(no subject)
Master Post
The gravel in the parking lot is a little hard to stand on in heels, but Z's ignoring that in favor of focusing on the way Brendon's moving his fingers on her lower back, in little circles that make her shiver.
"Hey," she murmurs.
Brendon kisses at her chin and smiles at her when she looks, the way he always smiled at her, all along. "Hey," he parrots.
"I can't believe--" She doesn't know what to say, so she kisses him instead, trying to tell him that she's stupidly happy right now, stupidly.
"We could sit down?" Brendon asks, and pulls her over to her car when she nods. They both sit on the hood, dangling their feet. Z sneaks her hand into Brendon's, and he squeezes it, looking down at their linked fingers.
"When did you, you know," he says after a little while.
She grins. "Pretty much when you walked into gym and scrambled all the way up the rope, only to trip over your own feet when you were trying to explain to Mr Fox why you shouldn't be on the school gymnastics team."
"Oh god," Brendon says. "Oh god, oh god. You know the reason I fell over is that you were standing there, right?"
"Really?" She's only laughing a little bit.
"Well, in my defense you were wearing shorts, Z Berg, it's more than any man can be expected to take."
"...tell me that isn't when you fell for me." She's joking, but she kind of means it. She's done with the whole thing where guys love her look, right, but don't like it when she's better than them at guitar or opens her mouth and says things that aren't flirtatious--but Brendon's shaking his head.
"No, no, that was when you, you know, the Talent Show. I already thought you were awesome and gorgeous and stuff, but Z, seriously, I don't know how anyone could watch you sing and not, like." He reaches out with his free hand and tucks her hair behind her ear. She turns her face into it, kissing his palm, and he breathes out a little shakily. She's about to pull him closer and kiss him again, but of course that's when her ever-so-awesome best friend clears his throat behind them. Z loves Ryan, but his timing is so unfortunate, she can't even.
"Ryan Ross," she says, holding on to Brendon's hand when he tries to let go. "Ryan Ross, what do I have to give you to go away again?"
"Eh," he says, "I'm not that easily bought."
"Lies," she mutters at Brendon. "All lies." Brendon is laughing, and god, Z loves it when he laughs.
Then Tennessee says, "I'm afraid you'd have to buy us all off, Z Berg, and that would be rather hard on your wallet, wouldn't it?"
Brendon rolls his eyes. "You are putty in my hands, beanstalk, don't even lie," he says, and Z mouths beanstalk at him, because what?
Brendon gestures above his head, and oh, of course, her height.
"Seriously, though," Spencer says, "I'm pretty sure we have to get home."
"I will get you for this, Spencer Smith," Brendon says, but he slides down off of Z's car, pulling her down with him.
He looks at her, shy again, and she just wants to kiss him and kiss him. Some of that must show in her eyes, because Brendon breathes in shakily and says, "So, um, what are you--" He pauses, biting his lip. "Can we--um." They all look at him expectantly but he doesn't manage to finish the sentence.
"I think he means do you want to go out Friday," Spencer translates helpfully, and Z distracts Brendon from glaring at Spencer by kissing him and saying, "Yes, yes I would."
-
The next day, Z just keeps thinking about it. About him. It's ridiculous. Like, she's trying to outline her World Literature paper when she blinks and then she's thinking about Brendon's dark eyes and the way he smiled and the way he sang, shit. And then she worries about saying the wrong thing when she sees him next or forgetting to look for him at school or being too obvious about him at school or a hundred other things that she somehow needs to think about now.
But then there's band practice and they're working on a song, a new one that Laena brought them and Z actually has to pay attention and she can, here. It's not hard to focus, because she's singing with Laena and it just, it works. Fuck, they sound good.
Z turns around when it's Laena's verse and she sees Annie look at Laena like-like Laena was looking at Annie before, in fact.
"Holy shit," Z says, tripping over her guitar chord.
Laena breaks off to look at her wonderingly. Which, that's fair, Z doesn't normally trip in the middle of a song. If she's not in any way drunk, that is. But she's pretty sure she just figured out something important.
"Are you two-you totally are!" Annie turns bright red and Laena looks a little worried. Z's not sure why, because, "You guys," she says, smiling. "You're-wait, why didn't you tell me?"
Annie ducks her head, laughing a little.
"It hasn't been very long," Laena says. "Only since right before the talent show."
"Like, an hour before," Annie clarifies.
Oh. Oh. "That's why you were so distracted when you finally got there!" Z says, things sliding into place in her head. "And here I just thought we were all equally nervous..." It must be okay to mock them a little, right? Sometimes Z has a hard time telling with people.
But she must have gotten it right, because Laena finally relaxes a bit, looking over at Annie with something soft in her eyes. "No, I was definitely nervous about the show, I was just also nervous about finally having kissed the girl I'd liked for ages-" Her smile widens slightly when Annie blushes. "Yeah, it was a little hard to think for a while there."
All together now, Z thinks. d'awww.
Except Z's finding it difficult to be sarcastic today, so she opts for sincere instead. "This is so awesome," she says. She's a little bewildered that they hadn't told her before, but when she starts to say so she remembers how long it took her to tell Annie about Alex. Ryan's always the only one who knows everything, and she doesn't hang out with her band outside of practice all that much-but maybe, maybe she can start working on that.
"I, um. Speaking of the talent show?"
They both nod. "Uh-huh," Laena says.
"Remember the guy I was talking to after?"
"Yes?" Annie says, starting to look very interested.
"Wait, the one in the Bible Camp shirt?" Laena is grinning.
Z rolls her eyes. "Yes, yes. He wears that as, like, a statement. It's ironic. Or sarcastic, I'm not sure which."
"He does, does he?" Laena says slyly, and okay, apparently it is fine to make fun of them and they're okay doing it back, check. That makes things easier. Z knows she can be too sharp, sometimes, too cutting, and it's backfired on her before.
"Yes, well, anyway, we're goingonadateonFriday," Z says quickly, but is sort of glad to see how happy Annie looks when she finishes the sentence.
"Z, that's great! He seems really nice."
"He is," she says without thinking, cheeks going a little warm when she realizes how dazed she's sounding. She shakes her head to clear it and decides that offense is the best defense. "You guys should tell me more about, like-" she waves a hand at them, "this."
Laena snickers and puts her bass down. "You're just trying to change the subject."
"Well, sure," Z says, grinning right back, on much firmer ground now, "but your secret relationship has been going on much longer than I've been planning to go out on a date with Brendon, so I feel as though it is only fair if you start."
"Only fair, huh," Laena says, looking at Annie and smiling. Annie smiles right back, and watching them, Z feels so content. And somehow her normal ugh-cute-coupledom nausea is staying far away.
-
Brendon is nervous. Brendon is so nervous he's bouncing up and down, and Spencer's trying hard not to smack him and tell him to sit his ass down and let Tennessee and Spencer figure out his outfit. Which they could, if Brendon would just shut up for a second.
"But seriously, guys, seriously, like, what should I wear? I don't know what we're doing yet, or if she's wearing heels, or, you know, a dress or not-"
Tennessee falls backwards onto Brendon's bed. "Lord help me," she says to the ceiling, "Lord help me, I cannot take all the talking."
"Look," Spencer says, "she liked you even after you sang a song about fast-forwarding to blowjobs, Brendon, and sure, some of that may have been that you followed it up with a seriously kickass love song, but still. Fast-forwarding to blowjobs. I don't think it matters whether you wear a purple or a pink hoodie."
"But-" Brendon's chewing on his lower lip.
Tennessee groans. "No buts! No buts, stop it." She sits up again. "Short stuff, you are adorable and the lady obviously thinks so too; just put some clothes on and go, you know, date."
Spencer nods, but Brendon still looks doubtful.
"I just keep thinking, he says. "I just keep thinking that this has to be a mistake, right? Because no one else ever-I don't understand what she's doing. With me. I don't understand it."
And Spencer almost rolls his eyes, because seriously, this again? But he can tell just how serious Brendon is, and he closes his eyes for a second. People suck.
"People are awful," Tennessee says, and really, Spencer should be used to her reading his mind by now. "People are absolutely awful, Brendon Urie, and I'm so dreadfully sorry about that. But Z Berg likes you, she thinks you're wonderful, she-help me out, Spencer."
"She sees you," Spencer says, and he doesn't have to think about this part very hard. "She sees you, and even more importantly, she sees the way you see her. You're new to this school, you haven't been here-no one has ever looked at her like you do before." Spencer is carefully not thinking too hard about the way Z and Ryan distance themselves so carefully, like if they open up, they'll get hurt. They may look cooler-than-thou, but they're outside of the hierarchy. People don't talk to them, they talk about them (and not always nicely). And sure, Spencer's seen Z around town or at school with one or two guys, but he's never seen Z look like she did in the parking lot last night, and they've been in the same school for years now.
Spencer kind of wants to see Ryan smile like that too. He might be trying very hard not to think about it, but he knows he wants that.
Brendon shakes his head at Spencer, but he's finally smiling.
"There, see?" Tennessee says, and walks over to Brendon's closet. "Here, wear these. They highlight, uh, your best feature." She turns around and throws a pair of jeans at Brendon, who goes bright red. Spencer raises his eyebrows at his girlfriend.
She holds out her hands guilelessly. "What? I'm not blind, Spencer."
Which, okay, Spencer can get behind that. He tilts his head and looks at Brendon, who promptly goes even more red and throws the jeans at Tennessee and the nearest sneaker at Spencer.
"Not helpful, you guys. Not helpful."
Spencer grins. "Yeah, but it's a nice ass-et, isn't it?"
"Sure is, absolutely," Tennessee says, nodding.
"Oh my god," says Brendon. "Both of you, out! I'm going to get dressed and there will be no commentary, is that clear?" They laugh at him until he chases them out of the room.
-
"This is stupid," Z says finally, staring at the pile of dresses on her bed. "This is, seriously, I can't even. Ryan, what the hell was I thinking?"
"I don't know," Ryan says, plucking at Z's favorite guitar. He's trying to tune it, but it's not quite working. She makes a mental note to replace her E string. "What were you thinking when you guys made out in the parking lot?"
"Blow me," Z says, without venom. She bites her lip and stares at the pile on her bed. The dresses are taunting her. "Seriously, what the fuck, I own six million dresses. How can none of them look good on me right now?"
"They all look good," Ryan says, shrugging a little. "Just pick one, Z. You know he's going to fall all over himself when he sees you."
"But-shit, what if he doesn't," Z says, holding up a bright blue minidress and giving it a critical look. "What if he sees me and goes 'Wow, what a weirdo?' and turns around and leaves me there?"
"Then you get back in your car and come find me," Ryan says reasonably. "And then we can sit around and make those stupid fake margaritas you love, and figure out the best way to hide the body."
"You suck at being supportive," Z says, dropping the blue dress on the bed and pulling on a black skirt. It's short and pleated and sits at her natural waist, and it's one of Z's favorites. "Fuck. Are thigh-highs too much?"
Ryan hmmms noncommittally.
"Thigh-highs, yes or no," Z says, struggling to keep her patience. She suspects Ryan is being obnoxious on purpose-it wouldn't be the first time-but she'd really thought he'd liked Brendon. He'd set up that whole thing, after all, but maybe that had just been Spencer and Tennessee's influence. Maybe this whole thing is a huge mistake.
Ryan finally looks up, setting the guitar down on his lap. "Yes to thigh-highs, but not the yellow ones," he says, after a moment. "White ones. And something, uh-stripey, maybe, for the top. You should wear my beret."
"Thank you," Z says, letting out a breath she didn't realize she had been holding. "Finally, some goddamn advice from the peanut gallery."
Ryan rolls his eyes. "I told you," he says. "He's going to have a spontaneous orgasm when you show up anyway. It doesn't matter, Z. He's head over lame-ass-sneakers for you."
"You should talk," Z says, shrugging into a striped, boat-neck t-shirt. "You have a crush on a girl named after a state."
"No I don't," Ryan says quickly. "I-no."
"Uh-huh," Z says. "Fine. You have a crush on a guy named after an-an. Um. English poet."
"That's...not really an insult," Ryan points out, after a beat of silence. "Also, no."
"I don't believe you," Z says.
"That's nice," Ryan says. Z tilts her head, to see if she can catch Ryan's expression out of the corner of her eye, but he's looking down at her guitar as though it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen.
Fine, then. If he's not going to talk about it, he's not going to talk about it. Z doesn't believe him for a second, but she has far more important things to do right now. Like freak out over this completely absurd and ill-advised date that she's been looking forward to all week, with that unsettling mixture of anticipation and nerves sitting heavy in her stomach.
Z shakes her head, and gives herself an appraising look in the mirror. Still small and scrawny; still too many freckles on her nose, and an odd-shaped chin. Whatever Brendon sees in her, Z's not seeing it right now. She swallows and opens up her makeup case, pulling her eyeliner from the top compartment. She knows it's kind of dumb, but the makeup always makes her feel braver.
"So what are you going to do tonight?" Z says, carefully starting to line one eye with the tiny liquid brush. "Since we can't stick to our usual Friday night schedule of bad movies and takeout."
Ryan's silent for a beat too long, enough to make Z suspicious. She arches an eyebrow at him in the mirror.
"Oh," Ryan says airily. "You know. I thought I'd just go downtown, maybe. Bring a book."
Z turns around, trying not to grin. She's supposed to get mad, she knows, but mostly all she can feel is relief. "Ryan Ross," she says severely. "You are not going to crash my date. I know what you're planning, and the answer is no."
"I was planning something?" Ryan says, giving her an innocent, wide-eyed look. "Me? Never."
"Don't you dare," Z says, and turns back to the mirror. "We are going out to dinner, okay? Brendon. And I. Just us. And I swear to god, if I see you there, I'm smacking you across the face."
"Well, I'm going to that indie bookstore on 7th and Regent," Ryan says. "With my book. And myself. It's not my fault it's across the street from the sushi place."
Z frowns. "I didn't even tell you we were going to the sushi place," she says. "Shit, you're so creepy. Why are we friends?"
"Impeccable music taste," Ryan says, starting to loosen the tuning keys on the head of Z's guitar. "Fake margaritas. Zombie movies."
"Right, right." Z says. "But seriously, if you stalk us, I'm going to kill you. And how did you know we were going for sushi?"
"It wouldn't be stalking," Ryan promises, a grin starting to sneak onto his face. He's not so subtly ignoring Z's second question, which means there's only one place he could have gotten that information from. Z wonders if Ryan knows how incredibly obvious he is. "It only counts as stalking if you don't know me."
"All this time," Z says sadly, to the mirror. "I thought he was such a nice young man."
-
Z picks Brendon up from his house, and she's only about ten minutes late. Which is definitely a first for her. Her inner Ryan has been cackling all the way from her house to Brendon's; actual Ryan has been sending her a mocking (and weirdly punctuated) text every five minutes or so since she dropped him off at the bookstore because the asshole hadn't even brought his car over, like he was counting on her.
Brendon's sitting on the porch steps, and she grins when she sees the way he's fidgeting. Fuck her life, she finds him way too endearing. Even when he writes songs about oral sex.
Okay, she should probably not be thinking about oral sex right now.
Brendon comes bounding down the steps before Z can get out, and he's in the seat next to her almost before she can blink.
"Hey," she says, smiling helplessly.
"Hey," he says, then bites his lip, takes a deep breath and leans in, kissing her carefully. He tugs at her beret when they break apart. "I like this, did you steal it from Ross?"
"Maybe," Z says, then shakes her head. "Actually, it was his idea. Apparently my outfit required a beret, I don't even know how his mind works sometimes. I'm only friends with him out of the goodness of my heart, you know how it is."
"I think it looks great," Brendon says, but he's not really looking at her beret, and Z thinks it's possible he actually wants to say "You look great," but is chickening out a little. That's okay, Z can be brave. It's a lot easier to return a compliment than to acknowledge it might be true.
"You look good," she says, reaching out to smooth a hand over his shoulder. He does, he's wearing a thin blue t-shirt and jeans, and Z's just a little smitten; she can admit it to herself if not out loud.
Brendon shrugs, going a little red, clearly just as uncomfortable with compliments as she is. "So, sushi? Prepare to be dazzled with my chopstick skills, Z Berg, I promise they are something to be seen."
She laughs. "Only if you promise to admire mine in return." She's not exaggerating her prowess; when the new sushi restaurant opened downtown, she and Ryan challenged each other to master the art of eating with Japanese chopsticks and Z had totally won (perhaps through rather intent study of a few Youtube tutorials, but she's not telling).
Unfortunately, it appears both her and Brendon bragged too soon. Z can't seem to make them work right to save her life, and the second time Brendon drops his chopsticks, he somehow also knocks over his plate of soy mixed with wasabi and ends up with an extremely awkward stain on his thigh. He starts snickering almost immediately, and Z laughs so hard she snorts rice up her nose and has to spend some quality time coughing into a napkin.
"We're so suave," she says when she finally feels like she can talk again. God, her makeup has to be smeared all to hell.
"The suavest," Brendon agrees, and dabs ineffectually at his crotch.
"Want me to help you with that?" she says innocently, and cracks up again when he blushes.
"Evil, Z Berg," he says, leaning over the table to poke her in the nose. "Evil and fiendish."
She leans in to meet him and kisses him quickly, mostly because she can't help it but a little bit because she wants to make sure he knows she doesn't mean the teasing.
"Let's try this again," Brendon says, sitting back down.
Z nods. "Want to order a new plate?"
"You mean have I been traumatized enough by this one?" Brendon eyes the plate on the table, then picks up a piece with his fingers, popping it in his mouth. "Nah, I'll live. It's eat-or-be-eaten, apparently."
"Yes," Z agrees. "The squid slices might rise up and eat your face if you don't finish them off first."
-
"You," a voice says, soft and very close to Ryan's ear, "are quite creepy, you know that?"
Ryan whips his head around, startled, and then he's face-to-face with Tennessee Thomas.
"Uh," Ryan says, pulling back a little. Any closer, and they'd be kissing, but Tennessee doesn't seem concerned.
"Shut up," Ryan says lamely, after a moment. "So are you. Don't tell me you're here by accident."
"Of course not," Tennessee says, scoffing, and sitting down across from him with her coffee mug. The bookstore doesn't believe in non-recyclable packaging; the coffee bar in the back serves their drinks in scavenged mugs, and Tennessee's is bright green and has an ugly kitten on it.
"We're here for the exact same reason as you are. Obviously. How's the stalking business tonight?"
"Boring," Ryan says, shrugging a little and placing a receipt in his book to mark the spot. Z and Brendon are silhouetted against the darkened interior of the restaurant; the windows are tinted, but it's easy enough to see them. Ryan would bet a lot of money Z sat there on purpose, so he could see them from the bookstore, which is either very sweet or deeply weird. "I think Brendon dropped something. They stood up at one point and kind of waved their hands around and then Z started dabbing at him with a napkin."
"What, did Brendon spontaneously orgasm again? I hate it when that happens," Spencer says dryly, coming up behind Ryan's shoulder. Ryan startles again. What is it with these two and sneaking up on people?
"You hate it when that happens," Tennessee says, sipping her drink and staring out across the street into the sushi place. "Does that happen to you a lot?"
"Only around you," Spencer mumbles, blushing. Ryan snorts, and then takes a sip of his coffee to cover up the undignified noise he just made.
"Or Ryan," Tennessee murmurs into her coffee, almost too quiet to hear.
Ryan chokes on his coffee.
"Ignore her," Spencer says, pulling up a chair and leaning in, patting Ryan on the back as he coughs and sputters. "She's a terrible flirt. I'm sorry."
"It's fine," Ryan manages to gasp out, once his throat is clear. He coughs again, and then looks up at both of them. "It's fine," Ryan says, deciding that the casual approach is always better, even if it's a little harder to pull off when one has nearly choked to death. "Z's my best friend, remember? Sex jokes are fine. You just-surprised me."
"We're friends now," Tennessee says seriously, tilting her head a little to watch as Brendon and Z lean in towards each other. "I've decided. It's communal stalking and sex jokes from here on out."
"Good to know," Ryan says dryly. "Thanks for the warning."
"You're welcome," Tennessee says solemnly.
-
"So what do you want to do now?" Z says, shrugging her coat on as she stands up.
"I actually have to get home," Brendon says, looking slightly embarrassed. "It's-it's really dumb. My aunt has her bridge club coming over tomorrow, and I said I would help clean the house this week, and I sort of. Haven't. There was some other stuff going on?" He peers at Z and she has to look down, hiding her smile. "So anyway, I have about four hours of chores to catch up on before tomorrow morning."
"Too bad," Z says mildly, tucking her hand in his as they walk out the front door. "We'll have to disappoint our stalking club, then."
"Stalking club?" Brendon says, and Z grins, pointing across the busy street. Ryan and Spencer and Tennessee are silhouetted in the window, entirely ignoring her and Brendon. Spencer's waving his arms around a bit, Ryan's nodding seriously and Tennessee is shaking her head. "Why am I not surprised," Brendon says, grinning ruefully. "Although it looks like they've found something to focus on other than us, doesn't it?"
"Apparently," Z says, going up on her tip-toes to try and get a closer look. "Are they arguing? I hope everything's okay."
"I will bet you a lot of money that Spencer just found an ally in Ryan for his opinions about the musical genius of Moulin Rouge," Brendon says. "It's an ongoing battle. Tennessee thinks it's all hackneyed crap and doesn't see the point. They were talking about it at lunch today."
"Ryan loves Moulin Rouge," Z says. "Like. I'm pretty sure he knows all the words."
"So does Spencer," Brendon says.
"Suddenly the world seems such a perfect place," Z murmurs, because she's seen it enough times with Ryan to know all the words. It's not her favorite, but she can appreciate the glitz and the glamor and the tragedy. Hackneyed crap is definitely a little bit harsh.
"Suddenly it moves with such a perfect grace," Brendon says, grinning. Z blinks in surprise. She would not have pegged Brendon for a Moulin Rouge fan, except-well, actually. Maybe that makes a lot of sense. "Anyway. I was going to say, I need to go home tonight, but are you, uh. Are you busy tomorrow? I was thinking maybe we could work on some music or something. If you're up for it," Brendon says, looking away and blushing. "I know we're not quite on the same level, but I-"
"Oh my god, stop that," Z says, rolling her eyes. "I've seen you play, Brendon. You're good. You're way better than me at acoustic stuff. None of this fake modesty."
"It's not fake modesty, it's 100% real insecurity," Brendon cracks, but Z knows he's being serious.
"You're allowed to come over tomorrow only if you agree to stop putting yourself down," Z says firmly, pulling her keys out to unlock her car. "I wouldn't be saying yes if I didn't think you were awesome. I don't let just anyone hear my terrible, barely-formed demos," Z says, smiling to blunt the words.
"It's a deal," Brendon says. "Tomorrow it is."
-
Brendon shows up with a sheaf of music, a guitar, and a notebook that she's not allowed to look through because, he says, "Your lyrics are too good, I'd be embarrassed." He doesn't say it like he minds or like he wants her to cajole him into showing them to her with heaps of flattery or something; he says it like he's honestly happy that she's decent at the writing thing and ugh, Z is so smitten.
They opt for the living room because of the piano; Z was thinking her room (no ulterior motives! really), but when Brendon sees the piano, his eyes go a little soft.
"My aunt doesn't have one," he murmurs, and Z doesn't ask why he's living with his aunt. Instead, she walks over to the couch and picks up the acoustic she left in the living room last night, and motions him over to sit down. She strums a few chords, but she's having trouble looking away from him and actually focusing on the music.
"Your posture is all weird," she blurts, looking up at Brendon, and then wants to hide, because seriously, what?
His eyebrows go up. "What do you mean?"
"You just," she bites her lip. "Your back is so straight, it's not the way you usually sit."
He laughs a little self-deprecatingly. "Blame Mrs. Edelman, my piano teacher. She was a former concert pianist. She used to tell me I shouldn't even try to follow in her footsteps because that was the road to perfectionism and self-flagellation and no one wants that life, let alone a nice boy like me, but that I should keep playing. And playing. And she sat like a-I don't know, something really straight."
"Uh, a ruler?"
Brendon goes a bit red. "Right, yeah, a ruler."
Z grins at him. "I hear they're straight, rulers."
"It's a lie," Brendon says. "It's a lie so they can be all, uh, bent in secret."
"I won't ask if you don't tell," Z promises solemnly.
Brendon leans down awkwardly and kisses her on the lips, so lightly she can hardly feel it.
"No, come here," she says, and she is not breathless, she's totally not, and grabs his shirt and pulls.
This does not go spectacularly well.
"Ow," says Brendon plaintively once they've sorted themselves out.
"Where does it hurt?" Z says, and Brendon licks his lower lip.
"Here," he says, indicating his shoulder. His eyes are dark. Z doesn't think it's because of the pain.
She leans over and touches her mouth to his shoulder. He's warm through his t-shirt.
"Where else?" she says, and her voice has gone low and a tiny bit scratchy. For a second, she wishes she could figure out how to imitate that and finally sing "Fever" the way it deserves to be sung, but she forgets about it pretty fast, because Brendon is so close to her now. Maybe she should have worn something with sleeves; all that warmth near the bare skin on her arms feels like the worst kind of tease.
Brendon's blushing. Z ruthlessly clamps down on the part of her that thinks it's adorable.
"Here," he says, and touches his mouth.
She leans in and kisses him, really kisses him, and she shivers when his hands slide up her back, repaying in kind and upping the ante by slipping her fingers underneath the hem of his shirt. She wants, oh, she wants so much.
They roll over again, and it's totally uncomfortable but Z doesn't care much, because Brendon is slowly and carefully mimicking her, one hand coming down and up to flatten against her lower back. She does care when her dad comes home and calls from other end of the house, and they spring apart guiltily. Her dad doesn't come into the living room though, and Z takes a deep breath and doesn't look at Brendon.
"Want to go upstairs? I, um, there's no piano, but we could, I have guitars? Another guitar. And I think Laena left her acoustic here."
"Guitars," Brendon says, and he's still staring at her mouth. Z bites her lip and his ears go a little red (god help her, it is totally adorable). He shakes his head. "Upstairs, right."
Once they're in her room things go all awkward again. Brendon's standing over by the door while she sits on the bed and tries to figure out a way to say, "Hey, get over here," without actually saying that. She's never been with anyone who didn't start out by taking the initiative, and now she's wondering how they dared, because this is hard. Finally she just holds out her hand a little plaintively, and Brendon breathes in sharply and comes over to her, sliding his hand onto hers and twining their fingers together.
She looks up at him through her eyelashes. "Kiss me again," she says, sort of decisively, or trying for it anyway, and Brendon bends down and does as he's told. Fuck, but it's good, his mouth is so soft and hesitant and he follows her lead so well it makes her shiver. Pulling on his hand gets her a Brendon on her lap, which should be more backwards than it is; it's just good, because she can hug him close and he's tiny enough that it works and-
"Shit," he says against her mouth, "shit, this is-"
"What?" she whispers.
He shakes his head and nudges his nose along her jaw, mouthing at the skin of her neck. Z shudders and puts a hand on his neck, trying to hint without telling him that it'd be really nice if he kept doing that. Even if Ryan will give her shit about hickeys, whatever, she can totally wear a scarf. Brendon obliges, and Z knows her breathing's going all raggedy. She's wet, she thinks, and she tries to remember the last time she wanted someone this much before they'd even taken their clothes off.
Suddenly, Brendon makes a noise against her skin and Z realises that her hands have slipped down to curve around his hips, fingers touching where his shirt is riding up.
"Can I take your shirt off?" she says breathlessly, surprising herself.
Brendon pulls away and meets her eyes. Fuck, his lips are all red; Z touches them without even thinking, and feels a tug of arousal when Brendon kisses at her fingers.
"Yeah," Brendon says then, and she blinks before realizing what he means. It takes both of them to get the t-shirt off and Z is giggling, but she stops when it hits the floor and there's all that skin in front of her, shit.
"You too," he says against her mouth, and she grins. She's insecure about a great many things but the bra she is wearing, it's a good one.
They pull her tank top off, fingers tangling together, and it's, oh, his eyes go even darker when he sees her, but he doesn't touch, he just looks.
"Come on," she says breathlessly, and takes one of his hands, putting it on her breast. His mouth opens but he still doesn't say anything, he just traces the edge of her bra and holy shit, Z can't breathe. "Brendon," she says, "Brendon, come on," and gets a hand into his hair to kiss him again. His hands are so careful on her skin, it's almost like he's afraid to touch her, which doesn't make any sense, because fuck, his hands. She never wants him to stop touching her.
She's also having trouble doing anything but touching him; her hands keep traveling the length of his back, cupping his shoulders, sliding down his arms and back again and up into his hair. Brendon arches into her fingers and it's hard to even think when he does that, because he just, the way he moves.
"You, you're-" she says against his mouth and he shakes his head.
"You," he says, "fuck, Z." She squeezes at his hips and pulls him down against her. They both moan at that; Z briefly considers stopping and getting more naked because she wants, okay, she wants, but she can't even, she can't let go.
Brendon's phone rings. Z expects him to ignore it, but he squirms around (which, fuck, unfair, and she tells him so) and digs it out of his pocket.
"Fuck, it's my reminder alarm," he says, sounding like the end of the world is nigh. She digs her nails in a little and his eyelids flutter shut.
"Is it important?" she says, and she should sound more arch, she thinks, more arch and inviting or something that would make her more convincing and make him more likely to stay, but all she sounds is a little desperate.
"I have work," he says, and fuck. Fuck her life, seriously.
"Okay." She kisses him one more time and manages to let go of him. He groans and kisses her again and doesn't actually move. "I'm not actually going to push you off," she says. "You have to go to work, but, but I can't make you."
He shakes his head. "God, I don't want to go," he says, his hands moving up to touch her face and tilt her chin up. "I don't want, leaving is the last thing I want."
"You and me both," she manages, and hides her face in his shoulder when she blushes. She never blushes, what is this?
"Okay," he says, touching at her hair. "Okay, like. I have to go, but." He breathes out shakily.
Z bites down on the "Call me?" that wants to come out. She's not sure whether she wants him to call because she just wants or if, well. No, she totally knows. "You should go so you're not late. Do, do you want me to drive you? I have to go to rehearsal anyway," she says, realizing how much time has actually passed when she sees her clock purse on the floor.
He kisses her again on the stairs and she pushes him up against the door in the garage and sucks a mark into his neck because, well. She traces it with a fingernail and shivers a little at how dark his eyes go.
For the record, she's never driven this badly in her life, missing two stop signs and running a red light because she forgets to look at the road every two minutes with Brendon in her car, but she gets them both there in one piece.
-
"What?" Z says, because Annie and Laena are staring at her and she doesn't know what's going on. Laena's mouth is twitching a little. Z's not sure why they all stopped in the middle of the song. She thought it had been going well that time.
"Z-" Annie starts.
Laena grins. "Z, is there something you want to tell us?"
"No?" Z says, wincing at how much it sounds like a question. It's pretty hard to focus today, she's, uh. A little distracted. Earlier, they had to start "Fair Game" over three times in a row.
"Z, you sang 'don't even try to run away/why would you want to'".
Ooops. "Just trying something out?" she says, trying for flippant. "I don't think it works."
"Uh, no," Laena says, and really, Z is very glad that Laena got over whatever it was that had her so hesitant about offering up opinions before, but right now she wouldn't mind the old Laena, just so she could maintain control over the rehearsal.
"Maybe we should take five," Annie says, and yes, that's a good plan. Five minutes should help make her more focused. Except then she sits down and it's kind of like she can still feel the phantom weight of Brendon in her lap, and fuck. Fuck. She leans her forehead against her knees and closes her eyes for a second.
Her phone beeps. The message is from Brendon. im dying, it says. Z chokes out a laugh, she can't help it.
Right on the heels of that one comes a second message: cant beleive i sent that. Fuck her life, she's not even annoyed at his terrible spelling or even his lack of capital letters. Me too, with the dying, she sends back, and smiles at her phone.
-
It doesn't seem like Z even cares that she has a phone today, Ryan thinks. He's been texting Z because he can't remember how to solve this damn trigonometry problem and he knows she takes better notes than he does, but this is just hopeless.
Ryan's not actually annoyed because Z's not answering his texts. Sometimes that happens; he knows she's theoretically at band practice, and she normally never touches her phone when she's rehearsing. But, like, band practice started an hour ago, and she hasn't picked up or texted all morning, and. He knows she planned on spending that time with Brendon. Who apparently warranted enough attention that she hasn't been answering his texts.
Ryan sighs, snapping his phone shut again for the eight time and setting it down on the fake-wood table. The Green Cauldron is always packed on Saturday afternoons; if he were smart, he would have gone to the library to study, but the wrestling team tends to hang out in the school parking lot on the weekends. Also, he's tired of being yelled at for sneaking in food and coffee in his backpack. Some people seem to think that studying can be accomplished without espresso and apples, but Ryan's never been able to get anything done like that.
Not that he's being all that productive now. He pushes the papers around on the tiny circular table he'd managed to grab and sighs. He hasn't even looked at his English assignments yet, and after he gets done with this stupid practice test he has to write a three-page essay on the Napoleonic Wars for AP European History. It feels like there's no end to it all.
He would just say fuck it, but he knows a scholarship is his only way out of this hellhole.
He drains the last of his second shot of espresso, setting it down firmly. He tells himself it doesn't matter that Z is disgustingly adorable with her new boyfriend. It doesn't matter that this is how it's going to be from now on. Ryan is truly, honestly thrilled for them, in that place deep down in his heart where he feels actual emotions. Z and Brendon together are like this weird tsunami of adorable; they can't seem to stop grinning at each other, and the force of it tends to rub off on people like Ryan when he's spending time with them.
But they're not here right now, so it doesn't matter. Ryan isn't being accidentally stockholmed into being happy, so he has time to remember how he's fucking lonely and he still hates this town and he's never, ever going to get as lucky as Z and Brendon. He's not kidding himself that they're going to last forever, but it still seems like it would be really fucking nice to have someone.
"Napoleon getting you down?" a voice says, very close to his ear. Ryan jumps, whipping his head around to see Spencer Smith leaning over him, holding a large coffee. "That guy was a bastard," Spencer says, grinning slightly at him. "He's making everyone's life miserable this weekend."
"Right," Ryan says, faintly. "Um. What?"
"Tennessee's in the other section of AP Euro History," Spencer says, his smiling turning rueful. "She's slogging away at it as we speak, and I'm stuck here buying coffee and trying to entertain myself."
"Sucks to be her," Ryan says, without thinking. He pauses. "And me," he adds, after a moment. Spencer's still standing over him, and Ryan has to crane his neck slightly to keep him in view. He's dressed down, even more so than he usually is; messy hair, an old hoodie, worn jeans and sneakers. Ryan swallows, and tries not to think about all the ways Spencer could have gotten so rumpled. He's been enforcing a strict policy of not even thinking about Spencer and Tenn that way, because there's being a glutton for punishment and then there's actually driving yourself insane.
Spencer nods sympathetically. "I should probably let you get back to work," Spencer says, looking down at his shoes. There's a rip in the toe of his left Converse. "I just wanted to say hi, I guess."
"Hi," Ryan says, smiling before he can talk himself out of it.
"Hi," Spencer says, grinning back.
The moment stretches out. Ryan's stomach is stupid and messy. Everything about this is messy.
Damn, Spencer has really adorable freckles.
"Fuck it," Ryan says, shaking his head and looking back and forth between Spencer and the table full of homework he should be doing. Not a big deal, he tells himself. This is what friends do. Or people who want to be friends. They hang out. Ryan doesn't think about how he hasn't made new friends in approximately forever.
"Let's go," Ryan says, standing up and starting to shove his papers in his backpack. "You're bored. I'm sick of staring at this practice test. It's too nice outside for this bullshit."
Spencer blinks at him in surprise, a pleased, happy expression stealing onto his face. "You want to hang out?" Spencer says, carefully, like he's checking to make sure he heard Ryan correctly. "With me?"
"Yeah," Ryan says resolutely, but has no idea what to suggest. "We'll go do...something."
"Hell yeah," Spencer says. "That would be awesome."
"Cool," Ryan says mildly, shrugging his backpack up on to his shoulder. His stomach is more of a mess than ever, but he's determined not to let Spencer know. "Let's go, then."
-
"Oh, hey," Ryan says, when they're walking past the music shop. "Hold up. I need to duck in here for a second."
Spencer shrugs. "No problem," he says. "Tenn broke one of my sticks a few days ago when she was practicing a fill. I need some new ones."
"Right," Ryan says, nodding. Then he stops, pulling Spencer back from the entranceway with a hand on his arm and tugging him over to the side. "Wait," Ryan says. "Wait, what?"
"Tenn broke one of my sticks," Spencer says slowly. "I need new ones. I figured I'd come in with you instead of standing out here and enjoying the ambiance."
"You drum," Ryan says flatly. "You and-and Tennessee. You're both drummers."
"...is that a problem?" Spencer says, looking mildly concerned. "Are you anti-drummer or something?"
"Z needs a drummer," Ryan says, tightening his hand on Spencer's arm. Spencer's hoodie is soft and worn underneath his fingers. "They need a drummer so bad, you don't even know-wait, yes you do, you heard them at the show, why didn't you-both of you-seriously-"
"Wouldn't that have been kind of weird?" Spencer says, looking down at his feet. "We didn't even know you guys yet. Or, well, we knew who you were but-" Spencer snaps his mouth shut. Ryan frowns.
"What?" Ryan says.
"Nothing," Spencer says, after a moment. "Anyway. It would have been super weird. And you guys would have just brushed us off anyway." He tilts his head as if to say wouldn't you have?
"Well," Ryan says, stepping back and letting go of his death-grip on Spencer's arm. "Yeah. Probably."
"See?" Spencer says, giving him a rueful smile.
"But that doesn't matter," Ryan says earnestly. "Look, it's cool, we're friends now. Or something. And you guys would-Tennessee would be perfect for them, or even you, if you didn't mind being in a band with all girls-"
"Of course I wouldn't mind, but you've never even heard us play," Spencer says, shaking his head a little in amazement. "And the thing with Tennessee-it's. Kind of complicated. I don't know if she wants to be in a band."
"So uncomplicate it," Ryan says firmly.
"Yeah, no," Spencer says, his voice a little flat. "I'm not actually a magician. I can't just snap my fingers and fix everything."
"Try," Ryan says, holding Spencer's gaze.
Spencer looks away, staring over Ryan's shoulder at the busy street. He's biting his lip a little. "I could-I could talk to her about it, I guess," Spencer says eventually. "She's better than I am, anyway. Z would want her before she'd want me. But I'm not promising anything."
"That's okay," Ryan says. "As soon as we're done here, we go back to wherever the hell your kit is, and you promise to play for me."
"I can do that," Spencer says, after a minute. He looks a little bit like a deer in headlights, but he squares his shoulders and nods at Ryan. "I suppose it's a fair trade for not telling you guys. Promise you won't laugh when I suck."
"You haven't heard me play guitar," Ryan mutters, finally standing aside so Spencer can pass by him to get into the shop. Spencer pauses in the doorway and gives Ryan a weird look, but then he shakes himself, letting the subject drop. Ryan is grateful. He didn't mean to say that out loud in the first place, especially not to someone who hangs out with Brendon-the-musical-genius all the time; Spencer's not going to be impressed by Ryan's erstwhile fumblings.
-
George Ryan Ross, Ryan thinks to himself. George Ryan Ross, you are a big fucking idiot, what were you thinking.
Spencer's kit is in a small room off his parent's basement; it's barely big enough for Spencer and his drums and Ryan, who is currently sitting on a folding chair that Spencer grabbed on their way down. The room has dark wood paneling, with a single rectangular window set up high in the top of the wall. The late-afternoon light illuminates an ever-present swirl of dust motes, falling on Spencer's kit and then bouncing up again as he plays.
And, and. Fuck.
Spencer can play.
Ryan can feel the air move every time Spencer plays something particularly complicated, the slight breeze from the cymbals. Spencer plays fast, with his whole body, and Ryan is way too close and the drums are ringing in his ears, perfect and overwhelming. Spencer is sweating, entirely focused, but looking up every once in a while to grin at Ryan, to send him a look that says yeah? what do you think? yeah?
Ryan's throat is dry. Somewhere in the back of his head, Ryan is utterly certain that Spencer has no idea just how good he is. He's phenomenal. He's missed a beat twice, just twice, in-actually, Ryan's not sure how long he's been playing. If Tennessee is even better than he is-actually, Ryan can't think about that too much, or his breathing starts to go all funny.
His breathing's kind of going funny anyway. Spencer is really, really fucking hot when he plays the drums. Ryan figures that as soon as he steps out of this room he can go back to lying to himself, but here and now it's such an obvious fact that there's no point in denying that Ryan wants Spencer in a very physical and totally inappropriate way. Ryan wants him in a way that is never going to happen, because Spencer will be off having hot sex with his hot-ass girlfriend who also plays the drums and-shit.
Ryan just needs to stop thinking.
Part Two | Part Four
The gravel in the parking lot is a little hard to stand on in heels, but Z's ignoring that in favor of focusing on the way Brendon's moving his fingers on her lower back, in little circles that make her shiver.
"Hey," she murmurs.
Brendon kisses at her chin and smiles at her when she looks, the way he always smiled at her, all along. "Hey," he parrots.
"I can't believe--" She doesn't know what to say, so she kisses him instead, trying to tell him that she's stupidly happy right now, stupidly.
"We could sit down?" Brendon asks, and pulls her over to her car when she nods. They both sit on the hood, dangling their feet. Z sneaks her hand into Brendon's, and he squeezes it, looking down at their linked fingers.
"When did you, you know," he says after a little while.
She grins. "Pretty much when you walked into gym and scrambled all the way up the rope, only to trip over your own feet when you were trying to explain to Mr Fox why you shouldn't be on the school gymnastics team."
"Oh god," Brendon says. "Oh god, oh god. You know the reason I fell over is that you were standing there, right?"
"Really?" She's only laughing a little bit.
"Well, in my defense you were wearing shorts, Z Berg, it's more than any man can be expected to take."
"...tell me that isn't when you fell for me." She's joking, but she kind of means it. She's done with the whole thing where guys love her look, right, but don't like it when she's better than them at guitar or opens her mouth and says things that aren't flirtatious--but Brendon's shaking his head.
"No, no, that was when you, you know, the Talent Show. I already thought you were awesome and gorgeous and stuff, but Z, seriously, I don't know how anyone could watch you sing and not, like." He reaches out with his free hand and tucks her hair behind her ear. She turns her face into it, kissing his palm, and he breathes out a little shakily. She's about to pull him closer and kiss him again, but of course that's when her ever-so-awesome best friend clears his throat behind them. Z loves Ryan, but his timing is so unfortunate, she can't even.
"Ryan Ross," she says, holding on to Brendon's hand when he tries to let go. "Ryan Ross, what do I have to give you to go away again?"
"Eh," he says, "I'm not that easily bought."
"Lies," she mutters at Brendon. "All lies." Brendon is laughing, and god, Z loves it when he laughs.
Then Tennessee says, "I'm afraid you'd have to buy us all off, Z Berg, and that would be rather hard on your wallet, wouldn't it?"
Brendon rolls his eyes. "You are putty in my hands, beanstalk, don't even lie," he says, and Z mouths beanstalk at him, because what?
Brendon gestures above his head, and oh, of course, her height.
"Seriously, though," Spencer says, "I'm pretty sure we have to get home."
"I will get you for this, Spencer Smith," Brendon says, but he slides down off of Z's car, pulling her down with him.
He looks at her, shy again, and she just wants to kiss him and kiss him. Some of that must show in her eyes, because Brendon breathes in shakily and says, "So, um, what are you--" He pauses, biting his lip. "Can we--um." They all look at him expectantly but he doesn't manage to finish the sentence.
"I think he means do you want to go out Friday," Spencer translates helpfully, and Z distracts Brendon from glaring at Spencer by kissing him and saying, "Yes, yes I would."
-
The next day, Z just keeps thinking about it. About him. It's ridiculous. Like, she's trying to outline her World Literature paper when she blinks and then she's thinking about Brendon's dark eyes and the way he smiled and the way he sang, shit. And then she worries about saying the wrong thing when she sees him next or forgetting to look for him at school or being too obvious about him at school or a hundred other things that she somehow needs to think about now.
But then there's band practice and they're working on a song, a new one that Laena brought them and Z actually has to pay attention and she can, here. It's not hard to focus, because she's singing with Laena and it just, it works. Fuck, they sound good.
Z turns around when it's Laena's verse and she sees Annie look at Laena like-like Laena was looking at Annie before, in fact.
"Holy shit," Z says, tripping over her guitar chord.
Laena breaks off to look at her wonderingly. Which, that's fair, Z doesn't normally trip in the middle of a song. If she's not in any way drunk, that is. But she's pretty sure she just figured out something important.
"Are you two-you totally are!" Annie turns bright red and Laena looks a little worried. Z's not sure why, because, "You guys," she says, smiling. "You're-wait, why didn't you tell me?"
Annie ducks her head, laughing a little.
"It hasn't been very long," Laena says. "Only since right before the talent show."
"Like, an hour before," Annie clarifies.
Oh. Oh. "That's why you were so distracted when you finally got there!" Z says, things sliding into place in her head. "And here I just thought we were all equally nervous..." It must be okay to mock them a little, right? Sometimes Z has a hard time telling with people.
But she must have gotten it right, because Laena finally relaxes a bit, looking over at Annie with something soft in her eyes. "No, I was definitely nervous about the show, I was just also nervous about finally having kissed the girl I'd liked for ages-" Her smile widens slightly when Annie blushes. "Yeah, it was a little hard to think for a while there."
All together now, Z thinks. d'awww.
Except Z's finding it difficult to be sarcastic today, so she opts for sincere instead. "This is so awesome," she says. She's a little bewildered that they hadn't told her before, but when she starts to say so she remembers how long it took her to tell Annie about Alex. Ryan's always the only one who knows everything, and she doesn't hang out with her band outside of practice all that much-but maybe, maybe she can start working on that.
"I, um. Speaking of the talent show?"
They both nod. "Uh-huh," Laena says.
"Remember the guy I was talking to after?"
"Yes?" Annie says, starting to look very interested.
"Wait, the one in the Bible Camp shirt?" Laena is grinning.
Z rolls her eyes. "Yes, yes. He wears that as, like, a statement. It's ironic. Or sarcastic, I'm not sure which."
"He does, does he?" Laena says slyly, and okay, apparently it is fine to make fun of them and they're okay doing it back, check. That makes things easier. Z knows she can be too sharp, sometimes, too cutting, and it's backfired on her before.
"Yes, well, anyway, we're goingonadateonFriday," Z says quickly, but is sort of glad to see how happy Annie looks when she finishes the sentence.
"Z, that's great! He seems really nice."
"He is," she says without thinking, cheeks going a little warm when she realizes how dazed she's sounding. She shakes her head to clear it and decides that offense is the best defense. "You guys should tell me more about, like-" she waves a hand at them, "this."
Laena snickers and puts her bass down. "You're just trying to change the subject."
"Well, sure," Z says, grinning right back, on much firmer ground now, "but your secret relationship has been going on much longer than I've been planning to go out on a date with Brendon, so I feel as though it is only fair if you start."
"Only fair, huh," Laena says, looking at Annie and smiling. Annie smiles right back, and watching them, Z feels so content. And somehow her normal ugh-cute-coupledom nausea is staying far away.
-
Brendon is nervous. Brendon is so nervous he's bouncing up and down, and Spencer's trying hard not to smack him and tell him to sit his ass down and let Tennessee and Spencer figure out his outfit. Which they could, if Brendon would just shut up for a second.
"But seriously, guys, seriously, like, what should I wear? I don't know what we're doing yet, or if she's wearing heels, or, you know, a dress or not-"
Tennessee falls backwards onto Brendon's bed. "Lord help me," she says to the ceiling, "Lord help me, I cannot take all the talking."
"Look," Spencer says, "she liked you even after you sang a song about fast-forwarding to blowjobs, Brendon, and sure, some of that may have been that you followed it up with a seriously kickass love song, but still. Fast-forwarding to blowjobs. I don't think it matters whether you wear a purple or a pink hoodie."
"But-" Brendon's chewing on his lower lip.
Tennessee groans. "No buts! No buts, stop it." She sits up again. "Short stuff, you are adorable and the lady obviously thinks so too; just put some clothes on and go, you know, date."
Spencer nods, but Brendon still looks doubtful.
"I just keep thinking, he says. "I just keep thinking that this has to be a mistake, right? Because no one else ever-I don't understand what she's doing. With me. I don't understand it."
And Spencer almost rolls his eyes, because seriously, this again? But he can tell just how serious Brendon is, and he closes his eyes for a second. People suck.
"People are awful," Tennessee says, and really, Spencer should be used to her reading his mind by now. "People are absolutely awful, Brendon Urie, and I'm so dreadfully sorry about that. But Z Berg likes you, she thinks you're wonderful, she-help me out, Spencer."
"She sees you," Spencer says, and he doesn't have to think about this part very hard. "She sees you, and even more importantly, she sees the way you see her. You're new to this school, you haven't been here-no one has ever looked at her like you do before." Spencer is carefully not thinking too hard about the way Z and Ryan distance themselves so carefully, like if they open up, they'll get hurt. They may look cooler-than-thou, but they're outside of the hierarchy. People don't talk to them, they talk about them (and not always nicely). And sure, Spencer's seen Z around town or at school with one or two guys, but he's never seen Z look like she did in the parking lot last night, and they've been in the same school for years now.
Spencer kind of wants to see Ryan smile like that too. He might be trying very hard not to think about it, but he knows he wants that.
Brendon shakes his head at Spencer, but he's finally smiling.
"There, see?" Tennessee says, and walks over to Brendon's closet. "Here, wear these. They highlight, uh, your best feature." She turns around and throws a pair of jeans at Brendon, who goes bright red. Spencer raises his eyebrows at his girlfriend.
She holds out her hands guilelessly. "What? I'm not blind, Spencer."
Which, okay, Spencer can get behind that. He tilts his head and looks at Brendon, who promptly goes even more red and throws the jeans at Tennessee and the nearest sneaker at Spencer.
"Not helpful, you guys. Not helpful."
Spencer grins. "Yeah, but it's a nice ass-et, isn't it?"
"Sure is, absolutely," Tennessee says, nodding.
"Oh my god," says Brendon. "Both of you, out! I'm going to get dressed and there will be no commentary, is that clear?" They laugh at him until he chases them out of the room.
-
"This is stupid," Z says finally, staring at the pile of dresses on her bed. "This is, seriously, I can't even. Ryan, what the hell was I thinking?"
"I don't know," Ryan says, plucking at Z's favorite guitar. He's trying to tune it, but it's not quite working. She makes a mental note to replace her E string. "What were you thinking when you guys made out in the parking lot?"
"Blow me," Z says, without venom. She bites her lip and stares at the pile on her bed. The dresses are taunting her. "Seriously, what the fuck, I own six million dresses. How can none of them look good on me right now?"
"They all look good," Ryan says, shrugging a little. "Just pick one, Z. You know he's going to fall all over himself when he sees you."
"But-shit, what if he doesn't," Z says, holding up a bright blue minidress and giving it a critical look. "What if he sees me and goes 'Wow, what a weirdo?' and turns around and leaves me there?"
"Then you get back in your car and come find me," Ryan says reasonably. "And then we can sit around and make those stupid fake margaritas you love, and figure out the best way to hide the body."
"You suck at being supportive," Z says, dropping the blue dress on the bed and pulling on a black skirt. It's short and pleated and sits at her natural waist, and it's one of Z's favorites. "Fuck. Are thigh-highs too much?"
Ryan hmmms noncommittally.
"Thigh-highs, yes or no," Z says, struggling to keep her patience. She suspects Ryan is being obnoxious on purpose-it wouldn't be the first time-but she'd really thought he'd liked Brendon. He'd set up that whole thing, after all, but maybe that had just been Spencer and Tennessee's influence. Maybe this whole thing is a huge mistake.
Ryan finally looks up, setting the guitar down on his lap. "Yes to thigh-highs, but not the yellow ones," he says, after a moment. "White ones. And something, uh-stripey, maybe, for the top. You should wear my beret."
"Thank you," Z says, letting out a breath she didn't realize she had been holding. "Finally, some goddamn advice from the peanut gallery."
Ryan rolls his eyes. "I told you," he says. "He's going to have a spontaneous orgasm when you show up anyway. It doesn't matter, Z. He's head over lame-ass-sneakers for you."
"You should talk," Z says, shrugging into a striped, boat-neck t-shirt. "You have a crush on a girl named after a state."
"No I don't," Ryan says quickly. "I-no."
"Uh-huh," Z says. "Fine. You have a crush on a guy named after an-an. Um. English poet."
"That's...not really an insult," Ryan points out, after a beat of silence. "Also, no."
"I don't believe you," Z says.
"That's nice," Ryan says. Z tilts her head, to see if she can catch Ryan's expression out of the corner of her eye, but he's looking down at her guitar as though it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen.
Fine, then. If he's not going to talk about it, he's not going to talk about it. Z doesn't believe him for a second, but she has far more important things to do right now. Like freak out over this completely absurd and ill-advised date that she's been looking forward to all week, with that unsettling mixture of anticipation and nerves sitting heavy in her stomach.
Z shakes her head, and gives herself an appraising look in the mirror. Still small and scrawny; still too many freckles on her nose, and an odd-shaped chin. Whatever Brendon sees in her, Z's not seeing it right now. She swallows and opens up her makeup case, pulling her eyeliner from the top compartment. She knows it's kind of dumb, but the makeup always makes her feel braver.
"So what are you going to do tonight?" Z says, carefully starting to line one eye with the tiny liquid brush. "Since we can't stick to our usual Friday night schedule of bad movies and takeout."
Ryan's silent for a beat too long, enough to make Z suspicious. She arches an eyebrow at him in the mirror.
"Oh," Ryan says airily. "You know. I thought I'd just go downtown, maybe. Bring a book."
Z turns around, trying not to grin. She's supposed to get mad, she knows, but mostly all she can feel is relief. "Ryan Ross," she says severely. "You are not going to crash my date. I know what you're planning, and the answer is no."
"I was planning something?" Ryan says, giving her an innocent, wide-eyed look. "Me? Never."
"Don't you dare," Z says, and turns back to the mirror. "We are going out to dinner, okay? Brendon. And I. Just us. And I swear to god, if I see you there, I'm smacking you across the face."
"Well, I'm going to that indie bookstore on 7th and Regent," Ryan says. "With my book. And myself. It's not my fault it's across the street from the sushi place."
Z frowns. "I didn't even tell you we were going to the sushi place," she says. "Shit, you're so creepy. Why are we friends?"
"Impeccable music taste," Ryan says, starting to loosen the tuning keys on the head of Z's guitar. "Fake margaritas. Zombie movies."
"Right, right." Z says. "But seriously, if you stalk us, I'm going to kill you. And how did you know we were going for sushi?"
"It wouldn't be stalking," Ryan promises, a grin starting to sneak onto his face. He's not so subtly ignoring Z's second question, which means there's only one place he could have gotten that information from. Z wonders if Ryan knows how incredibly obvious he is. "It only counts as stalking if you don't know me."
"All this time," Z says sadly, to the mirror. "I thought he was such a nice young man."
-
Z picks Brendon up from his house, and she's only about ten minutes late. Which is definitely a first for her. Her inner Ryan has been cackling all the way from her house to Brendon's; actual Ryan has been sending her a mocking (and weirdly punctuated) text every five minutes or so since she dropped him off at the bookstore because the asshole hadn't even brought his car over, like he was counting on her.
Brendon's sitting on the porch steps, and she grins when she sees the way he's fidgeting. Fuck her life, she finds him way too endearing. Even when he writes songs about oral sex.
Okay, she should probably not be thinking about oral sex right now.
Brendon comes bounding down the steps before Z can get out, and he's in the seat next to her almost before she can blink.
"Hey," she says, smiling helplessly.
"Hey," he says, then bites his lip, takes a deep breath and leans in, kissing her carefully. He tugs at her beret when they break apart. "I like this, did you steal it from Ross?"
"Maybe," Z says, then shakes her head. "Actually, it was his idea. Apparently my outfit required a beret, I don't even know how his mind works sometimes. I'm only friends with him out of the goodness of my heart, you know how it is."
"I think it looks great," Brendon says, but he's not really looking at her beret, and Z thinks it's possible he actually wants to say "You look great," but is chickening out a little. That's okay, Z can be brave. It's a lot easier to return a compliment than to acknowledge it might be true.
"You look good," she says, reaching out to smooth a hand over his shoulder. He does, he's wearing a thin blue t-shirt and jeans, and Z's just a little smitten; she can admit it to herself if not out loud.
Brendon shrugs, going a little red, clearly just as uncomfortable with compliments as she is. "So, sushi? Prepare to be dazzled with my chopstick skills, Z Berg, I promise they are something to be seen."
She laughs. "Only if you promise to admire mine in return." She's not exaggerating her prowess; when the new sushi restaurant opened downtown, she and Ryan challenged each other to master the art of eating with Japanese chopsticks and Z had totally won (perhaps through rather intent study of a few Youtube tutorials, but she's not telling).
Unfortunately, it appears both her and Brendon bragged too soon. Z can't seem to make them work right to save her life, and the second time Brendon drops his chopsticks, he somehow also knocks over his plate of soy mixed with wasabi and ends up with an extremely awkward stain on his thigh. He starts snickering almost immediately, and Z laughs so hard she snorts rice up her nose and has to spend some quality time coughing into a napkin.
"We're so suave," she says when she finally feels like she can talk again. God, her makeup has to be smeared all to hell.
"The suavest," Brendon agrees, and dabs ineffectually at his crotch.
"Want me to help you with that?" she says innocently, and cracks up again when he blushes.
"Evil, Z Berg," he says, leaning over the table to poke her in the nose. "Evil and fiendish."
She leans in to meet him and kisses him quickly, mostly because she can't help it but a little bit because she wants to make sure he knows she doesn't mean the teasing.
"Let's try this again," Brendon says, sitting back down.
Z nods. "Want to order a new plate?"
"You mean have I been traumatized enough by this one?" Brendon eyes the plate on the table, then picks up a piece with his fingers, popping it in his mouth. "Nah, I'll live. It's eat-or-be-eaten, apparently."
"Yes," Z agrees. "The squid slices might rise up and eat your face if you don't finish them off first."
-
"You," a voice says, soft and very close to Ryan's ear, "are quite creepy, you know that?"
Ryan whips his head around, startled, and then he's face-to-face with Tennessee Thomas.
"Uh," Ryan says, pulling back a little. Any closer, and they'd be kissing, but Tennessee doesn't seem concerned.
"Shut up," Ryan says lamely, after a moment. "So are you. Don't tell me you're here by accident."
"Of course not," Tennessee says, scoffing, and sitting down across from him with her coffee mug. The bookstore doesn't believe in non-recyclable packaging; the coffee bar in the back serves their drinks in scavenged mugs, and Tennessee's is bright green and has an ugly kitten on it.
"We're here for the exact same reason as you are. Obviously. How's the stalking business tonight?"
"Boring," Ryan says, shrugging a little and placing a receipt in his book to mark the spot. Z and Brendon are silhouetted against the darkened interior of the restaurant; the windows are tinted, but it's easy enough to see them. Ryan would bet a lot of money Z sat there on purpose, so he could see them from the bookstore, which is either very sweet or deeply weird. "I think Brendon dropped something. They stood up at one point and kind of waved their hands around and then Z started dabbing at him with a napkin."
"What, did Brendon spontaneously orgasm again? I hate it when that happens," Spencer says dryly, coming up behind Ryan's shoulder. Ryan startles again. What is it with these two and sneaking up on people?
"You hate it when that happens," Tennessee says, sipping her drink and staring out across the street into the sushi place. "Does that happen to you a lot?"
"Only around you," Spencer mumbles, blushing. Ryan snorts, and then takes a sip of his coffee to cover up the undignified noise he just made.
"Or Ryan," Tennessee murmurs into her coffee, almost too quiet to hear.
Ryan chokes on his coffee.
"Ignore her," Spencer says, pulling up a chair and leaning in, patting Ryan on the back as he coughs and sputters. "She's a terrible flirt. I'm sorry."
"It's fine," Ryan manages to gasp out, once his throat is clear. He coughs again, and then looks up at both of them. "It's fine," Ryan says, deciding that the casual approach is always better, even if it's a little harder to pull off when one has nearly choked to death. "Z's my best friend, remember? Sex jokes are fine. You just-surprised me."
"We're friends now," Tennessee says seriously, tilting her head a little to watch as Brendon and Z lean in towards each other. "I've decided. It's communal stalking and sex jokes from here on out."
"Good to know," Ryan says dryly. "Thanks for the warning."
"You're welcome," Tennessee says solemnly.
-
"So what do you want to do now?" Z says, shrugging her coat on as she stands up.
"I actually have to get home," Brendon says, looking slightly embarrassed. "It's-it's really dumb. My aunt has her bridge club coming over tomorrow, and I said I would help clean the house this week, and I sort of. Haven't. There was some other stuff going on?" He peers at Z and she has to look down, hiding her smile. "So anyway, I have about four hours of chores to catch up on before tomorrow morning."
"Too bad," Z says mildly, tucking her hand in his as they walk out the front door. "We'll have to disappoint our stalking club, then."
"Stalking club?" Brendon says, and Z grins, pointing across the busy street. Ryan and Spencer and Tennessee are silhouetted in the window, entirely ignoring her and Brendon. Spencer's waving his arms around a bit, Ryan's nodding seriously and Tennessee is shaking her head. "Why am I not surprised," Brendon says, grinning ruefully. "Although it looks like they've found something to focus on other than us, doesn't it?"
"Apparently," Z says, going up on her tip-toes to try and get a closer look. "Are they arguing? I hope everything's okay."
"I will bet you a lot of money that Spencer just found an ally in Ryan for his opinions about the musical genius of Moulin Rouge," Brendon says. "It's an ongoing battle. Tennessee thinks it's all hackneyed crap and doesn't see the point. They were talking about it at lunch today."
"Ryan loves Moulin Rouge," Z says. "Like. I'm pretty sure he knows all the words."
"So does Spencer," Brendon says.
"Suddenly the world seems such a perfect place," Z murmurs, because she's seen it enough times with Ryan to know all the words. It's not her favorite, but she can appreciate the glitz and the glamor and the tragedy. Hackneyed crap is definitely a little bit harsh.
"Suddenly it moves with such a perfect grace," Brendon says, grinning. Z blinks in surprise. She would not have pegged Brendon for a Moulin Rouge fan, except-well, actually. Maybe that makes a lot of sense. "Anyway. I was going to say, I need to go home tonight, but are you, uh. Are you busy tomorrow? I was thinking maybe we could work on some music or something. If you're up for it," Brendon says, looking away and blushing. "I know we're not quite on the same level, but I-"
"Oh my god, stop that," Z says, rolling her eyes. "I've seen you play, Brendon. You're good. You're way better than me at acoustic stuff. None of this fake modesty."
"It's not fake modesty, it's 100% real insecurity," Brendon cracks, but Z knows he's being serious.
"You're allowed to come over tomorrow only if you agree to stop putting yourself down," Z says firmly, pulling her keys out to unlock her car. "I wouldn't be saying yes if I didn't think you were awesome. I don't let just anyone hear my terrible, barely-formed demos," Z says, smiling to blunt the words.
"It's a deal," Brendon says. "Tomorrow it is."
-
Brendon shows up with a sheaf of music, a guitar, and a notebook that she's not allowed to look through because, he says, "Your lyrics are too good, I'd be embarrassed." He doesn't say it like he minds or like he wants her to cajole him into showing them to her with heaps of flattery or something; he says it like he's honestly happy that she's decent at the writing thing and ugh, Z is so smitten.
They opt for the living room because of the piano; Z was thinking her room (no ulterior motives! really), but when Brendon sees the piano, his eyes go a little soft.
"My aunt doesn't have one," he murmurs, and Z doesn't ask why he's living with his aunt. Instead, she walks over to the couch and picks up the acoustic she left in the living room last night, and motions him over to sit down. She strums a few chords, but she's having trouble looking away from him and actually focusing on the music.
"Your posture is all weird," she blurts, looking up at Brendon, and then wants to hide, because seriously, what?
His eyebrows go up. "What do you mean?"
"You just," she bites her lip. "Your back is so straight, it's not the way you usually sit."
He laughs a little self-deprecatingly. "Blame Mrs. Edelman, my piano teacher. She was a former concert pianist. She used to tell me I shouldn't even try to follow in her footsteps because that was the road to perfectionism and self-flagellation and no one wants that life, let alone a nice boy like me, but that I should keep playing. And playing. And she sat like a-I don't know, something really straight."
"Uh, a ruler?"
Brendon goes a bit red. "Right, yeah, a ruler."
Z grins at him. "I hear they're straight, rulers."
"It's a lie," Brendon says. "It's a lie so they can be all, uh, bent in secret."
"I won't ask if you don't tell," Z promises solemnly.
Brendon leans down awkwardly and kisses her on the lips, so lightly she can hardly feel it.
"No, come here," she says, and she is not breathless, she's totally not, and grabs his shirt and pulls.
This does not go spectacularly well.
"Ow," says Brendon plaintively once they've sorted themselves out.
"Where does it hurt?" Z says, and Brendon licks his lower lip.
"Here," he says, indicating his shoulder. His eyes are dark. Z doesn't think it's because of the pain.
She leans over and touches her mouth to his shoulder. He's warm through his t-shirt.
"Where else?" she says, and her voice has gone low and a tiny bit scratchy. For a second, she wishes she could figure out how to imitate that and finally sing "Fever" the way it deserves to be sung, but she forgets about it pretty fast, because Brendon is so close to her now. Maybe she should have worn something with sleeves; all that warmth near the bare skin on her arms feels like the worst kind of tease.
Brendon's blushing. Z ruthlessly clamps down on the part of her that thinks it's adorable.
"Here," he says, and touches his mouth.
She leans in and kisses him, really kisses him, and she shivers when his hands slide up her back, repaying in kind and upping the ante by slipping her fingers underneath the hem of his shirt. She wants, oh, she wants so much.
They roll over again, and it's totally uncomfortable but Z doesn't care much, because Brendon is slowly and carefully mimicking her, one hand coming down and up to flatten against her lower back. She does care when her dad comes home and calls from other end of the house, and they spring apart guiltily. Her dad doesn't come into the living room though, and Z takes a deep breath and doesn't look at Brendon.
"Want to go upstairs? I, um, there's no piano, but we could, I have guitars? Another guitar. And I think Laena left her acoustic here."
"Guitars," Brendon says, and he's still staring at her mouth. Z bites her lip and his ears go a little red (god help her, it is totally adorable). He shakes his head. "Upstairs, right."
Once they're in her room things go all awkward again. Brendon's standing over by the door while she sits on the bed and tries to figure out a way to say, "Hey, get over here," without actually saying that. She's never been with anyone who didn't start out by taking the initiative, and now she's wondering how they dared, because this is hard. Finally she just holds out her hand a little plaintively, and Brendon breathes in sharply and comes over to her, sliding his hand onto hers and twining their fingers together.
She looks up at him through her eyelashes. "Kiss me again," she says, sort of decisively, or trying for it anyway, and Brendon bends down and does as he's told. Fuck, but it's good, his mouth is so soft and hesitant and he follows her lead so well it makes her shiver. Pulling on his hand gets her a Brendon on her lap, which should be more backwards than it is; it's just good, because she can hug him close and he's tiny enough that it works and-
"Shit," he says against her mouth, "shit, this is-"
"What?" she whispers.
He shakes his head and nudges his nose along her jaw, mouthing at the skin of her neck. Z shudders and puts a hand on his neck, trying to hint without telling him that it'd be really nice if he kept doing that. Even if Ryan will give her shit about hickeys, whatever, she can totally wear a scarf. Brendon obliges, and Z knows her breathing's going all raggedy. She's wet, she thinks, and she tries to remember the last time she wanted someone this much before they'd even taken their clothes off.
Suddenly, Brendon makes a noise against her skin and Z realises that her hands have slipped down to curve around his hips, fingers touching where his shirt is riding up.
"Can I take your shirt off?" she says breathlessly, surprising herself.
Brendon pulls away and meets her eyes. Fuck, his lips are all red; Z touches them without even thinking, and feels a tug of arousal when Brendon kisses at her fingers.
"Yeah," Brendon says then, and she blinks before realizing what he means. It takes both of them to get the t-shirt off and Z is giggling, but she stops when it hits the floor and there's all that skin in front of her, shit.
"You too," he says against her mouth, and she grins. She's insecure about a great many things but the bra she is wearing, it's a good one.
They pull her tank top off, fingers tangling together, and it's, oh, his eyes go even darker when he sees her, but he doesn't touch, he just looks.
"Come on," she says breathlessly, and takes one of his hands, putting it on her breast. His mouth opens but he still doesn't say anything, he just traces the edge of her bra and holy shit, Z can't breathe. "Brendon," she says, "Brendon, come on," and gets a hand into his hair to kiss him again. His hands are so careful on her skin, it's almost like he's afraid to touch her, which doesn't make any sense, because fuck, his hands. She never wants him to stop touching her.
She's also having trouble doing anything but touching him; her hands keep traveling the length of his back, cupping his shoulders, sliding down his arms and back again and up into his hair. Brendon arches into her fingers and it's hard to even think when he does that, because he just, the way he moves.
"You, you're-" she says against his mouth and he shakes his head.
"You," he says, "fuck, Z." She squeezes at his hips and pulls him down against her. They both moan at that; Z briefly considers stopping and getting more naked because she wants, okay, she wants, but she can't even, she can't let go.
Brendon's phone rings. Z expects him to ignore it, but he squirms around (which, fuck, unfair, and she tells him so) and digs it out of his pocket.
"Fuck, it's my reminder alarm," he says, sounding like the end of the world is nigh. She digs her nails in a little and his eyelids flutter shut.
"Is it important?" she says, and she should sound more arch, she thinks, more arch and inviting or something that would make her more convincing and make him more likely to stay, but all she sounds is a little desperate.
"I have work," he says, and fuck. Fuck her life, seriously.
"Okay." She kisses him one more time and manages to let go of him. He groans and kisses her again and doesn't actually move. "I'm not actually going to push you off," she says. "You have to go to work, but, but I can't make you."
He shakes his head. "God, I don't want to go," he says, his hands moving up to touch her face and tilt her chin up. "I don't want, leaving is the last thing I want."
"You and me both," she manages, and hides her face in his shoulder when she blushes. She never blushes, what is this?
"Okay," he says, touching at her hair. "Okay, like. I have to go, but." He breathes out shakily.
Z bites down on the "Call me?" that wants to come out. She's not sure whether she wants him to call because she just wants or if, well. No, she totally knows. "You should go so you're not late. Do, do you want me to drive you? I have to go to rehearsal anyway," she says, realizing how much time has actually passed when she sees her clock purse on the floor.
He kisses her again on the stairs and she pushes him up against the door in the garage and sucks a mark into his neck because, well. She traces it with a fingernail and shivers a little at how dark his eyes go.
For the record, she's never driven this badly in her life, missing two stop signs and running a red light because she forgets to look at the road every two minutes with Brendon in her car, but she gets them both there in one piece.
-
"What?" Z says, because Annie and Laena are staring at her and she doesn't know what's going on. Laena's mouth is twitching a little. Z's not sure why they all stopped in the middle of the song. She thought it had been going well that time.
"Z-" Annie starts.
Laena grins. "Z, is there something you want to tell us?"
"No?" Z says, wincing at how much it sounds like a question. It's pretty hard to focus today, she's, uh. A little distracted. Earlier, they had to start "Fair Game" over three times in a row.
"Z, you sang 'don't even try to run away/why would you want to'".
Ooops. "Just trying something out?" she says, trying for flippant. "I don't think it works."
"Uh, no," Laena says, and really, Z is very glad that Laena got over whatever it was that had her so hesitant about offering up opinions before, but right now she wouldn't mind the old Laena, just so she could maintain control over the rehearsal.
"Maybe we should take five," Annie says, and yes, that's a good plan. Five minutes should help make her more focused. Except then she sits down and it's kind of like she can still feel the phantom weight of Brendon in her lap, and fuck. Fuck. She leans her forehead against her knees and closes her eyes for a second.
Her phone beeps. The message is from Brendon. im dying, it says. Z chokes out a laugh, she can't help it.
Right on the heels of that one comes a second message: cant beleive i sent that. Fuck her life, she's not even annoyed at his terrible spelling or even his lack of capital letters. Me too, with the dying, she sends back, and smiles at her phone.
-
It doesn't seem like Z even cares that she has a phone today, Ryan thinks. He's been texting Z because he can't remember how to solve this damn trigonometry problem and he knows she takes better notes than he does, but this is just hopeless.
Ryan's not actually annoyed because Z's not answering his texts. Sometimes that happens; he knows she's theoretically at band practice, and she normally never touches her phone when she's rehearsing. But, like, band practice started an hour ago, and she hasn't picked up or texted all morning, and. He knows she planned on spending that time with Brendon. Who apparently warranted enough attention that she hasn't been answering his texts.
Ryan sighs, snapping his phone shut again for the eight time and setting it down on the fake-wood table. The Green Cauldron is always packed on Saturday afternoons; if he were smart, he would have gone to the library to study, but the wrestling team tends to hang out in the school parking lot on the weekends. Also, he's tired of being yelled at for sneaking in food and coffee in his backpack. Some people seem to think that studying can be accomplished without espresso and apples, but Ryan's never been able to get anything done like that.
Not that he's being all that productive now. He pushes the papers around on the tiny circular table he'd managed to grab and sighs. He hasn't even looked at his English assignments yet, and after he gets done with this stupid practice test he has to write a three-page essay on the Napoleonic Wars for AP European History. It feels like there's no end to it all.
He would just say fuck it, but he knows a scholarship is his only way out of this hellhole.
He drains the last of his second shot of espresso, setting it down firmly. He tells himself it doesn't matter that Z is disgustingly adorable with her new boyfriend. It doesn't matter that this is how it's going to be from now on. Ryan is truly, honestly thrilled for them, in that place deep down in his heart where he feels actual emotions. Z and Brendon together are like this weird tsunami of adorable; they can't seem to stop grinning at each other, and the force of it tends to rub off on people like Ryan when he's spending time with them.
But they're not here right now, so it doesn't matter. Ryan isn't being accidentally stockholmed into being happy, so he has time to remember how he's fucking lonely and he still hates this town and he's never, ever going to get as lucky as Z and Brendon. He's not kidding himself that they're going to last forever, but it still seems like it would be really fucking nice to have someone.
"Napoleon getting you down?" a voice says, very close to his ear. Ryan jumps, whipping his head around to see Spencer Smith leaning over him, holding a large coffee. "That guy was a bastard," Spencer says, grinning slightly at him. "He's making everyone's life miserable this weekend."
"Right," Ryan says, faintly. "Um. What?"
"Tennessee's in the other section of AP Euro History," Spencer says, his smiling turning rueful. "She's slogging away at it as we speak, and I'm stuck here buying coffee and trying to entertain myself."
"Sucks to be her," Ryan says, without thinking. He pauses. "And me," he adds, after a moment. Spencer's still standing over him, and Ryan has to crane his neck slightly to keep him in view. He's dressed down, even more so than he usually is; messy hair, an old hoodie, worn jeans and sneakers. Ryan swallows, and tries not to think about all the ways Spencer could have gotten so rumpled. He's been enforcing a strict policy of not even thinking about Spencer and Tenn that way, because there's being a glutton for punishment and then there's actually driving yourself insane.
Spencer nods sympathetically. "I should probably let you get back to work," Spencer says, looking down at his shoes. There's a rip in the toe of his left Converse. "I just wanted to say hi, I guess."
"Hi," Ryan says, smiling before he can talk himself out of it.
"Hi," Spencer says, grinning back.
The moment stretches out. Ryan's stomach is stupid and messy. Everything about this is messy.
Damn, Spencer has really adorable freckles.
"Fuck it," Ryan says, shaking his head and looking back and forth between Spencer and the table full of homework he should be doing. Not a big deal, he tells himself. This is what friends do. Or people who want to be friends. They hang out. Ryan doesn't think about how he hasn't made new friends in approximately forever.
"Let's go," Ryan says, standing up and starting to shove his papers in his backpack. "You're bored. I'm sick of staring at this practice test. It's too nice outside for this bullshit."
Spencer blinks at him in surprise, a pleased, happy expression stealing onto his face. "You want to hang out?" Spencer says, carefully, like he's checking to make sure he heard Ryan correctly. "With me?"
"Yeah," Ryan says resolutely, but has no idea what to suggest. "We'll go do...something."
"Hell yeah," Spencer says. "That would be awesome."
"Cool," Ryan says mildly, shrugging his backpack up on to his shoulder. His stomach is more of a mess than ever, but he's determined not to let Spencer know. "Let's go, then."
-
"Oh, hey," Ryan says, when they're walking past the music shop. "Hold up. I need to duck in here for a second."
Spencer shrugs. "No problem," he says. "Tenn broke one of my sticks a few days ago when she was practicing a fill. I need some new ones."
"Right," Ryan says, nodding. Then he stops, pulling Spencer back from the entranceway with a hand on his arm and tugging him over to the side. "Wait," Ryan says. "Wait, what?"
"Tenn broke one of my sticks," Spencer says slowly. "I need new ones. I figured I'd come in with you instead of standing out here and enjoying the ambiance."
"You drum," Ryan says flatly. "You and-and Tennessee. You're both drummers."
"...is that a problem?" Spencer says, looking mildly concerned. "Are you anti-drummer or something?"
"Z needs a drummer," Ryan says, tightening his hand on Spencer's arm. Spencer's hoodie is soft and worn underneath his fingers. "They need a drummer so bad, you don't even know-wait, yes you do, you heard them at the show, why didn't you-both of you-seriously-"
"Wouldn't that have been kind of weird?" Spencer says, looking down at his feet. "We didn't even know you guys yet. Or, well, we knew who you were but-" Spencer snaps his mouth shut. Ryan frowns.
"What?" Ryan says.
"Nothing," Spencer says, after a moment. "Anyway. It would have been super weird. And you guys would have just brushed us off anyway." He tilts his head as if to say wouldn't you have?
"Well," Ryan says, stepping back and letting go of his death-grip on Spencer's arm. "Yeah. Probably."
"See?" Spencer says, giving him a rueful smile.
"But that doesn't matter," Ryan says earnestly. "Look, it's cool, we're friends now. Or something. And you guys would-Tennessee would be perfect for them, or even you, if you didn't mind being in a band with all girls-"
"Of course I wouldn't mind, but you've never even heard us play," Spencer says, shaking his head a little in amazement. "And the thing with Tennessee-it's. Kind of complicated. I don't know if she wants to be in a band."
"So uncomplicate it," Ryan says firmly.
"Yeah, no," Spencer says, his voice a little flat. "I'm not actually a magician. I can't just snap my fingers and fix everything."
"Try," Ryan says, holding Spencer's gaze.
Spencer looks away, staring over Ryan's shoulder at the busy street. He's biting his lip a little. "I could-I could talk to her about it, I guess," Spencer says eventually. "She's better than I am, anyway. Z would want her before she'd want me. But I'm not promising anything."
"That's okay," Ryan says. "As soon as we're done here, we go back to wherever the hell your kit is, and you promise to play for me."
"I can do that," Spencer says, after a minute. He looks a little bit like a deer in headlights, but he squares his shoulders and nods at Ryan. "I suppose it's a fair trade for not telling you guys. Promise you won't laugh when I suck."
"You haven't heard me play guitar," Ryan mutters, finally standing aside so Spencer can pass by him to get into the shop. Spencer pauses in the doorway and gives Ryan a weird look, but then he shakes himself, letting the subject drop. Ryan is grateful. He didn't mean to say that out loud in the first place, especially not to someone who hangs out with Brendon-the-musical-genius all the time; Spencer's not going to be impressed by Ryan's erstwhile fumblings.
-
George Ryan Ross, Ryan thinks to himself. George Ryan Ross, you are a big fucking idiot, what were you thinking.
Spencer's kit is in a small room off his parent's basement; it's barely big enough for Spencer and his drums and Ryan, who is currently sitting on a folding chair that Spencer grabbed on their way down. The room has dark wood paneling, with a single rectangular window set up high in the top of the wall. The late-afternoon light illuminates an ever-present swirl of dust motes, falling on Spencer's kit and then bouncing up again as he plays.
And, and. Fuck.
Spencer can play.
Ryan can feel the air move every time Spencer plays something particularly complicated, the slight breeze from the cymbals. Spencer plays fast, with his whole body, and Ryan is way too close and the drums are ringing in his ears, perfect and overwhelming. Spencer is sweating, entirely focused, but looking up every once in a while to grin at Ryan, to send him a look that says yeah? what do you think? yeah?
Ryan's throat is dry. Somewhere in the back of his head, Ryan is utterly certain that Spencer has no idea just how good he is. He's phenomenal. He's missed a beat twice, just twice, in-actually, Ryan's not sure how long he's been playing. If Tennessee is even better than he is-actually, Ryan can't think about that too much, or his breathing starts to go all funny.
His breathing's kind of going funny anyway. Spencer is really, really fucking hot when he plays the drums. Ryan figures that as soon as he steps out of this room he can go back to lying to himself, but here and now it's such an obvious fact that there's no point in denying that Ryan wants Spencer in a very physical and totally inappropriate way. Ryan wants him in a way that is never going to happen, because Spencer will be off having hot sex with his hot-ass girlfriend who also plays the drums and-shit.
Ryan just needs to stop thinking.
Part Two | Part Four