without feeling exhausted. No one told him that pregnancy was so much hard work. He can’t go jogging with Brendon anymore either, and he already misses it. It’d be amazing if the next month could just fly by and the baby could be born already. Spencer would love to wake up in the middle of the night to relentless crying if it means he can stop moving around like a sumo wrestler. It would also give him an excuse not to attend Victor Walker’s birthday party.

Jon has vanished after spotting an acquaintance, and Spencer is content on sitting on the couch and not moving. He recognises some faces by now, but no one is coming over to talk to him. They don’t care. They want him gone.

He’s starting his paternity leave now. Today was his last day at work, and the secretaries brought him a cake during lunch time, giving him a teddy bear. It was sweet of them, but now Spencer is faced with a month of nothingness. Jon is all set on him resting and taking it easy, but Spencer’s already talked Brendon into letting him wait tables at Bden’s sometimes. Nothing major, but if Spencer can come around for a few hours in the afternoon and collect some dirty dishes, that would be great. It’d stop him from going absolutely insane.

“Spencer!” Charlene’s voice comes, and Spencer is beyond surprised. She walks over, champagne glass in hand. “Such a shame you two were late. You missed us cutting the cake! Jon said it was your fault that you weren’t on time.”

“Well, I- I got held up at work since it was my last day for a while?”

“Birthdays are only once a year! Surely it can’t be that hard to be punctual,” she smiles. Spencer’s too tired to even feel angry. He gets it. She doesn’t think he deserves Jon and is determined to hammer the point into Spencer’s thick skull. Spencer got the message loud and clear weeks ago. “You also missed Tom! He got called into surgery. An emergency of some kind. That’s doctors for you.”

“Oh, I know. Andy had to cancel an appointment with us because this patient of his went into labour. Home birth and everything. Apparently she was in labour for, like, seventeen hours,” Spencer offers, trying for the hundredth time. Charlene looks confused, so he adds, “Andy as in Dr. Hurley?”

“Ah, yes. The one with the tattoos. I’ve heard about him,” she mutters, nose wrinkling in disdain.

“He’s an amazing obstetrician.” Their baby has even made Andy’s ultrasound collage now. Andy claims he remembers every single baby, but Spencer is sure that’s a lie. All the pictures look more or less the same, though theirs is undoubtedly the most gorgeous. Anyone can see that.

“Questionable, if you ask me.” Charlene doesn’t look at him as she speaks, eyeing her guests instead. It’s the same room where he and Jon made their engagement announcement. “You said today was your last day?”

“Yeah. Three months off now, more or less.”

Charlene’s brows furrow. “You don’t mean you are going back to work, do you?”

“I do. Eventually.”

Charlene tries to laugh, but then stops. Her eyes widen – chocolate brown like Jon’s but lacking the warmth – and she looks shocked. “You can’t go back to work! If you plan on marrying my son, you –”

“I am –” Spencer begins stubbornly now, but then stops. Jon said that it is generally assumed that he will stop working now, but Spencer doesn’t want to. Okay, he might consider maybe taking the first year off, but then he wants to go back. Jon couldn’t support them easily for a year, but is that in the arrangement? No. But even if they agreed on something like that, Spencer has to go back to work. He wants that independence. It will also be good for the baby for him to be away sometimes so that he doesn’t smother her. He is pretty damn sure he will be an annoyingly overbearing father, and he needs to give her a bit of space, otherwise she’ll run away from home when she’s sixteen, and Spencer will wonder what on earth he did wrong.

But more importantly, he won’t be marrying Jon.

“It’s my decision,” he amends.

Charlene’s mouth tightens to a thin line. “We’ll see about that.”

She marches off, and Spencer stares after her in astonishment. What does she think she can do? Force Jon into forcing him? Unlikely. Spencer’s nobody’s bitch and he will not be made into a househusband either.

“Brought you a snack!” Pete says with a kind smile as he walks over, handing Spencer a perfectly squared, tiny piece of toast with a suspicious looking mousse on top.

“Thanks,” he says and tries to smile, but can’t. “Did you see where Jon went?”

“Last saw him talking to the Conrads. Tom’s parents?”

“Ah.” They’re family friends with the Walkers, so Spencer shouldn’t be surprised. Pete starts talking about a fascinating case he’s handling right now, but Spencer zones out and resorts to polite, blank nodding. Pete is an okay guy, but legal jargon is always boring. Always.

Two women walk past them, and Spencer notices them giving him the once-over before they murmur, “So that’s him? It is a shame, isn’t it? Jon had potential for so much more.”

Spencer swallows hard and looks down. Pete is frowning as he looks after the women. “Don’t listen to those snobs,” the lawyer tells him.

“You’re right,” Spencer says. But how can he not listen to them?

Pete gives him a hand and helps him to stand up, and Spencer is almost heaving from the effort. Honestly. Goddamn pathetic. He will definitely be that father who pulls the ‘I carried you for nine months!’ card. It’s worth it, though. It’s worth it for the little one.

“Oh, there’s Ry!” Pete smiles and starts motioning for the architect to join them. Spencer hasn’t seen Ryan since he found out about the thing. That whole... fucking thing with Brendon. Ryan approaches them, his usually calm and indifferent exterior not working as he seems uncomfortable.

“Good evening,” he offers. “You’re very... pregnant.”

Spencer is rather unimpressed. “Thanks.”

“I’ll let you two chat!” Pete decides, leaving them alone, and Ryan instantly seems twice as awkward. Spencer clears his throat and looks around, hoping he’ll find someone else to chat to. He doesn’t see anyone at all.

“So when- I was sleep deprived,” Ryan blurts out.

“Sorry?”

“At the baby shower. I had to stay up all night to finish the toy unicorn, and I was not... thinking straight.”

Still he magically had the energy to keep Brendon up all night.

“Okay.” Brendon is set on forgetting all about it (although he continually talks about it), so Spencer has decided to do the same.

“Good,” Ryan nods. “He’s not asked about me, has he?”

“No. Should he?”

“I don’t care,” Ryan says. “Whatever.” He coughs. “So what did you get Victor?”

“Oh. Um.” They came with a gift that was nicely wrapped. Rectangular. Maybe a book?

Ryan laughs. “Sorry, of course you wouldn’t know. Not like you guys are actually involved in each other’s lives. I forget sometimes, you know?” he asks and lowers his voice slightly. “That it’s just an arrangement for the duration of the pregnancy? I mean, of course he’s only with you because of the baby.”

There it is. The truth.

Ryan looks around. “God, these waiters are horrible. Where’s a shrimp ball when you want one? Hey! You there!” he says demandingly and walks after a waiter who doesn’t hear him.

Spencer’s hands are shaking. Ryan’s right. Jon would have nothing to do with him if he hadn’t gotten knocked up. He’s a mistake, a liability, a fuck up, an obligation. Jon would never care if he didn’t have to. Jon is just trying to do the right thing because he’s that kind of guy and it doesn’t mean anything more than that.

Jon is only with him because of the baby. Spencer could be anyone in this messed up scenario. And Jon vanished the second they got there, didn’t he? He doesn’t want to be associated with Spencer in this crowd. It figures. It makes sense. Jon is ashamed of him.

He blinks and wipes the corners of his eyes. Victor Walker’s birthday bash is not the right place to get emotional. No one here shows any emotion apart from judgement and contempt.

He can’t stay here. He needs – He needs Brendon right now. He’s been neglecting his best friend. They don’t hang out as much as they used to. Spencer got stuck pretending that he and Jon – So he needs to leave now. Go to Brendon. Curl up in bed and never get up. Be with someone who cares.

But he can’t just vanish, so he bites his tongue and spots Charlene’s perfectly done hair bun in the midst of guests, and he heads straight for it. He will say he is feeling tired and go. He has the right; he’s eight months pregnant.

“– course I won’t allow that!” Charlene says to her admiring audience of four rich housewives. One of them is even wearing white silk gloves. “No, no, my grandson will be raised like a true Walker, I will see to that. Of course who knows what kind of genes he’ll be getting from the less ideal end of the mix, but a Walker’s a Walker nonetheless.”

“I heard he was one of the Massachusetts Smiths?”

“No! No, no, he’s – nothing, to be honest,” Charlene clarifies and receives shocked looks from her fans. “Well, I guess every family has its black sheep...”

That’s it. That is it. Spencer would have never, ever let anyone say this shit about him eight months ago, so why start now?

“I’m not nothing,” he snaps angrily, and Charlene instantly swirls around, eyes wide in surprise. Her audience looks shocked but are staring at him with hungry expressions, like they are taking notes in their brains so they can recite this to all of their friends later. Spencer takes an uncertain step back, but holds his ground. “People aren’t last names or family wealth! I might be just some random guy, but I’ll tell you one thing: I’ve got ten times more decency than you have!”

“W-Well –” Charlene starts.

“And I won’t taint your precious Walker dynasty either. I’m not marrying Jon, we’re not –” he begins and then lifts his left hand. “He got me this ring, and I don’t– I don’t know why we wear them, I mean, they’re not- they’re not real. It’s fake. The engagement is fake because we got drunk and slept together and then I got pregnant, so we decided- But it’s not real. So now you can stop talking shit about me. I won’t be your son-in-law, and for that? For that I’m fucking happy.”

Blood leaves Charlene’s face faster than Spencer knew possible, and it’d make him feel so satisfied if he didn’t feel like his heart was being squeezed from all sides by an iron tight fist, hurting and aching and about to break.

“What did you say?” Charlene asks quietly in a shrill voice.

“It’s just one big lie,” he says in a choked up voice, his throat tightening painfully. “Excuse me.” He swirls around and heads straight for the door, tears spilling, and he feels so stupid, so useless, so ridiculous.

What was he thinking? He belongs with his own crowd, the freaks and the hippies and the vegans and the rockers, and it was absurd, all of it, to come here, to think Jon would love him back if he just put on a smile and mingle and talk about politics and – He’s been humiliated, he has humiliated himself, and he can’t do this. He can’t do it anymore.

He bumps into Jon right outside the room, and Jon’s easy grin changes into wide-eyed fear instantly. “Spence, what’s wrong?” Jon asks, but Spencer shakes his head and pushes past Jon. Fuck, if he could stop crying, if he could just – “Spencer?” Jon calls after him at the same time he hears Charlene’s voice exclaiming, “Jonathan? Jonathan, I need to talk to you right now!”

Spencer isn’t expecting Jon to follow him.

Jon doesn’t.

* * *

Jon lied. Fine. He made a bad decision. Fine. He is willing to admit all of that, but he was trying to make the best out of a bad situation. He was doing it for the family, wasn’t he? He was in the wrong, he wasn’t perfect, but none of those things are relevant right now. There are issues far worse at hand.

“You said what to Spencer?” Jon barks, his voice echoing in his father’s study. He has mixed memories of the room, getting sent in at the age of eleven to explain a bad grade on his report card, getting the rare pat on the shoulder when he got accepted into Harvard, followed by his father saying that he would still go to Yale like all Walkers did.

Walkers walk first, others follow.

“Well, I didn’t know he was standing right behind me!” Charlene exclaims. “And I believe I have the right to share my raising principles in my own home!”

“I can’t believe you!”

“Jonathan, you do not talk to your mother that way,” Victor says sternly from behind his desk. Charlene is sitting on one of the chairs, leg neatly over the other. Jon can’t sit down. He’s too fucking upset. “And you –”

“Yes, I know, I know! I lied!” Jon snaps. They covered that already. Spencer left crying. He told the entire room that it was an act, and Jon has never been in this big of a mess in his life, but this is so not where he needs to be right now. He needs to go home and see if Spencer’s all right, and find out what Spencer meant when he said it was fake, what exactly did Spencer mean by that?

“What are we going to tell everyone at the country club?” Charlene asks, placing a hand to her chest.

“Don’t worry, I can spread contradicting rumours so that no one will know what actually happened,” Victor assures his wife.

“You do that, darling.”

Jon stares at his parents in astonishment. He’s never seen Spencer cry before. The closest has been when Spencer told him he was pregnant. Seeing Spencer that upset didn’t just break his heart, it smashed it completely, leaving him anguished and feeling physically sick. And his parents are talking about the country club.

Maybe Spencer was right. About everything.

“As for your promiscuity –”

Jon’s neck feels hot. Oh god, he does not want his parents to know anything about his sex life, even if it’s ‘yes. I have one’, which should have been pretty obvious by now.

But he is not a teenager. They just keep treating him like one.

“That’s between me and my fiancé, quite frankly.”

“But he’s not your fiancé,” Charlene says, expression suddenly brightening. “You don’t have to marry him now!”

Jon stares at them in astonishment. “How can you say that? I mean, let’s forget about Spencer for a second, just for a second. He is still carrying your grandchild. Does that not mean anything to you? My son or my daughter? Don’t you – Don’t you want your grandchild to have a loving home? Two loving fathers?”

Charlene and Victor look at each other like this is occurring to them for the first time. Jon has always known he doesn’t agree with his parents, who can occasionally be too pompous, on everything, but this?

“A child needs discipline. That’s love,” Victor says.

“No. Love is love,” Jon argues. He is clearly not getting through to his parents. He rubs his face with his hands and tries to calm down. Why is he still here? He stayed to calm down his shrieking mother, the party ending too soon and in a slightly chaotic and scandalous atmosphere, and the servants are probably pressing their ears to the door right now to hear what’s going on. Why is he here, having this useless conversation with two people who can neither relate nor comprehend?

“You better not be too lenient on the child,” Charlene says in a confused tone.

“That is not the point! Firstly, I can raise my child however I want to! Spencer’s right, Yale is not obligatory! If my kid wants to do History of Art or be a graffiti artist, then I’ll be supportive of that decision! And if I want to marry Spencer, then you should be supportive of that! Not that you ever would be, I get that. Message received. I mean, talking shit about Spencer when he’s at the party? That’s childish. I’m almost twenty-eight and I have more manners than you do! Does that not tell you anything?” he asks, finally stopping and taking a deep breath. He’s never ranted or even raised his voice at his parents before. They look shocked, but he feels liberated somehow.

“I’ve got somewhere to be,” he concludes, and they don’t try to stop him on his way out.

When he gets home – having taken a taxi since Spencer took the car – Spencer’s not there. Instead there’s a note on their nightstand, a stupid piece of paper with a platinum ring on top.

I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cause a mess. I’m staying with Brendon. I think that’s for the best.
- S

Jon stares at the note, then looks at the ring, and the apartment is ghostly quiet, and Jon just wants to hear that one voice, that familiar laughter, but it’s not there anymore. It left while he was coming up with excuses.

* * *

It’s not weird that Spencer’s sharing the bed with Brendon because they’ve shared beds all of their lives. But then he keeps waking up in the middle of the night, thinking it’s Jon and trying to cuddle or grope, and so he hauls his pregnant ass to the couch to sleep. That way there is none of that drowsy confusion where he thinks he’s had a messed up dream.

After two nights of him on the couch, Brendon demands that he take the bed. He’s going to have a baby in a few goddamn weeks, and Brendon can sleep on the floor if needs be. Spencer hates feeling like he’s imposing on Brendon.

He retrieves more of his stuff from Jon’s place while Jon is at work, noting how everything still looks the same. Jon hasn’t touched anything. He spends a good half an hour sitting on the floor of the nursery, looking at the gorgeous crib, the teddies, Ryan’s toy unicorn, everything small and pristine and perfect for his little girl.

He doesn’t live there anymore and, by association, neither does she.

“You can stay here,” Brendon says on the fourth day. “If that’s what it comes down to, I could clear some space in the music room, turn it into a half-decent nursery. It wouldn’t be great, I mean, there’s not enough time to make it great, but –”

“I need to get my own place.”

“And fix a nursery when you’re three weeks from giving birth? I’d like to see you try.” Brendon passes him a mug of herbal tea and sits down by the kitchen table with him. “I love you. You know I love you, so don’t take this the wrong way, but... you need to get out of here.”

Spencer looks up at his best friend, alarmed.

“And go back home,” Brendon adds with a roll of his eyes.

“I told you –”

“That you can’t, but Jon would have you. I think that was pretty clear in the ‘I’m so sorry if I did something wrong, please come back’ voicemails he left.”

“After I – You weren’t there. I yelled at his mother, told everyone the truth, fucked it all up, and I can’t make that up to him. And it’s better this way.” It is better. Jon is free now, even if it’s all a mess. Spencer won’t be anyone’s ball and chain, and even if it hurts now, he did right by Jon.

And Brendon exaggerates. It was a voicemail, singular. Two days ago. And Jon said that he was sorry about the party, sorry if his parents were rude, did he do something wrong, and it would make the most sense for Spencer to come back and that Jon could stay with Ryan if Spencer doesn’t want him there.

Clearly, Jon is still so pissed that he’d rather not be in the same room with Spencer. It’s not like Jon doesn’t know where he is, but he hasn’t come knocking on the door.

“All I know is that last week you were still happy. Now you’re miserable,” Brendon notes. Spencer blows on the steam rising from the mug.

He gets to Stork Private Clinic on time, having spent too much money on getting a taxi. This close to the birth the frequency between visits is less, and Andy is keeping a close eye to make sure everything is as it should be. Spencer’s heart feels like it’s actually limping when he says he’s there for Baby Walker’s appointment.

He is not expecting to see Jon in the waiting room. He freezes at the door, wondering if he can hide, but there is no hiding when he’s roughly the size of a fire engine.

Jon stands up, having already spotted him. “Hey.”

Spencer walks in, trying to smile, but not able to look Jon in the eye. “Hi. Uh... I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Well, I – I wasn’t going to miss the appointment.”

Spencer nods and stares at the baby magazines on the coffee table. There is one other expecting couple in the waiting room, both excitedly talking to the bump, and Spencer is pretty sure that was him and Jon a month ago.

He feels so hollow somehow.

“I actually wasn’t sure if you’d show up,” Jon adds.

Of course Spencer was going to show up, but he doesn’t blame Jon for not trusting him. Not after what he did.

They sit back down, side by side, and Jon keeps looking at him, and Spencer keeps staring at the walls. The silence between them has never felt as uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry if –” Spencer starts, then stops to catch his breath. “Like, if I... If people are saying nasty things now. The whole point was to try and not damage your reputation, you know?”

Jon nods slowly. “It’s been... pretty crazy.”

Spencer suspected as much. It’s been easy for him, taking refuge at Brendon’s and hiding. His departure from Jon’s world was dramatic but easy since he was in no way attached. But as he blasted his way out, he probably fucked up Jon’s life for good.

“I think the only rumour that is generally agreed upon is that my fiancé and I split up when he was eight months pregnant,” Jon then adds, voice perfectly neutral. “It doesn’t look good, of course, but it’s not as bad as it could be.”

“But still,” Spencer says. He is pretty sure Jon has never been the target of a scandal like this. It’s his fault. He should have just kept his mouth shut, walked away discreetly instead of putting on such a show.

“I’m sorry about my parents,” Jon now adds. “I know my mother can be provocative.”

“I should have just let it be.”

Jon isn’t saying he’s sorry Spencer’s gone. He’s not saying he’s sorry they don’t need to pretend anymore.

They got pretty good at that. The acting. Spencer almost bought it for a while.

Gabe emerges in the doorway, grinning at them. “There’s the JWalk gang! Follow me, you crazy kids!”

Gabe has to be the only person in LA who hasn’t heard by now.

Andy is in the office when they enter, and he greets them warmly like he always does, but his eyes flicker between them, and Spencer instantly knows that Andy knows. He probably heard it through the grapevine. Maybe it was Brendon or maybe it was someone from the world of LA’s rich doctors. Maybe it was Tom. He must know by now, so he knows Spencer is no longer standing in the way. Tom can go for it.

“How are you feeling today?” Andy asks politely.

“Tired. Everything hurts and aches. I feel huge. Tired. Did I mention tired?”

Andy chuckles, but doesn’t mention anything about the scandal.

The first few times they did the ultrasound, Spencer was excited beyond belief. He still feels awed when he sees the screen, a monochromatic picture of their baby. He can see it now too, the head and the arms, the tiny legs. It’s different though. Jon isn’t holding his hand. Neither is Jon wearing the engagement ring. There is no reason he should be, of course. Spencer had to use cooking oil to get his off. His fingers are swollen, it was stuck, and he cursed and cried and resorted to cooking oil to get the damn lie off, off, off, and now he feels so naked without it.

He wonders if Jon feels the same way.

“This one’s just about ready to come out and meet its dads!” Andy informs them. “Of course the remaining weeks are just as important as any. You and the baby both need as much rest as you can. Trust me, neither one of you will get any after the birth.”

Spencer lies still, belly exposed, as Gabe wipes the transmission gel off. He still hasn’t gotten used to the cool substance. “And you can sit back up,” Gabe says, and Spencer pulls his shirt back down, gladly accepting Gabe’s hand to help him sit upright.

“The baby’s not moving as much anymore,” Spencer notes, wondering if his melancholy is making his child prematurely emo.

“The baby quite simply doesn’t have the room to!” Andy explains.

When they’re done and Andy estimates that, oh, they probably have twenty days before the big day, he asks them if they have anything they want to discuss. They remain silent. “What I mean is that,” Andy says, sounding slightly sad, “you need to avoid stress of any kind right now. Physical or emotional. We’ve got a counsellor here if you two need to talk to someone or you feel like that might be helpful for you right now.”

Spencer looks down at his bump. He counts seconds in his head before Jon says, “We’re fine. Thanks.”

“Alright then.” Andy sounds disappointed.

Once outside the clinic, in the bright August sunshine, Jon says, “I need to get back to work, I have appointments all afternoon. I’ll give you a ride, though.”

“Thanks.” Spencer needs to save up money for a place if he really plans on moving within the next twenty days.

Neither of them speaks on the drive back to Brendon’s. Spencer had no idea it was possible to miss someone so much when they’re in the same stupid car with you. Once the Jaguar comes to a stop outside Brendon’s house, Spencer unbuckles himself and mutters a thank you.

“Wait,” Jon says, and Spencer instantly freezes, waiting. Jon takes in a deep breath. He looks underfed and sleep deprived, black circles under his eyes. Spencer knows he doesn’t look amazing either. “Come back, Spence. I can’t – Being this close to the finish line, you need to be there. All your stuff is there, all the baby’s things are there. You can’t stay with Brendon, it’s not practical for anyone. I can- I can stay out of your way. We agreed to raise the baby together, and we need to be in the same place to do that. So just come back.” Jon takes in a deep breath. “Please?”

Spencer swallows hard, gazing out of the window at the house next to Brendon’s. “I don’t want to inconvenience yo –”

“Goddammit, Spencer!” Jon snaps. Jon has never snapped at him, and Spencer flinches without meaning to. He sneaks a guilty glance at Jon, who looks like he already regrets raising his voice. Jon opens his mouth, struggling to find the words. “This is not about us. This is about what’s best for the baby. I thought you –”

“Yeah, okay.” The baby. It was always about the baby. “Okay. I’ll come back. But it won’t- I mean, like before. We’re not –”

“I know that.”

And Jon is fine with it. Jon probably didn’t like any of it, having to fuck Spencer because his hormones were out of control, putting up with his irrational demands and annoying personality and lack of education and wealth. Jon suffered every inch of the way, and Spencer was stupid enough to think that they were an item.

Spencer would laugh at it if he could.

“I’ll come back, then,” Spencer says in defeat.

Really, he’s lucky Jon wants anything to do with him now.

* * *

A romantic weekend getaway this late in the pregnancy was probably not a brilliant move on Tom’s part, but Jon liked the idea of getting away with Spencer, killing time in a Jacuzzi and discussing baby names. The gift now feels like a stupid goddamn gesture because Spencer’s left for the resort. With Brendon. For an entire weekend.

Spencer, Brendon and disgusting amounts of romance. They might even be sharing the bed. Brendon. Cuddling Spencer. Comforting Spencer.

Proposing to Spencer and running away to Kentucky and changing their names and Brendon raising his child and –

Jon hits the tennis ball coming at him as hard as he can, and it launches back across the court, straight at Ryan who has to duck to avoid it. “What the hell, Jon?!” his friend barks.

“Sorry, sorry,” he mutters.

“You trying to kill me?!”

Ryan is glaring at him, most likely planning revenge. Luckily for Jon, their time is up as two girls have appeared at the side of the court. Jon packs up his racket, wiping his face with a towel as he heads for the changing rooms. “You were brutal today,” Ryan tells him as they hit the showers. Ryan was brutal too or as brutal as he could be. Ryan’s not all that good at tennis.

Jon bumps into Judge Mullins outside the tennis centre. “Mr. Walker,” she says, and she’s got a bit of a glint in her eyes, like amusement or contempt or something that has now replaced the respect Judge Mullins automatically granted him before. Jon ignores it the best he can.

He and Ryan get to their cars, and Ryan asks, “So when is Spencer coming back?”

“Sunday evening. Left yesterday.” Twenty-seven hours ago. Of Spencer. With Brendon. Alone. Vulnerable.

“Fucking ridiculous,” Ryan snarls. “Only a wannabe hippie like that goddamn Urie would think it’s awesome to have a romantic weekend with the BFF. That man is so out of touch with this world, it’s unreal. I hope they have a fucking miserable time, the both of them.”

Jon actually hopes Spencer will have a good time. It’d be nice to know Spencer is smiling, even if Jon has nothing to do with it.

Jon thought that, if Spencer came back, it would work out somehow. It hasn’t. Spencer keeps to himself, stays in his own bed, and Jon hasn’t as much as accidentally brushed Spencer’s hand in passing. He wonders if it’s possible to die from yearning someone so much it’s all you can think about. He hopes not. And the spark in Spencer’s eyes – that spark that takes Jon’s fucking breath away – is not there anymore.

“Goddamn Brendon Urie,” Ryan mutters under his breath as he gets into his car. Jon waves him off before getting into his BMW. Spencer’s BMW, really. It’s what he’s been calling it in his head for the past months. Spencer still uses it, but he and Brendon took the Jaguar (Jon insisted, he figured that arriving in a Jaguar would be more stylish and guarantee better service for the two). The console area between the front seats is filled with Spencer’s CDs, ranging from jazz to punk. Jon sits in the car quietly, going through the pile and wondering what to put on. What would Spencer like?

He startles when someone knocks on the window. He shields his eyes against the sunshine to see, and Tom is giving him a cordial wave from the other side, a tennis bag hanging over his shoulder. Jon opens the door and gets out. “Hey.”

“Hey, man. Recognised the car,” Tom says with a warm smile. “You coming or going? I just had a really tough session.”

“Going. I, uh – too. Was there.” Jon is having a hard time coordinating his thoughts.

“Sweet. You wanna grab some lunch?” Tom offers.

Jon hesitates, but then he’d just go home and try to do work, but it’d be useless. He’d only wander between Spencer’s room and the nursery, feeling sick to his stomach and resisting the urge of calling Spencer. He’s not sure why it hurts so much. Spencer came back, and Jon figured he’d feel better, even if they weren’t pretending anymore. He thought he might miss the sex, which he does, but right now he feels like he’d sell his goddamn soul if he could just give Spencer a hug. Have him close. Closer. There’s a huge void in his guts, and he feels physically sick all the time, unable to forget or do anything about it. He’s never felt this way before.

Tom might offer a distraction of some kind, so Jon agrees. They end up in a Mexican place, and Jon orders two tequila shots for himself and Tom. They both drown them instantly, even though they were never big drinkers.

“How does it feel like living here again?” Jon asks.

“Bizarre. Nostalgic, sometimes. I miss Chicago, though, I won’t lie about that.” Tom absently plays with the shot glass before placing it down. “Heard about you and Spencer. I’m sorry.”

Okay, Tom isn’t beating around the bush. “Could we get the bottle?” Jon asks the waitress, who lifts an eyebrow but nods. “What did you hear?” he asks gingerly, not sure if he wants to know. Rumours always get grossly exaggerated.

“That he left you? Someone said something about how you weren’t really even engaged, but that’s absurd. Anyone who saw you guys together knows better than that.”

Jon laughs emptily. The waitress comes back with a bottle of tequila and a small bowl of lime slices. Tom orders a chicken burrito and Jon orders himself a vegan fajita. He’s gotten into the whole vegan thing now. Plus, it totally reduces his carbon footprint if he goes vegan even once a week, so Jon is trying to stick to that. Maybe it’d make Spencer happy. Maybe then Spencer would come back to him.

“I know what you’re going through,” Tom says after three more shots each. Jon can feel the alcohol burning in his stomach. He frowns. Their break up was long ago, and it never hurt like this. Not that he and Spencer broke up, because they weren’t anything. At all.

“Um, I’m sorry if –”

“Oh,” Tom laughs. “No, I don’t mean us.”

Jon quirks an eyebrow. Tom looks around the restaurant, but it’s not the kind they’d typically go to or bump into someone they know. “The truth is...” Tom begins nervously, then stops and takes another tequila shot. “I fucked up in Chicago.”

“You fucked up?” Jon clarifies. They put the conversation on hold as the food comes over, and Tom requests some nachos on the side.

“I’ve not told this to anyone, but I – We’ve known each other forever, right?” Tom asks desperately, and Jon nods to confirm it. He’s known Tom all of his life, and they always used to share secrets when they were kids. This feels like a similar situation. “Okay, so... there was this doctor working in my hospital, a nephrologist.”

“A...?”

“Specialises in the kidneys? She’s amazing at what she does. And gorgeous. Funny. Smart.” Tom sighs. “Married.”

“Ah.” Jon’s not sure if it should be weird to hear this.

Tom smiles crookedly at his burrito. “Chloe was perfect. Successful, from a good family, she... And I was following her around like a puppy, saying I’d give her everything in the world if she left him for me. We were going from motel to motel, and she was always worried we’d be caught, and I didn’t even care, man. It was like she was the only thing in the world, the only thing I looked forward to. I told her I would marry her on the spot, she just had to say the word. She told me she loved me, you know?”

“Then what are you doing here?”

Tom swallows hard and takes another tequila shot. He wipes his mouth, face scrunched up as he swallows. “Because then she said no. She couldn’t do it anymore. She loved her husband. She wouldn’t be able to handle the scandal. It’d destroy her, it’d destroy me. She says no, and I... am a wounded, stupid puppy that runs away with its tail between the legs.”

Jon pokes at the salad on his plate. He’s not really hungry these days. He knows he’s lost weight. “I’m sorry.” He doesn’t know what else to say.

Tom nods and clears his throat, wiping the corners of his eyes quickly. “Thanks. Yeah.” He smiles crookedly. “And then there’s you.”

“Me?”

Tom nods eagerly, and he’s clearly a bit drunk. That’s okay, Jon is too.

“I come back here and you- you’re engaged to the receptionist of your dad’s firm! Your firm too now, I guess, but I- I’m like, is this the Jon I know? Is this the same Jon goddamn Walker? And it is! And you’re fucking happy, man! You and Spencer just- are this amazing couple, and everyone’s gossiping and gasping, but you don’t even care! Why couldn’t I have that? Why couldn’t Chloe do that for me, you know? I thought it couldn’t be done, not in this life, not with people like these, but then you proved me wrong.”

Jon isn’t sure what to say to that. It’s not like he planned to break the rules or be a pioneer. He just did what he had to do. He mostly wishes Tom would stop saying he and Spencer had something. Spencer doesn’t want him, that has surely been established.

Brendon and Spencer on a romantic weekend away...

Jon misses the baby. He misses Spencer too. He hates them being away.

“What difference does it make? We’re both single and getting drunk on tequila on a Saturday afternoon,” he notes sourly.

Tom swallows down a mouthful of food and says, “It makes all the difference! I thought it couldn’t work! But you two were happy. You two were together and happy and in love, and it didn’t matter what anyone said! Well... until it did, I guess, but that doesn’t undermine my point, which is that if you love someone enough, you’re gonna give it a shot. You two did, but I... Well, she wouldn’t do it for me. Didn’t love me like I loved her, and I’m left to deal with that. Coming back here. Pretending to be alright while my heart is rotting inside my chest. Shoot me with a funny cardiologist joke right now, I think it’s called for.”

Jon stares at him. Tom rolls his eyes. “Not that hard! Like... oh, you’re a cardiologist but you can’t fix your own heart. Ha ha. Something lame.”

Jon keeps staring.

So that’s what it is. This thing. This sick, churning feeling in his guts, the knives in his stomach, the bitter taste in his mouth. It’s heartache. His heart is fucking broken, and it’s broken because he’s in love with Spencer. He loves him. He loves the freckles on his nose and the blue hue of his eyes and the way his hair is always just perfect somehow, and he loves the jokes he makes and the clothes he wears and the bands he listens to, he loves the things that he doesn’t even love so much like Spencer’s tendency to leave the milk on the counter instead of putting it back in the fridge. That ticks Jon off every time, and he loves that. He loves Spencer with a force that makes him want to break into pieces and just hope Spencer feels like carrying at least a fraction of him in his pocket.

Whatever they had – love, the love they had – was just there, creeping up on Jon slowly, so he didn’t think about it. It was good, and if it was good, then Jon saw no reason to process it. He is in the business of fixing problems, building bridges. He didn’t take the time to look for something in the one part of his life that just made him happy. It was so obvious and he missed it.

It’s his fault. If he had said it, maybe Spencer would have stayed.

No. He wouldn’t have.

Jon was happy. Jon was and remains in love. Spencer wasn’t happy. Jon noticed something was off, but he was too preoccupied in his perfect little dream world to do anything about it. And if Spencer loved him, then Spencer would have said it or stayed or not let someone scare him away.

Right?

“Jon?” Tom now asks, and Jon snaps out of it, thoughts running wild as his heart beats insanely in his chest.

“I just...” he begins, voice fading and cracking. “Oh fuck, I love him.”

Tom nods sympathetically. “I know you do.”

“No, no. I love him.”

“I hear you.”

Jon laughs and rubs his face with one hand.

“What... happened, anyway? I don’t mean to be nosy,” Tom says apologetically. “Did you, like... um, cheat or...? I mean, pregnancy. Sexual frustration time.”

Jon bursts out laughing at that, louder than intended. Oh god, people are so wrong about that. At one point he was worried that, once the baby is born, Spencer won’t be as horny, which would be a shame because Jon really enjoys their sex life. Or enjoyed. He definitely didn’t cheat on Spencer. He would never be able to look at anyone else because Spencer is absolutely breathtaking.

“Nothing like that,” he assures Tom. “He just... realised he didn’t want me, I guess.”

“I don’t believe that. The way he looked at you? I mean, I was jealous. Chloe never looked at me like that. Feel like a fool admitting it,” he whispers sadly.

Jon leans over the table slightly. “What... way was that then?”

He is practically holding his breath as Tom launches into a tipsy slur of how Spencer looked at him with love and adoration and want, like Jon was the centre of his universe, how Spencer always smiled at him, smiled at the mention of him, always reached out for Jon’s hand and more. “And I don’t think he likes me,” Tom adds mournfully. “But that’s good, you know? I had you first, so he, like... should hate me. And stuff.”

“You think so?”

“Well, it’s not polite but –”

“No, I mean the other stuff,” Jon says impatiently.

“Absolutely. Ask anyone. That’s why I have such a hard time believing he’s left you,” Tom sighs and stuffs nachos into his mouth.

Jon’s mind races. Tom is good at reading people. Tom might be right.

And if he is right, then it can’t be too late. It can’t. Jon has to take that chance.

cont.

Relearning How to Breathe [7/7]

Wed, 02 Dec 2009 21:47:45 GMT

back

Bden’s gets busy during lunchtime on Monday, and it’s a vast contrast from their boring-as-hell-god-no-more-massages-and-scented-candles weekend. Brendon thought it was alright, but Spencer suffered. It didn’t help him forget and it didn’t help him heal, and he locked himself in the bathroom on the second night to cry for two minutes before he got his fucking act together. The hormones are messing him up.

Spencer doesn’t need peace and quiet. He needs chaos. Luckily, Bden’s provides him with just that. “Spence, could you?” Greta asks helplessly, her apron askew and brow glistening with sweat as two customers give their orders at the same time. Spencer has got a Bden’s apron on as well, just to make him feel more official. He’s not actually getting paid, but he doesn’t want to stay home all day. He’d go insane if left alone with his thoughts.

Spencer goes to tables, gathering empty dishes. “You’re so big!” a girl marvels. “May I?”

“Of course,” Spencer smiles. Here he can be excited about the baby with no guilt. He misses that.

He spends more time letting people touch his bump than he does working, but at least he’s learning how to smile after the hell he’s been through. For a while there, he stopped being excited. He hated himself for that, for punishing a baby that had done nothing wrong, a baby he loved. But now he is with his own crowd, having cut off ties with what was making him miserable. He is finding himself again, and he has every single smiling vegan to thank for that.

Spencer is chatting to a pregnant woman, maybe five months along, he figures, when Jon and Ryan walk in. Spencer saw Jon briefly yesterday when he got home and said hello before vanishing to his room. That was it. Jon’s eyes lock on him instantly, a frown emerging on his face, and oh shit. Here it comes: the rant.

“Excuse me,” he tells the smiling woman and walks over. “Hey, guys. Didn’t, um, expect to see you, I –”

“You’re working here?” Ryan asks sharply.

“Just helping out. Trying not to get bored.”

A leaving goth girl passes them, saying, “See you later, Spencer! Maybe the little one is out by then!” She pats the bump gently, and Spencer beams at her. He totally needs to ask her how she can manage to make her eye makeup so incredibly black.

His smile vanishes as he remembers that, yes, Jon, here, not good, rant to follow. But Jon is just staring at him funnily. He doesn’t look angry for one thing.

“Jon?” he asks uncertainly. Jon stares more. His eyes are kind of shining.

“Dude,” Ryan says impatiently, and Jon snaps out of it.

“Right. Yeah. I just- Sure, if you want to help Brendon out, then sure. I mean, you know how you’re feeling better than I do. Just, you know... don’t exhaust yourself. But I’m glad you’re having a good time.” That was not what Spencer was expecting Jon to say. “Glad to see you’re... smiling.”

“Um...” Spencer tries to think of something to say, something that isn’t ‘god, I miss you’, so he says, “You guys wanna sit down?”

When he goes to the kitchen with Jon and Ryan’s orders, he finds a stressed out Butcher slicing carrots with incredibly accurate snap-snap-snap movements. Brendon is picking up a third plate to take through. “Um, Jon and Ryan are here,” he announces.

Brendon, who was heading back out, swirls right back around. “Oh. Right. Spencer, you take these out?” he asks hurriedly.

“Um... how about no?”

“I don’t wanna have to see Ryan!” Brendon hisses through gritted teeth.

“And I don’t want to see Jon, so we’re even!”

“Guys, lunch hour, let’s hussle!” Butcher says, now dropping the carrot pieces into a blender.

“But Spenny,” Brendon whines unhappily.

“Oh my god, so Ryan gave you a few orgasms. Jon’s given me dozens. Deal with it, alright? It’s not like he’s here to see you,” he points out.

“I am only doing this because you’re heavily pregnant,” Brendon says with a glare as he heads back out. Spencer sighs in relief, happy to be hiding, but Brendon comes back within a minute, fuming. “Ryan asked for honey with his tea. Honey. I need to ban that fucker, I – God, he infuriates me! Stupid man!”

Stupid man? That’s the best Brendon’s got?

Brendon demands that now it’s Spencer’s turn to go out there and suffer, practically pushing him out of the kitchen. Jon spots him instantly somehow, giving him a wave from across the café. Spencer waves back awkwardly. Why did Jon come here? What does he want? The avoiding thing is working pretty well for Spencer. When Jon’s not around, it’s easier to forget what he’s missing.

To be honest, Spencer can’t understand why Jon is still hanging out at Bden’s. It’s not Jon’s scene, is it? Jon probably hated coming here all the time too. Maybe Jon’s just keeping an eye on him, like he used to at the start of the pregnancy, paranoid that Spencer will do something rash again. Most likely.

Before leaving, Jon comes over to the counter where Spencer is handling the register. “I’ll probably be home a bit late.”

“Sure. That’s fine,” he says, trying to give the young man the correct change.

A late office fuck with Tom, maybe?

Jon stares at him kind of expectantly, but Spencer isn’t sure what to say or do. Can’t Jon see that he needs to be alone right now? He is trying to do the right goddamn thing and step aside, but it doesn’t exactly work if Jon persistently follows him.

“Okay,” Jon says, and he sounds sad. Why does he sound sad? “Later.” Jon smiles tiredly, and Spencer watches him leave.

* * *

Jon doesn’t mean to order for Spencer when they get to the restaurant. He picked a nice place because, well, it has to be nice. Spencer is gorgeous, of course he is, and Jon is petrified so he rambles, not having the right words. Mostly, though, it’s perfectly quiet.

It’s amazing how well Spencer has managed to cut himself off. It’s like Jon is living by himself now. Spencer spends a lot of time reading and fixing little things in the nursery, like rearranging the order of the teddies, for instance. Jon noticed without Spencer having to tell him. Spencer has put up fortifications, and Jon is on the outside, staring longingly and waiting for the right time. Spencer agreed to go out for dinner with him, at least. That’s something.

“And my fiancé wi –” he begins before cutting himself off and calling himself a fucking idiot in his head. Spencer told him he can order for himself and that he thought it was messed up Jon was always trying to order for him. Jon respects that, even if it goes against everything he was ever taught about relationships where his partner can leave everything to him. Jon provides the money and thus he makes the decisions, and his partner is delighted by that. At least, that’s what he was brought up to believe. Spencer doesn’t fit in that mould, and that’s why Jon adores him. He tries again. “My companion will –” He stops. Is that a good word? What else would fit? The man I’m pathetically in love with? “Spencer, what are you having?” he eventually asks, giving up.

Spencer orders spinach gnocchi, and Jon tries not to think of the rings in his pocket. He will do it. He will spill out his heart or guts or whatever he has to spill. He doesn’t have much to go on, no obvious indication that Spencer returns his feelings. Where are the ‘clear signs’ Tom talked about?

He tried to think of some romantic and original way to ask Spencer to be his. Spencer seems like the kind of guy who deserves something unique, like a hot air balloon ride with a ring in the champagne glass or Jon writing a poem in which he proposes – properly, no bullshit this time – but all he could think of was a nice restaurant and popping the question sometime between the main and the dessert. He fiddles with the napkin, wondering if he is lame, if Spencer will reject him because he is an unoriginal bore. Spencer deserves so much more than him, but Jon wants him anyway, despite his own shortcomings, and then he wants to spend the rest of his life being the kind of guy who deserves Spencer’s morning smiles and evening yawns.

Jon tries to hold it back, but he can’t. Spencer is looking somewhere far away, and Jon can’t stand it. He feels the words coming before he can stop them. “So what if I told you I was madly in love with you, regardless of what everyone thinks, regardless of you having my child?”

And then it’s there. He’s said it.

Spencer’s head snaps up, mouth hanging open in shock. Jon is holding his breath. He isn’t sure what he wants Spencer to say, as long as it amounts to a ‘yes’ in the end. He wants to leave this stupid restaurant he thought might impress Spencer and take him home and cuddle in bed with him and fill Spencer’s head with all kinds of ridiculous promises of their future together, and he wants to do the same thing tomorrow and the day after that, the year after that, two decades from now.

Wanting Spencer makes Jon feel like he has never wanted anything before. He didn’t know what the word meant, so he’s been misusing it. But this? This is want.

Spencer swallows, and Jon is still holding his breath, waiting for judgement.

“I’d say I don’t believe you,” Spencer says quietly.

The hope Jon carried escapes with his shaky exhale of breath.

The starters arrive, and Spencer digs into his quietly, not looking at him though his hand is shaking. Jon stares, frozen, engagement rings in his pocket, and he somehow thought saying it would change this nightmare of a situation. He hoped that Spencer would say what he desperately needs to hear.

But Spencer didn’t.

Jon has never had the courage to put himself out there the way he just did. He didn’t have it in him before Spencer. Spencer’s changed him for the better. And he supposes that he still has that to be thankful for, even if he changed only to be shot down. Only to discover the bitter taste of not getting what you want.

The rings remain in his pocket, and the hopeful nervousness fades into a sickening burn and then into a numbing throb.

Spencer doesn’t want him.

Spencer eats quietly on the other side of the table. It’s a distance Jon can no longer cross.

* * *

The court room turns into a warzone when Jon’s client first fails sit still, then standing up to protest to his ex-wife’s testimony. Jon’s life would be so much easier if his clients just did as they were told. “Order, order!” Judge Mullins demands, and Jon hisses at his client to sit back down. Now.

He’s had a weird feeling ever since he woke up. It’s no wonder, really. He put his heart on a platter and offered it to Spencer yesterday, and Spencer said ‘no thanks’. He is pretty sure that will make anyone feel like their heart has been removed and stomped on. He tries not to let it affect his work, though. His private life is a joke, so he has to make up for it in other ways.

The baby’s due in less than two weeks now. Jon is prepared and ready. He’s managed to keep a few free around the expected due date. Spencer might not want him, but the baby still needs two fathers. The baby needs to know how much Jon loves it, regardless of what happens between him and Spencer.

And even if he and Spencer never reconcile or even... talk, then at least their child will always remind Jon of the life he could have had. The life he had for a while, and the memory will make him feel happy, even if he begins to forget the details over time.

“Your Honour, my client –”

“And I’ve not even told you about that time he tried seducing the maid!” the ex-wife interrupts.

Jon’s client shoots up again. “I did no such thing! I told you she fell into my lap!”

“ORDER!”

Jon has a headache by the time they take a lunch break. He needs to be away from his idiot client, who definitely cheated on his wife and barely covered it up, which does breach the prenup, which does mean they’re fucked. The café across the courthouse makes amazing tuna sandwiches, and Jon sits down at a table by the window with his lunch, formulating the questions he will soon be asking the wife. He wants to check when the couple bought their yacht, was it seven or six years ago? And who paid for it?

He gets his phone out, turning it on for the first time since morning. He needs to call William and have his secretary double-check it for him.

His phone buzzes in his hand, a screen popping up and informing him that you have voicemail. He brings the phone to his ear and bites into the sandwich. A pleasantly neutral female voice says, “You have – sixteen – voicemails.”

What?

“Jon, hey, I think –” Spencer’s voice is rushed and worried, and then, “Oh fuck, you’re in court.”

Beep.

“Jon, this is Brendon. Jon? Would you pick the fuck up?! God, you’re useless! We’re taking Spencer to the hospital, we called Andy, just get your ass here.”

Beep.

“Uh, I know you’re in court and stuff,” Ryan’s voice comes, “but, like, I think Spencer’s really gonna have the baby? So. Like. I think you should probably be here? Um. And not me. Okay. Bye.”

Beep.

“This is Brendon – again. Fuck, I can’t believe you –”

Jon doesn’t want to hear the twelve that are left. He doesn’t care.

Holy fuck.

He runs out of the café and stops the first taxi he sees, nonsensically yelling at the driver. His hands are shaking as he calls William, rambling that he won’t be going back, William has to inform Judge Mullins, Spencer’s in labour, yes, it’s too soon, Jon knows that, thanks, William is not helping with his mental breakdown here.

He calls Brendon, but no one answers. He calls Spencer, but Spencer would hardly have his phone there if the baby’s being born, so he calls Ryan and leaves him a rushed voicemail of how he will be right there.

He’s panicking. It’s too soon. Two weeks. Is that bad for the baby? They should still have two more weeks. Is his child in danger? Is Spencer okay? What’s going on? What if something’s wrong?

Why is he not there?

Jon’s hands curl into fists just thinking about it. He has never been this angry with himself in his life. He was supposed to be there every step of the way, holding Spencer’s hand, not leaving his side. They talked about it when things were still good between them, and Spencer said he wanted Jon there.

Jon isn’t there.

“Why are we not moving?!” he snaps at the driver.

“Hey man, I’m no god! Traffic is traffic, you know?”

Jon slumps against the backseat. Every second is making it worse. He checks the time of the first voicemail. One and a half hours ago. Ninety minutes ago. Oh god, he is late. He is so, so late.

Everything he has done so far, all the little ways in which he has failed the man he is in love with, is nothing compared to this. When you look ‘fuck up’ in the dictionary, it has a picture of Jon next to it, in the backseat of this taxi, stuck in traffic while his child could be born any minute, and he is not there.

No. Jon will make it. He has to make it.

He focuses on that thought, hands sweating and trembling, breathing erratic. He can’t sit still and he pulls his hair out, cursing and feeling like he’s breaking down.

Maybe it’s a false alarm.

Sixteen voicemails is not a false alarm.

Jon would not have kept his phone switched off if he had thought there was the slightest of chance of this happening, but that is not an excuse. He has no excuses.

The taxi driver is whistling along to a song on the radio.

Jon gets to the hospital twenty minutes later. He takes the stairs, hopping two steps at time (somehow the thought of standing still for another second is unbearable to him), and he keeps the pace up for all three floors. He is out of breath but in the right place.

A kind nurse points him in the right direction, and he runs along a hospital corridor, frantically looking at the room numbers. When he rounds a corner, he sees Brendon in the distance. Oh thank god.

“Brendon!” he calls out frantically, running to the other man and almost crashing into him, hands on Brendon’s shoulders. “Where? Which room? What’s going on? I came as soon as I could, I – Which room is it?”

Brendon opens his mouth, but then it closes again. “You... missed it.”

Brendon must be speaking some foreign language because Jon doesn’t understand. At all. “What?”

“But Spencer’s fine! The baby’s fine! You didn’t miss it by much, or, like, you know, fifteen minutes. I came out to call you, but you’re here, so great! Good! Spencer’ll be so happy to see you, he – Jon?” Brendon pauses. Jon lets go of Brendon, taking steps back. He shakes his head and tries to breathe. He swallows hard. Brendon sighs and looks apologetic. “Jon, I’m sorry.”

He didn’t make it in time. He missed it.

He chokes on his own breath as hot tears spill onto his cheeks. Oh god. The one thing- The one thing he wanted to be perfect, the one- And he wasn’t there. He failed Spencer. He failed his child.

“It’s not that bad!” Brendon says reassuringly, but Jon just grits his teeth and tries not to scream or punch the wall. “Trust me, it doesn’t matter, it –”

“It’s everything,” he manages. The tears keep coming and he wipes them away. He has no idea when he last cried. Walkers don’t cry, but he can’t help it now. He’s not used to being a failure, and there is no one in the world he has wanted to do right by as much as Spencer and their child. And if he can’t even do it on the first day of his child’s life, then what about the rest? He wasn’t there, he didn’t hear the first cry or see the first swing of a tiny fist. “Fuck, fuck,” he swears. “This is my fault, it’s my – I tried so hard –”

“I know, we all know,” Brendon says soothingly, not sounding at all angry like he did in the voicemails.

“No wonder he didn’t want me,” Jon manages. This is just further proof of what he already knew. “I let everyone down. I can’t go in there, don’t deserve to –”

Suddenly, there are arms around him. Brendon is holding him tight, murmuring, “Hey, it’s alright.” Jon doesn’t care how pathetic he’s coming across as, he just lets himself shiver against the other man, trying to do something with all the anger he has. He’s never hated himself before. He doesn’t blame Spencer for having absolutely no interest in being with him.

“You have to calm down,” Brendon says quietly, the hug firm. Brendon’s smooth voice steady in his ear, “Spencer’s really shook up, and you can’t go in there like this, okay?”

“Can’t go in there.”

“They need you there,” Brendon says firmly, and Jon nods, pressing his forehead into Brendon’s shoulder. Oh god, he doesn’t have it in him. “So you were late. It doesn’t matter. What matters is what you do now, and I think there’s a little girl in there that’s dying to see you.”

Jon steps back, his aching heart bursting with sudden flames, and he wipes his eyes frantically. “It’s a... It’s a girl?”

Brendon nods in confirmation, and Jon’s tears mix with sudden laughter. A girl. Just like Spencer said it’d be. He has a daughter. They have a daughter.

“Jon,” Brendon says just as Jon is about to head into another spell of crying because it feels like the only thing he can do right now. Jon nods frantically and wipes his cheeks more, shaking from head to toe. He can’t think or speak, he can only feel, and right now it feels like the ground beneath his feet has moved.

He exhales and inhales, relearning how to breathe, finally giving Brendon a firm nod or as firm as he can manage. Brendon smiles at him warmly, and Jon follows him to the door of Spencer’s room. “Okay,” he whispers, voice thin and foreign to his own ears. Brendon opens the door.

The room is filled with more people than Jon thought: Andy, Gabe, Ryan and a nurse he doesn’t recognise, and Spencer is on the bed, looking pale, far too pale to Jon’s liking. The top part of the hospital bed is propped up so Spencer is half-sitting and half-lying. He looks exhausted, but happy, and his eyes light up at the sight of him. Jon blurts out, “I’m so sorry I’m late.”

“It’s okay,” Ryan cuts in. “I explained it to them, you being in court.”

Jon is frantically looking from one person to another because in his head Spencer was holding their daughter, except that he’s not. Then he spots a tiny bundle in Gabe’s arms. Gabe is already marching over, his smile wide. “Say hi to your daughter,” he says softly, passing the bundle onto Jon. Jon takes it automatically, and his world stops.

Wrapped up in the light blue blanket is the most gorgeous and perfect baby Jon has ever seen. She’s got her face in a frown, like she’s not particularly pleased with this sudden change of circumstance, her mouth slightly agape, her eyes half-closed, and she lets out a tiny cry that’s a bit like hello. Her hand waves in the air, and her fingers are the smallest, most amazing fingers Jon has ever seen. “She’s so tiny,” he manages, forcing the words out. “Is she –”

“She’s fine,” Andy – Dr. Hurley, whatever – says calmly. “Took us all by surprise, didn’t she? But she is perfectly healthy. She’s thirty-eight weeks, so she’s not considered premature.”

“She looks exactly like you two,” Brendon says.

“Except prettier,” Ryan adds, and Brendon nods in agreement. It must be the first time those two have ever agreed on anything.

Jon knows tears are still spilling onto his cheeks, but these ones aren’t from anger, frustration or disappointment, so he doesn’t try calming down or wiping them away. His daughter frowns further and then she starts crying demandingly, but Jon doesn’t mind. Anything she wants, anything in this entire world, he will give her. That is not a question now or ever.

“Hey,” he whispers to her. “Hey, hey, Dad’s here now, no need to cry.”

She waves a tiny fist and quiets down. Jon can’t look away from her. She’s perfect.

“Let’s give the family a few moments,” Andy says, and Jon reluctantly looks up from his daughter to see the two nurses leave the room, followed by Ryan and Brendon, who probably aren’t going far. Andy is smiling at them warmly, and Jon finally understands why Andy does this for a living. Who wouldn’t?

“Thank you,” he manages.

“Anytime. You, uh,” Andy says, clearing his throat slightly. “I recall that you wanted to do a paternity test. We can easily do one now if –”

“No. No, there’s absolutely no need for that,” Jon interrupts, and Andy smiles at him brightly before leaving the room.

It’s just the three of them now. That’s how it should be.

Spencer is giving him a blinding smile as he walks over. There’s a chair right by Spencer, but Jon ignores it and carefully sits on the edge of the bed, holding their daughter close to his chest. Ryan and Brendon were right: she looks exactly like them in such a perfect blend that it’s uncanny.

Spencer presses to Jon’s side, looking at their child. “Told you it was a girl,” Spencer says with an obvious smile in his voice.

“Yeah. Yeah, you did,” Jon nods. Bernard is out of the question, then. Good. Jon has absolutely no good memories of his grandfather, anyway.

Jon passes the baby back to Spencer, who smiles down at her, cradling her in his arms. “Hey, little thing,” Spencer whispers, and Jon wipes the corners of his eyes. Spencer looks at him, wet, dirty hair glued to his forehead, still pale, but he is just as stunning as their daughter is. “I cried too. Brendon will tell you,” Spencer chuckles with a small roll of his eyes.

Jon nods, trying hard to swallow. He leans over and places a soft kiss to Spencer’s forehead, his chapped lips pressing to clammy skin, but it’s still perfect somehow. Their daughter lets out a small cry, and Spencer hushes her gently. Jon wraps an arm around Spencer’s shoulders, looking at the way Spencer is holding the baby like an expert. Spencer’s made for the job.

“I’m gonna spoil her rotten,” Jon admits, and Spencer laughs.

“Join the club.”

The nurse Jon didn’t recognise walks back in, followed by Brendon. “Okay, we need to take her for a few tests now and give her a good wash. It won’t take long. You’re welcome to come along,” the nurse tells Jon, and he feels torn between never, ever letting his daughter out of his sight and staying with Spencer.

“I can go with her,” Brendon offers. “If you guys want, like... more time.”

Jon nods shakily. Spencer looks as crestfallen as he feels when the nurse carefully takes their daughter into her arms, taking her away from them. Brendon looks like he too has had his world rearranged as his eyes sparkle at the sight of the baby, and he follows the nurse out, leaving Jon with Spencer.

With their daughter no longer present, Jon removes his arm from around Spencer’s shoulders and stands up carefully. “She got ten points,” Spencer informs him. “From the tests they did when they first got her out?”

“She looks like ten points perfect to me,” Jon says, feeling stupidly proud about that. Then he pictures her first few minutes in this world, and guilt washes over him again. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” Jon argues. “I failed you and I failed that little girl, and there is nothing I can do to –”

“Jon,” Spencer says tiredly, leaning back against the bed. “We were supposed to have more time. It’s not your fault.”

“You were with Ryan and Brendon?”

“I was at Bden’s.”

“That was lucky. I mean, what if you had been at home and you wouldn’t have been able to reach me? And Brendon wouldn’t have been picking up and –”

“Then I would’ve called a cab. There’s no use playing around with scenarios like that. I’m happy you’re here now.”

Spencer is?

“I’m still sorry,” Jon adds stubbornly. He will beat himself up over this for weeks and weeks, if not months or years. “But I also- Thank you.”

“For what?”

Jon sits back down on the edge of the bed. He looks down at his hands that are huge, fucking gigantic, compared to the baby’s. “For my daughter.” He looks at Spencer tentatively.

Spencer’s got an easy, tired smile on his lips. “You too. I mean, I guess thanks go to William for putting too much vodka in the punch.”

Jon chuckles, but shakes his head, carefully brushing hair away from Spencer’s forehead. “No. I’m pretty sure all credit goes to that tight, red shirt you were wearing.”

Spencer breaks into a smile, and this feels good. Joking about something that seemed disastrous at the time, but it was never a disaster. It was the best thing that Jon ever did, and he would not change it for anything. Let them say whatever they want about him, spread all the rumours they want. They can go right ahead, because he doesn’t care.

The second Gabe passed him that small bundle, Jon knew it will always be worth it.

* * *

The birth feels like the calm after a storm, even if it’s anything but. His daughter likes to cry and not stop, but Spencer still feels like she puts everything into perspective somehow. And they thought that the nursery was ready, but once she’s in it, Spencer realises all the things they’re missing. No way is twelve pairs of socks enough, he needs two hundred. Just to be on the safe side.

Spencer is currently debating between Pulcheria and Vesta.

“Um... I don’t think she looks like either,” Jon says gingerly.

“I like Roman names.”

“I completely agree that she needs a name that is as unique as she is, but... Pulcheria Smith-Walker sounds like...”

Someone’s vomit. Okay, Jon has a point. They decide to call her Bundle until they decide on a name.

Spencer and Bundle were discharged after three days of impatiently waiting to go home already. He never expected so many flower deliveries to his hospital room, but the girl is a Walker, even if there is an on-going scandal surrounding her birth and their marital status. They still live together, at least, which makes everything a bit more okay but also adds a whole dash of unusual since everyone knows they broke up. Different LA law firms, restaurant chain owners and a few congressmen sent flowers, and Spencer didn’t know any of those people, but he liked that the room got more and more colourful. He also received flowers from his own crowd, of course, but the Walkers’ associates heavily outnumbered them. Jon seemed surprised by the amount, like he was expecting the birth of his child to be ignored. Spencer’s not sure if Jon was relieved.

Charlene and Victor haven’t seen the baby yet. Spencer’s expecting Jon to inform him when they’re coming over to visit, but Jon isn’t saying anything so he won’t ask.

Bundle was born at the right time. Now he and Jon have something to talk about, a common ground, and Spencer doesn’t need to replay the words, “What if I told you I was in love with you?” in his head on a loop that would keep him up all night if Bundle wasn’t doing that already.

He hasn’t told Brendon what Jon said. Brendon cannot be consulted on anything to do with a semi-healthy relationship because, the day after the birth, he came in with flowers and balloons, sat down and said that after the delivery, he had left with Ryan and slept with him, but totally only because emotions were running high, and if maybe that somehow made him a bad uncle. Spencer doesn’t think it affects Brendon’s uncle skills, but it certainly questions the basic sanity level Spencer expects a normal human being to have. Not to mention that Brendon was limping. Again.

Does Ryan Ross have some obsessive trait to fuck Brendon as hard as he can? And if so, then what the hell is up with that?

But Spencer will not get involved with the messed up drama of Ryan and Brendon (and there is drama there, there is a thing with Ryan, though Spencer cannot see what on earth is attracting those two together). He has his own situation with Jon to deal with.

Jon kissed him at the hospital. On the forehead, but it counts. And when Jon came back the next day, he sat by the bed and held his hand, thumb brushing over his knuckles as he asked how Spencer was doing. He’s alright. He’s got a red scar running across his lower abdomen and Andy told him not to lift anything that isn’t the baby for a month at least. It’s been a few days and he’s still exhausted and in pain, but at least he’s home, he’s a dad, and he’s alright. It isn’t how he pictured it, though. In his head, he and Jon lay on the bed, the baby between them, and they’d tickle her toes and play with her tiny fingers, smiling and exchanging soft kisses. But it’s not like that.

“Will you be okay for the day?” Jon asks worriedly. Spencer knows Jon tried to get some time off around the birth, but Bundle got impatient and messed up the schedule. Spencer only nods, even if he is tired and could do with some rest. Moving around in general hurts too. He is trying to feed Bundle with the milk bottle with varying success, letting her stop to cry and helping himself to a piece of toast at the orchestrated intervals. For such a tiny girl, she is loud. Jon’s wearing his suit as he is heading to court. Spencer wishes Jon didn’t have to go, but he won’t say that.

He is getting pretty good at the feeding, though. Bundle opens her mouth to cry, and Spencer offers her the bottle before she can start. Her mouth closes and her lips pucker as she sucks vigorously, tears already forgotten. Spencer grins. He totally has her figured out.

“Call me if you need anything. Anything at all,” Jon says. He’s sworn never to turn his phone off again, which Spencer thinks is a slight overreaction.

“We’ll be fine,” he says. “Brendon’s coming over, I told you. He’s got the day off.”

“Yeah, you said.” Jon walks over and kneels down in front of the chair, one hand on Spencer’s knee, somehow managing to distract Spencer from feeding his daughter. When Jon looks at Bundle, his smile is blinding, so bright and happy that Spencer feels his own heart bursting at the sight of it. Jon’s got wrinkles in the corners of his eyes from smiling so wide. “Have a good fourth day on earth,” Jon whispers to her, moving to place a kiss onto the top of her head. “Hope you like it.”

Spencer thinks it’d be easier if Jon wasn’t so blatantly in love with their daughter. Jon adores her and can handle her exceptionally well. Jon can make her stop crying better than he can, and last night Jon was by the crib before Spencer was every single time (which is not surprising because it takes Spencer a ridiculously long time to get out of bed carefully. No stretching or sudden movements allowed). When he padded in, still half-asleep, he found Jon already standing in the nursery in a pair of boxers and bed hair, softly singing Bundle back to sleep. It’s hard for Spencer not to fall in love with Jon whenever he does something like that, and he’s not saying that he hasn’t.

Jon smiles at Bundle adoringly before standing up. “I’ll bring dinner and then we’ll have a baby naming conference tonight.”

“Brendon’s bringing books.”

“Good. Well.” Jon looks at the baby and smiles. “Have a good day.” And since Jon can’t seem to resist it, he quickly bends over to kiss her again. “I’ll miss you and now I’m going to be late because of you and I don’t even care.”

Spencer smiles, lifting Bundle and whispering, “Wave Dad bye bye.” She doesn’t, unsurprisingly.

Brendon comes over when Spencer’s managed to put Bundle to sleep. Spencer is expecting baby naming books, but instead Brendon hands him an astronomy book. “Just look at it,” Brendon says before persistently sneaking into the nursery “just to take a look”, but of course he wakes Bundle up and Spencer spends another twenty minutes singing to her. She prefers Jon’s voice, clearly.

They sit in the living room with ice tea and begin to brainstorm, trying to determine what Bundle looks like.

“What about Sky?” Brendon grins. “Get it?”

“Sky Walker. Ha, ha, very witty,” he says with a roll of his eyes.

Brendon pouts slightly. “I thought it’d be funny...”

“We’ll name the next one Stormtrooper.”

Brendon instantly perks up, eyes sparkling as he breaks into a huge smile. “You guys finally got back together? Shit, about time! I mean, at the hospital I was like, if those two don’t kiss and make up already, I’m gonna lose my mind!”

“We haven’t,” Spencer says, leaving it there. They’re not together. They’re back to their original plan: raising their child together as friends. And they are friendly, and Jon smiles at him plenty, but he doesn’t really touch Spencer. Spencer feels Jon-touch deprived. “He never really wanted me. He did what he did for Bundle.”

Brendon gives him a look like he’s a piece of rotting meat full of maggots or something else as disgusting, and then says, “When did you become self-deprecating? This whole not-good-enough crap is really not suiting you.”

“Yeah, well – You’ve let a guy you hate fuck you. Several times. I mean, I think that speaks of some serious issues.”

“Oh, you are not making this about me,” Brendon snaps, even if his cheeks suddenly look crimson. “Although, now that you brought it up, I’ve decided that I’ll probably occasionally have sex with him. But only because it’s good! I mean, Ryan kind of came over last night and we- Well, I decided that I’d be fine with having a fuck buddy thing with his cock. Not him, but his penis. He’s amazing, but only in bed, not as a person. Just strictly in bed. Alright? That’s it. Because you know how I hate him. But I like his dick. So. That’s what I’m gonna do. End of conversation.”

Not like Brendon hasn’t had dubious arrangements with guys before, but with Ryan? Really?

But if Spencer’s learned something, it’s that judging people can turn anyone into a shitty person, so he won’t. If Brendon wants to marry Ryan’s penis, he should go for it. Mr. Ryan Ross’s Penis. It has a nice ring to it.

“Is that why he was at Bden’s when I went into labour? You guys had like a secret rendezvous or something?”

“No, he’s just kind of started coming by himself sometimes. Guess he likes the food,” Brendon shrugs.

Or Ryan likes Brendon. If Ryan Ross is capable of something like that. If Ryan likes Brendon even a tenth as much as he hates him, then that’s a lot of like already.

“So I am handling that situation quite maturely, thank you,” Brendon notes, leaning back in the arm chair, a star constellation book open in his lap. “So why is it you and Jon are still being retarded about it all? And don’t!” Brendon says sharply, cutting him off as he is about to protest, “Don’t say he doesn’t want you. When he got to the hospital, he was breaking down. You didn’t see it, man, but I did. He thought you hated him, he even said, like, ‘oh now I know why he doesn’t want me’, beating himself up over missing the birth. He was heartbroken, so don’t start with the ‘I love him, he doesn’t love me’ bullshit. I got enough of that during our romantic weekend getaway, which was neither romantic nor actually getting away from anything.”

Spencer wasn’t that bad. He was heavily pregnant and upset, it’s not like he spent the weekend bawling in a corner. He ranted a hell of a lot, and Brendon didn’t say anything about him being out of line then. As far as he can remember, Brendon said that all Walkers should go to hell with their notions of ‘proper’ and ‘educated’.

Jon was shaken up when he got to the hospital. He cried, sure, Spencer saw it. But Jon was happy, not heartbroken. He was overwhelmed, but who wasn’t? And Jon was sorry, but he wasn’t pining –

“I think you both forgot the engagement wasn’t real,” Brendon says quietly. “So when you left, you actually left him.”

But Spencer didn’t. He let Jon go, goddammit, by... okay, leaving him, but it was Spencer who forgot, not Jon, it was him and –

Brendon sighs. “Jesus, you’re both so caught up in your own drama you don’t even realise how miserable you both look. I’ve known you forever, and you’ve never been quite this pathetic.”

“Hey!” he objects, but he’s nervous now, no longer sure of if he has this figured out properly at all. So what if I told you I was madly in love with you? He panics. “I think he tried to tell me.”

Brendon shakes his head, clearly unimpressed, but Brendon wasn’t there, seeing Jon with Tom, hearing what Charlene had to say, he didn’t know the hell it was, how it was obvious Spencer was reaching for the stars, how Jon was meant for someone who wasn’t him.

“So he- You think he- Really?” He sounds anxious and uncertain, but he can’t let himself believe it if it’s not true.

The baby monitor flashes a red light and Bundle’s demanding cries now erupt in the room. Brendon jumps up and motions him to remain seated. “I’ll get it! Uncle duties! And as for you, you’ve never been insecure about anything. I don’t like this new you so stop it,” his friend says as he heads for the nursery.

Spencer exhales. Of course he’s never been like this. He’s never been in love before.

* * *

Jon shows everyone at the office pictures he took of Bundle with his phone. He then uploads some of them and sends them around as email attachments because, really, who in the office would not want to see how gorgeous his daughter is? He’d get her on the ten o’clock news if he could.

“She looks exactly like Spencer!” William explains enthusiastically. “But then, it’s like, she looks exactly like you too! It’s weird! Genetics, Jon! Weird! Do you think she’ll keep her blue eyes?”

Jon hopes so. He really hopes so.

William has a dentist’s appointment in the afternoon, but Jon doesn’t mind having to fetch more staples himself. He can’t really concentrate on work, anyway, because his thoughts keep navigating to Bundle and Spencer, and he wants to call Spencer to see how they’re getting on, but he’s already done it twice today, and three might be overkill.

Jon doesn’t realise where he is until he’s already snatched a pack of staples from the shelf. Only then do his eyes focus on the old, broken photocopy machine at the back of the supply closet. He still remembers that night, drinking a bit too much, accidentally joining the hot receptionist in the closet, flirting, thinking he was smooth, the nerves and the butterflies and then heat, heat, heat, pushing inside Spencer for the first time.

Had Jon walked in to find someone else in the supply closet, it never would have happened. There was always something about Spencer that pushed him to do the opposite of what he’d normally do, something that sent him spinning freely across the air, to an unexpected direction, but not a wrong one.

The supply closet. Jon smiles at the memory, unknowingly having gained so much that day. Somehow he still feels like he has been only half-victorious. He couldn’t make Spencer fall in love with him. He wasn’t that guy. Spencer knew it all along, probably, but Spencer gave it a shot. Jon is pretty sure Spencer gave it a shot at some point, in the midst of them kissing and making love, and then Spencer made up his mind.

It’s not as bad as it could be. They’ve got Bundle now, and she is so tiny and she needs them, and hopefully that combination will keep Spencer preoccupied for a few years before he even thinks about dating again, and maybe by then Jon will have gotten over Spencer enough not to want to bash the new guy’s brains in.

Works in theory.

Jon pockets the staples and exits the small closet, almost bumping into his father outside. “Jonathan, good,” Victor says, and Jon is relatively sure his father hasn’t said his name in relation to any positive adjective in the past nine months. “Come to my office.”

Jon follows obediently, not really wanting to. He told his parents that they now have a granddaughter, of course, in a brief voicemail. He figured they had the right to know, even if they never displayed any interest in the matter.

Victor sits behinds his enormous desk, motioning for Jon to take a seat. Jon wonders if there’s a case Victor wants to discuss, some ruling he’s not happy with and wants Jon’s legal opinion on it. “So,” Victor says. Pause. “You’re a father now.”

“Oh. I am. You got the email?”

“A girl.”

“Yes.”

Not a boy, like his parents were expecting. Bundle clearly had plans to be a rebel.

“She looks like you.”

“Looks like Spencer too,” he says, smiling despite himself. He won’t mourn because his parents aren’t happy with it. They’ve had months to get used to the idea, so it certainly is not his fault if they haven’t.

Victor is looking at him in a strange way, and Jon isn’t sure what his father is thinking. Jon isn’t congratulating Victor on becoming a grandfather if Jon isn’t getting congratulations for becoming a father. Call him petty.

“And you and Spencer are... still living together?”

“We’re raising her together as we agreed.”

“But you’re not...?”

“No.” Jon looks away for the first time, his persistent smile wavering. He still walks around with the rings in his pocket like a fucking idiot.

“Well, that’s... modern,” Victor offers, when he actually means scandalous, abhorrent, the hyperboles would probably be endless if Jon cared to ask his father to elaborate. He really doesn’t care. “So, when can we see her?”

“Oh. Well.” Jon’s mind races. He pictures a dinner at his apartment, his mother throwing insults at Spencer over thyme seasoned potatoes. Not happening while he’s still alive and kicking. He pictures going to his parents’ house by himself, taking Bundle along, but he has no desire to present himself as a single father or disassociate his daughter from Spencer. “Now is not a really good time. Newborn babies, you know. She needs her rest.”

“Jonathan –”

“Well, I’ll put it this way. I would be delighted and happy to have you meet her on the day you and Mother are willing to welcome her on my terms.”

Terms. Like a contract. He’s speaking his father’s language, and Victor leans forwards slightly, brows furrowing. “I see. And what are those terms?”

Jon gives him an easy smile. “There’s only one.”

“Go on.”

“You welcome her unconditionally. Nothing more, nothing less.”

If it’s blackmail, Jon finds him surprisingly at ease with it. He’s not a cynic: he believes people can change. Some people, like his parents, just need a hell of a lot pushing to make sure they get there. Jon will give the shoves if necessary.

Victor leans back in his chair, clearly not pleased. Jon thinks of his little girl and keeps smiling.

He doesn’t answer to Victor anymore. He’s got a new boss, and she’s done a pretty good job at wrapping him around her incredibly tiny little finger.

* * *

Jon gets home later than he had intended due to a disastrous cock up the people over at Biller & Renton managed to do, and he had to spend an hour trying to find the testimonies they had lost. It’s hard to be annoyed, however, when the first thing he does is head to the nursery to see his daughter fast asleep.

He stops by the crib, beaming down at her. “Hey, D,” he whispers softly.

“D?”

He spins around to see Spencer in the doorway, who is eyeing the bouquet of flowers in Jon’s arms with a wide-eyed expression. Jon is also holding a plastic bag full of takeaway food and, really, it would have been sensible to drop it all off first, but his daughter, so screw that. Jon carefully tiptoes out of the nursery, making sure the door is closed before speaking. “Hi,” he beams at Spencer, and Spencer’s got a faint blush on his cheeks for whatever reason.

“Um. Are those..? Um.”

Jon looks at the bouquet. “Oh! Another ‘congrats for the baby’ delivery.”

“Oh. Right.” Spencer clears his throat and looks uncomfortable. “They’re pretty.”

“I’ll put them in the living room,” he decides, and Spencer follows him into the kitchen where Jon looks around for scissors. Spencer tries to go for the food, but Jon doesn’t want him lifting plates (plates can be heavy!) so Spencer ends up sitting by the table instead. Jon also went overboard and got enough food for five people, but Spencer needs to regain energy and strength, and what better way to do that than excessive amounts of saturated fats?

“So, D?” Spencer asks.

“Oh, yeah. I was kinda thinking,” he says, and by ‘kinda thinking’, he means obsessing over it every second so far that day, “I like Dylan.”

“Dylan?”

Jon drops the flowers in a vase and nods. “I mean, I know it’s usually a boy’s name –”

“It’s not.”

“Most Dylans are guys.”

“Your parents would definitely hate a name like that,” Spencer admits, nodding thoughtfully. “I kinda like it, though. Like, as a middle name.”

Jon would be fine with that. Something Dylan Smith-Walker.

“No bad associations with that name?” Jon asks, now getting out plates so they can eat.

Spencer shakes his head. “Brendon had some cool ideas.” Oh. Brendon. Spencer undoubtedly would let Brendon name their daughter, along with anything else Brendon’s heart desires. “I liked Vega, but then, like... Vega Smith-Walker sounds silly.” Jon lifts an eyebrow, and Spencer says, “He brought astronomy books. Something about Bundle being a bright star in the... sky of... love?”

Sounds like Brendon.

Jon puts the plates and cutlery down, deciding to move the vase of flowers in the middle of the dining table. They’ll look pretty there. Spencer is kind of mumbling now, for some strange reason, and he is talking to his hands, and it sounds vaguely like, “Um, I kind of wanted to, like, remember when you, um, uh, when you said, I mean that I, and then, I was thinking...”

Jon sits down and opens one of the boxes, the scent of kung po chicken filling the air. He doesn’t dig in, though. Spencer is clearly struggling to say something here, so Jon waits for him to go on. “The flowers are pretty!” Spencer rushes out.

“Best ones we’ve got, I think,” he agrees. “Tom’s got taste.”

“Tom? You didn’t say they were from Tom,” Spencer says in an oddly strained voice. “Did he come to the office?”

“No, got them delivered. Really sweet of him, though I think I should be sending him flowers,” he muses, wondering if that would help Tom move on with his life and forget about Chloe.

Spencer is staring at him and not blinking. “You guys... are, like... hanging out?”

“We went out while you were away for the weekend with Brendon?” And then Tom helped Jon realise he is hopelessly in love, which Tom also needs to be thanked for, even if it turned to shit and Jon feels just as bad as he ever did. He’s trying to stay positive though, and think of Something Dylan Smith-Walker, who makes him disgustingly happy.

“That! That is just not fair!” Spencer snaps angrily.

Jon blinks. “What?”

“Well, him just- just waltzing back from Chicago and being all charming and nice all the fucking time! I mean, don’t I deserve a goddamn chance?” he asks demandingly, eyes locking on the flowers and flaring up. “I don’t want these flowers here. I don’t –” he begins, standing up and wincing, and he picks up the vase, when he should not carry or lift anything that isn’t their daughter.

Jon shoots up, trying to take the vase from him, but Spencer won’t let go. “What the hell?” Jon asks disbelievingly. Is Spencer on drugs? Did he pop a painkiller too many?

“I don’t –” Spencer persists, but then the vase slips from his fingers as Jon tries to pull it back, and it drops onto the floor, smashing to pieces. “Fuck!” Spencer snaps as water and flowers fly everywhere.

Jon stares. He mustn’t yell at Spencer. He cannot yell at the man who had major surgery just a handful of days ago. Do not yell. Do not –

“What the fuck?!” he yells.

Okay, not polite or correct, but that wasn’t just any vase and the flowers were nice, and Spencer is being completely irrational.

“Fine! Date him! Just go ahead, but don’t flaunt it in front of me like this!” Spencer snaps. “And Bundle will not call him dad either! I swear to god that if –”

“I’m not dating Tom.”

“You just said –”

“Lunch, Spencer! We had lunch! Lunch is a lot more innocent than, say, a weekend getaway in a resort where the only thing you’re expected to do is fuck!” he snaps, because there is a line there too, with Brendon taking the day off when Jon should, Brendon naming their baby, Brendon this, Brendon that, and god, Jon is sick of it.

Spencer’s eyes widen so much it’s almost comical. It’s not, though. “Are you suggesting me and Brendon would...? Oh my god! That’d be like- like screwing my brother! And Brendon is getting all of his needs met by Ryan Ross, by the way. And Tom! It was him who gave that goddamn present in the first place! He thought I wasn’t keeping you satisfied, the arrogant asshole! I was totally keeping you satisfied, and he dared to suggest –”

“He was being nice!”

“– like this big, silent hint that you guys did it five times a day or whatever! Well, I’m sorry, I was pregnant, I can’t compete with college hormones –”

Jon stares at Spencer in astonishment. “The best sex of my life has been with you.”

“My point precisely!” Spencer snaps. “And he –” he stops. “You- I mean. Really?”

Jon nods very slowly in order not to upset Spencer in any way. They’re fighting about sex. Okay. He is maybe on the same page here, but probably not, because why would they be fighting about it when they don’t even have it anymore?

Spencer is now chewing on his bottom lip uncertainly. It’s more than distracting. “And you’re not dating him?”

“No. I really am not. What the hell has gotten into you?”

Spencer hesitates and clearly refuses to look at him, hands curled into fists. Jon doesn’t look away but stares him down, and Spencer sighs in defeat, some of the anger fading, replaced by embarrassment if the sudden blush on his cheeks is anything to go by. “Maybe I’m jealous,” he mutters, glancing at Jon. “Okay? I’m... Go on, laugh, I know you want to. I know it’s stupid.”

It’s not stupid and Jon doesn’t want to laugh about it either. Instead he feels like shit. He hasn’t meant to make Spencer jealous, he wants to make Spencer feel like a kid on a sugar high every damn day if he can manage it. But then...

“It is stupid,” he says slowly.

“Yeah. Sure. I know,” Spencer says, voice kind of teary, and he moves to leave, but Jon blocks him.

“No, you listen. It’s stupid because I told you, didn’t I? I mean, I told you I’m in love with you, and you weren’t interested, so what the hell? You’re jealous. Why? Like, did I mumble? Did I say, oh, maybe I kinda like you? No, I –”

“You didn’t say it! You- It was a question! A rhetorical question! Followed by a lot of nothing!”

How can this be so difficult? It’s never this complicated on screen. Disney lied to Jon when he was a kid. He gets that now. Disney movies lied.

“I wasn’t going to push you!” he argues. “I’m not going to keep running after you! You said no! A man has to know when a no means no! I’m respecting your decision here! It’s what you wanted. Right? For me to just let you be?”

Spencer gives a tiny, tiny headshake. “Not really.” He bites on his bottom lip and won’t look at him.

Not really. Okay. Right. Jon will do this one last time – one time, no more, no less – and then he will move on, regardless of the outcome, because he cannot live like this. He can’t.

“I love you. As a friend, as a person, as a lover, as the father of my gorgeous child. And I know I’ve fucked up a hell of a lot and I haven’t been there for you, but I would try and fix all of that if you gave me the chance. And I forgot that we weren’t really engaged. Being with you just felt so right that I... It was real. To me. All of it was real. I wanted to marry you. I want to fucking marry you, and maybe that’s insane, but we’ve been through more in the past months than most couples in three years, so maybe it’s not that crazy. But if it is, I don’t care. I want all of that, I want us to be a family, and I want you with me.”

Jon’s done. There was nothing rhetorical about any of that.

Spencer’s pale, maybe even trembling. He swallows hard, and he looks ashamed for some stupid reason which makes Jon feel uneasy. “You’re... you’re really good at this speaking thing.”

“Comes with the job description,” he says, not trying to be funny, just waiting to crash and burn.

Spencer nods vigorously, blinking and heaving. “I was thinking Iona.”

“What?”

“Iona Dylan Smith-Walker? I like the sound of it. Iona. I think she looks like an Iona.”

Jon has never heard the name before. Sounds unusual, but pretty, and as much as he loves his daughter, he doesn’t see how this is relevant to what he just told Spencer. Did Spencer not hear what he just said? Is Spencer perhaps deaf?

“It’s a Celtic name or whatever, just came across it and I liked it, I just, I’ve kind of spent the afternoon calling her Iona and I think she likes it, and was that a proposal? Just now? That... What you said there?”

Jon stops himself from saying, ‘do you want it to be?’ He’s spent far too much time trying to be considerate and the good guy, making sure Spencer is making his own decisions and how he is not that control freak he was when they met.

“Yes. It was.”

Unintentionally so, but it still was.

“And you’re sure?” Spencer asks, rushing it out. “You don’t care that I can’t, like, tell Verdi and Chopin apart or –”

Jon doesn’t even care that Spencer’s parallels are as far apart in classical terms as Judas Priest is from Britney Spears. He loves Spencer in all the ways he isn’t like Jon or anyone else he knows.

“Are you going to answer?” he demands impatiently.

“Yes.”

“And?”

“No, that was my answer. I said... yes. If that’s okay,” Spencer says tentatively, sounding worried like Jon will say he was just joking. “If it still stands.”

“It does.”

Spencer’s expression changes to one of relief and disbelief at the same time. “I forgot too,” he says, smiling crookedly. “That it wasn’t real. And then I just wanted it to be real.” His eyes are glistening slightly, and Jon instantly steps closer, needing to make this better somehow.

“Hey,” he whispers softly, cupping Spencer’s cheek.

Spencer smiles, wiping his eyes. “I’m sorry for everything, for all the shit I put you through, I didn’t – I thought you were only with me because I was pregnant.” Jon can’t say anything to that, because it’s true. Initially, that’s what it was about. “I think I’m going insane seeing you all the time and not- not touching you and kissing you, and I miss you. I just miss you,” Spencer whispers, hand pressing against Jon’s chest, fingers digging in gently like he needs something solid right now.

Jon knows he’s good with words but as far as he’s concerned, Spencer is just as good with them. He’s heard all he needs to hear. “Then the offer still stands.”

“Good. Great.” Spencer breaks into a smile, but it’s obvious he is struggling to keep it together. “Sorry about the vase. I swear I’m not like that, it’s the painkillers talking.”

Jon grins. “You don’t need to sell yourself to me at this point,” he says, studying every small detail of Spencer’s face, his heart swelling up when Spencer finally looks at him, and his eyes are shining in a way Jon’s never seen before. “Hi,” Jon whispers, hand curling softly around Spencer’s hip. Gently, of course. He can’t crush Spencer to him even if he’d like to.

“Hey,” Spencer says and kisses him. Jon smiles into it, and it feels better than any of the kisses they’ve shared before. Fuck, Jon is so lost in Spencer, and he only wants to get further lost if possible. He carefully pulls Spencer into his arms, the kiss deepening but remaining soft and slow. Spencer laughs against his lips, but then winces. He pulls back and places a hand on his stomach. “Ouch. Laughing not good,” he says, but his eyes are still sparkling and Jon can see the love in them. And is that for him? It must be.

Jon presses their foreheads together, holding Spencer in his arms the best he can without hurting him. “Then I think we should go to our bed, and then you should let me kiss you for hours on end, and I want to put the ring back on you, properly, on one knee, any cheesy proposal scenario you’ve ever played in your head, I’ll do that.”

Spencer’s smile is radiant, and he is still blinking a bit too much, but he’s happy. Jon can see that Spencer’s happy, and it’s all he wants. Spencer smiles shyly. “Only if you promise not to be funny.”

“Oh, I swear. You’ve got an entire future of boredom ahead of you now.”

Spencer laughs, then winces, then pouts, and Jon just grins at his fiancé, and he feels like the world makes sense for the first time in his life. He reaches for Spencer’s hand, lacing their fingers together. He brings their hands to his lips, kissing Spencer’s knuckles. “You need to know that I –”

Jon hears the distant cry of a baby. Spencer flinches and looks over his shoulder to the doorway. He pulls his hand back reluctantly, motioning at Jon. “I’ll be right back. You wait here. You hold that thought. And I’ll be back in a minute. Or ten.” Spencer backs away carefully, keeping his eyes on him.

“I’ll wait,” he grins. Forever, if needed.

“Good. I love you. Like, ridiculously.”

“Well, of course.”

He makes it into a joke even though it’s not. It’s the first time Spencer’s said it, and Jon feels absolutely breathless. Spencer grins wider and stops, expression one of absolute astonishment. “I can’t believe I’m gonna marry you.”

His grin matches Spencer’s. What the hell did Jon do to get this lucky?

Their daughter starts to cry even louder, clearly letting them know she is expecting some attention already. “Iona, Spence? We’re gonna have social services on our asses and it’s only week one. Not impressive.”

“No. Not. Iona, I’ll go- attend to her. You just wait. Right there. Don’t move.”

He watches Spencer go, and he feels like he is overflowing with happiness, perhaps even radiating. He hurries to clean up some of the mess, picking up the biggest shards and placing towels on the floor to soak up the water. Once done, he actually waits for two whole minutes like an idiot, beaming to himself as he stands in the midst of leaves and petals he didn't bother picking up, before he realises his own stupidity and gets to the nursery where his family is.

Right where he needs to be.

Drabble 6: Jon, the King of His Own Realm

Sun, 22 Nov 2009 00:20:35 GMT

No one is writing me the canon angst I want, so I wrote it myself. Inspiration found here with a whole dash of drama added by yours truly. Unbetaed. PG-13. Gen, Jon/Cassie. 857 words.

The day starts out well. Better than yesterday, at least. It’s something.

No word from Ryan. Jon tries to be surprised, but he’s not. He’s up early, which means Ryan is still awake and attending some party that’s in full swing, laughing at Z’s jokes with his messed up conviction that if he laughs loud enough, he will forget the past somehow.

Jon wonders if it’s working and which was better: Ryan admitting he had nothing to laugh about or Ryan pretending he was suddenly okay.

Marley and the cats follow him to the bathroom, but Jon is too sleepy to be bothered that they watch him taking a piss. He brushes his teeth, getting Cassie’s taste out of his mouth. It feels foreign now, after all this time. She didn’t mean to stay the night, she just came to pick up the rest of her stuff. They’re both lonely. They’re both confused because how can you not touch after all those years? How can you wake up and decide that’s it?

But Jon knows you can. That’s what the band did. What Cassie did.

He takes a picture of her after she wakes up. Marley jumps on the bed, excited to have her back. If only the dog knew how temporary it is. Jon knows, so he saves it forever and he even shares it with the world as proof. So that they will know she was there and she was his. So that Jon will know, because when she gets up and leaves, it will be like she never existed at all, and that’s the worst part. Cassie smiles at first, and Jon figures that she must think it's like it was before for those few blissful seconds before sleep evaporates and reality kicks in.

Jon doesn’t know when he went from gaining to losing, if there was some decisive moment that turned the tide. He doesn’t know for sure, but he knows he missed it.

“You know that last night –” she starts, but Jon stops her. He knows what it was, even if he first thought that if he fucked her long enough or made her come hard enough, she’d stay. It was just a goodbye, and it felt like it. Sad and defeated. Apologetic. Cassie probably already regrets it. That makes one of them.

“It’s okay. It’s fine,” Jon says, and then he even carries one of her boxes to her car. He takes Marley for a walk, waving her off, not wanting to go home. He soon despises himself for all the goddamn understanding he is showing, jumping from perfect boyfriend to perfect ex. The one who let the other one go, the one who said he understood. Jon has been too fucking understanding, saying he gets Cassie’s decision, understands where Ryan is coming from. He’s the guy who gets it.

And what does he get for it? Nothing.

He walks slowly to avoid having to go home, but then Marley starts looking at him with big dog eyes, and Jon realises he hasn’t fed the pets yet.

When he gets home, to the big house he bought with Panic money, it doesn’t feel that different. Jon is used to the way his lone voice echoes in the space he can’t seem to fill. And now with Cassie gone for good, he... doesn’t feel anything.

The cats and Marley remain in the kitchen, happily devouring their cat and dog food, and Jon goes to the living room with his cup of tea. His thumb presses against the black porcelain that’s warm from the liquid. Light is pouring in through the windows, and it’s so quiet that he can hear himself breathing.

He could call someone, but Ryan’s probably gone to bed now.

He wishes Cassie had cried when they hugged goodbye. She didn’t. Neither did he.

He wishes he could call Brendon, because that guy has always been able to cheer him up. Jon can’t do that anymore. They haven’t talked in ages, and if Jon called now, it’d be for selfish reasons. And Spencer warned him, didn’t he? Spencer said, “If you leave with him, then don’t you ever –”

So Jon hasn’t called. Hasn’t bothered them. He has been the one who gets it.

He watched a few of the songs the band played in Chile. He watched two and a half before he felt so sick he had to stop.

Jon makes his own rules now. He makes his own life, his own company.

The silence is so loud that Jon wants to scream.

He communicates in one of the few ways that he can. He takes another picture, capturing the moment, thinking that it has got to be the lowest point of his life. But it was a long way to fall. It was too long.

He texts Ryan. anything on a record deal yet? He’s not sure who he’s kidding anymore, but Ryan is a master in self-deception, and Jon has taken a few pointers.

The clock is ticking on the wall. The branches are moving in the soft breeze outside. The tea has gone cold.

You Gotta Dance With Who You Came With [standalone]

Sun, 25 Oct 2009 14:50:13 GMT

Title: You Gotta Dance With Who You Came With
Author: arctic_grey
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Ryan/Brendon
POV: 3rd, Brendon’s
Summary: Brendon forgot about the prom but decides that it’s a rite of passage he cannot miss, and Ryan acts like the bitch that he is, only not really.
Disclaimer: Not real. Title belongs to my bud Craig Finn.
Author Notes: This was written for the rydenrevival of epic love, so have some schmoopy schmoopiness! Thanks to ivesia19 for taking a look at this for me, and thanks to spazzyskittles for betaing! <3 p.s. I am also currently looking for a beta for a motorcycle gang!fic (as we call it). If you're interested, go here. Thanks! :)

It’s just a stupid high school thing that completely escapes Brendon’s attention because he is busy packing up for Maryland and trying to get their songs into recordable conditions, and of course, he is simultaneously trying to pass his classes and show up on time for his shift in Smoothie Hut. If the day had fifty hours in it, Brendon would still be running around and complaining about a lack of time. It is hardly a surprise that he hasn’t had any time to even consider the P word, especially lately when all he can think about is this stupid boy who can play guitar really well, but then it’s there in front of him, in the huge banner that is being put up above the gym doors.

Jake from English class nudges his side. “The prom, dude! Exciting! Who you taking?”

“Um. Uh.” He forgot about the prom. He forgot.

Jake looks thoughtful. “Everyone’s got dates already, but I haven’t heard you saying anything about it. So who are you going with?”

“No one,” he admits, now silently cursing himself. He could have asked Lindsey or Natalie, but those two will most certainly have dates already. Oh god, who is he going to ask? Who does he know that would be even remotely interested in going with him as friends, nothing more?

“No one?” Jake repeats, astonished.

“I’m not,” Brendon says hurriedly, a bit horrified. “I’m not going. I’m gonna skip it.” Yeah, he is totally going to skip it. One of the most significant nights of his teenage life. Who needs it, really, dressing up and dancing to cheesy songs the horrible DJ puts on?

“You can’t skip it. You might be class clown, you gotta be there! No one skips the prom. It’s a rite of passage.”

Jake is right. Brendon tries to convince himself that no one will notice if he doesn’t go to the damn thing. He’d be the dateless loser, anyway, and that isn’t the kind of impression he wants his fellow seniors to remember. He was more aiming for the ‘My band has a record deal and we’ll be super famous someday’ impression. And even if he had noticed that the prom was just around the corner, who could he have realistically asked? He’s gay, for god’s sake.

The whole thing is so stupid.

“I’ll think about it,” he mutters, going to his locker and fumbling with the lock. “I might not have time to, like, with the band and all.”

Jake shrugs like it’s his loss. Brendon looks back to the beautiful, sparkly banner and feels his insides twist with longing.

* * *

He brings it up during band practice purely by accident, and Ryan says, “I had fun at mine. I matched my tie with my date’s pink dress and everything.”

Brendon tries not to think about Ryan’s arm around some girl. Girls are freaking stupid.

Brent rolls his eyes. “Can’t believe you’re straight.”

“I think you mean perceptive and polite,” Ryan counters, but his eyes linger on Brendon for a second, like maybe Brendon is about to step in and call Ryan’s sexuality into question because the two of them have, maybe, kind of, made out a few times within the past month.

They practise on each other. Kids do that kind of stuff. It’s not abnormal at all.

Brendon remains silent, and they forget about the prom and focus on a song that is currently titled Congregation. Ryan drives him home afterwards, and they remain parked outside Brendon’s building for a good ten minutes, making out in the car until the windows begin to fog up. Brendon’s been waiting for this moment the entire day. He knows it’s pretty pathetic.

The thing with them just happened. Brendon didn’t see it coming, not even in his wildest dreams. Ryan would never. Brendon’s a clumsy and annoying ex-Mormon kid who always tries too hard whereas Ryan is this epitome of cool with hickeys and pot and Pete Wentz on his speed dial. Brendon might have played around with the idea of the two of them for a nanosecond when they were first introduced, but he never thought it’d go anywhere. But then Ryan snapped, “Can we just kiss already?” in the middle of Moulin Rouge and after a bowlful of popcorn when it was almost two in the morning, in this tone that suggested Brendon had been the one playing hard to get or something else as absurd, and Brendon just popped the lollipop out of his mouth, eyes wide with shock and confusion, and Ryan glared at the candy like it was its fault, and then he attacked Brendon’s mouth.

Ryan’s mouth is slowly becoming familiar territory. Ryan’s lips too, and the way Ryan’s breathing hitches when Brendon pulls on the bottom lip. Brendon isn’t thinking about what it all means for the band, or them, or just him. When Ryan is around, Brendon has an amazing ability not to think at all.

Ryan seems a bit distracted tonight, though, and he breaks the kiss suddenly, leaving Brendon trying to make out with the air between their mouths.

Brendon opens his eyes, arching his eyebrow. Ryan looks thoughtful but, as usual, Brendon cannot read his thoughts at all. “So are you going?” Ryan asks, and oh, right. Brendon unbuckles himself quickly, wanting to get out of Ryan’s way if he is overstaying his welcome. “No, I mean to the prom,” Ryan says impatiently, placing a hand on his shoulder. Brendon remains seated.

“I guess, yeah. Though, like, I don’t really want to spend money renting a tuxedo, but Jake’s cousin owns a rental place downtown and he said I could get a good deal, so, yeah. I guess. I’m kind of looking forward to it, really.”

Ryan nods slowly, pushing hair out of his eyes. He has eyeliner smudged in the corners of his eyes. “So, like... who are you going with?”

“Myself,” Brendon admits, feeling a blush creeping onto his cheeks. He’s a loser, and though Ryan already knows this, it’s still embarrassing. It’s nice, though, for Ryan to pity him enough to make out with him every now and then. More and more lately, but that’s hormones for you. Then when Ryan gets bored and finds someone he actually likes, Brendon can think of the good old days when Ryan let Brendon make out with him a bit sometimes.

“You don’t have a date?”

“Nah,” he whispers and tries to laugh it off. “Whatever, you know? Maybe one of the boys on the football team will get really drunk, and I’ll manage to make out with him under the bleachers.”

“Funny,” Ryan says angrily, and Brendon doesn’t understand what his problem is. Ryan keeps staring at him, like he’s waiting for something. Brendon stares back. “So there’s no one you want to go with?” Ryan asks pressingly.

“No. But I bet there’ll be a few others going by themselves. We could, like, team up and scold the paired couples. It’ll be fun.”

His stomach begins to growl, reminding him that he has not had dinner yet. “I gotta get going,” he mumbles, taking his bag and finally getting out of the car. Ryan takes off before the passenger door is even properly closed, speeding down the street and leaving a trail of smoke behind. Ryan could be trying to tell him something with a take off like that, but it probably just amounts to Ryan not being that good of a driver.

Brendon has noodles for dinner and wonders if his dancing skills need brushing up before the big night.

* * *

“So my dad’s gonna be away for the weekend,” Ryan supplies casually as Brendon is poring over his homework. Brendon hums to let Ryan know he is somewhat aware that he said something, and then he continues sketching the frog’s insides for his lab report. Brendon’s place is emptier than usual because he has packed already for when they go and record their album.

Their album.

They’d be recording it already, but Brendon wants to graduate first. And go to the prom while he’s at it. Now that he’s decided to go, date or no date, he looks forward to it. He knows Alan from biology is going by himself, so is Christy from the jazz band, so he already has two people to hang out with. And it has this sense of an occasion that makes Brendon’s insides buzz.

“Sorry, what was that?” Brendon asks, shooting his head up as he realises Ryan is incessantly repeating his name, tone annoyed.

“Like talking to a wall,” Ryan huffs, putting away Brendon’s guitar. He keeps sitting on Brendon’s narrow bed by the window. “I said that you should come over on Friday. Dad’ll be gone. We’d have the place to ourselves.”

“I can’t.” Ryan looks surprised. “Prom, remember?”

“Oh,” Ryan mutters, expression darkening. “I don’t get why you’re going, anyway. It’s just gonna make you look stupid.”

Brendon’s fingers grip onto his pencil tighter. They don’t know that. They could at least not assume that Brendon always and inevitably makes an ass of himself. “I just want a night off. I think it’ll be a good time.”

Ryan is quiet for a while. “You could come to my house after the prom?”

“Jake said something about an after-party, so I don’t think I’ll be able to come by,” he mutters distractedly, now moving onto labelling the insides of the frog. Is that a liver or a spleen? Fuck, he can’t draw for shit. Ryan scoffs loudly, and Brendon stops what he’s doing. He looks up, genuinely puzzled. “What is your problem? You went to your prom last year. I bet it wasn’t quite as lame when you were doing it.” He tries to glare. “College drop out.”

It’s a lame insult when Ryan only dropped out after they got signed, and Brendon knows Ryan doesn’t regret missing out on the academic life at all. Except maybe he regrets all the hot college boys he probably wants to be doing instead of fumbling and groping with Brendon.

“Is it the heterosexual thing?” Ryan asks instead, not angrily but in a tone that is trying to have difficulty understanding. “Like, if you could be out of the closet and the world magically was giving homosexuality the green light, would you, like... you know?”

No, Brendon doesn’t know. He arches an eyebrow.

“I mean, would you still... go on your own or whatever?” Ryan’s cheeks are a bit pink, and he is persistently staring at the wall.

Brendon considers it for a while. “Yeah, probably,” he concludes. “It’s not like there’s a boy I’d want to ask.” He drops his pencil and stretches, mind no longer focused on his work. “You wanna have dinner or –”

The door slams shut behind Ryan. Brendon blinks.

Was it something he said?

* * *

They have weekly phone conferences with Pete, who is helping them out a hell of a lot with the music and song-writing. Mostly, though, Pete just sounds like an enthusiastic schoolboy when they talk to him about the music. Brendon mentions the prom in passing when they talk about what makes music bad and what makes it good, and Pete just about explodes.

“The prom! I remember mine, I totally got laid!” Pete enthuses. “Who you going with?”

“Um, just kind of by myself.”

“Aw, don’t worry. Once we get you guys on MTV, you’ll never have to be without a date again. You’ll get laid so much, Brendon, you won’t believe it.”

Brendon blushes and grins despite himself. The band on MTV? Shit, that’d be so kick ass.

Pete keeps on babbling. “It’s still one of the best nights of my life, really, though I got damn hammered and woke up in a park half-naked, but everyone knows that you gotta wake up half-naked in a public place at least once, am I right? Though I have done that so many times by now that I can’t even count! But oh man, the prom! You go to it, Brendon, and you rock it for me! Okay? Promise me you’ll rock it!”

Brendon rolls his eyes. “I’ll rock it.”

“That’s my boy! And get laid! Whining and emotional blackmail are totally acceptable! Let me give you a pick up line! You say –”

“Okay, Pete, thanks for that, talktoyoulaterbye,” Ryan says quickly, pushing the red button on the phone before anyone can say anything else. Brendon is pretty sure Ryan has never hung up on Pete before. Ryan is staring at the phone resentfully.

“I kind of wanted to know the pick up line,” Brendon mutters. Blood vanishes from Ryan’s face as his eyes go from annoyed to scandalised.

They try to work on one of the more unfinished songs, but it’s not working out because Ryan keeps snapping at everyone. He doesn’t even offer Brendon a ride home, says that his dad’s car is somehow magically full with just Spencer in it. Ryan’s always been giving him a ride lately. It reminds Brendon not to take his deal with Ryan for granted.

Brendon is still going to Spencer’s later, though, and he’s disappointed that Ryan isn’t there for some intense racing games on Spencer’s kick ass computer. Spencer mutters something about Ryan going home early, and Spencer looks slightly freaked out.

“So,” Spencer begins a bit awkwardly, a tell-tale sign he has been formulating whatever he is about to say in his head for the past ten minutes, “you and Ryan.” It’s a pretty lame finish. Brendon arches an eyebrow. Spencer seems uncomfortable. “Ryan told me that you guys... you know.”

Brendon keeps staring. That they what? Are human beings?

“He told me what you guys have been up to.”

“Okay?” Brendon offers. He and Ryan finished one of the songs yesterday. He knows Spencer wanted to be involved, but it just flowed.

“I mean, whatever, good for you, but the band, you know?”

“...Right.” Brendon is trying to figure out where this is going. He and Ryan... should not write music without Spencer and Brent?

“Ryan was upset. I mean, he was foaming at the mouth, just wouldn’t shut up and, I don’t know, maybe it’s because it’s a new thing and you guys haven’t, like, consolidated yet, plus throw in how he’s clearly just madly in –”

“Wait, what?” Brendon asks, trying to get on the same page here.

“Don’t go to the prom. Please?” Spencer’s tone has no actual patience in it; he is merely giving Brendon his bitchy stare like Brendon has done something horribly wrong here.

Brendon is completely baffled. Why is everyone telling him not to go? Why is everyone being such douches? Pete is the only one who understood how important it is for him, a rite of passage! The more that people try to take it away from him, the more he will fight for his right to goddamn party. “I’m going to my prom, I don’t care what any of you think,” Brendon says as spitefully as he can, but Spencer just glares more, and Brendon feels himself shrinking under the stare.

“You’re a douche,” Spencer snaps.

“You’re a douche!”

“Am not!”

“Are too!”

Spencer glares.

“It’s just the freaking prom,” Brendon reminds him, knowing he is totally contradicting himself by how big of a deal he has started turning it into.

“Well, if you’re going, then you’re going,” Spencer concludes and suddenly grins. “Another round?” He motions at the computer screen excitedly. He has already kicked Brendon’s ass five times in a row. Bipolar freak.

Spencer’s racing car pushes Brendon off the track in the first corner. Brendon is pretty sure Spencer is trying his best not to openly mock him for it.

* * *

Brendon has to drop by the shop to try on tuxedos. Unfortunately, he decides to get it over and done with when he is hanging out with the guys, and despite his efforts to distract them by pointing out that music shop that gives Ryan free picks, his band persistently tags along to the formal wear rental shop.

“We could pretend we’re, like, gonna be bridegrooms for a wedding,” Brent offers lamely.

The guys just end up sitting around, though, bored and complaining that Brendon is taking too long. The saleswoman is enthusiastic, but not helpful. “You’re so tiny!” she exclaims, and Brendon wants to die a little. Does she have to remind him how he doesn’t have a six pack or broad, masculine shoulders?

Ryan has a total crush on Brad Pitt, what with the way he keeps watching Fight Club all the damn time. Brad Pitt is muscular. Brendon’s a twig.

Stupid tuxedos.

Brendon reluctantly changes into the suit before stumbling out to Brent’s whistling. Ryan looks up from the GQ magazine left out for the bored husbands, and Ryan freezes a little bit, but the paperboy’s hat covers his eyes, and Brendon can’t see his expression.

“You look so adorable!” the saleswoman exclaims happily. Brendon feels pretty stupid as he fiddles with the bowtie. He wishes he had one of those clip on ones, but no such luck. He still hasn’t figured out how to tie a tie, and a bowtie isn’t any easier, so he asks for a clip on version, and the woman goes to get him one.

“We could go back to my house after we’re done. I bet we could steal a few beer bottles without my dad noticing,” Brent offers in a bored tone.

“Really? Two bottles of beer?” Spencer asks, sounding overly excited, and the two begin an enthusiastic conversation over how drunk they might potentially get from a bottle each since Ryan won’t drink, and Brendon won’t either because Ryan isn’t.

Ryan walks over to him, eyeing him up and down.

“I look like a dork, I know,” Brendon mumbles.

“I don’t think so,” Ryan says slowly, and Brendon feels fluttery warmth in his stomach. Ryan swats his hands away and starts fixing his bowtie with a focused expression. “You look good,” he adds quietly, not looking Brendon in the eye, and at that exact instant, Brendon has to remind himself not to fall in love. He told himself the same thing when Ryan said his name for the first time, when Ryan smiled at him for the first time, and especially when they kissed for the first time.

Ryan’s fingers graze Brendon’s neck, and Brendon shivers involuntarily. Ryan’s eyes are full of an emotion Brendon can’t read, but he really wants Ryan to kiss him right now, even though Spencer and Brent are just there, even though the saleswoman will be back in a second. If Ryan kissed him, Brendon would kiss back and he wouldn’t even care who saw, happily forgetting Pete’s ‘It’s okay to be gay (as long as the public doesn’t find out)’ speech.

“There,” Ryan says, and Brendon checks himself in the mirror. The bowtie is perfect.

* * *

The making out on a bed thing is still new. It’s different from making out in a car or making out in the practice room, or, well anywhere, really, because it’s on a bed and it’s horizontal. There’s a hell of a lot more Ryan at his disposal, pressed against him. Also, Ryan might have a thing for formal wear because he kept staring at him all the way back to his place, and now Ryan is groaning and kissing and groping, and he is vaguely reminding Brendon of a cat in heat. Brendon just hopes this means they’ve stopped fighting. If they were fighting. God, he doesn’t even know.

“Can I take your shirt off?” Ryan asks breathlessly, and Brendon suddenly stops caring about what exactly is going on with them. He just nods fervently, head swimming. Then Ryan is kissing his bare chest, wet tongue swiping down and across his stomach, placing kisses everywhere. Brendon focuses on not popping a boner, do not pop a boner, whatever you do, do not pop a boner.

Ryan stops when he gets to the waistband of Brendon’s boxers that come an inch higher than the top of his jeans. Ryan presses his nose there, panting and flushed. Brendon forces himself not to look but to focus on the ceiling instead. It’s an interesting ceiling. Very fascinating. All white.

He’s been half-successful because he is only half-hard. Good job.

Ryan travels up on him again, smiling widely. “Your skin,” Ryan says, sounding pleased, and then he latches onto Brendon’s neck, bites down and sucks and sucks, and Brendon whines, his entire body writhing beneath Ryan’s.

He realises that Ryan is hard. He can feel it through Ryan’s jeans. This whole practise with each other thing is the fucking best thing ever. Of all time. Ryan is hard.

Ryan finally lets go of the bit of skin he has been abusing, licking over it soothingly. Brendon moans, his skin crawling with want. “That’s not gonna leave a mark, is –”

Ryan quirks an eyebrow at him. “Handjobs?”

“Okay,” Brendon says so quickly he has the sense to feel a bit embarrassed about it, but Ryan doesn’t seem to notice.

Despite his best efforts, Brendon knows he’s falling for Ryan, and the feeling is so desperate, urgent and consuming that he doesn’t particularly care that it’s one-sided. And he knows it’s going to blow up in his face sooner rather than later, but somehow, it’s hard to care about that right now.

* * *

It’s the day of the prom, and Brendon has a hickey on his neck. He stares at the mirror in horror. A huge, red bruise with smaller purple marks decorating the edges to even show the precise location of Ryan’s teeth. It’s the kind of bruise that, should Brendon die mysteriously, the pathologist could identify Ryan from the teeth marks.

It’s his big night. His one night off where he doesn’t smell like smoothies or, alternatively, sweat after a three-hour band practice. He doesn’t want to be remembered as the guy with the ginormous hickey on his neck. He tries the tuxedo on, but the hickey is still prominent, even more so when contrasted with the white button-down shirt beneath the jacket.

He calls Ryan first thing, not caring that he is waking Ryan up. “You gave me this gigantic hickey! How am I supposed to go to the prom like this?!”

“Then don’t go,” Ryan offers languidly, and his indifference is starting to piss Brendon off. It might not matter much to Ryan, but it matters to him, and that should count for something.

“God, I hate you,” he snaps and hangs up on his friend. Ryan calls him five times, but Brendon lets it go to voicemail, focusing on applying toothpaste onto his neck and waiting for it to dry. Once he has managed that, he applies foundation over the now white spot, achieving the desired effect of a somewhat covered hickey. Excellent. He even smells spearminty. Not bad.

Everyone at school is excited, and Brendon can’t help but share their enthusiasm. He won’t be picked up by a limo or anything else that fancy; he’ll be taking the bus by himself, him in his tuxedo and the smelly bums that like to ride the 32B route, but that doesn’t dispirit him much.

He still has band practice after school, however, and Ryan agreed to pick him up. Only Ryan could be enough of a geek to demand on an extra practice when Brendon has his prom to get to. Brendon’s not sure if Ryan is going to come get him after the whole yelling on the phone thing, but Ryan does, even if he is ten minutes late. Brendon gets into the car without a proper greeting.

Ryan glances at him after two blocks. “So where’s the hickey you yelled at me for? I don’t see it.”

“I covered it up,” he says, making sure Ryan can hear how displeased he is. Ryan seems quieter than normal, but also nervous somehow. They take a left, and Brendon frowns. “This isn’t the way to the practice space.”

“Oh, yeah, Spence and Brent can’t make it. I figured you and I could go to my house and just watch a movie or whatever.”

Brendon can’t believe it. “If Spence and Brent aren’t coming, why didn’t you text me to know it got cancelled? I still need to do my hair and everything.”

“The prom. Right.” Brendon can hear the roll of Ryan’s eyes. “Honestly,” Ryan continues, “just skip it. I wanna watch some Star Wars. You love Star Wars, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but – No, pull over. Pull over, goddammit,” he swears, and Ryan obeys. “I don’t have time for a movie or whatever! This is important to me. I know you don’t get it, but I’ve been stuck with those guys for four years, and I want to see them off and go to this stupid prom.”

Ryan stares at him blankly before saying, “You’re right, I don’t fucking get it.”

“Exactly!” he snaps in frustration. Ryan is eyeing his neck a little, clearly trying to spot the hickey that has left Brendon with a confusing feeling like he’s marked property now. He suddenly gets it. “You gave me a hickey on purpose. Because of the prom. You wanted to ruin it for me, didn’t you?”

“Ruin what, exactly? Your plans of seducing the football team?” Ryan retorts angrily.

“Why are you being such a jerk?”

“Why are you being such a jerk? It’s the prom, it’s this couple thing, and you don’t even –” Ryan starts, but cuts himself off, angry and brooding.

Brendon won’t even what? What?

“I gotta go,” he mutters, opening the door and getting his school bag and suit bag from the backseat. Ryan’s shoulders are hunched, and he is staring at the steering wheel, looking a bit like a kicked puppy or a mass murderer plotting his next move, Brendon can’t decide. Brendon wishes he knew what Ryan’s deal was.

The dramatic exit is a bad move on Brendon’s part, really, because Ryan won’t put up with him for long if he keeps pissing him off, but it seems it’s impossible to please Ryan right now, so he won’t bother.

He doesn’t look over his shoulder to see if Ryan drives away or not.

* * *

The disco ball hanging from the ceiling keeps rotating slowly, casting lights on the seniors having the time of their lives. Brendon remains by the snacks table, fiddling with his phone. Christy and Alan are making out near the stage. So much for Brendon’s Rejects United Coalition. Ryan isn’t calling him or texting him or anything. It’s bugging him. Ryan usually calls and apologises if he’s been acting like a jerk.

Or was he the jerk?

“Looking good, Bren!” someone he doesn’t even recognise says. Brendon half-smiles and stares at his phone. Ring. It’s not that hard, just ring.

“Hey, um, you want to dance?”

“No, thanks, kinda gay,” he declines without even looking who the blonde girl asking is. They might have had English together last year.

“What?” she asks in a shrill voice.

Brendon looks up and sighs. “Kinda busy.” He waves his phone at her. She leaves quickly enough.

He is at his prom, and he can only think about Ryan. This isn’t working out like how he’d planned it.

He gets some punch and finds an empty seat in the corner. The girls are pretty, the boys are handsome, and Brendon even flattened his hair. It makes him look ridiculously young, he thinks, but he also looks official somehow. His black shoes sparkle in the different lights, but he is moping around, dateless, miserable, Ryanless. Ryan has the house to himself. Brendon could be there, watching a movie and exchanging lazy kisses. If he hadn’t been so stubborn about this prom thing, the two of them might still be okay.

“And now for a more romantic feel,” the DJ says in a faux suave voice, and Foreigner’s I Want to Know What Love Is comes on, causing his classmates to cheer enthusiastically. Are they kidding?

Brendon is having a lousy time on his one night off in forever, and he’s had it up to here. He gives up and leaves the gym, passing a few lip-locked couples on the way out. A waste of money and time. It wasn’t some amazing romantic experience, how could it have been? Why did he even suddenly want to feel like he belonged in that crowd? He never did. He has had four years of lame insults and glares from those idiots, and suddenly, he wants to be one of them just because pretty soon he’ll never have to see them again.

The busses don’t run this late, so Brendon ends up walking. He tries to loosen the bowtie he didn’t even manage to do properly without Ryan’s help. He looks horribly out of place now, he realises that, and so he hurries further into the quieter parts of Summerlin. Eventually, he’s on Ryan’s street, and in the back of his mind, he knew it was where he was heading. He hesitates outside the Ross residence for a good ten minutes, though, despite seeing flickering light in the living room windows. He finally marches up to the house and rings the doorbell. It takes a while for Ryan to open the door.

“Hi,” Brendon says with a meek smile. “I –” he begins before he notices that Ryan is dressed up, not too much, but he looks smart with his better black jeans, a white button up and a black vest, and Ryan’s taken care with his eyeliner this time instead of just swiping it on artistically. Rejection and hurt settle in Brendon’s guts instantly. “Are you going somewhere?”

To some amazing adult party where high school kids aren’t welcome? One with boys? Will there be boys?

“Don’t you have, like, your prom?” Ryan counters, and it’s a fair question with Brendon showing up on his door late at night in a damn tuxedo.

“Yeah, I was there, and – I kinda realised it’s really lame. I mean, recording an album? That’s gonna be my rite of passage, you know? I don’t need a prom, I – And it wasn’t any fun, anyway, all those straight people. So I thought maybe you’d want to watch that movie instead. If the offer still stands, I mean.”

Ryan looks surprised, but also a bit panicked. “Oh. Um. So you don’t want to do the prom thing?”

“No.”

“At all?”

“Didn’t I just say that?” he frowns. Ryan keeps glancing over his shoulder and into the house. “What’s going on?” he ask suspiciously before his stomach drops, a bucket of icy water thrown over his pathetic heart. “You have someone in there?”

“What? No, of course not!” Ryan exclaims, and now, he is definitely blushing. “I, uh – I was just on my way out. To get you. Kind of finally talked myself into it.”

Brendon isn’t sure what to say because he doesn’t have a clue as to what is going on, but Ryan sighs in defeat and holds the door open more. “Come on in.”

Brendon obeys instantly, wanting to make sure Ryan doesn’t have someone in the house with him. “Is everything –” he starts, but then he sees the living room bathing in soft candle light. There are rose petals on the floor.

Ryan stands next to him and starts talking a thousand miles per minute. “I was a jerk about the whole thing, so then I thought, ‘Hey Ryan, don’t be a jerk’, and it’s not like I could go with you, but you could have asked me to go to the prom as your date, at least, I’m only your damn boyfriend, but I get that it would’ve been pointless because we couldn’t have gone. But- But then I figured we could do our own small prom here, uh, I only had money for one rose, I kind of wanted more petals, and the candles are scented vanilla and they only actually give me a headache, but I thought that, you know, it’d be nice, and I was on my way to save you from your classmates, but – You showed up.” Ryan’s mouth finally closes. Brendon is staring. Ryan begins fiddling with his sleeves. “But I didn’t know you had changed your mind about the whole prom thing, so.”

Ryan gets the nearest candle and blows it out. Brendon finally kicks into motion. “No, no, don’t do that!” he says urgently, snatching the candle from Ryan and putting it back down. His palms are sweating suddenly, his heart heavy and obnoxiously happy. Ryan did this all for him. For them. Ryan wanted Brendon to ask him to the prom.

Ryan totally just called himself his boyfriend.

Brendon can’t really focus on what is the most awesome development of the past forty seconds, so he decides not to ruin it by speaking. He snatches Ryan’s hand, lacing his fingers between Ryan’s longer ones, just to see how it’d feel. Ryan’s mouth is a thin line, expression stony, but Brendon just smiles with all he has got – and he has so much of it right now, so fucking much – and leans in for a kiss.

It’s the hormones, of course, that have them sucking each other’s faces right there in the living room in their nice clothes. When they finally pull back for air, Brendon asks, “So you wanna dance?” He is ridiculously giddy.

“Yeah.” Ryan is giving him a shy smile, but it reaches his eyes and makes them sparkle. Ryan goes to the stereo, pressing the play button. It’s I Want to Know What Love Is.

“Good... song,” Brendon manages.

Ryan beams. “I think it’s romantic.”

“Totally.”

Ryan wraps his arms around his waist, pulling him closer. Brendon presses his nose against Ryan’s neck and breathes him in as their legs move in slow circles on the scattered rose pedals. It’s a million times better than the prom at school ever could have been.

Brendon decides to rethink his don’t-fall-in-love-with-Ryan policy first thing tomorrow morning.