Jonquil 1/3
Jonquil (1/3)
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Jon/Spencer, Brendon/Ryan, Tom/Greta
NC-17
17495 words
Hawley, Massachusetts has a population of roughly 336 people. It has a rural appeal that causes people to possibly pass by, take a few pictures of cows shitting in a pasture, but no one considers living there that wasn’t born there. The truth is there just isn’t much there. There’s a local doctor’s office, a church, three schools (elementary, junior high, and high school), and basically one main street that the entire town branches off from. There’s a small, local grocery shop, a hair salon, a pet shop, and a few other personal businesses that most people in Hawley fiercely put their faith into.
His mother was one of those people.
notes: Once more, I have an inability to write quick, sweet stories, so here you have 40 pages of flower shop/small town AU! I have a thing for Massachusetts, so when I googled "small towns in Massachusetts", Hawley was the first thing that came up. Apparently I'm not creative enough to think of a town name. So, with that being said, this is a real place, however I have no idea if this is what Hawley is like. I've never been there, and I mean no offense to anyone that could possibly live there and read this. As always, thank you to my fantastic beta
ivebeenburgled for all her encouragement and, well, fantasticness. Comments/criticism are very much appreciated, per usual.
IMPORTANT: The flowers' meanings in this story are important a majority of the time, so, instead of making you people scroll, I've provided this entry for you to keep open as you read. (Right right click, and press either "open in new window" or "open in new tab".) That way things can actually make some sense ^^ Enjoy!
“This is your sister calling you, pick up. This is your sister calling you, pick up. THIS IS YOUR SISTER CALLING YOU, PICK UP.”
Spencer Smith practically growls, one hand shooting out of the bedcovers to slap his cellphone, scrambling for the speaker button. He doesn’t even recall his sister recording her own ring tone.
“What, Lisa?” he croaks, eyes screwed shut, still buried deeply within his covers. He listens to the commotion on the other side of the line, and then a soft sniffle, before his sister’s voice echoes through his bedroom.
“Mom’s dead.”
Spencer reaches over, takes the battery out of his phone, then turns onto his hip and falls asleep once more.
*
After three more hours of sleep, a cup of coffee, and a decent shower, Spencer calls his sister back.
“I cannot believe you hung up on me,” is the first thing she says, to which Spencer gives a shrug he knows she can’t see. He sits down heavily on his bed, white sheets under a white comforter, before tugging on one of his socks.
“How can you not believe that?” he asks, and Lisa gives a noise that was something between a sigh and a sob. Spencer gives an actual sigh, running his fingers through his hair.
“What, Leese? What do you want from me?” he begins, sitting back on his bed a bit, staring up at the white ceiling, then to four white walls for help. “I’m across the United States. What could I possibly do?”
Lisa pauses, and Spencer just kind of stares off in a manner that generally meant he was listening. “I want you to come home.”
“You know I can’t-“
“I’m sorry,” Lisa begins, and Spencer braces himself for the complete bitch out he knows he is going to receive. “Maybe your prissy ass didn’t hear me. I, your sister for all your fucking life, would like you to come home to take care of the things our mother left behind. And I sure as hell didn’t hear myself ask, ‘Spencer, dear brother, would you mind terrible coming home and actually doing something good for your family for once?’”
Spencer winces, looking to the suit laid perfectly out for him, calling him to go to work. He sighs, throwing away his remaining dress sock and moving to his drawers for a pair of decently comfortable jeans.
“Fine, I’ll be there eventually.”
“You’ll catch the next flight out.”
And then she hangs up.
*
In retrospect, Spencer knows that standing in the middle of his childhood street in his hometown, staring at a large, Victorian house while talking on a cellphone might appear to be odd to the naked eye. However, he couldn’t care less about what these people thought of him.
Spencer sniffs and adjusts the duffel slung over his shoulder, pressing the phone tighter against his ear.
“Patrick,” he complains, continually staring at the house, glaring at its white outer walls with blue trim, looking so pristine and proper, mocking him. “Patrick, you have to see my house. It’s ridiculous.”
“What’s ridiculous is the fact that you dropped all of your appointments, which Pete is incredibly pissed about mind you, just to fly out to Hicksville, Massachusetts because you’re scared of your sister. Who, for the record, was all the way across the United States at that point and time.” Spencer can hear the clanking of Patrick’s keyboard, the methodical tune that happens when you type up a certain number. God, he misses California.
“Hawley. I’m in Hawley, Massachusetts, Patrick. Haw. Ley.” Spencer looks one way down the street, and then the other, looking for any cars that might just so happen to come speeding along and take him out. He has no such luck.
“As in the second part of Hee Haw?”
Spencer pauses. “Fuck you.”
Patrick chuckles. “Why don’t you go visit that friend that you mentioned once or twice?” He tries to sound hopeful, really he does, but on the other side of the country is just comes out false.
“Ryan?” Spencer’s eyes drift from his own house to the equally massive Victoria house beside it, except in tan. “Why on earth would he want to see me?” He wouldn’t, you abandoned him ten years ago hangs heavily in the air around him. Spencer waves his hand around as if to clear the air, which, in reality, just adds to his crazy points.
Patrick sighs and there’s a small fumble and Spencer knows he’s switching ears. Patrick is always so restless. “Spence, I don’t know what you want me to tell you. If you don’t want to go visit your sister, go visit Ryan. If you don’t want to visit Ryan, find someone else that used to like your bitchy ass.”
“Thanks, Pat. You’re a doll.” Patrick just laughs, and Spencer sighs and hangs up the phone.
Hawley, Massachusetts has a population of roughly 336 people. It has a rural appeal that causes people to possibly pass by, take a few pictures of cows shitting in a pasture, but no one considers living there that wasn’t born there. The truth is there just isn’t much there. There’s a local doctor’s office, a church, three schools (elementary, junior high, and high school), and basically one main street that the entire town branches off from. There’s a small, local grocery shop, a hair salon, a pet shop, and a few other personal businesses that most people in Hawley fiercely put their faith into.
His mother was one of those people.
She had owned the local flower shop. Spencer vaguely remembers her motto being, “We’ll bring the sunshine into your life!” or something along the lines of that. He remembers sitting on the counter, counting out how many flowers the person was buying and what their names were, and every time he’d get the number and name right she would press a quick kiss to his cheek.
His mother was always the person with a smile and a friendly hello. She was the person to ask about your grandfather’s surgery only minutes after he’d come to. She was the person that sent a bouquet of flowers to you on birthdays, holidays, anniversaries, days of personal achievements-anything that you’ve forgotten. She was the savior of forgetful husbands, people that weren’t quite friends, and children that didn’t know what exactly to do on holidays.
Spencer shakes his head sharply as something that vaguely resembles an ache worms its way into his chest.
He bypasses his childhood home, staring coldly at the one bottom plank missing in the picket fence from the time he and Ryan had been playing cricket with Greta and Brendon, and looks to the house that he knew nearly as well as his own. He stops on the sidewalk in front of the house, looking at the mailbox for some type of sign as to who still lived there. It had always been non-descript.
He walks up to the door, right up to the door, and stares at the familiar gray color. In fear of another flash back, he knocks tentatively before banging loudly with the doorknocker. It takes a few minutes and Spencer shifts his duffel nervously before just dropping it to the ground.
The man who opens the door is definitely not Ryan.
The last time he had seen Ryan he had looked like a pre-teen girl, with long hair, big, brown eyes, and dressed like he was an extra to some foreign film no one would ever watch. He was at least five eleven then, too. The man before him could not be, in any life, Ryan Ross. He had the brown hair that just covered his ears, and the brown eyes. But the man before him was dressed in a pair of ripped jeans with paint stains on them and an equally paint stained shirt (Spencer didn’t smell paint anywhere, though) and he had a decent sized beard growing.
He was pretty sure Ryan was incapable of growing body hair.
The man raises his brows until they were under his hairline, looking to Spencer and then Spencer’s duffel. “You can’t stay here.”
“Uh, you’re not Ryan,” is the first thing Spencer can come up with. The man is not only rugged, but intimidating, and even though Spencer has the slight height advantage, he can feel himself slinking back.
“No, no I’m not. And you’re not Tom, so I think we have a problem here.” He leans his weight against the doorknob, watching Spencer for a moment with his head cocked. “If you’re looking for him, he’s across the street from your old house.”
Spencer blinks, once, then twice, and tilts his head. He doesn’t remember seeing this man before in his life, and considering he looked to be older then Spencer, Spencer just says, “Why on earth would you move here?”
The man doesn’t even bat an eye. “Why would you leave?”
Spencer grabs his duffle, tossing it over his shoulder again, and walks down the steps without so much as another word. He decides he doesn’t like this man even before he hears the dry, victorious chuckle and the door shutting.
*
The first thing Spencer says when Ryan opens the door isn’t “I hope you’re not mad at me,” or “Hello, former best friend”. It’s, “Who’s the scruffy dickwad that lives in your old house?”
Ryan looks over Spencer’s shoulder as though he’s attempting to remember before answering, “Jonathan Walker. Moved here ten years ago with Tom Conrad, just after you left, actually.”
Spencer pauses a moment to take Ryan in. He’s definitely taller, perhaps a bit more filled in then Spencer remembered. Ryan’s still got that long hair, a bandana keeping his bangs away from his eyes, and there are still those big, brown eyes behind the black-rimmed glasses. He looks older, Spencer notes, which, yeah, generally happens with the passing of time. He looks rather exhausted, and Spencer thinks that maybe his eyes are rimmed with red. However, Ryan also looks healthy, happy, and if anything a bit peaceful.
Spencer shifts his duffel onto his left shoulder. “You don’t look surprised to see me.”
Ryan gives a small chuckle, deep from within his throat, giving Spencer a dry, toothy smile. “Most people come home when their parent dies.” Spencer remembers that smile, that tone of voice, from way back when Ryan’s father died.
Spencer knows where this conversation is going, and Ryan does to. So instead, Spencer asks, “You live with Brendon?”
“I’m married to and have three children with Brendon,” Ryan replies in a bored manner. Spencer sees the hesitation in Ryan’s hand before it leaves the doorknob, tugging Spencer into a tight hug. Spencer’s hands hover over Ryan’s slim hips, blinking in confusion. “I missed you. I’m glad your home,” Ryan breathes into Spencer’s neck, and Spencer recovers from the mild shock quickly enough to drop his duffel and wrap both of his arms around Ryan’s waist.
Spencer isn’t glad to be home, and he doesn’t believe in saying things he doesn’t feel, so he says, “I missed you, too. So much.”
*
“I can’t believe you have kids, never mind three,” Spencer says, watching as the three children run and play happily within their wooden playscape in the backyard. Ryan and Spencer are lounging on tanning chairs, idly sipping at some ice tea, just watching them with fond eyes.
“I can’t believe you’re an accountant,” Ryan replies, squinting against the setting sun as he turns to face Spencer. Spencer gives a small shrug and a smile.
“I always did like math. How’s Greta?”
Ryan smiles. “She’s happily married and expecting her first child.” Ryan’s eyes narrow dangerously as one of the children hits the ground hard-the youngest boy, Spencer thinks-but once he brushes himself off, Ryan is all calm smiles once more.
“Who did she marry?” Spencer asks, taking a sip of his ice tea with a satisfied sigh.
“Tom Conrad. He’s a wonderful man, really.”
Ryan goes on, prompted by Spencer’s questions. He learns that Greta and Tom met ten years ago and have practically been together ever since. They’ve been married for nearly five years now and still happily so. They live in Greta’s old house, her parents having moved closer to Boston for one reason or another. Greta secretly suspects that they just wanted her to have the house but she made no argument. Greta is a teacher at the junior high, grade seven, and Tom owns the local music store and gives the children lessons.
Spencer doesn’t ask about Jon. The only thing he knows is that Ryan’s mother moved to an apartment on the other side of town (which really wasn’t that far) and Jon bought her house.
Spencer learns that two out of Ryan and Brendon’s three children are biologically theirs. The oldest son, Darren, is from Brendon’s sperm and their daughter, Elizabeth, is from Ryan’s. They had used the same surrogate mother, just to make sure the children were blood related, a sister of a friend who was more then happy to accept the couple. The youngest boy, Nicholas, was adopted. Spencer learned that Ryan and Brendon had been together eight years, and their children were ages seven (Darren), six (Nicholas), and four (Elizabeth). Ryan stays at home with the children, only taking special requests (“For now,” Ryan said, looking to the sun, “I’d like to get back to my bakery once Elizabeth is a bit older.”) and Brendon had adopted his father’s grocery store when his parents moved to Las Vegas. This made sense, really, because they had once traveled there on vacation and hadn’t stopped talking about it since.
By the time they’re finished talking, the children are all around them. Elizabeth and Nicholas are laying with Ryan, each of their heads pillowed on his chest as he strokes their hair, and Darren is dozing off against Spencer’s shoulder.
“Why did you and Brendon start dating?” Spencer asks, softly as to not wake the children.
Ryan smiles, giving a slight shrug of his shoulders before replying with an equally as soft, “Some things aren’t easily explained.”
“Oh yeah?” Spencer snorts, “Give me one example.”
“Why’d you leave?”
Spencer falls silent, looking to Nicholas’s sleeping face as Ryan gives the same hum self-satisfaction at being right that he did when he was a child.
*
By the time Spencer finally gets around to going to his own house, it’s almost six o’clock. He doesn’t have the energy to see Brendon or go visit Greta and meet Tom. So instead, he’s outside of his own house, staring at the lights from within the living room. Spencer takes a deep breath, squaring his shoulders, duffel in one hand, and just walks right up onto the porch and to the front door.
He then scampers down the steps, making it halfway down the walkway out before turning around to face the house, taking another deep breath, and running up the stairs of the porch.
Repeat roughly seven times.
On the eighth time, he’s at the front gate when he hears the door open. He turns slowly, looking to his sister within the doorway, leaning against the frame heavily.
“Will you quit dicking around and get your ass in here?” she says, and Spencer gives a sheepish smile before walking up onto the porch one last time. He walks over to Lisa, giving her a small smile that she returns and pressing a quick kiss to her cheek. She just shakes her head in that way of hers, giving Spencer a sharp slap to the ass as he passes by.
It is good to know some things didn’t change.
*
“The house has changed a bit,” Spencer says into his mug of tea, looking across the table at his sister. Lisa looks older, more worn and exhausted, and Spencer thinks he’s starting to see a trend. Her hair is pulled into a messy bun, a few of the hairs breaking through to frame the almost same face Spencer had, except with soft, feminine features and their father’s nose and lips.
Lisa just snorts, shaking her head and flipping the page of the magazine she’s looking at. Tombstones, caskets, cremation urns-Spencer wasn’t aware that they actually sold magazines like that. “That’s what happens over time, young one,” she says sagely, nodding her head, her eyes flicking up to meet Spencer’s for a brief second. “The leaves grow, fall, and die. The seasons change. People break things and then replace them.”
“Ha ha,” Spencer mutters, taking a generous sip of his tea, rubbing wearily at his eyes. “So when are we making the arrangements?”
“The group is coming over tomorrow to help make decisions. I figured they were as much her children as we were.” There’s no bitterness to Lisa’s voice but Spencer thinks there probably should be.
“What does this group consist of?” Spencer asks, crossing his arms on the table and resting his chin on his forearm. He stares blankly at a rather ornate, emerald green urn before Lisa turns the page.
“Ryan, Brendon, the children, Tom, Greta, and Jon,” Lisa replies, barely looking as Spencer shoots up.
“Jon Walker?”
Lisa quirks a brow, “You went to the Ross home looking for Ryan and found Jon?”
Spencer blinks, “How’d you know?”
“I watched you.”
Spencer lets out a sharp bark of laughter, “You creep!” Lisa chuckles, shaking her head in a sisterly manner. “And yes, I did. I don’t like him.”
Lisa gives a soft “mmhm” and Spencer narrows his eyes, “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Well,” she begins, flipping the page listlessly, now moving onto a variety of flower arrangements to be sent to grieving families, “I do recall you saying the same exact thing about Brendon when you guys were, like, six. I’m glad to see you’ve matured, Spen.”
Spencer softens slightly at the nickname, so the “Fuck you,” doesn’t come out quite as venomously as he would like.
“Jon’s a good guy once you get past the dickhead. He’s been through a lot.”
Spencer just shrugs, looking to an arrangement of lilies that spell out “My Condolences,” knowing exactly how to recreate it.
*
Spencer sleeps in his childhood room and waking up to the face of Bon Jovi is something he never thought he would do again.
The room doesn’t exactly personify him from birth to age eighteen but it does a decent job. There are band posters, strange stains on his rug, and dark blue walls with black lightproof curtains that keeps the atmosphere dark and personal. For some reason, as he had rifled through his drawers, Spencer isn’t surprised that the only items of interests are a lavender candle and a bottle of lubricant.
So when Spencer wakes up this morning, he decides to go walk to the main street for a decent cup of coffee.
Spencer walks into the local music store, boasting a fantastic music scene, books, as well as coffee and breakfast materials. Spencer’s glad that the large store hasn’t changed much. If Spencer squints hard enough, he’s sure he can still see Ryan, Brendon, Greta, and himself huddled in the corner of the room.
Spencer takes his time getting to the counter, looking around as the memories flood his brain. Him and Brendon every morning, buying coffee for disgruntled Ryan and Greta. After school, coming here to request music and do some homework. There was a coffee counter, as well as the music check out, the entire store split into two completely different products that somehow blended seamlessly.
Spencer is glad to see that Tom hadn’t ruined the shop, and if anything, it was in even better shape then it used to be. There is plush carpeting in the music section, paintings hanging along the green walls, and soft, subtle music playing to lull in the morning customers.
“May I help you?”
Spencer wheels around, looking to the coffee counter to see one Jonathan Walker standing there in regular, everyday clothing. He gives Spencer the same false smile he had given him yesterday, but for some reason, it just angered Spencer now. This was his place, his memories, his childhood. What gave Jon the right to infiltrate it?
“Yes, actually,” Spencer says, perhaps a bit snippier then he intended. Jon’s smile remains in tact, “I would like a large cup of coffee. Two sugars, one milk, hazelnut.”
Jon nods, getting to work immediately, Spencer continuing to explore the store until finding himself at the coffee counter.
“How did you know who I was?” Spencer asks, leaning against the counter.
“For the same reason everyone knows who I am. People don’t leave or enter Hawley too often,” Jon says with a shrug, his back to Spencer, moving around comfortably. “That, and I became very close to your mother and sister. As well as Brendon, Ryan, and Greta. There wasn’t a day that went by that you weren’t mentioned by someone.”
Spencer suppresses a wince with a sigh, leaning his elbows against the counter and rubbing his temples. He watches Jon work, his large hands capable and deft at what he was doing. Spencer pulled out the dollar he had brought with him, handing it to Jon after he had placed his order on the counter. Jon eyes the dollar with an eyebrow arched.
“It’s technically $3.99 but I’ll pay the difference,” Jon says, handing Spencer his coffee. Spencer doesn’t argue because he couldn’t care less. He watches for a moment as Jon takes the dollar, takes out a pen, and begins to write.
Spencer huffs, turning around as the sound of the pen scratching quickly filled his ears. He looks over his shoulder, just to make sure Jon wasn’t maiming his dollar, because really, he didn’t care what Jon did, but money was another subject.
However, halfway through the store, Spencer turns around sharply and snaps, “What are you doing?”
Jon looks up from his writings, looking back down to the dollar once, then twice, and then says as thought it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “Writing on a dollar.”
Spencer sighs. “That I can see, but why?” And damn it, Spencer is walking back over to the counter, taking the dollar that he had previously given Jon. At the bottom in rather legible handwriting are the words, “We must reinvent love.”
Spencer blinks in shock, looking to the dollar and then back to Jon. “Well, wow, that’s beautiful,” he says, and Jon just takes the dollar back, looking down at it and then placing it within the cash register. “But why write it on a dollar?”
Jon pauses for a minute, looking to Spencer with eyes he can’t quite read and something that isn’t quite a smile. “I like the idea of someone saying that a dollar changed their life.”
*
Spencer takes a few hours to look around town, and much to his (dis)pleasure, nothing has changed all the much. Still the same people, the same faces, with their same hugs and kisses and friendly hellos and waves.
When he finally makes his way to the house, he can tell that there’s life within its walls. From the moment he steps within the yard, he can just smell family. There’s something baking and Spencer can hear children in the backyard and it makes him smile in a way he didn’t know he was capable of.
“Is there a party in here or what?” Spencer asks as he moves into the kitchen, still smiling at the people that are there. Of course, there’s Lisa, in one of those sundresses she seems to adore. Then there’s Ryan, who has contacts in today and a simple hoodie with a pair of dress pants. Jon is leaning against the counter with a cup of coffee in hand in the same flip-flop, jeans, t-shirt combination he had at the store. Beside him is an attractive blonde man with deep eyes that Spencer hovers over for a brief second before putting a name to the face. Tom.
It’s Brendon he sees first and he only recognizes Brendon because he’s talking. The foundation that is purely Brendon is still there. The lips, the soulful brown eyes, the dark hair. However… it’s arranged different now. No glasses, his hair was cut a bit differently, and his lips… well they were still moving impressively quick to get out every last thought before his mind changes. He’s in some lavender hoodie that Spencer almost asks if it’s Elizabeth’s… but then realizes it’s probably too gay for even her.
Spencer’s heart falls when he doesn’t see Greta.
“Spencer?” Brendon asks, and Spencer just gives a small sort of smile, because, yeah, he’s changed, too. No more shortly cropped hair, and he’s lost of lot of weight, but he’s still Spencer and Brendon can pick up on his bitch aura from miles away. Brendon crosses the kitchen in a few steps and Spencer braces himself for the rib-cracking hug that is about to commence.
Yeah, some things don’t change.
“Ryan told me you were here but I didn’t believe him because, hey, I didn’t think you’d ever come back,” Brendon mumbles into Spencer’s neck, and the first thing Spencer thinks is Brendon’s gotten taller before quickly replying.
“Well, I’m back.”
Brendon nods as he pulls away, giving Spencer a wide smile, and just shaking his head. “I never thought I’d see the day that Spencer Smith stepped foot inside Hawley again.”
“He’s not exactly here for a good reason.”
Spencer blinks once, then twice, and slowly turns around to see a very grown up Greta lounging in the door. The children run in, Elizabeth coming to Spencer who demands to be picked up. Spencer complies, heaving the little girl up onto his hip, bouncing her slightly as she giggles.
Greta doesn’t look too happy to see him.
“Hi, Greta,” Spencer says cautiously, watching her watch him through heavily lidded eyes. Something registers that this look has happened before, the intense glaring, and it did not mean anything good.
“Hello, traitor,” is all she says, cocking her head to the side in a certain playful movement Spencer recognizes immediately. He smiles widely, and eventually she does as well, moving forward to wrap her arms around Spencer’s waist in a tight hug.
“Mm… how are you, dear?” Spencer mumbles into her hair, wrapping his arm around her shoulders, rocking her slightly. Greta says something along the lines of “super good” into Spencer’s chest. Elizabeth reaches out and hugs Greta, too.
“You look…” Spencer pauses, waiting for Greta to take a step back. “Huge.” Greta laughs, landing a hard punch to Spencer’s bicep and, yeah, Spencer remembers the abuse. Save for the enormous belly, Greta looks fantastic. She’s wearing a soft, gray pregnancy dress that just falls to about mid-knee, and Spencer is amazed at just how beautiful she is. “And you’ve got a killer rack.”
“You still know how to compliment a lady,” she says with a snort, walking past Spencer to move to the blonde man, who immediately wraps his arms around her in an affectionate embrace. A small smile quirks Spencer’s lips as she presses a soft kiss to his neck. Elizabeth kicks a bit, so Spencer begins bouncing her once more.
“Well, now that we’re all here,” Lisa says, opening the stove to peer inside. Spencer goes on tiptoes to look into the stove but Lisa successfully blocks his view, glaring over her shoulder at him. “Who wants to plan a funeral?”
Reluctantly, they all raise their hands.
Next Part >>
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Jon/Spencer, Brendon/Ryan, Tom/Greta
NC-17
17495 words
Hawley, Massachusetts has a population of roughly 336 people. It has a rural appeal that causes people to possibly pass by, take a few pictures of cows shitting in a pasture, but no one considers living there that wasn’t born there. The truth is there just isn’t much there. There’s a local doctor’s office, a church, three schools (elementary, junior high, and high school), and basically one main street that the entire town branches off from. There’s a small, local grocery shop, a hair salon, a pet shop, and a few other personal businesses that most people in Hawley fiercely put their faith into.
His mother was one of those people.
notes: Once more, I have an inability to write quick, sweet stories, so here you have 40 pages of flower shop/small town AU! I have a thing for Massachusetts, so when I googled "small towns in Massachusetts", Hawley was the first thing that came up. Apparently I'm not creative enough to think of a town name. So, with that being said, this is a real place, however I have no idea if this is what Hawley is like. I've never been there, and I mean no offense to anyone that could possibly live there and read this. As always, thank you to my fantastic beta
ivebeenburgled for all her encouragement and, well, fantasticness. Comments/criticism are very much appreciated, per usual.
IMPORTANT: The flowers' meanings in this story are important a majority of the time, so, instead of making you people scroll, I've provided this entry for you to keep open as you read. (Right right click, and press either "open in new window" or "open in new tab".) That way things can actually make some sense ^^ Enjoy!
“This is your sister calling you, pick up. This is your sister calling you, pick up. THIS IS YOUR SISTER CALLING YOU, PICK UP.”
Spencer Smith practically growls, one hand shooting out of the bedcovers to slap his cellphone, scrambling for the speaker button. He doesn’t even recall his sister recording her own ring tone.
“What, Lisa?” he croaks, eyes screwed shut, still buried deeply within his covers. He listens to the commotion on the other side of the line, and then a soft sniffle, before his sister’s voice echoes through his bedroom.
“Mom’s dead.”
Spencer reaches over, takes the battery out of his phone, then turns onto his hip and falls asleep once more.
*
After three more hours of sleep, a cup of coffee, and a decent shower, Spencer calls his sister back.
“I cannot believe you hung up on me,” is the first thing she says, to which Spencer gives a shrug he knows she can’t see. He sits down heavily on his bed, white sheets under a white comforter, before tugging on one of his socks.
“How can you not believe that?” he asks, and Lisa gives a noise that was something between a sigh and a sob. Spencer gives an actual sigh, running his fingers through his hair.
“What, Leese? What do you want from me?” he begins, sitting back on his bed a bit, staring up at the white ceiling, then to four white walls for help. “I’m across the United States. What could I possibly do?”
Lisa pauses, and Spencer just kind of stares off in a manner that generally meant he was listening. “I want you to come home.”
“You know I can’t-“
“I’m sorry,” Lisa begins, and Spencer braces himself for the complete bitch out he knows he is going to receive. “Maybe your prissy ass didn’t hear me. I, your sister for all your fucking life, would like you to come home to take care of the things our mother left behind. And I sure as hell didn’t hear myself ask, ‘Spencer, dear brother, would you mind terrible coming home and actually doing something good for your family for once?’”
Spencer winces, looking to the suit laid perfectly out for him, calling him to go to work. He sighs, throwing away his remaining dress sock and moving to his drawers for a pair of decently comfortable jeans.
“Fine, I’ll be there eventually.”
“You’ll catch the next flight out.”
And then she hangs up.
*
In retrospect, Spencer knows that standing in the middle of his childhood street in his hometown, staring at a large, Victorian house while talking on a cellphone might appear to be odd to the naked eye. However, he couldn’t care less about what these people thought of him.
Spencer sniffs and adjusts the duffel slung over his shoulder, pressing the phone tighter against his ear.
“Patrick,” he complains, continually staring at the house, glaring at its white outer walls with blue trim, looking so pristine and proper, mocking him. “Patrick, you have to see my house. It’s ridiculous.”
“What’s ridiculous is the fact that you dropped all of your appointments, which Pete is incredibly pissed about mind you, just to fly out to Hicksville, Massachusetts because you’re scared of your sister. Who, for the record, was all the way across the United States at that point and time.” Spencer can hear the clanking of Patrick’s keyboard, the methodical tune that happens when you type up a certain number. God, he misses California.
“Hawley. I’m in Hawley, Massachusetts, Patrick. Haw. Ley.” Spencer looks one way down the street, and then the other, looking for any cars that might just so happen to come speeding along and take him out. He has no such luck.
“As in the second part of Hee Haw?”
Spencer pauses. “Fuck you.”
Patrick chuckles. “Why don’t you go visit that friend that you mentioned once or twice?” He tries to sound hopeful, really he does, but on the other side of the country is just comes out false.
“Ryan?” Spencer’s eyes drift from his own house to the equally massive Victoria house beside it, except in tan. “Why on earth would he want to see me?” He wouldn’t, you abandoned him ten years ago hangs heavily in the air around him. Spencer waves his hand around as if to clear the air, which, in reality, just adds to his crazy points.
Patrick sighs and there’s a small fumble and Spencer knows he’s switching ears. Patrick is always so restless. “Spence, I don’t know what you want me to tell you. If you don’t want to go visit your sister, go visit Ryan. If you don’t want to visit Ryan, find someone else that used to like your bitchy ass.”
“Thanks, Pat. You’re a doll.” Patrick just laughs, and Spencer sighs and hangs up the phone.
Hawley, Massachusetts has a population of roughly 336 people. It has a rural appeal that causes people to possibly pass by, take a few pictures of cows shitting in a pasture, but no one considers living there that wasn’t born there. The truth is there just isn’t much there. There’s a local doctor’s office, a church, three schools (elementary, junior high, and high school), and basically one main street that the entire town branches off from. There’s a small, local grocery shop, a hair salon, a pet shop, and a few other personal businesses that most people in Hawley fiercely put their faith into.
His mother was one of those people.
She had owned the local flower shop. Spencer vaguely remembers her motto being, “We’ll bring the sunshine into your life!” or something along the lines of that. He remembers sitting on the counter, counting out how many flowers the person was buying and what their names were, and every time he’d get the number and name right she would press a quick kiss to his cheek.
His mother was always the person with a smile and a friendly hello. She was the person to ask about your grandfather’s surgery only minutes after he’d come to. She was the person that sent a bouquet of flowers to you on birthdays, holidays, anniversaries, days of personal achievements-anything that you’ve forgotten. She was the savior of forgetful husbands, people that weren’t quite friends, and children that didn’t know what exactly to do on holidays.
Spencer shakes his head sharply as something that vaguely resembles an ache worms its way into his chest.
He bypasses his childhood home, staring coldly at the one bottom plank missing in the picket fence from the time he and Ryan had been playing cricket with Greta and Brendon, and looks to the house that he knew nearly as well as his own. He stops on the sidewalk in front of the house, looking at the mailbox for some type of sign as to who still lived there. It had always been non-descript.
He walks up to the door, right up to the door, and stares at the familiar gray color. In fear of another flash back, he knocks tentatively before banging loudly with the doorknocker. It takes a few minutes and Spencer shifts his duffel nervously before just dropping it to the ground.
The man who opens the door is definitely not Ryan.
The last time he had seen Ryan he had looked like a pre-teen girl, with long hair, big, brown eyes, and dressed like he was an extra to some foreign film no one would ever watch. He was at least five eleven then, too. The man before him could not be, in any life, Ryan Ross. He had the brown hair that just covered his ears, and the brown eyes. But the man before him was dressed in a pair of ripped jeans with paint stains on them and an equally paint stained shirt (Spencer didn’t smell paint anywhere, though) and he had a decent sized beard growing.
He was pretty sure Ryan was incapable of growing body hair.
The man raises his brows until they were under his hairline, looking to Spencer and then Spencer’s duffel. “You can’t stay here.”
“Uh, you’re not Ryan,” is the first thing Spencer can come up with. The man is not only rugged, but intimidating, and even though Spencer has the slight height advantage, he can feel himself slinking back.
“No, no I’m not. And you’re not Tom, so I think we have a problem here.” He leans his weight against the doorknob, watching Spencer for a moment with his head cocked. “If you’re looking for him, he’s across the street from your old house.”
Spencer blinks, once, then twice, and tilts his head. He doesn’t remember seeing this man before in his life, and considering he looked to be older then Spencer, Spencer just says, “Why on earth would you move here?”
The man doesn’t even bat an eye. “Why would you leave?”
Spencer grabs his duffle, tossing it over his shoulder again, and walks down the steps without so much as another word. He decides he doesn’t like this man even before he hears the dry, victorious chuckle and the door shutting.
*
The first thing Spencer says when Ryan opens the door isn’t “I hope you’re not mad at me,” or “Hello, former best friend”. It’s, “Who’s the scruffy dickwad that lives in your old house?”
Ryan looks over Spencer’s shoulder as though he’s attempting to remember before answering, “Jonathan Walker. Moved here ten years ago with Tom Conrad, just after you left, actually.”
Spencer pauses a moment to take Ryan in. He’s definitely taller, perhaps a bit more filled in then Spencer remembered. Ryan’s still got that long hair, a bandana keeping his bangs away from his eyes, and there are still those big, brown eyes behind the black-rimmed glasses. He looks older, Spencer notes, which, yeah, generally happens with the passing of time. He looks rather exhausted, and Spencer thinks that maybe his eyes are rimmed with red. However, Ryan also looks healthy, happy, and if anything a bit peaceful.
Spencer shifts his duffel onto his left shoulder. “You don’t look surprised to see me.”
Ryan gives a small chuckle, deep from within his throat, giving Spencer a dry, toothy smile. “Most people come home when their parent dies.” Spencer remembers that smile, that tone of voice, from way back when Ryan’s father died.
Spencer knows where this conversation is going, and Ryan does to. So instead, Spencer asks, “You live with Brendon?”
“I’m married to and have three children with Brendon,” Ryan replies in a bored manner. Spencer sees the hesitation in Ryan’s hand before it leaves the doorknob, tugging Spencer into a tight hug. Spencer’s hands hover over Ryan’s slim hips, blinking in confusion. “I missed you. I’m glad your home,” Ryan breathes into Spencer’s neck, and Spencer recovers from the mild shock quickly enough to drop his duffel and wrap both of his arms around Ryan’s waist.
Spencer isn’t glad to be home, and he doesn’t believe in saying things he doesn’t feel, so he says, “I missed you, too. So much.”
*
“I can’t believe you have kids, never mind three,” Spencer says, watching as the three children run and play happily within their wooden playscape in the backyard. Ryan and Spencer are lounging on tanning chairs, idly sipping at some ice tea, just watching them with fond eyes.
“I can’t believe you’re an accountant,” Ryan replies, squinting against the setting sun as he turns to face Spencer. Spencer gives a small shrug and a smile.
“I always did like math. How’s Greta?”
Ryan smiles. “She’s happily married and expecting her first child.” Ryan’s eyes narrow dangerously as one of the children hits the ground hard-the youngest boy, Spencer thinks-but once he brushes himself off, Ryan is all calm smiles once more.
“Who did she marry?” Spencer asks, taking a sip of his ice tea with a satisfied sigh.
“Tom Conrad. He’s a wonderful man, really.”
Ryan goes on, prompted by Spencer’s questions. He learns that Greta and Tom met ten years ago and have practically been together ever since. They’ve been married for nearly five years now and still happily so. They live in Greta’s old house, her parents having moved closer to Boston for one reason or another. Greta secretly suspects that they just wanted her to have the house but she made no argument. Greta is a teacher at the junior high, grade seven, and Tom owns the local music store and gives the children lessons.
Spencer doesn’t ask about Jon. The only thing he knows is that Ryan’s mother moved to an apartment on the other side of town (which really wasn’t that far) and Jon bought her house.
Spencer learns that two out of Ryan and Brendon’s three children are biologically theirs. The oldest son, Darren, is from Brendon’s sperm and their daughter, Elizabeth, is from Ryan’s. They had used the same surrogate mother, just to make sure the children were blood related, a sister of a friend who was more then happy to accept the couple. The youngest boy, Nicholas, was adopted. Spencer learned that Ryan and Brendon had been together eight years, and their children were ages seven (Darren), six (Nicholas), and four (Elizabeth). Ryan stays at home with the children, only taking special requests (“For now,” Ryan said, looking to the sun, “I’d like to get back to my bakery once Elizabeth is a bit older.”) and Brendon had adopted his father’s grocery store when his parents moved to Las Vegas. This made sense, really, because they had once traveled there on vacation and hadn’t stopped talking about it since.
By the time they’re finished talking, the children are all around them. Elizabeth and Nicholas are laying with Ryan, each of their heads pillowed on his chest as he strokes their hair, and Darren is dozing off against Spencer’s shoulder.
“Why did you and Brendon start dating?” Spencer asks, softly as to not wake the children.
Ryan smiles, giving a slight shrug of his shoulders before replying with an equally as soft, “Some things aren’t easily explained.”
“Oh yeah?” Spencer snorts, “Give me one example.”
“Why’d you leave?”
Spencer falls silent, looking to Nicholas’s sleeping face as Ryan gives the same hum self-satisfaction at being right that he did when he was a child.
*
By the time Spencer finally gets around to going to his own house, it’s almost six o’clock. He doesn’t have the energy to see Brendon or go visit Greta and meet Tom. So instead, he’s outside of his own house, staring at the lights from within the living room. Spencer takes a deep breath, squaring his shoulders, duffel in one hand, and just walks right up onto the porch and to the front door.
He then scampers down the steps, making it halfway down the walkway out before turning around to face the house, taking another deep breath, and running up the stairs of the porch.
Repeat roughly seven times.
On the eighth time, he’s at the front gate when he hears the door open. He turns slowly, looking to his sister within the doorway, leaning against the frame heavily.
“Will you quit dicking around and get your ass in here?” she says, and Spencer gives a sheepish smile before walking up onto the porch one last time. He walks over to Lisa, giving her a small smile that she returns and pressing a quick kiss to her cheek. She just shakes her head in that way of hers, giving Spencer a sharp slap to the ass as he passes by.
It is good to know some things didn’t change.
*
“The house has changed a bit,” Spencer says into his mug of tea, looking across the table at his sister. Lisa looks older, more worn and exhausted, and Spencer thinks he’s starting to see a trend. Her hair is pulled into a messy bun, a few of the hairs breaking through to frame the almost same face Spencer had, except with soft, feminine features and their father’s nose and lips.
Lisa just snorts, shaking her head and flipping the page of the magazine she’s looking at. Tombstones, caskets, cremation urns-Spencer wasn’t aware that they actually sold magazines like that. “That’s what happens over time, young one,” she says sagely, nodding her head, her eyes flicking up to meet Spencer’s for a brief second. “The leaves grow, fall, and die. The seasons change. People break things and then replace them.”
“Ha ha,” Spencer mutters, taking a generous sip of his tea, rubbing wearily at his eyes. “So when are we making the arrangements?”
“The group is coming over tomorrow to help make decisions. I figured they were as much her children as we were.” There’s no bitterness to Lisa’s voice but Spencer thinks there probably should be.
“What does this group consist of?” Spencer asks, crossing his arms on the table and resting his chin on his forearm. He stares blankly at a rather ornate, emerald green urn before Lisa turns the page.
“Ryan, Brendon, the children, Tom, Greta, and Jon,” Lisa replies, barely looking as Spencer shoots up.
“Jon Walker?”
Lisa quirks a brow, “You went to the Ross home looking for Ryan and found Jon?”
Spencer blinks, “How’d you know?”
“I watched you.”
Spencer lets out a sharp bark of laughter, “You creep!” Lisa chuckles, shaking her head in a sisterly manner. “And yes, I did. I don’t like him.”
Lisa gives a soft “mmhm” and Spencer narrows his eyes, “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Well,” she begins, flipping the page listlessly, now moving onto a variety of flower arrangements to be sent to grieving families, “I do recall you saying the same exact thing about Brendon when you guys were, like, six. I’m glad to see you’ve matured, Spen.”
Spencer softens slightly at the nickname, so the “Fuck you,” doesn’t come out quite as venomously as he would like.
“Jon’s a good guy once you get past the dickhead. He’s been through a lot.”
Spencer just shrugs, looking to an arrangement of lilies that spell out “My Condolences,” knowing exactly how to recreate it.
*
Spencer sleeps in his childhood room and waking up to the face of Bon Jovi is something he never thought he would do again.
The room doesn’t exactly personify him from birth to age eighteen but it does a decent job. There are band posters, strange stains on his rug, and dark blue walls with black lightproof curtains that keeps the atmosphere dark and personal. For some reason, as he had rifled through his drawers, Spencer isn’t surprised that the only items of interests are a lavender candle and a bottle of lubricant.
So when Spencer wakes up this morning, he decides to go walk to the main street for a decent cup of coffee.
Spencer walks into the local music store, boasting a fantastic music scene, books, as well as coffee and breakfast materials. Spencer’s glad that the large store hasn’t changed much. If Spencer squints hard enough, he’s sure he can still see Ryan, Brendon, Greta, and himself huddled in the corner of the room.
Spencer takes his time getting to the counter, looking around as the memories flood his brain. Him and Brendon every morning, buying coffee for disgruntled Ryan and Greta. After school, coming here to request music and do some homework. There was a coffee counter, as well as the music check out, the entire store split into two completely different products that somehow blended seamlessly.
Spencer is glad to see that Tom hadn’t ruined the shop, and if anything, it was in even better shape then it used to be. There is plush carpeting in the music section, paintings hanging along the green walls, and soft, subtle music playing to lull in the morning customers.
“May I help you?”
Spencer wheels around, looking to the coffee counter to see one Jonathan Walker standing there in regular, everyday clothing. He gives Spencer the same false smile he had given him yesterday, but for some reason, it just angered Spencer now. This was his place, his memories, his childhood. What gave Jon the right to infiltrate it?
“Yes, actually,” Spencer says, perhaps a bit snippier then he intended. Jon’s smile remains in tact, “I would like a large cup of coffee. Two sugars, one milk, hazelnut.”
Jon nods, getting to work immediately, Spencer continuing to explore the store until finding himself at the coffee counter.
“How did you know who I was?” Spencer asks, leaning against the counter.
“For the same reason everyone knows who I am. People don’t leave or enter Hawley too often,” Jon says with a shrug, his back to Spencer, moving around comfortably. “That, and I became very close to your mother and sister. As well as Brendon, Ryan, and Greta. There wasn’t a day that went by that you weren’t mentioned by someone.”
Spencer suppresses a wince with a sigh, leaning his elbows against the counter and rubbing his temples. He watches Jon work, his large hands capable and deft at what he was doing. Spencer pulled out the dollar he had brought with him, handing it to Jon after he had placed his order on the counter. Jon eyes the dollar with an eyebrow arched.
“It’s technically $3.99 but I’ll pay the difference,” Jon says, handing Spencer his coffee. Spencer doesn’t argue because he couldn’t care less. He watches for a moment as Jon takes the dollar, takes out a pen, and begins to write.
Spencer huffs, turning around as the sound of the pen scratching quickly filled his ears. He looks over his shoulder, just to make sure Jon wasn’t maiming his dollar, because really, he didn’t care what Jon did, but money was another subject.
However, halfway through the store, Spencer turns around sharply and snaps, “What are you doing?”
Jon looks up from his writings, looking back down to the dollar once, then twice, and then says as thought it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “Writing on a dollar.”
Spencer sighs. “That I can see, but why?” And damn it, Spencer is walking back over to the counter, taking the dollar that he had previously given Jon. At the bottom in rather legible handwriting are the words, “We must reinvent love.”
Spencer blinks in shock, looking to the dollar and then back to Jon. “Well, wow, that’s beautiful,” he says, and Jon just takes the dollar back, looking down at it and then placing it within the cash register. “But why write it on a dollar?”
Jon pauses for a minute, looking to Spencer with eyes he can’t quite read and something that isn’t quite a smile. “I like the idea of someone saying that a dollar changed their life.”
*
Spencer takes a few hours to look around town, and much to his (dis)pleasure, nothing has changed all the much. Still the same people, the same faces, with their same hugs and kisses and friendly hellos and waves.
When he finally makes his way to the house, he can tell that there’s life within its walls. From the moment he steps within the yard, he can just smell family. There’s something baking and Spencer can hear children in the backyard and it makes him smile in a way he didn’t know he was capable of.
“Is there a party in here or what?” Spencer asks as he moves into the kitchen, still smiling at the people that are there. Of course, there’s Lisa, in one of those sundresses she seems to adore. Then there’s Ryan, who has contacts in today and a simple hoodie with a pair of dress pants. Jon is leaning against the counter with a cup of coffee in hand in the same flip-flop, jeans, t-shirt combination he had at the store. Beside him is an attractive blonde man with deep eyes that Spencer hovers over for a brief second before putting a name to the face. Tom.
It’s Brendon he sees first and he only recognizes Brendon because he’s talking. The foundation that is purely Brendon is still there. The lips, the soulful brown eyes, the dark hair. However… it’s arranged different now. No glasses, his hair was cut a bit differently, and his lips… well they were still moving impressively quick to get out every last thought before his mind changes. He’s in some lavender hoodie that Spencer almost asks if it’s Elizabeth’s… but then realizes it’s probably too gay for even her.
Spencer’s heart falls when he doesn’t see Greta.
“Spencer?” Brendon asks, and Spencer just gives a small sort of smile, because, yeah, he’s changed, too. No more shortly cropped hair, and he’s lost of lot of weight, but he’s still Spencer and Brendon can pick up on his bitch aura from miles away. Brendon crosses the kitchen in a few steps and Spencer braces himself for the rib-cracking hug that is about to commence.
Yeah, some things don’t change.
“Ryan told me you were here but I didn’t believe him because, hey, I didn’t think you’d ever come back,” Brendon mumbles into Spencer’s neck, and the first thing Spencer thinks is Brendon’s gotten taller before quickly replying.
“Well, I’m back.”
Brendon nods as he pulls away, giving Spencer a wide smile, and just shaking his head. “I never thought I’d see the day that Spencer Smith stepped foot inside Hawley again.”
“He’s not exactly here for a good reason.”
Spencer blinks once, then twice, and slowly turns around to see a very grown up Greta lounging in the door. The children run in, Elizabeth coming to Spencer who demands to be picked up. Spencer complies, heaving the little girl up onto his hip, bouncing her slightly as she giggles.
Greta doesn’t look too happy to see him.
“Hi, Greta,” Spencer says cautiously, watching her watch him through heavily lidded eyes. Something registers that this look has happened before, the intense glaring, and it did not mean anything good.
“Hello, traitor,” is all she says, cocking her head to the side in a certain playful movement Spencer recognizes immediately. He smiles widely, and eventually she does as well, moving forward to wrap her arms around Spencer’s waist in a tight hug.
“Mm… how are you, dear?” Spencer mumbles into her hair, wrapping his arm around her shoulders, rocking her slightly. Greta says something along the lines of “super good” into Spencer’s chest. Elizabeth reaches out and hugs Greta, too.
“You look…” Spencer pauses, waiting for Greta to take a step back. “Huge.” Greta laughs, landing a hard punch to Spencer’s bicep and, yeah, Spencer remembers the abuse. Save for the enormous belly, Greta looks fantastic. She’s wearing a soft, gray pregnancy dress that just falls to about mid-knee, and Spencer is amazed at just how beautiful she is. “And you’ve got a killer rack.”
“You still know how to compliment a lady,” she says with a snort, walking past Spencer to move to the blonde man, who immediately wraps his arms around her in an affectionate embrace. A small smile quirks Spencer’s lips as she presses a soft kiss to his neck. Elizabeth kicks a bit, so Spencer begins bouncing her once more.
“Well, now that we’re all here,” Lisa says, opening the stove to peer inside. Spencer goes on tiptoes to look into the stove but Lisa successfully blocks his view, glaring over her shoulder at him. “Who wants to plan a funeral?”
Reluctantly, they all raise their hands.
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