fic: If You're Not There To Sing Along
Title: If You're Not There To Sing Along
Author: adellyna
Pairing: Jon/Spencer
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 5700
Summary: It's not that Jon isn't hot. It's that Spencer absolutely, positively cannot fuck up Ryan's band.
Author's Notes: For foxxcub for her birthday, because she is made of marshmallows and dandelion fluff and I ♥ her. I hope it doesn't suck too badly, darling, and I hope your birthday is wonderful. ♥♥♥ Much gratitude to gobsmackit and okubyo_kitsune for the betas, and to maleyka for letting me spam her and flail with anxiety. Title courtesty of Woodpigeon.
Ryan has a one-man folk duo.
It used to be a two-man folk duo, which is, after all, the traditionally accepted paradigm for a folk duo, but his other ("Better," Brendon always said. "Better half!") half took a trip home for the holidays, slipped in some unfortunately spiked eggnog, and fell right into a shotgun wedding.
Spencer was with Ryan when he took the call. It was a lot of "Seriously?" and "You're joking, right?" and "Condoms, Brendon. Condoms." and "Yes, Mormons do lie!" and "Why couldn't you just be gay?"
So. Brendon flies home again and doesn't come back; he's stuck in Vegas on a juice fast, trying to fit into his church suit from when he was eighteen and trying even harder to convince his parents that a temple ceremony would be disrespectful under the circumstances.
people keep calling me brother urie :( he texts Spencer.
fuck off, Spencer texts back, ryan's making me sit in on auditions.
They try to sell the act as kitsch at first: Ryan Ross: one-man folk duo, but no one's buying it. Ryan can't even sing that well. He gets breathless trying to do both parts of every song, and even Spencer slumped on a stool behind him banging sullenly on a tambourine doesn't help matters all that much.
The first round of auditions is a non-event. Ryan scribbles his information on a cocktail napkin and pins it to a bulletin board in the Literature building at Northwestern.
"If it's meant to be," Ryan says, shrugging.
It is clearly not meant to be. No one calls.
The second round of auditions is even more of a disaster, if such a thing is possible. Spencer puts a carefully worded ad up on Craigslist and receives a slew of dick pictures for his efforts.
"This is disgusting," he tells Ryan, jabbing his finger at his screen. "And irrelevant. Unless this guy is planning to play his guitar with his dick, in which case..."
"I don't think so," Ryan says thoughtfully. "He's uncircumcised."
It's a fallacy that a decade and a half of friendship enables you to understand every word out of someone's mouth. For this, Spencer is sometimes very grateful.
Round three is more successful. Spencer puts together an actual flyer, employing the inescapable allure of Clipart to make sure people will notice it. They hang it in coffee shops and any hole-in-the-wall with an open mic night they can find, and by the end of the week they have ten auditions lined up.
::
They audition a dude named Siska. Spencer says "they" because it's a two-man process, even though Ryan's the only one technically in the band at the moment. It's not that Ryan's incapable, because he's not-he has a 3.75 GPA and he's one of the smartest guys Spencer knows-he just doesn't focus the way other people focus.
"Who's your favorite author?" Ryan asks Siska. "Have you read Eliot?"
Siska blinks at him blankly. Spencer feels uncomfortably like he's watching Ryan interrogate one of his younger sisters.
"What instruments do you play?" he interrupts kindly. "And how long have you been playing?"
"Let us go then, you and I," Ryan recites solemnly, "when the evening is spread out against the sky."
In the end, Spencer thinks, they can all agree that Siska is not the best choice.
"He was too young anyway," Ryan explains dismissively. "Sometimes I like to play twenty-one and over venues."
Spencer chooses not to mention that Ryan usually plays any venue that's generous enough to allow him to set up.
::
The next audition is on a Tuesday. It's rainy outside, gray and dismal. Spencer feels like curling up in his bed with his math homework and maybe his iPod, but instead he is in Ryan's living room, watching a very tall guy stack his messenger bag on top of the two guitar cases he brought. Ryan is somewhere else, but certainly nowhere in his own apartment.
"Um," he says, checking the note Ryan scribbled for him. "Alejandro?"
"Alex is fine," the guy says. "Or Suarez. Do you want me to do this on guitar or bass? You were never specific on the phone."
"Ryan," Spencer corrects, checking his watch for the third time since Alex knocked. "Was on the phone. Being vague. I'm Spencer."
"I thought it was a duo?" Alex says. He unlatches the top case and pulls a guitar into his lap, folding his fingers over high on the frets to muffle the sound while he tunes it. "Are there already two of you?"
"No, no, I'm more like... Ryan's, um."
"Manager?" Alex supplies.
"Best friend?"
"I have one of those," Alex nods. "I think the terms are interchangeable, you know?"
Spencer watches Alex's fingers while he fine-tunes his guitar. He used to think he wanted to find someone really capable for Ryan, someone who could pick through the reckless meanderings of Ryan's mind and pull out lyrics, who could make sure Ryan's guitar was tuned and his scarf was wrapped tight and his socks matched. Alex, Spencer is sure, could do all of those things. Maybe more, even, he might be able to get Ryan to pay his electric bill on time. He might be able to take Ryan's vague, metaphor-laden music and make it just mainstream enough to draw crowds. He might even be able to make Ryan stop dressing like a cowboy in Romania and start wearing all black.
"Do you want me to start?" Alex asks. He strums his fingers over the bass, picks out the first few chords of something Spencer feels like he should recognize but doesn't; Ryan would know it right away, he's sure.
It's because of that, maybe, that Spencer nods and pretends to take notes, even though he should wait for Ryan to get back. He thought he wanted to find someone to take over the care and feeding of Ryan Ross, but he was wrong. He just wants to find someone who can play bass and sing about picking strawberries in the summer and then go home to their own best friend.
"He was okay," Spencer says later, when Ryan comes home breathless and sputtering apologies for missing the audition. "We can find better."
::
Pete is all wrong from the outset. He doesn't like folk music, he's not all that good on the bass, much less the guitar, and he looks ludicrous next to Ryan, even when they're sitting down.
"I like hardcore," he says dubiously, when Ryan launches into his first song. "Or punk. I can do punk?"
"I liked him," Ryan says, once Pete's gone. "He was hot."
"He looked like a ventriloquist dummy," Spencer says, squinting doubtfully.
"A hot one," Ryan insists.
"We can do better," Spencer says, scooping the remote off the couch and pressing the power button three times hard to get the TV to turn on. Ryan never remembers to change the batteries, even when it gets so bad that he has to stand right up on the TV and push the remote right against the receiver. "I promise."
::
Their sixth audition is a guy who looks vaguely familiar. Spencer can't figure it out, not quite, and it's freaking him out. He leans against Ryan's TV stand and tries to watch without being too obvious about it while Ryan gestures with his hands and the dude half-assedly tunes his bass.
Spencer is pretty sure the guy is stoned, but that's not helping to place him. He tries mentally recreating the seating chart for all of his classes, but that yields no results.
He worked at a little indie movie theater for all of three weeks, but he's pretty sure this guy is too well-fed and not pretentious enough to have worked there, too.
"-totally betrayed me," Ryan is saying, with his hands clutched tightly in his lap and his mouth drawn into a tight, flat line. "And now he's getting married, and Spencer won't even sing."
The guy's eyes flick up to Spencer. They're crinkly around the corners, smiling, and Spencer pastes on an awkward half-smile and waves, trying his best not to look like he's been staring for the last five minutes.
"Hi," he says. His voice breaks awkwardly.
"Hey," the guy says, smiling widely. "Quad grande peppermint latte with whole milk." He drags his fingers over the strings of his bass, but quiets the sound right away by folding his fingers down over the neck. "With whipped cream."
"I usually call him Spencer," Ryan says, shrugging. "But sure."
"I'm Jon," the guy says. Just like that, Spencer places him.
Well, the recitation of his usual Starbucks order helps, but it's the name that makes it click.
"Yeah, of course," Spencer says. "You work right by my school."
"Guilty," Jon says. He smiles again, slowly, and if Spencer were the sort of dude who was into carnivals and romantic comedies and long walks at night, he would totally be weak in the knees right now.
"So," he says briskly, straightening and dusting his hands off on his jeans. "How many instruments do you play?"
::
They pick Jon because he's good, and also because Ryan is more animated with him than he's been with anyone else. Except for Pete, of course, and in a way that doesn't make Spencer twitch.
Jon is good enough that Spencer doesn't feel guilty for sending Alex packing and very slightly downplaying his skill level to Ryan. Mostly.
"Hey," Ryan says, brightening. "You should still come on stage and play tambourine."
Alex would've had to list walking on water and curing leprosy on his resume for Spencer to feel guilty enough to agree to that.
::
"Spencer," Ryan slurs into the phone at two in the morning, a mere four hours before Spencer has to get up and take a midterm. "Jon and I want to play."
"So play," Spencer yawns. It is two in the morning. If Ryan weren't four blocks away through the cold, Spencer would go there now and punch him in the face. "But find someone else to listen."
"No," Ryan says, giggling. "You."
"Not me," Spencer argues. "I'm sleeping. Find someone else."
"You find someone else."
Spencer is too tired for Ryan to be this high. He is too tired and his test is too early and Ryan, Ryan is way too high. "Ryan," Spencer says very slowly, enunciating each word carefully, Vegas-style. "It is two in the morning. I'm going to punch you in the face once for every minute you keep me up, so make your point faster."
There's a vague scuffle at the other end of the line, the clatter of something hitting the floor, a muffled grunt or two, and then another voice on the line. It's rough, thick around the vowels, and if Ryan hadn't already dropped Jon's name, Spencer might not recognize it. "We want a gig," Jon says. His mouth is probably too close to the phone, because Spencer can barely pick out the words. "Ryan says we're ready."
"Tell him I'm punching him in the face for your minutes too," Spencer says, muffling another yawn against the back of his wrist. "And remind me tomorrow. I'll make some calls."
"Are you our manager, Spencer?" Even through the smoke and distance, Spencer can hear Jon smiling.
"I'm the guy who's punching one or both of you in the face tomorrow, um," Spencer starts. He pulls his phone away from his ear and blinks at the tiny green display, squinting until the number comes into focus. "Six times. Good night."
He hangs up on the last half of Jon saying goodnight, and then he pulls his pillow over his head to block out the light from the orange Grocery sign across the street and tries not to think about Jon's voice wrapping itself around his name like the syllables taste of chocolate.
::
He texts Brendon after he takes his exam. we replaced you, he sends, whos that guy you know at crush??
its a boy thanks for asking, Brendon texts back.
Spencer grins a little at that. The circumstances suck, yeah, but he can see Brendon with a little boy, sword-fighting and singing Disney songs and shit. Shotgun or no shotgun, Brendon sucks pretty hard at flirting, so the girl must've really liked him to hop into bed with him. He sends: congratulations moron. crush?
brady. whod you get?? is the response.
no1 you know, Spencer sends, then flips open his laptop and gets on with tracking down Crush's phone number. He loves Ryan, he really does, and Jon seems nice enough, but Spencer has two more midterms, so the most he's willing to do here is guarantee them a spot on an open mic night.
He gets them in on Wednesday, going on third, which isn't too bad, and then he goes to Ryan's. "Crush," he says, when Ryan opens the door. "Next Wednesday. Like, nine-thirty. You can suck as much as you want, though. I gave them a fake name, so it's not like I'll look bad or anything."
"We're not going to suck," Ryan huffs. "You suck."
"I am liberating you from the burden of your own expectations," Spencer says breezily, pushing past and flopping onto the couch. "Brendon's having a boy, by the way."
"Brendon is my mortal enemy," Ryan says, but without any of the heat of the last six weeks. Jon must really be working out, then; Spencer hasn't gone to any of their practices. He also maybe hasn't gone to Jon's store for a while. There's just something about the way Jon looks at him that weirds him out, and it's not like he can order his coffee without the accompanying creepy-eyes, so he's left with no other choice than to walk an extra three blocks to another Starbucks.
Spencer hums, wrapping his arm around Ryan's skinny shoulders when he flops down next to him. "He was kind of cute in his suit," Ryan mumbles eventually. "And she's pretty. He could have done worse."
"He could have done better," Spencer answers easily, scrunching his nose up at Ryan. "And used a condom. And, like, moved her to Chicago if he liked her that much."
"You know who likes who?" Ryan says. He tips his face up and blinks at Spencer. His pupils are blown out wide, and he smells very faintly musty, like old libraries or closets full of winter coats in the summer.
"Jon," Ryan says, when Spencer just shakes his head no. "Likes you."
"Uh-huh," Spencer says. He rolls his eyes and starts groping under Ryan for the remote. "Sure, okay."
"He does!" Ryan insists. "I can tell."
"Because your month together has rendered you capable of reading his mind?"
"Because he said 'I like your friend Spencer, dude, what's the deal there?'"
Which is. Well. Oh. "Shut up," Spencer says, frowning when he feels his cheeks get warm. "Where's your remote? Did you put it in the freezer again?"
::
Grasses Greener, the folk-rock duo of Jon Walker and Ryan Ross, makes its debut on a Wednesday, with the rain pouring down outside and the audience inside huddled around their drinks. There are dripping scarves draped over chairs all around the room, but the air smells like rain and hot chocolate and the people seem happy to be there. Spencer hopes they're not just as happy to leave after the set; he still hasn't gone to a practice, so he doesn't know what he's in for any more than anyone else in the room.
Spencer settles in near the front, just far enough to the side that Ryan won't look up at him and get distracted trying to communicate something in the Ryan-language of head-tilts and blinking. From here, his view is mostly of Ryan's side, the delicate, careful bend of his elbow, and the awkward flex of his fingers around his pick. Beyond that, he can see Jon. He can see Jon's bangs in his eyes and the muscles in Jon's arms flexing a little when he strums.
Or, like. He could see that if he happened to be looking. Which he is not.
"We're Grasses Greener," Ryan mumbles into his mic. "This song is called 'The Leaves Are Changing But We Don't Have To.'"
Spencer hadn't realized they had new songs. He supposes it makes sense, with the new name and the new band, but he still hadn't really thought about it.
He watches Jon's hands, mostly, following his fingers on the bass-line and letting the lyrics tangle themselves up in his head. He likes it. It's about summer, he thinks, about eating fresh strawberries and going home with your fingers and lips looking bloodstained. It's about Brendon leaving, too, he thinks. It's about losing things in a way that's less like loss and more like the sun setting every night.
It's really good, and so is the one after it. The one after that is good, too, and between the music and Jon looking up at him every so often and watching him, watching Spencer without missing a single stroke of his fingers, something in Spencer's stomach twists up tightly. It doesn't loosen, no matter how much rum he dumps on top of it. By the time their set ends, he's worked into knots. His fingertips are tingling, the tip of his nose is numb, and his feet resist when he tries to stand up on them.
He gives them a stern, silent talking-to, enough that they agree to carry him over to the small stage where Jon is starting to break down their equipment.
"Ryan is usually the star," Spencer says, by way of apology. He nods to where Ryan is staring wide-eyed at a petite blonde girl whose enthusiasm seems to more than make up for Ryan's lack thereof. "Which is ironic because he doesn't want to be. Need help?"
"I could use a little," Jon says. He hands Ryan's guitar case over and steps back so Spencer can climb carefully onto the stage. It's not a high stage, but Spencer's drunk enough that balance is a tall order. "I'll buy you a drink, after."
"That's the last thing I need," Spencer laughs. He keeps his eyes carefully trained on the ground, because falling flat on his face right now is not something he needs. "The waitresses here are, um. Very attentive."
"I'll buy you a coffee then," Jon says, grinning. "I can be attentive, too."
"No flirting," Spencer says accusingly. He points sternly at Jon. "I'm drunk. I might flirt back."
"No, hey," Jon says. He looks suspiciously like he is trying not to laugh. "We wouldn't want that."
::
Spencer doesn't go to a practice until Jon and Ryan have booked a few of their own gigs. It's all small-time stuff: the two of them crammed into a corner, perched on stools, playing to an audience of a dozen or two. An audience is an audience, though, and Ryan seems pleased with the way things are going.
He just wants to play, is the thing. If Ryan can write one song that touches one person, he's happy; Spencer doesn't know how someone so jaded can be so sincere at the same time. He's been tempted once or twice to major in Psych, just to have the skill set to figure Ryan out.
In the long run, he'd rather deal with numbers than people, so his major stays firmly in the practical and away from the theoretical.
Still, if he were a Psych major, maybe he'd be able to figure out why he changes clothes ten times before he goes to Jon's apartment to watch them practice.
He finally decides on a pair of jeans that have seen better days and a t-shirt he's always thought made him look pudgy, just to show Jon Walker that Spencer Smith doesn't give a shit what he thinks of him. He doesn't regret this decision until he knocks on the door, and then he has one moment of blinding anxiety and frantic calculation; could he possibly make it to the stairwell before Jon makes it to the door? He could go home and change. He could come back. He could look hot.
Jon answers the door before Spencer can run for it. He's clearly stoned. His t-shirt is wrinkled and smells like it's passed its expiration date, his jeans are puddling around his feet on the floor, making him look for all the world like a kid wearing his big brother's clothes.
"You look like hell," Spencer announces. He's only a little ashamed of how satisfied he sounds about that. "Is Ryan here? Do I have the wrong day?"
"Ryan's here," Jon says, stepping back-his heels catch on his jeans, but he manages to stay upright. Spencer is pretty sure he would've fallen flat on his ass if that happened to him-and swinging the door open wide so Spencer can step inside. "We've been up all night working on shit."
"New songs?" Spencer asks, scanning the living room for signs of Ryan. He spots a few of Ryan's paisley shirts scattered here and there. A pair of Ryan's shiny, pointy shoes pokes out from under a sloppy pile of Jon's hoodies. There are pizza boxes stacked haphazardly on top of the TV, and Jon's coffee table appears to be a sheet of glass set atop two kegs.
Jon is kind of a slob. It makes Spencer feel a lot better about being so obsessed with Jon's other traits.
"Ryan thinks we should record," Jon says, closing the door behind Spencer. "He thinks an EP would fail to sufficiently, uh,-" he scrunches up his face, like he's trying to drag Ryan's monologue back out of his mind "-oh yeah. Fail to sufficiently immerse the listener in the unique experience of our sound."
"Uh-huh." Spencer hums and gingerly picks a black apron and abandoned pair of black slacks off the couch so he can sit. "In other words, too many songs for an EP but not enough money to record a full album?"
"Pretty much," Jon confirms, grinning. "It's good, though. We're writing good stuff."
"I finished this song," Ryan announces. He half-lurches into the living room; his pants are unzipped, but other than that he looks like he might've ironed his outfit five minutes ago and then put it on. "I wrote it on your toilet paper. Why do you have a Sharpie in the bathroom?"
Spencer gets to hear the new songs, which are good, if a little scattered. The lyrics don't make much sense, but Spencer has found the easiest way around that is to accept it as part of Ryan's quest to make people invest more of themselves into music.
"I like it," he says, once the last strains of the last song have faded away and he realizes Jon and Ryan are looking at him expectantly. "It's really good."
Ryan smiles a little; his cheeks puff up the tiniest bit, the corners of his mouth turned up slightly, but Jon flat-out grins and whoops triumphantly.
"Awesome," Jon says, beaming. "This calls for a celebration."
A celebration, in Walker-speak, seems to be people starting to show up at his door about three minutes after he starts sending texts and making phone calls.
"Hey," the first guy says. "I'm Tom. You must be Spencer."
After Tom comes Bill ("You must be Spencer," Bill says, absently pushing his hair behind his ear. "Where's Jon? He promised me weed."), and then Butcher ("Spencer, right?), and then Nick ("Hey," he says, pointing and biting his lip. "You're, um....Shit. I know this."). Spencer can't keep all the names straight after that, but everyone seems to know his.
"Do you, like, name-drop me constantly?" he hisses, sidling up to Ryan and trying not to bump him while he rolls a joint-carefully, with his tongue between his teeth and his eyes squinted in concentration. "Who the fuck are these people? How do they know who I am?"
"Told you," Ryan mutters absently. "Jon likes you."
Spencer gives up. He takes the joint when Ryan hands it to him and lights it, closes his eyes and takes the first three hits, then hands it over to Ryan and puts his head on Ryan's shoulder. "Baristas," he mumbles, sighing. "They're a menace to polite society."
"We'll make t-shirts," Ryan agrees. He inhales and passes the joint carefully back, blowing the smoke out in a slow, thick fog. "Everyone should know."
He thinks Tom brought the weed. He's not exactly sure, but whoever brought it is absolutely his new best friend. Everything is zen and floaty in no time, and he's so chill that when someone grabs his hand and tugs him out of his aimless wandering and onto the couch, he doesn't glare. Not even when he realizes it's Jon.
"Oh," he says, tugging his shirt down and smiling lazily. "It's you. I like your friends. They have good taste."
"I'm going to assume you mean they have good taste in Jon Walkers." Jon grins and tugs Spencer's hand into his lap, not bothering to let go. "And say thank you, Spencer Smith. That's kind of you."
Spencer doesn't argue. It seems rude, is all, seeing as how Jon is their host and the provider of excellent refreshment. "Sure," he says magnanimously, dragging his other hand into Jon's lap too so he can pat the back of his wrist. "You're a slob. But you have good weed and you make Ryan happy, so we're cool."
He thinks maybe Jon kisses him then. It might be later. Like, much later, because he's pretty sure when he opens his eyes for the first time after Jon licks his mouth open it's way darker than it was when he closed them, but it's hard to be sure. The point is that Jon kisses him, and Spencer kisses back.
Jon's mouth is warm and a little chapped, and he tastes like beer (Spencer didn't know there was beer, and he would absolutely bitch Jon out for that, but Jon sucks at his tongue just as he's about to, so he decides to let it go just this once) and weed and pizza, maybe, but there's the hint of toothpaste under it all, minty and smooth. Spencer slides his hands under Jon's wrinkled, soft t-shirt and lets them wander up over Jon's ribs, his thumbs dragging slowly over the sparse hair scattered over Jon's chest; when Jon's fingers find the hem of Spencer's shirt, he just lifts off the couch a little, making it easier.
He doesn't even suck in his stomach; he is actually that high.
They kiss through Tom leaving ("Later," he says, ruffling Jon's hair and sending his bangs into Spencer's eyes. "Nice to meet you, Spencer.") and through Jon pressing Spencer back flat onto the couch and sliding onto him. They kiss through Ryan's voice rising over some epic weed disaster, and they don't stop kissing until Jon's fingers find the button on Spencer's jeans and he mumbles, "Bedroom?" against Spencer's lips.
Spencer is not that high, so he shakes his head and pulls away, panting and licking his lips. "Nu'uh," he gasps. "Can't."
"Totally can," Jon says, sliding his hands up higher, fingertips almost in Spencer's armpits, almost tickling. "It's just over there."
"Can't," Spencer corrects firmly. He sits up, even though all he wants to do is stay down and leave his hands pressed against Jon's warm, smooth skin. "You're in Ryan's band."
"Or Ryan's in my band," Jon says. "What's your point?" He pushes his hair clumsily out of his eyes, but it just falls right back into them again, one strand catching in the little wrinkle between his eyebrows and bowing out higher than the rest of it.
"It's important to Ryan," Spencer explains. He manages to wiggle up higher and swing his legs to the ground, pushing up a little to test his steadiness. "I try not to fuck up things that are important to Ryan."
The little wrinkle between Jon's eyes gets deeper. If there were a hamster in Jon's head, Spencer thinks it might be running its little legs off now.
"Um," Jon says eventually, after long moments of silence. "I mean. Okay."
"It's cool," Spencer says, patting Jon's knee before standing. "We were high. It's not a thing."
There's a heavy, decidedly not-high feeling in his stomach that tells him it could be a thing. It really could be, it just won't be.
::
He manages to get out of Jon and Ryan's next few gigs, begging off with excuses about work and school. Needless to say, he doesn't attend any more practices-turned-impromptu-parties, but he can only evade Ryan's wheedling for so long, so.
"You have to come," Ryan wheedles. "It's been weeks since you came, and we have new songs."
"I want to hear them," Spencer soothes. "Are you, like. Playing them anywhere?" Anywhere that is not Jon's living room. "I want to get the full experience."
Ryan scribbles the details of their next show at the top of Spencer's math notes, and Spencer promises to go. He came all the way to Chicago with Ryan, just to get away from the things that made Vegas wrong for him, so of course he will go five blocks down the street to see Ryan's band play.
The weather is good for once. It's crisp and clear; Spencer can see the stars standing out in high definition against the night sky. Winter is holding on, still, even though they've officially passed into spring, but Spencer leaves his scarf at home anyway. He just tucks his hands into the pockets of his zipped-up hoodie and ducks his head while he walks, thinking warm thoughts if he has to stand too long in one place.
There are more people at the bar than he thought there'd be. People who have clustered at tables close to the stage, rather than scattering themselves around the room. He really has been away too long, if Ryan and Jon managed to garner themselves a following.
Spencer knows that he should be a part of that following, so he winds his way through the room towards the closest table he can find. It's still third back from the stage, but he has a clear view of Ryan and Jon setting up, so it's good enough.
here now he texts Ryan, and grins and waves when Ryan looks up and finds him in the audience. He watches Ryan press buttons on his phone, and looks down in time to see his display light up with come say hi?
after. dont want to lose my table
He watches Jon set up more than he watches Ryan. Jon has the same focused, narrow set to his shoulders that Brendon gets when he's nervous, but his face is smooth and calm, so Spencer's not really sure what that means. He texts Brendon instead of focusing on it, sends: is your wife fat yet?
heavy with the fruit of my loins is the response, almost immediately.
Spencer sends: twins?
triplets
quadruplets??
bastard.
He grins at his phone, types out love you too come visit, and is just folding it when the microphone squeaks to life and Jon's voice comes through it.
"We're Grasses Greener," Jon says, lisping his way through the whole first word. Spencer reminds myself to tell Ryan that the band name is just mean. "We'd like to play a new song for you."
The crowd manages to quiet itself; there's the dragging of chairs to face more towards the stage, the rustle of a few last-minute coats being taken off. Ryan grins at the audience, turning to Jon and beaming harder. "Most of our songs are new songs, Jon."
"This one is really new," Jon replies, solemnly.
"Never before heard," Ryan agrees. He strums a quick chord on his guitar and slides it up a little higher on his knee, scooting closer to the edge of his stool.
Jon nods, turning his head and leaving his mouth on the mic so it drags against his bottom lip. Spencer absolutely does not stare. "It's called, uh," Jon says, blinking down at his guitar and placing his fingers on it very deliberately. "'I Wasn't That Into Folk Music But I Thought You Were Cute Since The First Time You Walked Into My Starbucks So I Joined The Band Anyway And Now I Like It But You Should Still Go Out With Me'," Jon says. "Working title."
"I usually call it 'Spencer'," Ryan says, shrugging. "But sure."
Spencer feels his cheeks go hot and tight. There's some scattered laughter from the audience, but Ryan has already launched into the intro and started singing, wordless notes that weave in and around the music he's playing. Jon finally looks up, strums a quick chord and then grins at Spencer. He takes his hand off his guitar and sticks his thumb up, turns it down and then flips it back up again.
"Yes," Spencer mouths. He rolls his eyes and pulls his hand out of his hoodie pocket long enough to make a thumbs-up back at Jon, even though it makes him feel fucking lame in a way he hasn't since junior high.
Jon beams; it's this wide, perfect smile that lingers even after he starts playing and pushes in close to the mic so he can sing.
It's the first time anyone's written a song for Spencer. He can't remember a single word afterwards, but he's memorized Jon's fingers on the strings and the smile in his eyes when he sings the chorus at Spencer, and Spencer thinks maybe that's the most important part anyway.
Author: adellyna
Pairing: Jon/Spencer
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 5700
Summary: It's not that Jon isn't hot. It's that Spencer absolutely, positively cannot fuck up Ryan's band.
Author's Notes: For foxxcub for her birthday, because she is made of marshmallows and dandelion fluff and I ♥ her. I hope it doesn't suck too badly, darling, and I hope your birthday is wonderful. ♥♥♥ Much gratitude to gobsmackit and okubyo_kitsune for the betas, and to maleyka for letting me spam her and flail with anxiety. Title courtesty of Woodpigeon.
Ryan has a one-man folk duo.
It used to be a two-man folk duo, which is, after all, the traditionally accepted paradigm for a folk duo, but his other ("Better," Brendon always said. "Better half!") half took a trip home for the holidays, slipped in some unfortunately spiked eggnog, and fell right into a shotgun wedding.
Spencer was with Ryan when he took the call. It was a lot of "Seriously?" and "You're joking, right?" and "Condoms, Brendon. Condoms." and "Yes, Mormons do lie!" and "Why couldn't you just be gay?"
So. Brendon flies home again and doesn't come back; he's stuck in Vegas on a juice fast, trying to fit into his church suit from when he was eighteen and trying even harder to convince his parents that a temple ceremony would be disrespectful under the circumstances.
people keep calling me brother urie :( he texts Spencer.
fuck off, Spencer texts back, ryan's making me sit in on auditions.
They try to sell the act as kitsch at first: Ryan Ross: one-man folk duo, but no one's buying it. Ryan can't even sing that well. He gets breathless trying to do both parts of every song, and even Spencer slumped on a stool behind him banging sullenly on a tambourine doesn't help matters all that much.
The first round of auditions is a non-event. Ryan scribbles his information on a cocktail napkin and pins it to a bulletin board in the Literature building at Northwestern.
"If it's meant to be," Ryan says, shrugging.
It is clearly not meant to be. No one calls.
The second round of auditions is even more of a disaster, if such a thing is possible. Spencer puts a carefully worded ad up on Craigslist and receives a slew of dick pictures for his efforts.
"This is disgusting," he tells Ryan, jabbing his finger at his screen. "And irrelevant. Unless this guy is planning to play his guitar with his dick, in which case..."
"I don't think so," Ryan says thoughtfully. "He's uncircumcised."
It's a fallacy that a decade and a half of friendship enables you to understand every word out of someone's mouth. For this, Spencer is sometimes very grateful.
Round three is more successful. Spencer puts together an actual flyer, employing the inescapable allure of Clipart to make sure people will notice it. They hang it in coffee shops and any hole-in-the-wall with an open mic night they can find, and by the end of the week they have ten auditions lined up.
::
They audition a dude named Siska. Spencer says "they" because it's a two-man process, even though Ryan's the only one technically in the band at the moment. It's not that Ryan's incapable, because he's not-he has a 3.75 GPA and he's one of the smartest guys Spencer knows-he just doesn't focus the way other people focus.
"Who's your favorite author?" Ryan asks Siska. "Have you read Eliot?"
Siska blinks at him blankly. Spencer feels uncomfortably like he's watching Ryan interrogate one of his younger sisters.
"What instruments do you play?" he interrupts kindly. "And how long have you been playing?"
"Let us go then, you and I," Ryan recites solemnly, "when the evening is spread out against the sky."
In the end, Spencer thinks, they can all agree that Siska is not the best choice.
"He was too young anyway," Ryan explains dismissively. "Sometimes I like to play twenty-one and over venues."
Spencer chooses not to mention that Ryan usually plays any venue that's generous enough to allow him to set up.
::
The next audition is on a Tuesday. It's rainy outside, gray and dismal. Spencer feels like curling up in his bed with his math homework and maybe his iPod, but instead he is in Ryan's living room, watching a very tall guy stack his messenger bag on top of the two guitar cases he brought. Ryan is somewhere else, but certainly nowhere in his own apartment.
"Um," he says, checking the note Ryan scribbled for him. "Alejandro?"
"Alex is fine," the guy says. "Or Suarez. Do you want me to do this on guitar or bass? You were never specific on the phone."
"Ryan," Spencer corrects, checking his watch for the third time since Alex knocked. "Was on the phone. Being vague. I'm Spencer."
"I thought it was a duo?" Alex says. He unlatches the top case and pulls a guitar into his lap, folding his fingers over high on the frets to muffle the sound while he tunes it. "Are there already two of you?"
"No, no, I'm more like... Ryan's, um."
"Manager?" Alex supplies.
"Best friend?"
"I have one of those," Alex nods. "I think the terms are interchangeable, you know?"
Spencer watches Alex's fingers while he fine-tunes his guitar. He used to think he wanted to find someone really capable for Ryan, someone who could pick through the reckless meanderings of Ryan's mind and pull out lyrics, who could make sure Ryan's guitar was tuned and his scarf was wrapped tight and his socks matched. Alex, Spencer is sure, could do all of those things. Maybe more, even, he might be able to get Ryan to pay his electric bill on time. He might be able to take Ryan's vague, metaphor-laden music and make it just mainstream enough to draw crowds. He might even be able to make Ryan stop dressing like a cowboy in Romania and start wearing all black.
"Do you want me to start?" Alex asks. He strums his fingers over the bass, picks out the first few chords of something Spencer feels like he should recognize but doesn't; Ryan would know it right away, he's sure.
It's because of that, maybe, that Spencer nods and pretends to take notes, even though he should wait for Ryan to get back. He thought he wanted to find someone to take over the care and feeding of Ryan Ross, but he was wrong. He just wants to find someone who can play bass and sing about picking strawberries in the summer and then go home to their own best friend.
"He was okay," Spencer says later, when Ryan comes home breathless and sputtering apologies for missing the audition. "We can find better."
::
Pete is all wrong from the outset. He doesn't like folk music, he's not all that good on the bass, much less the guitar, and he looks ludicrous next to Ryan, even when they're sitting down.
"I like hardcore," he says dubiously, when Ryan launches into his first song. "Or punk. I can do punk?"
"I liked him," Ryan says, once Pete's gone. "He was hot."
"He looked like a ventriloquist dummy," Spencer says, squinting doubtfully.
"A hot one," Ryan insists.
"We can do better," Spencer says, scooping the remote off the couch and pressing the power button three times hard to get the TV to turn on. Ryan never remembers to change the batteries, even when it gets so bad that he has to stand right up on the TV and push the remote right against the receiver. "I promise."
::
Their sixth audition is a guy who looks vaguely familiar. Spencer can't figure it out, not quite, and it's freaking him out. He leans against Ryan's TV stand and tries to watch without being too obvious about it while Ryan gestures with his hands and the dude half-assedly tunes his bass.
Spencer is pretty sure the guy is stoned, but that's not helping to place him. He tries mentally recreating the seating chart for all of his classes, but that yields no results.
He worked at a little indie movie theater for all of three weeks, but he's pretty sure this guy is too well-fed and not pretentious enough to have worked there, too.
"-totally betrayed me," Ryan is saying, with his hands clutched tightly in his lap and his mouth drawn into a tight, flat line. "And now he's getting married, and Spencer won't even sing."
The guy's eyes flick up to Spencer. They're crinkly around the corners, smiling, and Spencer pastes on an awkward half-smile and waves, trying his best not to look like he's been staring for the last five minutes.
"Hi," he says. His voice breaks awkwardly.
"Hey," the guy says, smiling widely. "Quad grande peppermint latte with whole milk." He drags his fingers over the strings of his bass, but quiets the sound right away by folding his fingers down over the neck. "With whipped cream."
"I usually call him Spencer," Ryan says, shrugging. "But sure."
"I'm Jon," the guy says. Just like that, Spencer places him.
Well, the recitation of his usual Starbucks order helps, but it's the name that makes it click.
"Yeah, of course," Spencer says. "You work right by my school."
"Guilty," Jon says. He smiles again, slowly, and if Spencer were the sort of dude who was into carnivals and romantic comedies and long walks at night, he would totally be weak in the knees right now.
"So," he says briskly, straightening and dusting his hands off on his jeans. "How many instruments do you play?"
::
They pick Jon because he's good, and also because Ryan is more animated with him than he's been with anyone else. Except for Pete, of course, and in a way that doesn't make Spencer twitch.
Jon is good enough that Spencer doesn't feel guilty for sending Alex packing and very slightly downplaying his skill level to Ryan. Mostly.
"Hey," Ryan says, brightening. "You should still come on stage and play tambourine."
Alex would've had to list walking on water and curing leprosy on his resume for Spencer to feel guilty enough to agree to that.
::
"Spencer," Ryan slurs into the phone at two in the morning, a mere four hours before Spencer has to get up and take a midterm. "Jon and I want to play."
"So play," Spencer yawns. It is two in the morning. If Ryan weren't four blocks away through the cold, Spencer would go there now and punch him in the face. "But find someone else to listen."
"No," Ryan says, giggling. "You."
"Not me," Spencer argues. "I'm sleeping. Find someone else."
"You find someone else."
Spencer is too tired for Ryan to be this high. He is too tired and his test is too early and Ryan, Ryan is way too high. "Ryan," Spencer says very slowly, enunciating each word carefully, Vegas-style. "It is two in the morning. I'm going to punch you in the face once for every minute you keep me up, so make your point faster."
There's a vague scuffle at the other end of the line, the clatter of something hitting the floor, a muffled grunt or two, and then another voice on the line. It's rough, thick around the vowels, and if Ryan hadn't already dropped Jon's name, Spencer might not recognize it. "We want a gig," Jon says. His mouth is probably too close to the phone, because Spencer can barely pick out the words. "Ryan says we're ready."
"Tell him I'm punching him in the face for your minutes too," Spencer says, muffling another yawn against the back of his wrist. "And remind me tomorrow. I'll make some calls."
"Are you our manager, Spencer?" Even through the smoke and distance, Spencer can hear Jon smiling.
"I'm the guy who's punching one or both of you in the face tomorrow, um," Spencer starts. He pulls his phone away from his ear and blinks at the tiny green display, squinting until the number comes into focus. "Six times. Good night."
He hangs up on the last half of Jon saying goodnight, and then he pulls his pillow over his head to block out the light from the orange Grocery sign across the street and tries not to think about Jon's voice wrapping itself around his name like the syllables taste of chocolate.
::
He texts Brendon after he takes his exam. we replaced you, he sends, whos that guy you know at crush??
its a boy thanks for asking, Brendon texts back.
Spencer grins a little at that. The circumstances suck, yeah, but he can see Brendon with a little boy, sword-fighting and singing Disney songs and shit. Shotgun or no shotgun, Brendon sucks pretty hard at flirting, so the girl must've really liked him to hop into bed with him. He sends: congratulations moron. crush?
brady. whod you get?? is the response.
no1 you know, Spencer sends, then flips open his laptop and gets on with tracking down Crush's phone number. He loves Ryan, he really does, and Jon seems nice enough, but Spencer has two more midterms, so the most he's willing to do here is guarantee them a spot on an open mic night.
He gets them in on Wednesday, going on third, which isn't too bad, and then he goes to Ryan's. "Crush," he says, when Ryan opens the door. "Next Wednesday. Like, nine-thirty. You can suck as much as you want, though. I gave them a fake name, so it's not like I'll look bad or anything."
"We're not going to suck," Ryan huffs. "You suck."
"I am liberating you from the burden of your own expectations," Spencer says breezily, pushing past and flopping onto the couch. "Brendon's having a boy, by the way."
"Brendon is my mortal enemy," Ryan says, but without any of the heat of the last six weeks. Jon must really be working out, then; Spencer hasn't gone to any of their practices. He also maybe hasn't gone to Jon's store for a while. There's just something about the way Jon looks at him that weirds him out, and it's not like he can order his coffee without the accompanying creepy-eyes, so he's left with no other choice than to walk an extra three blocks to another Starbucks.
Spencer hums, wrapping his arm around Ryan's skinny shoulders when he flops down next to him. "He was kind of cute in his suit," Ryan mumbles eventually. "And she's pretty. He could have done worse."
"He could have done better," Spencer answers easily, scrunching his nose up at Ryan. "And used a condom. And, like, moved her to Chicago if he liked her that much."
"You know who likes who?" Ryan says. He tips his face up and blinks at Spencer. His pupils are blown out wide, and he smells very faintly musty, like old libraries or closets full of winter coats in the summer.
"Jon," Ryan says, when Spencer just shakes his head no. "Likes you."
"Uh-huh," Spencer says. He rolls his eyes and starts groping under Ryan for the remote. "Sure, okay."
"He does!" Ryan insists. "I can tell."
"Because your month together has rendered you capable of reading his mind?"
"Because he said 'I like your friend Spencer, dude, what's the deal there?'"
Which is. Well. Oh. "Shut up," Spencer says, frowning when he feels his cheeks get warm. "Where's your remote? Did you put it in the freezer again?"
::
Grasses Greener, the folk-rock duo of Jon Walker and Ryan Ross, makes its debut on a Wednesday, with the rain pouring down outside and the audience inside huddled around their drinks. There are dripping scarves draped over chairs all around the room, but the air smells like rain and hot chocolate and the people seem happy to be there. Spencer hopes they're not just as happy to leave after the set; he still hasn't gone to a practice, so he doesn't know what he's in for any more than anyone else in the room.
Spencer settles in near the front, just far enough to the side that Ryan won't look up at him and get distracted trying to communicate something in the Ryan-language of head-tilts and blinking. From here, his view is mostly of Ryan's side, the delicate, careful bend of his elbow, and the awkward flex of his fingers around his pick. Beyond that, he can see Jon. He can see Jon's bangs in his eyes and the muscles in Jon's arms flexing a little when he strums.
Or, like. He could see that if he happened to be looking. Which he is not.
"We're Grasses Greener," Ryan mumbles into his mic. "This song is called 'The Leaves Are Changing But We Don't Have To.'"
Spencer hadn't realized they had new songs. He supposes it makes sense, with the new name and the new band, but he still hadn't really thought about it.
He watches Jon's hands, mostly, following his fingers on the bass-line and letting the lyrics tangle themselves up in his head. He likes it. It's about summer, he thinks, about eating fresh strawberries and going home with your fingers and lips looking bloodstained. It's about Brendon leaving, too, he thinks. It's about losing things in a way that's less like loss and more like the sun setting every night.
It's really good, and so is the one after it. The one after that is good, too, and between the music and Jon looking up at him every so often and watching him, watching Spencer without missing a single stroke of his fingers, something in Spencer's stomach twists up tightly. It doesn't loosen, no matter how much rum he dumps on top of it. By the time their set ends, he's worked into knots. His fingertips are tingling, the tip of his nose is numb, and his feet resist when he tries to stand up on them.
He gives them a stern, silent talking-to, enough that they agree to carry him over to the small stage where Jon is starting to break down their equipment.
"Ryan is usually the star," Spencer says, by way of apology. He nods to where Ryan is staring wide-eyed at a petite blonde girl whose enthusiasm seems to more than make up for Ryan's lack thereof. "Which is ironic because he doesn't want to be. Need help?"
"I could use a little," Jon says. He hands Ryan's guitar case over and steps back so Spencer can climb carefully onto the stage. It's not a high stage, but Spencer's drunk enough that balance is a tall order. "I'll buy you a drink, after."
"That's the last thing I need," Spencer laughs. He keeps his eyes carefully trained on the ground, because falling flat on his face right now is not something he needs. "The waitresses here are, um. Very attentive."
"I'll buy you a coffee then," Jon says, grinning. "I can be attentive, too."
"No flirting," Spencer says accusingly. He points sternly at Jon. "I'm drunk. I might flirt back."
"No, hey," Jon says. He looks suspiciously like he is trying not to laugh. "We wouldn't want that."
::
Spencer doesn't go to a practice until Jon and Ryan have booked a few of their own gigs. It's all small-time stuff: the two of them crammed into a corner, perched on stools, playing to an audience of a dozen or two. An audience is an audience, though, and Ryan seems pleased with the way things are going.
He just wants to play, is the thing. If Ryan can write one song that touches one person, he's happy; Spencer doesn't know how someone so jaded can be so sincere at the same time. He's been tempted once or twice to major in Psych, just to have the skill set to figure Ryan out.
In the long run, he'd rather deal with numbers than people, so his major stays firmly in the practical and away from the theoretical.
Still, if he were a Psych major, maybe he'd be able to figure out why he changes clothes ten times before he goes to Jon's apartment to watch them practice.
He finally decides on a pair of jeans that have seen better days and a t-shirt he's always thought made him look pudgy, just to show Jon Walker that Spencer Smith doesn't give a shit what he thinks of him. He doesn't regret this decision until he knocks on the door, and then he has one moment of blinding anxiety and frantic calculation; could he possibly make it to the stairwell before Jon makes it to the door? He could go home and change. He could come back. He could look hot.
Jon answers the door before Spencer can run for it. He's clearly stoned. His t-shirt is wrinkled and smells like it's passed its expiration date, his jeans are puddling around his feet on the floor, making him look for all the world like a kid wearing his big brother's clothes.
"You look like hell," Spencer announces. He's only a little ashamed of how satisfied he sounds about that. "Is Ryan here? Do I have the wrong day?"
"Ryan's here," Jon says, stepping back-his heels catch on his jeans, but he manages to stay upright. Spencer is pretty sure he would've fallen flat on his ass if that happened to him-and swinging the door open wide so Spencer can step inside. "We've been up all night working on shit."
"New songs?" Spencer asks, scanning the living room for signs of Ryan. He spots a few of Ryan's paisley shirts scattered here and there. A pair of Ryan's shiny, pointy shoes pokes out from under a sloppy pile of Jon's hoodies. There are pizza boxes stacked haphazardly on top of the TV, and Jon's coffee table appears to be a sheet of glass set atop two kegs.
Jon is kind of a slob. It makes Spencer feel a lot better about being so obsessed with Jon's other traits.
"Ryan thinks we should record," Jon says, closing the door behind Spencer. "He thinks an EP would fail to sufficiently, uh,-" he scrunches up his face, like he's trying to drag Ryan's monologue back out of his mind "-oh yeah. Fail to sufficiently immerse the listener in the unique experience of our sound."
"Uh-huh." Spencer hums and gingerly picks a black apron and abandoned pair of black slacks off the couch so he can sit. "In other words, too many songs for an EP but not enough money to record a full album?"
"Pretty much," Jon confirms, grinning. "It's good, though. We're writing good stuff."
"I finished this song," Ryan announces. He half-lurches into the living room; his pants are unzipped, but other than that he looks like he might've ironed his outfit five minutes ago and then put it on. "I wrote it on your toilet paper. Why do you have a Sharpie in the bathroom?"
Spencer gets to hear the new songs, which are good, if a little scattered. The lyrics don't make much sense, but Spencer has found the easiest way around that is to accept it as part of Ryan's quest to make people invest more of themselves into music.
"I like it," he says, once the last strains of the last song have faded away and he realizes Jon and Ryan are looking at him expectantly. "It's really good."
Ryan smiles a little; his cheeks puff up the tiniest bit, the corners of his mouth turned up slightly, but Jon flat-out grins and whoops triumphantly.
"Awesome," Jon says, beaming. "This calls for a celebration."
A celebration, in Walker-speak, seems to be people starting to show up at his door about three minutes after he starts sending texts and making phone calls.
"Hey," the first guy says. "I'm Tom. You must be Spencer."
After Tom comes Bill ("You must be Spencer," Bill says, absently pushing his hair behind his ear. "Where's Jon? He promised me weed."), and then Butcher ("Spencer, right?), and then Nick ("Hey," he says, pointing and biting his lip. "You're, um....Shit. I know this."). Spencer can't keep all the names straight after that, but everyone seems to know his.
"Do you, like, name-drop me constantly?" he hisses, sidling up to Ryan and trying not to bump him while he rolls a joint-carefully, with his tongue between his teeth and his eyes squinted in concentration. "Who the fuck are these people? How do they know who I am?"
"Told you," Ryan mutters absently. "Jon likes you."
Spencer gives up. He takes the joint when Ryan hands it to him and lights it, closes his eyes and takes the first three hits, then hands it over to Ryan and puts his head on Ryan's shoulder. "Baristas," he mumbles, sighing. "They're a menace to polite society."
"We'll make t-shirts," Ryan agrees. He inhales and passes the joint carefully back, blowing the smoke out in a slow, thick fog. "Everyone should know."
He thinks Tom brought the weed. He's not exactly sure, but whoever brought it is absolutely his new best friend. Everything is zen and floaty in no time, and he's so chill that when someone grabs his hand and tugs him out of his aimless wandering and onto the couch, he doesn't glare. Not even when he realizes it's Jon.
"Oh," he says, tugging his shirt down and smiling lazily. "It's you. I like your friends. They have good taste."
"I'm going to assume you mean they have good taste in Jon Walkers." Jon grins and tugs Spencer's hand into his lap, not bothering to let go. "And say thank you, Spencer Smith. That's kind of you."
Spencer doesn't argue. It seems rude, is all, seeing as how Jon is their host and the provider of excellent refreshment. "Sure," he says magnanimously, dragging his other hand into Jon's lap too so he can pat the back of his wrist. "You're a slob. But you have good weed and you make Ryan happy, so we're cool."
He thinks maybe Jon kisses him then. It might be later. Like, much later, because he's pretty sure when he opens his eyes for the first time after Jon licks his mouth open it's way darker than it was when he closed them, but it's hard to be sure. The point is that Jon kisses him, and Spencer kisses back.
Jon's mouth is warm and a little chapped, and he tastes like beer (Spencer didn't know there was beer, and he would absolutely bitch Jon out for that, but Jon sucks at his tongue just as he's about to, so he decides to let it go just this once) and weed and pizza, maybe, but there's the hint of toothpaste under it all, minty and smooth. Spencer slides his hands under Jon's wrinkled, soft t-shirt and lets them wander up over Jon's ribs, his thumbs dragging slowly over the sparse hair scattered over Jon's chest; when Jon's fingers find the hem of Spencer's shirt, he just lifts off the couch a little, making it easier.
He doesn't even suck in his stomach; he is actually that high.
They kiss through Tom leaving ("Later," he says, ruffling Jon's hair and sending his bangs into Spencer's eyes. "Nice to meet you, Spencer.") and through Jon pressing Spencer back flat onto the couch and sliding onto him. They kiss through Ryan's voice rising over some epic weed disaster, and they don't stop kissing until Jon's fingers find the button on Spencer's jeans and he mumbles, "Bedroom?" against Spencer's lips.
Spencer is not that high, so he shakes his head and pulls away, panting and licking his lips. "Nu'uh," he gasps. "Can't."
"Totally can," Jon says, sliding his hands up higher, fingertips almost in Spencer's armpits, almost tickling. "It's just over there."
"Can't," Spencer corrects firmly. He sits up, even though all he wants to do is stay down and leave his hands pressed against Jon's warm, smooth skin. "You're in Ryan's band."
"Or Ryan's in my band," Jon says. "What's your point?" He pushes his hair clumsily out of his eyes, but it just falls right back into them again, one strand catching in the little wrinkle between his eyebrows and bowing out higher than the rest of it.
"It's important to Ryan," Spencer explains. He manages to wiggle up higher and swing his legs to the ground, pushing up a little to test his steadiness. "I try not to fuck up things that are important to Ryan."
The little wrinkle between Jon's eyes gets deeper. If there were a hamster in Jon's head, Spencer thinks it might be running its little legs off now.
"Um," Jon says eventually, after long moments of silence. "I mean. Okay."
"It's cool," Spencer says, patting Jon's knee before standing. "We were high. It's not a thing."
There's a heavy, decidedly not-high feeling in his stomach that tells him it could be a thing. It really could be, it just won't be.
::
He manages to get out of Jon and Ryan's next few gigs, begging off with excuses about work and school. Needless to say, he doesn't attend any more practices-turned-impromptu-parties, but he can only evade Ryan's wheedling for so long, so.
"You have to come," Ryan wheedles. "It's been weeks since you came, and we have new songs."
"I want to hear them," Spencer soothes. "Are you, like. Playing them anywhere?" Anywhere that is not Jon's living room. "I want to get the full experience."
Ryan scribbles the details of their next show at the top of Spencer's math notes, and Spencer promises to go. He came all the way to Chicago with Ryan, just to get away from the things that made Vegas wrong for him, so of course he will go five blocks down the street to see Ryan's band play.
The weather is good for once. It's crisp and clear; Spencer can see the stars standing out in high definition against the night sky. Winter is holding on, still, even though they've officially passed into spring, but Spencer leaves his scarf at home anyway. He just tucks his hands into the pockets of his zipped-up hoodie and ducks his head while he walks, thinking warm thoughts if he has to stand too long in one place.
There are more people at the bar than he thought there'd be. People who have clustered at tables close to the stage, rather than scattering themselves around the room. He really has been away too long, if Ryan and Jon managed to garner themselves a following.
Spencer knows that he should be a part of that following, so he winds his way through the room towards the closest table he can find. It's still third back from the stage, but he has a clear view of Ryan and Jon setting up, so it's good enough.
here now he texts Ryan, and grins and waves when Ryan looks up and finds him in the audience. He watches Ryan press buttons on his phone, and looks down in time to see his display light up with come say hi?
after. dont want to lose my table
He watches Jon set up more than he watches Ryan. Jon has the same focused, narrow set to his shoulders that Brendon gets when he's nervous, but his face is smooth and calm, so Spencer's not really sure what that means. He texts Brendon instead of focusing on it, sends: is your wife fat yet?
heavy with the fruit of my loins is the response, almost immediately.
Spencer sends: twins?
triplets
quadruplets??
bastard.
He grins at his phone, types out love you too come visit, and is just folding it when the microphone squeaks to life and Jon's voice comes through it.
"We're Grasses Greener," Jon says, lisping his way through the whole first word. Spencer reminds myself to tell Ryan that the band name is just mean. "We'd like to play a new song for you."
The crowd manages to quiet itself; there's the dragging of chairs to face more towards the stage, the rustle of a few last-minute coats being taken off. Ryan grins at the audience, turning to Jon and beaming harder. "Most of our songs are new songs, Jon."
"This one is really new," Jon replies, solemnly.
"Never before heard," Ryan agrees. He strums a quick chord on his guitar and slides it up a little higher on his knee, scooting closer to the edge of his stool.
Jon nods, turning his head and leaving his mouth on the mic so it drags against his bottom lip. Spencer absolutely does not stare. "It's called, uh," Jon says, blinking down at his guitar and placing his fingers on it very deliberately. "'I Wasn't That Into Folk Music But I Thought You Were Cute Since The First Time You Walked Into My Starbucks So I Joined The Band Anyway And Now I Like It But You Should Still Go Out With Me'," Jon says. "Working title."
"I usually call it 'Spencer'," Ryan says, shrugging. "But sure."
Spencer feels his cheeks go hot and tight. There's some scattered laughter from the audience, but Ryan has already launched into the intro and started singing, wordless notes that weave in and around the music he's playing. Jon finally looks up, strums a quick chord and then grins at Spencer. He takes his hand off his guitar and sticks his thumb up, turns it down and then flips it back up again.
"Yes," Spencer mouths. He rolls his eyes and pulls his hand out of his hoodie pocket long enough to make a thumbs-up back at Jon, even though it makes him feel fucking lame in a way he hasn't since junior high.
Jon beams; it's this wide, perfect smile that lingers even after he starts playing and pushes in close to the mic so he can sing.
It's the first time anyone's written a song for Spencer. He can't remember a single word afterwards, but he's memorized Jon's fingers on the strings and the smile in his eyes when he sings the chorus at Spencer, and Spencer thinks maybe that's the most important part anyway.