Fic: Hold With Those Who Favour Fire (Brendon/Spencer) (1/2)
Title:Hold With Those Who Favour Fire (1/2)
Pairing: Brendon/Spencer
Rating: PG13? I never know. (Language, mentions of sex, minor violence?)
Disclaimer: 100% untrue
Wordcount: A little over 13k
Warnings: Wingfic! Supernatural…stuff.
Summary: Somehow, “Oh hey, you know how I told you I’m a quarter Irish and a quarter German? Well I forgot to mention that the other half is Demon,” is a little hard to voice.
A/N: This all came about after I saw that HCT Panic at the Prom pic and Spencer’s eyes are all glowy, and of course, logically, I think he’s posessed or a demon or something. Thanks to the wonderful mintyfiend for beta and handholding, as always. All mistakes are mine. Concrit more than welcome! And the title belongs to Robert Frost.
For as long as Spencer can remember it’s crawled along just beneath his skin, a constant reminder that he’s different, that he’s not normal. Over the years he’s learned to push it away, hold it down as much as he can, has learned to keep it bottled up most of the time. The only person he ever asks about it is his mom, and she tells him what she can, told him about how the man he calls Dad, the man who musses his hair and plays airplane with his much younger siblings, only came into Spencer’s life when he was two.
She tells him what she can remember of the dark stranger who’d seduced her and then revealed his true nature, leaving her alone and pregnant. Spencer is torn between hoping his father never comes looking for him, and wishing he could answer all the questions Spencer has, could tell him how to hide it, control it, although he suspects his father wouldn’t want him to.
That his mom knows is a comfort, gives him one less person to hide from. But she can’t understand how it feels, to have this thing inside that is both unwelcome and yet a part of the essence that makes Spencer who he is. She can’t tell him how to control it, and so he’s forced to learn on his own, hiding out in his room and then, as he grows older and the powers grow stronger, the feelings more intense, as far away from the people he loves as he can manage.
Spencer sometimes wishes he could tell Ryan, but he’s never sure how to bring it up. They’ve been friends for so long that Ryan is as familiar to Spencer as the thing inside him is, and yet whenever he looks across at Ryan sitting cross-legged on the end of Spencer’s bed, laughing at something on TV, he can’t quite find the words. Somehow, “Oh hey, you know how I told you I’m a quarter Irish and a quarter German? Well I forgot to mention that the other half is Demon,” is a little hard to voice.
Spencer thinks he knows Ryan better than anyone else, but he’s unsure how Ryan would react, whether he would freak out. At the very least, he’ll ask to see proof, and while Spencer’s spent hours staring at his hand as the fire burns against his unblemished palm, it’s something secret that he’s not sure he even wants to share with his best friend. Not yet.
He lacks Ryan’s way with words too, and would never be able to properly explain the fire that burns through his veins, the irrational rage that hits him more and more as he gets older, the hatred that spreads heat through his stomach and through his lungs.
“Am I evil?” he’d asked his mother once, when he was very young, and she’d laughed and shaken her head, pushing back his hair to press a gentle kiss on either side of his forehead.
“No,” she’d said. “You’re human. You are what you make yourself, sweetie.”
It hadn’t been much, but it was enough to help Spencer sleep at night.
They grow older. Spencer learns to bundle the demon parts into a box in his mind, learns to ignore the feelings, learns to keep his emotions in check- both anger and joy, because either end of the spectrum makes his skin buzz as if it’s clawing its way out.
He starts playing the drums, and it helps, having something to channel his emotions into. They form a band. They meet Brendon who makes the room light up, makes Spencer smile despite himself, makes Ryan laugh that rare laugh he keeps to himself most of the time. Spencer would be happy like this forever- he doesn’t want much out of life, not really, just peace and quiet and control- but Ryan is ambitious and Pete Wentz turns out to be the kind of guy who gives four kids from Vegas a chance.
They record an album. They go on tour. They become something and Spencer is happier than he’s ever been. He doesn’t quite know why, but the demon parts stop twisting inside him, stop filling up his brain with thoughts he doesn’t want to have, stop trying to take over, and sometimes Spencer’s almost able to pretend he’s a normal kid, thrown into an extraordinary situation.
And then Ryan hands Spencer a phone.
Spencer stares at it for a long time before dialling Brent’s number, Brendon and Ryan watching him with mixed expressions of anger and worry and nervousness.
Spencer turns his back on them. By the time he’s done, cutting off Brent’s excuses in a calm, even voice, he can feel it building inside him, making his hands curl into fists. He recognises the feeling, the oncoming storm within him, and he knows he’s going to lose control.
He hangs up, turns back to Ryan and Brendon. Neither of them say anything, not even when Spencer pulls back his arm and throws the phone at the wall above their heads, feeling a surge of satisfaction at the destruction as the pieces fly everywhere, at the fear on his friends’ faces.
Spencer leaves, gets in his car and drives and drives and drives until he’s out in the middle of the desert. He abandons the car at the side of the highway and kicks off his shoes, walking out across the burning sand. He welcomes the heat outside his body, as well as in, and knows he’s leaving scorched footprints in his wake.
It starts with his hands, flames licking against his palms hotter and hotter until the air around Spencer is stifling. It’s hard to breathe and Spencer falls to his knees and cries out. It makes his eyes burn, glowing in the late afternoon sunlight, and Spencer throws his head back, welcoming the fire back into his veins, welcoming the anger back into his heart. It would be so easy, he knows, to give in, to let it take over, to embrace it and let it become him.
And he’s tempted, until the muscles in his back begin to shift, skin stretching tight. The thought of the leathery black wings springing forth from between his shoulder blades is enough to make Spencer stop, to make him breathe again, close his eyes and push the demon down until the flames across his skin flicker and die and his eyes turn from red to blue again.
Spencer can still feel the familiar tingle under his skin when he finally gets to his feet and walks back to the car. He sits behind the wheel, staring at himself in the rear-view mirror until the horns that had started to sprout from his temples recede and he looks like nothing more than a tired version his normal self again.
By the time he gets back to the others, hours have passed. Ryan doesn’t say a word, doesn’t meet Spencer’s eyes. Brendon presses close, asking where Spencer had gone, why he’d been so long, if he was okay, if he was mad. He moves to place a hand on Spencer’s back, and even though he knows it’s not possible, Spencer thinks that maybe Brendon will feel the wings that had almost worked their way out of his back. He shies away, earning a hurt look from Brendon.
Spencer is terrified, suddenly, of how much potential was inside him, potential for hurt and destruction and danger. At how easy it was for him to lose that grasp on control, at how close he’d come to giving in.
“Spencer,” Brendon says, reaching out and touching Spencer’s wrist. It’s like a jolt of electricity, pushing away the last traces of demon that have been curling uncomfortably around Spencer’s heart. Brendon’s face is open and worried and Spencer has been pushing aside feelings for so long that he had been scared he’d learned to push these sorts of feelings away too, but he obviously hadn’t.
“You should tell him how you feel,” Ryan had said, when Spencer’s feelings had become obvious enough that Ryan noticed.
Spencer had shaken his head. “No. I can’t. It’s…we don’t belong together. It’s not right.”
Ryan had pressed him to explain, but Spencer couldn’t explain, couldn’t put his finger on why it felt wrong, felt forbidden, just knew that it did.
Here and now, though, that’s easy to forget, with his heart pounding in his chest and the feel of Brendon’s fingers on his skin. Spencer knows he can’t, knows he shouldn’t, but it reminds him how human he is, that he can feel this way.
He knows he never wants to hurt Brendon, never wants to frighten him the way Spencer frightens himself sometimes, like he’d frightened himself today, and so, as Brendon slips his hand into Spencer’s and squeezes briefly before letting go and moving away, Spencer carefully packs his demon-self away even tighter in his mind, and makes himself a promise to be more careful in future.
~~~
Spencer keeps his promise for a long time. Long enough that they welcome Jon into the band and tour again and again and again and Spencer gets his own place with the money he’s made. Long enough that he can almost forget what it had felt like to feel himself slip away and be replaced by a darker version. Long enough that he slowly realises there’s something about Brendon, something about how he makes Spencer feel. The negative feelings he’s been fighting forever on a daily basis seem to melt away when Brendon’s around, leaving Spencer feeling more like himself than he’s ever felt around anyone else.
So it’s perhaps not a huge surprise, when he thinks about it later, that it’s Brendon who finally makes him break, makes him surrender to the power within more than he’s ever done before.
They’re back in Vegas, enjoying being back at home and writing and recording again. They’re frequenting the sort of club that wouldn’t have let them in two years ago, but usher them into the VIP section now, and Ryan and Jon are engaged in a lighthearted argument about musical influences that appears to be currently entitled ‘Revolver vs. Wild Honey’.
Spencer is trying to unwind after a long day in the studio and enjoy the night, but his gaze keeps being drawn to Brendon, who’s flitting around the room, dancing on the dance floor, hanging by the bar, letting pretty young things whip out their sidekicks and take pictures with him. It’s amusing watching Brendon sometimes, the way he’s so eager to please, wants to keep everyone happy, even though the fans sometimes try and take more than even Brendon can give.
As Spencer watches, a guy who’s been talking to Brendon on and off all night crowds close and bends to whisper something in Brendon’s ear, slipping a bottle of beer into his hand. Brendon laughs, and takes the beer, clinking it against the one in the guy’s hand. He’s a big dude, maybe twice the size of Brendon, and there’s something about him that leaves a bitter, metallic taste at the back of Spencer’s throat, something that clouds his mind a little with shadows and makes his stomach turn. Before he even knows what he’s doing, Spencer is out of his seat and making his way down the stairs so he can cross the packed dance floor.
He catches brief glimpses of Brendon as the crowd shifts, clearing and then blocking his view again and again- Brendon finishing his drink; the guy saying something in Brendon’s ear; the guy taking Brendon’s hand and leading him off the floor- and then he’s lost them.
To his right are the bathrooms, to his left an exit door. Spencer stops, unsure of which way to go, and then something in his mind screams ‘LEFT’ and so he pushes down on the handle and tumbles out into the night and into the dark alley behind the club. There’s noise, movement, distant voices further down so Spencer heads towards the sound at a slow jog, and when he turns the corner he sees them- Brendon pressed up against the wall, the guy bracketing Brendon’s body with his arms.
Spencer hesitates, unsure for a moment whether this is something Brendon does a lot, if this is something he wants to see. He can just make out their voices over the distant thump-thump-thump of the music from the club.
“Um, no, wait,” Brendon says in a shaky voice. “I don’t want-“
“Shh,” the guy says, “You know you want this. You know you want me to fuck you. It’ll be so sweet.”
Brendon goes very still, and looks up, eyes wide. “No,” Brendon says, pushing at the guy’s chest. “No. I really don’t want-“
The guy backhands Brendon across the mouth, the sound echoing in the alleyway.
“Shut up,” he growls, and his hands are at Brendon’s waist, fingers yanking at his belt. Brendon makes a miserable sound turning face away, and there’s something wet and shiny and crimson dripping from his lip.
Spencer doesn’t even think- he just starts running towards them. He’s shouting and he doesn’t know what, because all he can focus on is Brendon’s scared face and the guy’s smirk that quickly changes to a look of horror as Spencer gets closer. Spencer can feel the power humming along his skin, can feel the rage spilling out and making his fingertips tingle. He thrusts out a hand as he runs, and fire erupts from his palm, heading straight at the guy, who soars up into the air and hits the far wall with a sickening thud as Spencer comes to a stop next to Brendon.
There’s a singing smell in the air, and Spencer curls his finger tips towards his palm and inhales deeply, turning his back on the guy and trying to force his anger away. As he turns, he hears the taffeta rustle of his wings and he flexes his shoulders automatically, spreading them wide and tearing the fabric of his favourite shirt even more.
Brendon gasps, and Spencer hunches his shoulders self consciously. He lifts up a hand, blows on the last few flames that flicker at his fingertips to put them out, and reaches up, feeling the smooth curves and wickedly sharp points of his horns. He opens his mouth to say something- he’s not sure what- and his tongue catches against his teeth. They feel pointier than usual, and he rubs a finger along them, canines slicking into the edge of his flesh. It hurts, and he winces, sucking at the drop of blood that forms. Then he looks up and meets Brendon’s eyes.
Brendon opens his mouth, and then closes it again. There’s a breeze blowing through the alley, cooling Spencer’s overheated skin, and Brendon shivers. The look on Brendon’s face is the one Spencer has been dreading, a look that he’s sure screams fear and disgust and incomprehension.
“Brendon-” he starts, reaching out a hand and taking a step towards him.
Brendon backs away, hands clutching at the brick for a moment, and when Spencer takes another step he pushes himself away from the wall and runs, stumbling a little in his haste to get away. He doesn’t look back.
Spencer watches him go. Then he turns back and walks over to the guy, nudging a leg with the toe of his shoe. The guy groans, and when Spencer looks closer he doesn’t appear to be as badly hurt as he’d thought. A spark of disappointment flares inside Spencer- he wants the guy to pay for touching Brendon like that, for hurting him, for scaring him.
He deserves worse, deserves to be punished, and the anger is back, dancing through his veins. His palms ignite again, and it would be so tempting, so easy to send the guy straight to Hell like he deserves. Spencer lifts a hand. And stops.
He forces himself to turn and walk away, breathing deeply in an attempt at calm. Pain tears down his spine as his wings refold and slide uncomfortably back beneath the surface. A vice clamps around his head, squeezing. It’s agony, but when Spencer’s hands fly up to hold his head, the horns are gone and when he runs his tongue across his teeth they’re back to normal. It’s the most painful reverting he’s ever experienced, but he’s never quite turned as much as he’d just done.
The rage is a dull buzz in the back of his mind now, and so he walks over to the guy, who is still breathing in little shallow gasps. Spencer reaches into the guy’s pocket carefully and extracts a phone. He dials for an ambulance, disguising his voice as best he can, and telling them the address. Then he throws the phone on the floor. He glances at his hand and thinks of fire, of destruction, lips curving into a smile despite himself when a small fireball forms. He throws it at the phone and watches it burn and melt.
Then, when he can hear the sirens getting closer, he slips out of the alley and heads for home.
He’s pretty successful at not thinking of Brendon, not replaying the whole thing over in his mind, freeze-framing on Brendon’s look of surprise and horror when he’d seen what Spencer really was, until he gets home and finds Brendon sitting on his front porch.
The freak out he’d been having- how consumed he’d been, how close he’d been to losing all control like he’d never done before, how close he’d been to crossing a line he could never have returned from, how much he’d liked it - seems insignificant now. Brendon is huddled on the front stoop, hoodie drawn up over his head, hands thrust in pockets. He looks up as Spencer approaches. Spencer pulls out his keys, walking past Brendon to the front door, then he turns around.
Brendon has twisted around to look up at him but neither of them say anything for a long moment. Spencer is waiting for Brendon to scream, to cry, to demand answers, but Brendon just looks at him, looking at his face as if searching for something.
Spencer reaches up a hand and brushes his fingers to his temple self-consciously.
“He’s not dead,” he says eventually. “The guy. He’s not dead. I called an ambulance. I couldn’t…I wouldn’t¬.”
Brendon is on his feet and in front of Spencer so fast he doesn’t have time to blink. He stares at Spencer again for a moment and then grabs his head, pushing Spencer up against the front door and pressing their lips together. It’s awkward- Spencer never wanted their first kiss, if there was ever to be one, to be like this- but he’s overwhelmed with the desire to wrap his arms around Brendon and keep him safe, to kiss him until he forgets what happened in the alley, what almost happened. To press his fingers over the bruises the guy had made around Brendon’s wrists until he erases them or replaces them with new ones.
Then Brendon leans back. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he demands, and Spencer’s not ready to answer, even though in some ways he’s been mentally preparing for this day his entire life.
So he turns around and opens the door, holding it open long enough for Brendon to slip inside. Then he walks into the kitchen and pours himself a glass of water, downing it in half a dozen hasty gulps, feeling some of it dribble out of the corners of his mouth and drip down onto the warm skin of his throat. His mouth always feels dry after he’s transformed, and so he pours himself another glass and drinks it slower.
Brendon is leaning against the doorway to the kitchen, watching Spencer with wary eyes, following his every move like a hawk.
“Thank you,” he says eventually. “I didn’t- I should have said before. Thank you.”
Spencer can’t quite meet Brendon’s eyes, so he focuses on his lips, tries not to think about how they’d felt against his own.
“Are you okay?” he asks, and Brendon hugs himself a little tighter and nods.
“I’m fine,” he says. “A little embarrassed, a little shaken, a little unsurprised that it was you who saved me.” He pauses, and Spencer lets his eyes glance up and meet Brendon’s steady gaze. “I wish I’d known about you though. I wish you’d told me sooner.”
Spencer shrugs. His shoulders still ache from the wings forcing their way out and back again in such a short space of time. Brendon notices his wince and he walks over, taking the glass carefully out of Spencer’s hand and placing it on the counter. Then he turns Spencer around with careful fingers and pushes aside the tattered remains of Spencer’s shirt, sliding his cool hands up Spencer’s back, over the bunched muscles.
Spencer sighs and relaxes, letting his shoulders slump as Brendon moves his hands.
“Here,” Brendon says, pressing his thumbs over the spot where the left wing sprouts from. “And here.”
Spencer wonders how Brendon knows those are the right spots, but then he’s pressing his fingers in, just right, and it feels glorious. The pain starts to fade, as does the remnants of his demon-self. He feels calm, relaxed, content, and he’s about to remark that Brendon must have healing hands when Brendon says, casually, “I always find this helps for me. With my wings.”
Spencer goes very still and Brendon’s hands stop working at his muscles, fingers splaying out across his skin for a moment, before Spencer draws away and turns around.
“What do you mean?” he asks carefully, narrowing his eyes. He searches Brendon’s face for any signs of a joke that’s fallen completely flat, for a sign that Brendon is messing with him.
Brendon catches at Spencer’s hand and Spencer shakes his head, the frustration that had been building ebbing away.
“Aren’t you curious why I haven’t asked what you are?” Brendon asks, sounding excited and a little breathless as he tugs at Spencer’s hand until he takes a half step closer. “Why I’m not calling the police or an exorcist or whatever? I understand, Spencer. I do. I’m like you,” he pauses and cocks his head to the side, smiling a little. “Well,” he amends, “sort of.”
He drops Spencer’s hand and steps into the middle of the room, reaching up to yank his shirt off. Spencer’s seen Brendon without his shirt more times than he can count, but he’s never allowed himself to study him before and he doesn’t get the chance now, not with his attention being caught by the finger shaped bruises on Brendon’s upper arm and hip.
Spencer wants to say something, wants to reach out and fit his fingers over them and apologise over and over. But before he can open his mouth, Brendon closes his eyes, humming softly to himself and suddenly there’s light, so bright that Spencer has to shield his eyes with his arm.
“Um, sorry about that,” Brendon says, sheepishly. “I always forget about the light.”
The brightness dims against Spencer’s eyelids and he opens them a crack, blinking away the spots in front of his eyes. It takes his eyes a moment to become readjusted and it takes him a moment to notice that there’s something different about Brendon, the way his skin is glowing, just a little, light shimmering around his outline. And behind him-
Brendon turns around, flexing his shoulders and spreading his wings. His white, downy wings.
Spencer’s mouth drops open. “You’re-“
“Yep,” Brendon nods. “You know how I told you guys that my family was religious? Uh. Well, my mom’s an angel. Literally.”
Spencer gapes and reaches out, fingertips brushing against the soft feathers for a moment before Brendon jerks away and turns around, wing smacking against Spencer’s hand.
“Sorry,” Brendon says quickly. “I just. I don't really know- is there wing touching etiquette? Should there be? I'm not sure what sort of the anatomy wings fall under- are they limbs, or something more, um. Personal?”
Spencer stares at him.
"I've never. Um. Shown anyone before. Besides, like, my family. Well. My mom."
“Your mom…” Spencer starts to say and trails off.
“Hey now,” Brendon says with a grin. “There’s a time and a place for those sort of jokes. This is not it.”
Spencer huffs out a laugh, still staring in wonder at Brendon. He wants to touch- to press his face into the downy feathers, to spread his hands across Brendon’s skin and watch it glow beneath his touch.
“What about you?” Brendon prompts.
“My father,” Spencer says. “I don’t- I don’t know him or anything. I’m not. I’m not evil,” he adds, firmly.
Brendon laughs. “Yeah, well I’m not all sweetness and light either. Curse of the human condition or something. It’s not really a case of either/or, for us. We’re just shades of grey.”
Spencer doesn’t know what to say, so he just stares at Brendon some more, until Brendon starts getting twitchy under the scrutiny.
“I think I should maybe but these away now,” he says, indicating his back, and Spencer wants to stop him, wants to admire the way Brendon’s posture changes with the wings on his back, how he holds himself, how proud he is of them. But he doesn’t say a word, just watches in fascination as Brendon closes his eyes, rolls his shoulders once, and folds his wings up.
Spencer moves without thinking about it, until he’s standing behind Brendon, so he can see. The skin on Brendon’s back shifts and moves as the wings slide smoothly, impossibly, back inside. The mirrors and craned necks that had enabled Spencer to see his own wings had never done justice to how remarkable and supernatural it was when they sprouted and then slid away like this, leaving the skin unmarked, as if they weren’t always lurking there just beneath the surface.
Brendon clears his throat and Spencer realises he’s staring. He looks away as Brendon pulls his shirt back on and turns back to face him, folding his arms across his chest. He looks thoughtful.
“I have questions,” Spencer says, before Brendon can say anything, and Brendon ducks his head a little, biting his lip.
“Me too,” he says, lifting his head and shaking it to get his hair out of his eyes. “I’m not sure I have any answers though,” he adds. “But it’s late, and we’ve got plenty of time to compare stories.”
Brendon raises his hand and walks to the front door, Spencer trailing after him. He pauses, and turns around.
“Does Ryan know?” Brendon asks, and Spencer shakes his head. He wants to explain how he doesn’t know how to put the words together, but Brendon just nods at the expression on Spencer’s face.
“I get it,” he says and opens the door, stepping out onto the porch.
“You sure you’re okay?” Spencer asks, and Brendon looks up at him and nods.
“Good night,” Brendon says, moving towards the steps, and then spins around and grabs Spencer, pulling him into a tight hug. “Thank you,” he says, mouth pressed under Spencer’s ear. And then he lets go and hurries off into the night.
It’s only when Spencer gets back inside, skin still tingling from where Brendon’s lips had brushed his neck, that he realises neither of them had mentioned the kiss.
~~~
Life goes on. Nothing really changes, at least not on the outside. Spencer and Brendon maybe hang out together more than they did before, share the occasional look, sit closer together. Ryan teases Spencer about it sometimes, and Spencer just rolls his eyes at him.
There’s nothing like that going on, no matter how much Spencer wants there to be, no matter how often he lies awake at night and clings to increasingly distant memories of the feel of Brendon’s lips on his own, the way Brendon had tasted, the way his fingertips had felt pressed against Spencer’s scalp, cool and grounding. Even if he could convince himself that maybe Brendon felt the same way, it was too much, too overwhelming to even consider trying to understand his heart the way he was learning to understand the demon side of himself.
“Let me see them,” Brendon says, one afternoon. They’re at Brendon’s place, playing video games and talking and doing pretty much what they normally do, and so Brendon’s request comes out of the blue.
Spencer goes very still, and the room is silent apart from the dying screams of his character in the game.
They’ve spent many, many hours discussing their powers, talking about their childhoods and the hardships of keeping such an integral part of yourself hidden from everyone for so long. Brendon had shown Spencer his light again, his wings, his healing touch, had explained how sometimes the desire to make everything right, to keep everyone happy backfired. What made some people happy, Brendon had explained, as if it was some new revelation he was sharing with Spencer, quite often clashed with what made other people happy.
In return, Spencer had shown Brendon how he could conjure fire in his hand, how he could make his eyes glow like burning coals, how his horns grew and his teeth changed, exercising a control over his powers he’d never been able to manage before. But up until now, he’d never let Brendon get a close look at his wings. He’s not sure why- whether it’s his own unease at the feel of them as they force their way through his flesh, or if its embarrassment, to show something so ugly to Brendon, who possesses such beautiful wings of his own.
He wants to refuse, to change the subject or maybe even to leave, but he can’t, not when Brendon is asking. Brendon who’s been so open, so eager to share, so desperate to get rid of this loneliness they’d both felt when they thought there was no one else who’d understand.
So Spencer nods, and unbuttons his shirt slowly, slipping out of it and closing his eyes. He focuses on the wings he knows are there, waiting to burst out of his back, focuses on his demon side as best he can while keeping the rage at bay.
He slumps his shoulders when it starts, biting his lip against the weird feeling of his muscles rearranging themselves, of the tips of the wings pushing through his skin. It almost feels good, like a release of something pent up and caged.
Spencer spreads his wings, and they rustle like taffeta as he stretches them wide.
“Wow,” Brendon breathes. He stares at Spencer for a long time without saying anything, long enough that Spencer has to look away, hunching in on himself defensively and starting to fold his wings away.
“No, don’t,” Brendon says, darting out a hand and brushing his fingertips against the edge of Spencer’s wing. Spencer resists the urge to shy away, to curl his wings protectively close to his body, and then shivers as Brendon slides his hand across one wing. Spencer knows they must feel like soft leather beneath Brendon’s hand, sturdy but delicate. They’re bat-like, dark and warm to the touch, and Brendon’s fingertips tracing along them makes them shake a little.
“Spencer,” Brendon says softly. “They’re beautiful.”
Spencer gives a derisive laugh, but Brendon shakes his head.
“I mean it. They’re…magnificent. Strong and yet fragile at the same time. They’re so…you.”
Spencer ducks his head, turns his body until Brendon reluctantly lets go of the tip of his wing, and bites his lip as he forces them away, ignoring the pain. He buttons his shirt up slowly, catching the worried look on Brendon’s face and giving him a reassuring smile.
“Thanks,” Spencer says. “It’s just. Weird. No one else has ever touched them before.”
Brendon’s smile slowly curls into a smirk, and Spencer rolls his eyes.
“Are we going to finish this game or not?” he asks, picking his controller up.
Brendon settles back beside him, brushing their shoulders together. “I think you already lost,” he says, but hits play anyway.
Spencer very carefully spends the rest of the day not thinking about Brendon’s soft touch on his wings, how it had made him tingle all the way through the wings, up his shoulders and down his arms to his fingertips, but it just becomes another thing to keep him awake late at night, reliving over and over in his mind.
~~~
As time passes, Spencer learns to control his demon side better and better. He’s not sure if it’s Brendon’s influence, or part of his natural development, but he feels happier, somehow, than he’s ever really been before. Content, and the rage that’s bubbled inside him is nothing more than a very distant hum at the back of his mind. When it does flare up, hot heat building inside him suddenly, as if he’s about to explode, he’s prepared and can push it away now, better than he’s ever been able to before. He’s almost able to convince himself he’s totally in control, that it’ll never reveal itself unless he wants it to.
And then Brendon gets hit by a bottle.
It’s maybe not a complete surprise that stuff is being thrown at them- the festival crowd is rowdy and rude and drunk, and perhaps the wrong audience for their particular brand of music, so Spencer blocks out the shouted insults and keeps an eye out for anything hurtled in his direction. It’s putting him off a little- he’s missed a few beats, and he can hear the others aren’t playing their best either. And it’s distracting enough that he doesn’t see the bottle hurtling towards Brendon until right before it hits him.
It’s as if time slows down and the anger sparks through Spencer instantly, making him shake with fury. He throws his drumsticks down and feels his back muscles begin to shift, feels the points of the horns start to press out of his skin. There are thousands of people watching, hundreds of cameras, and Spencer doesn’t care, he just needs to get to Brendon, to check he’s alright, and then to find whoever threw the bottle and make them pay.
He’s up and out of his seat, feeling the fire burn behind his eyes, but before he can move Brendon is on his feet again, looking bouncy and waving to the crowd. As he watches Brendon gives Jon a thumbs up, exchanges a look with Ryan, who looks incredibly pissed off, and then looks back at Spencer, his too-bright smile faltering a little when he sees Spencer’s face. He practically runs across the stage, hopping up onto Spencer’s riser and pressing his hand to Spencer’s neck.
It’s a brief touch, fleeting, but Spencer feels the rage start to ebb away, and by the time Brendon hops down and jogs back over to his mic stand, he’s able to assert enough control that he feels calm enough to continue when Ryan turns and raises an impatient eyebrow. They’re all ready to get out of here- off stage, away from this crowd, away from this festival- so Spencer refrains from replying with a bitchy look and reaches down to pick up the drumsticks he’d dropped. They’re charred and blackened in the places where he’d held them, and they start to crumble away like charcoal when he grasps them, so Spencer kicks them aside, grabs a fresh pair and counts them in.
They play the rest of the set and get off stage as quickly as they can. Ryan disappears off, presumably to brood over how shitty their set had been, and after briefly checking on Brendon, Jon follows. Brendon has disappeared too, and so Spencer makes a beeline for the bus, finding him in the kitchenette, popping a few painkillers and downing a glass of water.
“Just in case,” Brendon says, massaging his temples when Spencer approaches. “I’m not in the mood for a headache.”
“Are you okay?” Spencer asks, stepping forward and reaching out. He stops short and lets his hand drop.
“Fine,” Brendon waves away his concern. “Question is, are you? I saw the way you lost control out there, Spence. You can’t do that. Not in public anyway. Can you imagine what would have happened if you’d fully transformed?”
“I don’t care,” Spencer says honestly. “I wasn’t thinking about that, about me. I was focused on you and that you were hurt.”
“I’m fine,” Brendon insists again, “But I wouldn’t have been if the whole world had seen you go all Minion-of-Hell. Ryan would have killed you. And then me for causing it.”
“I didn’t think,” Spencer shakes his head. “And I’m sorry, it was stupid, but I really don’t care.”
“You have to!” Brendon says vehemently. “You have to care, you have to have some control over it.”
“I can’t,” Spencer snaps, then looks away. “Not when it comes to you, okay? I just. I can’t think straight. Not about you.”
Brendon stares at him. “What…Spencer-“
Spencer’s tired of pretending, tired of keeping the last secret he has from Brendon. So he crosses the short distance between them and crowds Brendon against the counter.
“Sorry,” he says, and kisses him.
Brendon goes very still, and Spencer is about to pull away, to run off and probably accidentally set some things on fire when Brendon slides his arms around Spencer’s waist and holds him there, kissing him back just as urgently. It’s awkward and desperate and so perfect that it’s the most like himself Spencer has felt in the longest time and he never wants it to stop, not even when the light that Brendon is emitting turns suddenly from a soft glow to a white light so bright that even with his eyes tightly shut, Spencer feels blinded.
“Brendon,” he says against Brendon’s mouth, eyes scrunched tightly shut and suppressed laughter clear in his voice. “What were you saying about having control?”
Brendon starts, and then laughs, and the light dims away. “I see what you mean,” he says breathlessly, leaning back. “Maybe. Uh. Maybe we should move into the back lounge. You know. Less, uh. Windows.”
“Good idea,” Spencer smiles, and feels Brendon’s lips curve into a matching grin.
~~~
They take it slow- with touring and recording and keeping themselves in check and Ryan trying to alternatively interfere and tease them, it seems the wisest thing to do. Spencer learns that spending a long, empty afternoon making out with Brendon in his bunk or on Brendon’s sofa or in Ryan’s back yard or wherever they get the chance, is the best way to spend it.
They do silly things that make Spencer feel like he’s 15 all over again, going on dates and holding hands and kissing in the back row of the movies when the lights are down and no one can recognise them. They make stupid little gestures like Spencer driving 30 miles out of his way to pick up Brendon’s favourite peanut butter when the store closest to him has run out, or Brendon making Spencer a mixtape of classic rock songs he’ll sing for Spencer, if he wants him to.
They shy away from sex at first- following a disastrous near-blinding incident when Spencer jerks Brendon off for the first time, and Brendon receiving minor burns on his head and neck when he tries to give Spencer a blow job- but all Spencer really craves is Brendon’s touch, Brendon’s skin, closer and more of it.
They dance around it for a long time, neither of them wanting to bring it up unless the other does, until Spencer can’t stand it anymore. They’re in some country, about to play some show in some small venue, but they’ve got time to kill before they go on and Spencer is restless. Ryan and Jon are smoking on the bus, and Brendon is holed up in the dressing room, fretting about a note he missed earlier at rehearsal. He’s pacing, and suddenly Spencer can’t take it anymore, and is across the room, grasping Brendon by the arms and holding him still.
Brendon looks at him with wide eyes, and Spencer catches sight of himself in the mirror behind them. His face is alight with a weird sort of intensity, and there’s heat in his eyes that for once isn’t his demon-side peeping through.
“I want you to fuck me,” Spencer says, and kisses him before he can reply. It’s a deep kiss, hot enough that Brendon’s fingers scramble to find purchase on Spencer’s shirt, pulling him in closer, and Spencer’s hands slide round, one resting in the small of Brendon’s back, the other dipping just beneath the waistband of his jeans.
When they finally break apart for air, Brendon is looking a little dazed.
“O-okay,” he stutters, and then grins. “Wow. We’re really doing this?” he asks.
Spencer kisses him in reply.
It’s maybe not the best sex anyone’s ever had- Spencer’s only done this a few times before, Brendon even less, but it’s their first time and it makes Spencer’s heart ache with how right it feels, how into place everything has fallen.
They’re short on time- shows wait for no man, nor demon or angel either- so it’s hurried and Spencer doesn’t get to savour the moment as much as he would have liked. But they’re dressed again when Ryan and Jon return, Ryan giving Spencer a knowing look until he realises his shirt is mis-buttoned. Brendon is grinning from ear to ear, and sometimes when Spencer looks at him it looks like he’s shimmering a little, but they’ve both gotten so good at controlling their powers that he’s sure he’s imagining it, that it’s the lighting in the room, that maybe it’s just the way he sees Brendon now.
The show is fantastic- they’re all on top form and the audience is the best they’ve had in a long time, kids singing back the words to Brendon, even words to songs that haven’t been released yet. The love in the room is so real it almost wraps around them, making them all smile, making them all feel like they belong.
“Best show ever,” Jon says, while they’re off stage. Brendon is entertaining the audience briefly so the rest of them can get a breather, getting the kids to help him out with the singing and looking overjoyed at their enthusiasm.
Back out on stage, Spencer can’t avoid wincing as he takes his seat again. It’s a sensation he’d forgotten, the way that every big movement, every kick of the pedal acts as a reminder to what he and Brendon had been doing right before the show. It’s enough to bring vivid memories flooding back with each beat.
He looks up and catches Brendon’s eye. It must show on his face, because Brendon gives him a smile like he knows what Spencer’s thinking about and moves closer, playing at Spencer during the last song. Spencer meets Brendon’s eyes again and he can’t hide his emotions, knows that there’s nothing written there but love and awe and happiness. Brendon’s always been able to read Spencer like a book, and even more so now, and so it’s no surprise when he fumbles a note or two, stares at Spencer in surprise and then beams at him, turning and running back to his microphone.
They finish the song, and Brendon tries to say thank you, to say goodnight, but the crowd is screaming too loud, pouring out love at them and Brendon hunches his shoulders a little, shyly, glances at Jon, at Ryan, and then at Spencer, meeting his eyes.
Spencer smiles, and then Brendon does too, smile growing brighter and brighter and then he starts glowing. At first it’s enough that only Spencer probably notices, something to be passed off as weird lighting if anyone comments. But then he just keeps glowing brighter and brighter, until Spencer has to shield his eyes from the intensity of the white light. He hears Ryan swear, hears screams from the audience, and then Spencer is up, stumbling blindly down from his riser towards Brendon, reaching out until his hand connects with Brendon’s face.
“Brendon,” he says, voice sounding pained. “Stop it.”
The light dies almost instantly, leaving everyone blinking into the sudden darkness. Spencer’s hand is still on Brendon’s cheek and he steps back. Not quick enough, judging by Jon’s bewildered look.
Ryan mumbles something about technical difficulties, and herds them all off stage, locking them in the dressing room.
“What the fuck was that?” he demands, staring at each of them in turn. Brendon looks shaken, face ashen, hand tightly clutching Spencer’s as if he’s afraid to let go.
Jon shakes his head. “Why did you grab Brendon?” he asks Spencer. “I don’t understand why-“
“It must’ve been the lights,” Spencer says firmly. “Some weird technical feedback problem. Thing. I don’t know. That must’ve been it.”
“Oh come on,” Ryan starts, but Spencer stands up.
“Lighting glitch,” he insists. “And we’re going to go and make sure that doesn’t happen again,” he adds, tugging Brendon to his feet and pulling him out towards the bus.
Part Two
Pairing: Brendon/Spencer
Rating: PG13? I never know. (Language, mentions of sex, minor violence?)
Disclaimer: 100% untrue
Wordcount: A little over 13k
Warnings: Wingfic! Supernatural…stuff.
Summary: Somehow, “Oh hey, you know how I told you I’m a quarter Irish and a quarter German? Well I forgot to mention that the other half is Demon,” is a little hard to voice.
A/N: This all came about after I saw that HCT Panic at the Prom pic and Spencer’s eyes are all glowy, and of course, logically, I think he’s posessed or a demon or something. Thanks to the wonderful mintyfiend for beta and handholding, as always. All mistakes are mine. Concrit more than welcome! And the title belongs to Robert Frost.
For as long as Spencer can remember it’s crawled along just beneath his skin, a constant reminder that he’s different, that he’s not normal. Over the years he’s learned to push it away, hold it down as much as he can, has learned to keep it bottled up most of the time. The only person he ever asks about it is his mom, and she tells him what she can, told him about how the man he calls Dad, the man who musses his hair and plays airplane with his much younger siblings, only came into Spencer’s life when he was two.
She tells him what she can remember of the dark stranger who’d seduced her and then revealed his true nature, leaving her alone and pregnant. Spencer is torn between hoping his father never comes looking for him, and wishing he could answer all the questions Spencer has, could tell him how to hide it, control it, although he suspects his father wouldn’t want him to.
That his mom knows is a comfort, gives him one less person to hide from. But she can’t understand how it feels, to have this thing inside that is both unwelcome and yet a part of the essence that makes Spencer who he is. She can’t tell him how to control it, and so he’s forced to learn on his own, hiding out in his room and then, as he grows older and the powers grow stronger, the feelings more intense, as far away from the people he loves as he can manage.
Spencer sometimes wishes he could tell Ryan, but he’s never sure how to bring it up. They’ve been friends for so long that Ryan is as familiar to Spencer as the thing inside him is, and yet whenever he looks across at Ryan sitting cross-legged on the end of Spencer’s bed, laughing at something on TV, he can’t quite find the words. Somehow, “Oh hey, you know how I told you I’m a quarter Irish and a quarter German? Well I forgot to mention that the other half is Demon,” is a little hard to voice.
Spencer thinks he knows Ryan better than anyone else, but he’s unsure how Ryan would react, whether he would freak out. At the very least, he’ll ask to see proof, and while Spencer’s spent hours staring at his hand as the fire burns against his unblemished palm, it’s something secret that he’s not sure he even wants to share with his best friend. Not yet.
He lacks Ryan’s way with words too, and would never be able to properly explain the fire that burns through his veins, the irrational rage that hits him more and more as he gets older, the hatred that spreads heat through his stomach and through his lungs.
“Am I evil?” he’d asked his mother once, when he was very young, and she’d laughed and shaken her head, pushing back his hair to press a gentle kiss on either side of his forehead.
“No,” she’d said. “You’re human. You are what you make yourself, sweetie.”
It hadn’t been much, but it was enough to help Spencer sleep at night.
They grow older. Spencer learns to bundle the demon parts into a box in his mind, learns to ignore the feelings, learns to keep his emotions in check- both anger and joy, because either end of the spectrum makes his skin buzz as if it’s clawing its way out.
He starts playing the drums, and it helps, having something to channel his emotions into. They form a band. They meet Brendon who makes the room light up, makes Spencer smile despite himself, makes Ryan laugh that rare laugh he keeps to himself most of the time. Spencer would be happy like this forever- he doesn’t want much out of life, not really, just peace and quiet and control- but Ryan is ambitious and Pete Wentz turns out to be the kind of guy who gives four kids from Vegas a chance.
They record an album. They go on tour. They become something and Spencer is happier than he’s ever been. He doesn’t quite know why, but the demon parts stop twisting inside him, stop filling up his brain with thoughts he doesn’t want to have, stop trying to take over, and sometimes Spencer’s almost able to pretend he’s a normal kid, thrown into an extraordinary situation.
And then Ryan hands Spencer a phone.
Spencer stares at it for a long time before dialling Brent’s number, Brendon and Ryan watching him with mixed expressions of anger and worry and nervousness.
Spencer turns his back on them. By the time he’s done, cutting off Brent’s excuses in a calm, even voice, he can feel it building inside him, making his hands curl into fists. He recognises the feeling, the oncoming storm within him, and he knows he’s going to lose control.
He hangs up, turns back to Ryan and Brendon. Neither of them say anything, not even when Spencer pulls back his arm and throws the phone at the wall above their heads, feeling a surge of satisfaction at the destruction as the pieces fly everywhere, at the fear on his friends’ faces.
Spencer leaves, gets in his car and drives and drives and drives until he’s out in the middle of the desert. He abandons the car at the side of the highway and kicks off his shoes, walking out across the burning sand. He welcomes the heat outside his body, as well as in, and knows he’s leaving scorched footprints in his wake.
It starts with his hands, flames licking against his palms hotter and hotter until the air around Spencer is stifling. It’s hard to breathe and Spencer falls to his knees and cries out. It makes his eyes burn, glowing in the late afternoon sunlight, and Spencer throws his head back, welcoming the fire back into his veins, welcoming the anger back into his heart. It would be so easy, he knows, to give in, to let it take over, to embrace it and let it become him.
And he’s tempted, until the muscles in his back begin to shift, skin stretching tight. The thought of the leathery black wings springing forth from between his shoulder blades is enough to make Spencer stop, to make him breathe again, close his eyes and push the demon down until the flames across his skin flicker and die and his eyes turn from red to blue again.
Spencer can still feel the familiar tingle under his skin when he finally gets to his feet and walks back to the car. He sits behind the wheel, staring at himself in the rear-view mirror until the horns that had started to sprout from his temples recede and he looks like nothing more than a tired version his normal self again.
By the time he gets back to the others, hours have passed. Ryan doesn’t say a word, doesn’t meet Spencer’s eyes. Brendon presses close, asking where Spencer had gone, why he’d been so long, if he was okay, if he was mad. He moves to place a hand on Spencer’s back, and even though he knows it’s not possible, Spencer thinks that maybe Brendon will feel the wings that had almost worked their way out of his back. He shies away, earning a hurt look from Brendon.
Spencer is terrified, suddenly, of how much potential was inside him, potential for hurt and destruction and danger. At how easy it was for him to lose that grasp on control, at how close he’d come to giving in.
“Spencer,” Brendon says, reaching out and touching Spencer’s wrist. It’s like a jolt of electricity, pushing away the last traces of demon that have been curling uncomfortably around Spencer’s heart. Brendon’s face is open and worried and Spencer has been pushing aside feelings for so long that he had been scared he’d learned to push these sorts of feelings away too, but he obviously hadn’t.
“You should tell him how you feel,” Ryan had said, when Spencer’s feelings had become obvious enough that Ryan noticed.
Spencer had shaken his head. “No. I can’t. It’s…we don’t belong together. It’s not right.”
Ryan had pressed him to explain, but Spencer couldn’t explain, couldn’t put his finger on why it felt wrong, felt forbidden, just knew that it did.
Here and now, though, that’s easy to forget, with his heart pounding in his chest and the feel of Brendon’s fingers on his skin. Spencer knows he can’t, knows he shouldn’t, but it reminds him how human he is, that he can feel this way.
He knows he never wants to hurt Brendon, never wants to frighten him the way Spencer frightens himself sometimes, like he’d frightened himself today, and so, as Brendon slips his hand into Spencer’s and squeezes briefly before letting go and moving away, Spencer carefully packs his demon-self away even tighter in his mind, and makes himself a promise to be more careful in future.
~~~
Spencer keeps his promise for a long time. Long enough that they welcome Jon into the band and tour again and again and again and Spencer gets his own place with the money he’s made. Long enough that he can almost forget what it had felt like to feel himself slip away and be replaced by a darker version. Long enough that he slowly realises there’s something about Brendon, something about how he makes Spencer feel. The negative feelings he’s been fighting forever on a daily basis seem to melt away when Brendon’s around, leaving Spencer feeling more like himself than he’s ever felt around anyone else.
So it’s perhaps not a huge surprise, when he thinks about it later, that it’s Brendon who finally makes him break, makes him surrender to the power within more than he’s ever done before.
They’re back in Vegas, enjoying being back at home and writing and recording again. They’re frequenting the sort of club that wouldn’t have let them in two years ago, but usher them into the VIP section now, and Ryan and Jon are engaged in a lighthearted argument about musical influences that appears to be currently entitled ‘Revolver vs. Wild Honey’.
Spencer is trying to unwind after a long day in the studio and enjoy the night, but his gaze keeps being drawn to Brendon, who’s flitting around the room, dancing on the dance floor, hanging by the bar, letting pretty young things whip out their sidekicks and take pictures with him. It’s amusing watching Brendon sometimes, the way he’s so eager to please, wants to keep everyone happy, even though the fans sometimes try and take more than even Brendon can give.
As Spencer watches, a guy who’s been talking to Brendon on and off all night crowds close and bends to whisper something in Brendon’s ear, slipping a bottle of beer into his hand. Brendon laughs, and takes the beer, clinking it against the one in the guy’s hand. He’s a big dude, maybe twice the size of Brendon, and there’s something about him that leaves a bitter, metallic taste at the back of Spencer’s throat, something that clouds his mind a little with shadows and makes his stomach turn. Before he even knows what he’s doing, Spencer is out of his seat and making his way down the stairs so he can cross the packed dance floor.
He catches brief glimpses of Brendon as the crowd shifts, clearing and then blocking his view again and again- Brendon finishing his drink; the guy saying something in Brendon’s ear; the guy taking Brendon’s hand and leading him off the floor- and then he’s lost them.
To his right are the bathrooms, to his left an exit door. Spencer stops, unsure of which way to go, and then something in his mind screams ‘LEFT’ and so he pushes down on the handle and tumbles out into the night and into the dark alley behind the club. There’s noise, movement, distant voices further down so Spencer heads towards the sound at a slow jog, and when he turns the corner he sees them- Brendon pressed up against the wall, the guy bracketing Brendon’s body with his arms.
Spencer hesitates, unsure for a moment whether this is something Brendon does a lot, if this is something he wants to see. He can just make out their voices over the distant thump-thump-thump of the music from the club.
“Um, no, wait,” Brendon says in a shaky voice. “I don’t want-“
“Shh,” the guy says, “You know you want this. You know you want me to fuck you. It’ll be so sweet.”
Brendon goes very still, and looks up, eyes wide. “No,” Brendon says, pushing at the guy’s chest. “No. I really don’t want-“
The guy backhands Brendon across the mouth, the sound echoing in the alleyway.
“Shut up,” he growls, and his hands are at Brendon’s waist, fingers yanking at his belt. Brendon makes a miserable sound turning face away, and there’s something wet and shiny and crimson dripping from his lip.
Spencer doesn’t even think- he just starts running towards them. He’s shouting and he doesn’t know what, because all he can focus on is Brendon’s scared face and the guy’s smirk that quickly changes to a look of horror as Spencer gets closer. Spencer can feel the power humming along his skin, can feel the rage spilling out and making his fingertips tingle. He thrusts out a hand as he runs, and fire erupts from his palm, heading straight at the guy, who soars up into the air and hits the far wall with a sickening thud as Spencer comes to a stop next to Brendon.
There’s a singing smell in the air, and Spencer curls his finger tips towards his palm and inhales deeply, turning his back on the guy and trying to force his anger away. As he turns, he hears the taffeta rustle of his wings and he flexes his shoulders automatically, spreading them wide and tearing the fabric of his favourite shirt even more.
Brendon gasps, and Spencer hunches his shoulders self consciously. He lifts up a hand, blows on the last few flames that flicker at his fingertips to put them out, and reaches up, feeling the smooth curves and wickedly sharp points of his horns. He opens his mouth to say something- he’s not sure what- and his tongue catches against his teeth. They feel pointier than usual, and he rubs a finger along them, canines slicking into the edge of his flesh. It hurts, and he winces, sucking at the drop of blood that forms. Then he looks up and meets Brendon’s eyes.
Brendon opens his mouth, and then closes it again. There’s a breeze blowing through the alley, cooling Spencer’s overheated skin, and Brendon shivers. The look on Brendon’s face is the one Spencer has been dreading, a look that he’s sure screams fear and disgust and incomprehension.
“Brendon-” he starts, reaching out a hand and taking a step towards him.
Brendon backs away, hands clutching at the brick for a moment, and when Spencer takes another step he pushes himself away from the wall and runs, stumbling a little in his haste to get away. He doesn’t look back.
Spencer watches him go. Then he turns back and walks over to the guy, nudging a leg with the toe of his shoe. The guy groans, and when Spencer looks closer he doesn’t appear to be as badly hurt as he’d thought. A spark of disappointment flares inside Spencer- he wants the guy to pay for touching Brendon like that, for hurting him, for scaring him.
He deserves worse, deserves to be punished, and the anger is back, dancing through his veins. His palms ignite again, and it would be so tempting, so easy to send the guy straight to Hell like he deserves. Spencer lifts a hand. And stops.
He forces himself to turn and walk away, breathing deeply in an attempt at calm. Pain tears down his spine as his wings refold and slide uncomfortably back beneath the surface. A vice clamps around his head, squeezing. It’s agony, but when Spencer’s hands fly up to hold his head, the horns are gone and when he runs his tongue across his teeth they’re back to normal. It’s the most painful reverting he’s ever experienced, but he’s never quite turned as much as he’d just done.
The rage is a dull buzz in the back of his mind now, and so he walks over to the guy, who is still breathing in little shallow gasps. Spencer reaches into the guy’s pocket carefully and extracts a phone. He dials for an ambulance, disguising his voice as best he can, and telling them the address. Then he throws the phone on the floor. He glances at his hand and thinks of fire, of destruction, lips curving into a smile despite himself when a small fireball forms. He throws it at the phone and watches it burn and melt.
Then, when he can hear the sirens getting closer, he slips out of the alley and heads for home.
He’s pretty successful at not thinking of Brendon, not replaying the whole thing over in his mind, freeze-framing on Brendon’s look of surprise and horror when he’d seen what Spencer really was, until he gets home and finds Brendon sitting on his front porch.
The freak out he’d been having- how consumed he’d been, how close he’d been to losing all control like he’d never done before, how close he’d been to crossing a line he could never have returned from, how much he’d liked it - seems insignificant now. Brendon is huddled on the front stoop, hoodie drawn up over his head, hands thrust in pockets. He looks up as Spencer approaches. Spencer pulls out his keys, walking past Brendon to the front door, then he turns around.
Brendon has twisted around to look up at him but neither of them say anything for a long moment. Spencer is waiting for Brendon to scream, to cry, to demand answers, but Brendon just looks at him, looking at his face as if searching for something.
Spencer reaches up a hand and brushes his fingers to his temple self-consciously.
“He’s not dead,” he says eventually. “The guy. He’s not dead. I called an ambulance. I couldn’t…I wouldn’t¬.”
Brendon is on his feet and in front of Spencer so fast he doesn’t have time to blink. He stares at Spencer again for a moment and then grabs his head, pushing Spencer up against the front door and pressing their lips together. It’s awkward- Spencer never wanted their first kiss, if there was ever to be one, to be like this- but he’s overwhelmed with the desire to wrap his arms around Brendon and keep him safe, to kiss him until he forgets what happened in the alley, what almost happened. To press his fingers over the bruises the guy had made around Brendon’s wrists until he erases them or replaces them with new ones.
Then Brendon leans back. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he demands, and Spencer’s not ready to answer, even though in some ways he’s been mentally preparing for this day his entire life.
So he turns around and opens the door, holding it open long enough for Brendon to slip inside. Then he walks into the kitchen and pours himself a glass of water, downing it in half a dozen hasty gulps, feeling some of it dribble out of the corners of his mouth and drip down onto the warm skin of his throat. His mouth always feels dry after he’s transformed, and so he pours himself another glass and drinks it slower.
Brendon is leaning against the doorway to the kitchen, watching Spencer with wary eyes, following his every move like a hawk.
“Thank you,” he says eventually. “I didn’t- I should have said before. Thank you.”
Spencer can’t quite meet Brendon’s eyes, so he focuses on his lips, tries not to think about how they’d felt against his own.
“Are you okay?” he asks, and Brendon hugs himself a little tighter and nods.
“I’m fine,” he says. “A little embarrassed, a little shaken, a little unsurprised that it was you who saved me.” He pauses, and Spencer lets his eyes glance up and meet Brendon’s steady gaze. “I wish I’d known about you though. I wish you’d told me sooner.”
Spencer shrugs. His shoulders still ache from the wings forcing their way out and back again in such a short space of time. Brendon notices his wince and he walks over, taking the glass carefully out of Spencer’s hand and placing it on the counter. Then he turns Spencer around with careful fingers and pushes aside the tattered remains of Spencer’s shirt, sliding his cool hands up Spencer’s back, over the bunched muscles.
Spencer sighs and relaxes, letting his shoulders slump as Brendon moves his hands.
“Here,” Brendon says, pressing his thumbs over the spot where the left wing sprouts from. “And here.”
Spencer wonders how Brendon knows those are the right spots, but then he’s pressing his fingers in, just right, and it feels glorious. The pain starts to fade, as does the remnants of his demon-self. He feels calm, relaxed, content, and he’s about to remark that Brendon must have healing hands when Brendon says, casually, “I always find this helps for me. With my wings.”
Spencer goes very still and Brendon’s hands stop working at his muscles, fingers splaying out across his skin for a moment, before Spencer draws away and turns around.
“What do you mean?” he asks carefully, narrowing his eyes. He searches Brendon’s face for any signs of a joke that’s fallen completely flat, for a sign that Brendon is messing with him.
Brendon catches at Spencer’s hand and Spencer shakes his head, the frustration that had been building ebbing away.
“Aren’t you curious why I haven’t asked what you are?” Brendon asks, sounding excited and a little breathless as he tugs at Spencer’s hand until he takes a half step closer. “Why I’m not calling the police or an exorcist or whatever? I understand, Spencer. I do. I’m like you,” he pauses and cocks his head to the side, smiling a little. “Well,” he amends, “sort of.”
He drops Spencer’s hand and steps into the middle of the room, reaching up to yank his shirt off. Spencer’s seen Brendon without his shirt more times than he can count, but he’s never allowed himself to study him before and he doesn’t get the chance now, not with his attention being caught by the finger shaped bruises on Brendon’s upper arm and hip.
Spencer wants to say something, wants to reach out and fit his fingers over them and apologise over and over. But before he can open his mouth, Brendon closes his eyes, humming softly to himself and suddenly there’s light, so bright that Spencer has to shield his eyes with his arm.
“Um, sorry about that,” Brendon says, sheepishly. “I always forget about the light.”
The brightness dims against Spencer’s eyelids and he opens them a crack, blinking away the spots in front of his eyes. It takes his eyes a moment to become readjusted and it takes him a moment to notice that there’s something different about Brendon, the way his skin is glowing, just a little, light shimmering around his outline. And behind him-
Brendon turns around, flexing his shoulders and spreading his wings. His white, downy wings.
Spencer’s mouth drops open. “You’re-“
“Yep,” Brendon nods. “You know how I told you guys that my family was religious? Uh. Well, my mom’s an angel. Literally.”
Spencer gapes and reaches out, fingertips brushing against the soft feathers for a moment before Brendon jerks away and turns around, wing smacking against Spencer’s hand.
“Sorry,” Brendon says quickly. “I just. I don't really know- is there wing touching etiquette? Should there be? I'm not sure what sort of the anatomy wings fall under- are they limbs, or something more, um. Personal?”
Spencer stares at him.
"I've never. Um. Shown anyone before. Besides, like, my family. Well. My mom."
“Your mom…” Spencer starts to say and trails off.
“Hey now,” Brendon says with a grin. “There’s a time and a place for those sort of jokes. This is not it.”
Spencer huffs out a laugh, still staring in wonder at Brendon. He wants to touch- to press his face into the downy feathers, to spread his hands across Brendon’s skin and watch it glow beneath his touch.
“What about you?” Brendon prompts.
“My father,” Spencer says. “I don’t- I don’t know him or anything. I’m not. I’m not evil,” he adds, firmly.
Brendon laughs. “Yeah, well I’m not all sweetness and light either. Curse of the human condition or something. It’s not really a case of either/or, for us. We’re just shades of grey.”
Spencer doesn’t know what to say, so he just stares at Brendon some more, until Brendon starts getting twitchy under the scrutiny.
“I think I should maybe but these away now,” he says, indicating his back, and Spencer wants to stop him, wants to admire the way Brendon’s posture changes with the wings on his back, how he holds himself, how proud he is of them. But he doesn’t say a word, just watches in fascination as Brendon closes his eyes, rolls his shoulders once, and folds his wings up.
Spencer moves without thinking about it, until he’s standing behind Brendon, so he can see. The skin on Brendon’s back shifts and moves as the wings slide smoothly, impossibly, back inside. The mirrors and craned necks that had enabled Spencer to see his own wings had never done justice to how remarkable and supernatural it was when they sprouted and then slid away like this, leaving the skin unmarked, as if they weren’t always lurking there just beneath the surface.
Brendon clears his throat and Spencer realises he’s staring. He looks away as Brendon pulls his shirt back on and turns back to face him, folding his arms across his chest. He looks thoughtful.
“I have questions,” Spencer says, before Brendon can say anything, and Brendon ducks his head a little, biting his lip.
“Me too,” he says, lifting his head and shaking it to get his hair out of his eyes. “I’m not sure I have any answers though,” he adds. “But it’s late, and we’ve got plenty of time to compare stories.”
Brendon raises his hand and walks to the front door, Spencer trailing after him. He pauses, and turns around.
“Does Ryan know?” Brendon asks, and Spencer shakes his head. He wants to explain how he doesn’t know how to put the words together, but Brendon just nods at the expression on Spencer’s face.
“I get it,” he says and opens the door, stepping out onto the porch.
“You sure you’re okay?” Spencer asks, and Brendon looks up at him and nods.
“Good night,” Brendon says, moving towards the steps, and then spins around and grabs Spencer, pulling him into a tight hug. “Thank you,” he says, mouth pressed under Spencer’s ear. And then he lets go and hurries off into the night.
It’s only when Spencer gets back inside, skin still tingling from where Brendon’s lips had brushed his neck, that he realises neither of them had mentioned the kiss.
~~~
Life goes on. Nothing really changes, at least not on the outside. Spencer and Brendon maybe hang out together more than they did before, share the occasional look, sit closer together. Ryan teases Spencer about it sometimes, and Spencer just rolls his eyes at him.
There’s nothing like that going on, no matter how much Spencer wants there to be, no matter how often he lies awake at night and clings to increasingly distant memories of the feel of Brendon’s lips on his own, the way Brendon had tasted, the way his fingertips had felt pressed against Spencer’s scalp, cool and grounding. Even if he could convince himself that maybe Brendon felt the same way, it was too much, too overwhelming to even consider trying to understand his heart the way he was learning to understand the demon side of himself.
“Let me see them,” Brendon says, one afternoon. They’re at Brendon’s place, playing video games and talking and doing pretty much what they normally do, and so Brendon’s request comes out of the blue.
Spencer goes very still, and the room is silent apart from the dying screams of his character in the game.
They’ve spent many, many hours discussing their powers, talking about their childhoods and the hardships of keeping such an integral part of yourself hidden from everyone for so long. Brendon had shown Spencer his light again, his wings, his healing touch, had explained how sometimes the desire to make everything right, to keep everyone happy backfired. What made some people happy, Brendon had explained, as if it was some new revelation he was sharing with Spencer, quite often clashed with what made other people happy.
In return, Spencer had shown Brendon how he could conjure fire in his hand, how he could make his eyes glow like burning coals, how his horns grew and his teeth changed, exercising a control over his powers he’d never been able to manage before. But up until now, he’d never let Brendon get a close look at his wings. He’s not sure why- whether it’s his own unease at the feel of them as they force their way through his flesh, or if its embarrassment, to show something so ugly to Brendon, who possesses such beautiful wings of his own.
He wants to refuse, to change the subject or maybe even to leave, but he can’t, not when Brendon is asking. Brendon who’s been so open, so eager to share, so desperate to get rid of this loneliness they’d both felt when they thought there was no one else who’d understand.
So Spencer nods, and unbuttons his shirt slowly, slipping out of it and closing his eyes. He focuses on the wings he knows are there, waiting to burst out of his back, focuses on his demon side as best he can while keeping the rage at bay.
He slumps his shoulders when it starts, biting his lip against the weird feeling of his muscles rearranging themselves, of the tips of the wings pushing through his skin. It almost feels good, like a release of something pent up and caged.
Spencer spreads his wings, and they rustle like taffeta as he stretches them wide.
“Wow,” Brendon breathes. He stares at Spencer for a long time without saying anything, long enough that Spencer has to look away, hunching in on himself defensively and starting to fold his wings away.
“No, don’t,” Brendon says, darting out a hand and brushing his fingertips against the edge of Spencer’s wing. Spencer resists the urge to shy away, to curl his wings protectively close to his body, and then shivers as Brendon slides his hand across one wing. Spencer knows they must feel like soft leather beneath Brendon’s hand, sturdy but delicate. They’re bat-like, dark and warm to the touch, and Brendon’s fingertips tracing along them makes them shake a little.
“Spencer,” Brendon says softly. “They’re beautiful.”
Spencer gives a derisive laugh, but Brendon shakes his head.
“I mean it. They’re…magnificent. Strong and yet fragile at the same time. They’re so…you.”
Spencer ducks his head, turns his body until Brendon reluctantly lets go of the tip of his wing, and bites his lip as he forces them away, ignoring the pain. He buttons his shirt up slowly, catching the worried look on Brendon’s face and giving him a reassuring smile.
“Thanks,” Spencer says. “It’s just. Weird. No one else has ever touched them before.”
Brendon’s smile slowly curls into a smirk, and Spencer rolls his eyes.
“Are we going to finish this game or not?” he asks, picking his controller up.
Brendon settles back beside him, brushing their shoulders together. “I think you already lost,” he says, but hits play anyway.
Spencer very carefully spends the rest of the day not thinking about Brendon’s soft touch on his wings, how it had made him tingle all the way through the wings, up his shoulders and down his arms to his fingertips, but it just becomes another thing to keep him awake late at night, reliving over and over in his mind.
~~~
As time passes, Spencer learns to control his demon side better and better. He’s not sure if it’s Brendon’s influence, or part of his natural development, but he feels happier, somehow, than he’s ever really been before. Content, and the rage that’s bubbled inside him is nothing more than a very distant hum at the back of his mind. When it does flare up, hot heat building inside him suddenly, as if he’s about to explode, he’s prepared and can push it away now, better than he’s ever been able to before. He’s almost able to convince himself he’s totally in control, that it’ll never reveal itself unless he wants it to.
And then Brendon gets hit by a bottle.
It’s maybe not a complete surprise that stuff is being thrown at them- the festival crowd is rowdy and rude and drunk, and perhaps the wrong audience for their particular brand of music, so Spencer blocks out the shouted insults and keeps an eye out for anything hurtled in his direction. It’s putting him off a little- he’s missed a few beats, and he can hear the others aren’t playing their best either. And it’s distracting enough that he doesn’t see the bottle hurtling towards Brendon until right before it hits him.
It’s as if time slows down and the anger sparks through Spencer instantly, making him shake with fury. He throws his drumsticks down and feels his back muscles begin to shift, feels the points of the horns start to press out of his skin. There are thousands of people watching, hundreds of cameras, and Spencer doesn’t care, he just needs to get to Brendon, to check he’s alright, and then to find whoever threw the bottle and make them pay.
He’s up and out of his seat, feeling the fire burn behind his eyes, but before he can move Brendon is on his feet again, looking bouncy and waving to the crowd. As he watches Brendon gives Jon a thumbs up, exchanges a look with Ryan, who looks incredibly pissed off, and then looks back at Spencer, his too-bright smile faltering a little when he sees Spencer’s face. He practically runs across the stage, hopping up onto Spencer’s riser and pressing his hand to Spencer’s neck.
It’s a brief touch, fleeting, but Spencer feels the rage start to ebb away, and by the time Brendon hops down and jogs back over to his mic stand, he’s able to assert enough control that he feels calm enough to continue when Ryan turns and raises an impatient eyebrow. They’re all ready to get out of here- off stage, away from this crowd, away from this festival- so Spencer refrains from replying with a bitchy look and reaches down to pick up the drumsticks he’d dropped. They’re charred and blackened in the places where he’d held them, and they start to crumble away like charcoal when he grasps them, so Spencer kicks them aside, grabs a fresh pair and counts them in.
They play the rest of the set and get off stage as quickly as they can. Ryan disappears off, presumably to brood over how shitty their set had been, and after briefly checking on Brendon, Jon follows. Brendon has disappeared too, and so Spencer makes a beeline for the bus, finding him in the kitchenette, popping a few painkillers and downing a glass of water.
“Just in case,” Brendon says, massaging his temples when Spencer approaches. “I’m not in the mood for a headache.”
“Are you okay?” Spencer asks, stepping forward and reaching out. He stops short and lets his hand drop.
“Fine,” Brendon waves away his concern. “Question is, are you? I saw the way you lost control out there, Spence. You can’t do that. Not in public anyway. Can you imagine what would have happened if you’d fully transformed?”
“I don’t care,” Spencer says honestly. “I wasn’t thinking about that, about me. I was focused on you and that you were hurt.”
“I’m fine,” Brendon insists again, “But I wouldn’t have been if the whole world had seen you go all Minion-of-Hell. Ryan would have killed you. And then me for causing it.”
“I didn’t think,” Spencer shakes his head. “And I’m sorry, it was stupid, but I really don’t care.”
“You have to!” Brendon says vehemently. “You have to care, you have to have some control over it.”
“I can’t,” Spencer snaps, then looks away. “Not when it comes to you, okay? I just. I can’t think straight. Not about you.”
Brendon stares at him. “What…Spencer-“
Spencer’s tired of pretending, tired of keeping the last secret he has from Brendon. So he crosses the short distance between them and crowds Brendon against the counter.
“Sorry,” he says, and kisses him.
Brendon goes very still, and Spencer is about to pull away, to run off and probably accidentally set some things on fire when Brendon slides his arms around Spencer’s waist and holds him there, kissing him back just as urgently. It’s awkward and desperate and so perfect that it’s the most like himself Spencer has felt in the longest time and he never wants it to stop, not even when the light that Brendon is emitting turns suddenly from a soft glow to a white light so bright that even with his eyes tightly shut, Spencer feels blinded.
“Brendon,” he says against Brendon’s mouth, eyes scrunched tightly shut and suppressed laughter clear in his voice. “What were you saying about having control?”
Brendon starts, and then laughs, and the light dims away. “I see what you mean,” he says breathlessly, leaning back. “Maybe. Uh. Maybe we should move into the back lounge. You know. Less, uh. Windows.”
“Good idea,” Spencer smiles, and feels Brendon’s lips curve into a matching grin.
~~~
They take it slow- with touring and recording and keeping themselves in check and Ryan trying to alternatively interfere and tease them, it seems the wisest thing to do. Spencer learns that spending a long, empty afternoon making out with Brendon in his bunk or on Brendon’s sofa or in Ryan’s back yard or wherever they get the chance, is the best way to spend it.
They do silly things that make Spencer feel like he’s 15 all over again, going on dates and holding hands and kissing in the back row of the movies when the lights are down and no one can recognise them. They make stupid little gestures like Spencer driving 30 miles out of his way to pick up Brendon’s favourite peanut butter when the store closest to him has run out, or Brendon making Spencer a mixtape of classic rock songs he’ll sing for Spencer, if he wants him to.
They shy away from sex at first- following a disastrous near-blinding incident when Spencer jerks Brendon off for the first time, and Brendon receiving minor burns on his head and neck when he tries to give Spencer a blow job- but all Spencer really craves is Brendon’s touch, Brendon’s skin, closer and more of it.
They dance around it for a long time, neither of them wanting to bring it up unless the other does, until Spencer can’t stand it anymore. They’re in some country, about to play some show in some small venue, but they’ve got time to kill before they go on and Spencer is restless. Ryan and Jon are smoking on the bus, and Brendon is holed up in the dressing room, fretting about a note he missed earlier at rehearsal. He’s pacing, and suddenly Spencer can’t take it anymore, and is across the room, grasping Brendon by the arms and holding him still.
Brendon looks at him with wide eyes, and Spencer catches sight of himself in the mirror behind them. His face is alight with a weird sort of intensity, and there’s heat in his eyes that for once isn’t his demon-side peeping through.
“I want you to fuck me,” Spencer says, and kisses him before he can reply. It’s a deep kiss, hot enough that Brendon’s fingers scramble to find purchase on Spencer’s shirt, pulling him in closer, and Spencer’s hands slide round, one resting in the small of Brendon’s back, the other dipping just beneath the waistband of his jeans.
When they finally break apart for air, Brendon is looking a little dazed.
“O-okay,” he stutters, and then grins. “Wow. We’re really doing this?” he asks.
Spencer kisses him in reply.
It’s maybe not the best sex anyone’s ever had- Spencer’s only done this a few times before, Brendon even less, but it’s their first time and it makes Spencer’s heart ache with how right it feels, how into place everything has fallen.
They’re short on time- shows wait for no man, nor demon or angel either- so it’s hurried and Spencer doesn’t get to savour the moment as much as he would have liked. But they’re dressed again when Ryan and Jon return, Ryan giving Spencer a knowing look until he realises his shirt is mis-buttoned. Brendon is grinning from ear to ear, and sometimes when Spencer looks at him it looks like he’s shimmering a little, but they’ve both gotten so good at controlling their powers that he’s sure he’s imagining it, that it’s the lighting in the room, that maybe it’s just the way he sees Brendon now.
The show is fantastic- they’re all on top form and the audience is the best they’ve had in a long time, kids singing back the words to Brendon, even words to songs that haven’t been released yet. The love in the room is so real it almost wraps around them, making them all smile, making them all feel like they belong.
“Best show ever,” Jon says, while they’re off stage. Brendon is entertaining the audience briefly so the rest of them can get a breather, getting the kids to help him out with the singing and looking overjoyed at their enthusiasm.
Back out on stage, Spencer can’t avoid wincing as he takes his seat again. It’s a sensation he’d forgotten, the way that every big movement, every kick of the pedal acts as a reminder to what he and Brendon had been doing right before the show. It’s enough to bring vivid memories flooding back with each beat.
He looks up and catches Brendon’s eye. It must show on his face, because Brendon gives him a smile like he knows what Spencer’s thinking about and moves closer, playing at Spencer during the last song. Spencer meets Brendon’s eyes again and he can’t hide his emotions, knows that there’s nothing written there but love and awe and happiness. Brendon’s always been able to read Spencer like a book, and even more so now, and so it’s no surprise when he fumbles a note or two, stares at Spencer in surprise and then beams at him, turning and running back to his microphone.
They finish the song, and Brendon tries to say thank you, to say goodnight, but the crowd is screaming too loud, pouring out love at them and Brendon hunches his shoulders a little, shyly, glances at Jon, at Ryan, and then at Spencer, meeting his eyes.
Spencer smiles, and then Brendon does too, smile growing brighter and brighter and then he starts glowing. At first it’s enough that only Spencer probably notices, something to be passed off as weird lighting if anyone comments. But then he just keeps glowing brighter and brighter, until Spencer has to shield his eyes from the intensity of the white light. He hears Ryan swear, hears screams from the audience, and then Spencer is up, stumbling blindly down from his riser towards Brendon, reaching out until his hand connects with Brendon’s face.
“Brendon,” he says, voice sounding pained. “Stop it.”
The light dies almost instantly, leaving everyone blinking into the sudden darkness. Spencer’s hand is still on Brendon’s cheek and he steps back. Not quick enough, judging by Jon’s bewildered look.
Ryan mumbles something about technical difficulties, and herds them all off stage, locking them in the dressing room.
“What the fuck was that?” he demands, staring at each of them in turn. Brendon looks shaken, face ashen, hand tightly clutching Spencer’s as if he’s afraid to let go.
Jon shakes his head. “Why did you grab Brendon?” he asks Spencer. “I don’t understand why-“
“It must’ve been the lights,” Spencer says firmly. “Some weird technical feedback problem. Thing. I don’t know. That must’ve been it.”
“Oh come on,” Ryan starts, but Spencer stands up.
“Lighting glitch,” he insists. “And we’re going to go and make sure that doesn’t happen again,” he adds, tugging Brendon to his feet and pulling him out towards the bus.
Part Two