your earthquake was just cracks, tom/spencer, nc-17: Master Post & Part i

[flimsy]

your earthquake was just cracks
Tom/Spencer, Jon/Spencer; NC-17
30,257 words

Tom kisses like a drowning man, Spencer thinks. He kisses like he wants to hold onto your lips with his teeth as the current carries him away, desperate and hungry and wild. It makes Spencer breathless, speechless, and makes him cling like he's the one who's drowning.

Part i
Part ii
Part iii

This is what feels to me like the Neverending Story. The seeds were planted sometime in fall 2008, when I not only realized how hot Tom Conrad was, really, but when lookingatstars also let me ramble and flail at her and told me about how she wanted Tom/Spencer fic. I lost motivation when I realized this was going to be a monster, and signed up for Big Bang to make myself finish it - I am still surprised I actually did! I owe so many thanks to a lot of wonderful people, who motivated me and helped me along the way, in no particular order: imjustlikeme, adorkable37, violentfires, lookingatstars, myrafur, treemaps. terribilita owns MY LIFE, for the fastest and most thorough beta-job the world has ever seen. Many thanks also to carnilia for betaing the first part of the fic despite RL stress. Oh god, I hope I didn't forget anyone; if so, please kick my ass.

Art by myrafur
Music by justranda & iceyrica



your earthquake was just cracks

They kiss on the first night in England, when Spencer is so drunk he doesn't even care anymore. The moon is up and shining, and Tom Conrad has him up against the outer shell of the bus, hands under his T-shirt, biting at his lips as if he's trying to eat him up.

Spencer is whimpering and fisting Tom's shirt between his hands, feeling small and overwhelmed, the cold metal of the bus against his back making him hyperaware of where he is and who he's with. Tom's hands are on his belly, stroking, rubbing, and Spencer just feels hot everywhere even though England is so, so cold.

Tom's beard is scraping against his cheek, then his neck, when Tom decides to suck the soft skin behind his ear until it's blossoming red, and Spencer can't do anything but let his eyes flutter shut, heart thudding hard in his chest. When Tom finally pulls away, pupils dilated - eyes black and burning - and Spencer feels the familiar sting of irritated flesh, it's only because there's a loud holler from the other side of the bus, where the door is, an indiscernible voice, that they break apart.

Tom pulls away, tugs Spencer's T-shirt back down his hips, and says, "I'll find you later. Panic bus, yeah?"

Spencer nods feebly and clutches his phone tightly as he returns to the bus. To sleep, not to wait, he tells himself. Ryan's asleep already, his soft breaths and the sound of his iPod filling the silent void of the bunk area. Spencer takes off his shoes and jeans and socks and curls into his bunk; Tom doesn't find him that night.

*

Spencer doesn't get drunk the next night; he stays on the bus and plays Guitar Hero with Ryan until his fingers hurt from trying to catch up with Ryan's highscore. He's tired and sore from the show, and Tom left a mark right under his jaw and it's all blue and red, and Spencer is angry that he can't hide it and that Ryan keeps giving him that look.

They've stopped at the venue for the night, and right across the street is a 24 hour-store. At twelve-thirty, with Ryan half asleep in his lap, Spencer feels the insatiable need for a chocolate-mint milkshake. He disentangles himself from Ryan, slips on his sneakers, then heads outside across the street.

It's cold, and the cool air is making his skin rise up in goosebumps. He comes as far as the curb when a voice behind him hollers his name, echoing between the dark windows and empty streets. Spencer turns and waits for Tom to catch up to him.

Tom's cheeks are red - alcohol, heat, cold, Spencer cannot tell, not yet - and he stops a mere inch away from Spencer. It's then that Spencer can smell the soft wafting whiskey scent from him, mixed with chlorine and water.

"There's a fucking outdoor pool like, right around the corner, Smith," he says and shakes his head, droplets of water flying from his hair; one hits Spencer's lip, and he reaches up, distractedly wiping it away.

"That's awesome," he says, and it sounds even colder than he intended .

Tom doesn't seem to register his tone, just closes in, hands finding Spencer's hips again, and yeah, now Spence can definitely smell the alcohol on his breath. "C'mon," he starts, thumbs digging into Spencer's belly, "c'mon, skinny dipping." He hooks his fingers into the waistband of Spencer's jeans and pulls, bumping their hips together. He looks feral, feline even, pupils so dilated his eyes are like charcoals.

"No, no," Spencer says reluctantly, craning his neck over Tom's shoulder, heart starting to race. "It's cold."

"I'll make you warm again," Tom says; Spencer is sure he didn't just drink tonight. "Let me make you hot, Spencer." His hands dip into Spencer's jeans, slipping around his hips and squeezing the round swell of his ass, and Spencer jumps a little, nearly tripping as he steps off the curb and onto the street.

You didn't come to me last night, he wants to say, but Tom's face is splitting into a grin - nearly cruel, canines pressing into his lower lip - and Spencer shudders, shaking his head.

"You're an asshole," he says indignantly, stomach twisting. Suddenly he doesn't want a milkshake anymore. Tom just laughs, and Spencer turns his back on him, hurrying across the street and into the store.

He idles around for fifteen minutes, buys a pack of chewing gum and the new Flash, and only pays when he's sure that Tom isn't waiting on the other side of the street anymore. He returns to the bus, feeling like a thief, sneaking back in, and Ryan wakes when he sits on the couch delicately.

"What took you so long?" he asks, eyes squinty and tired, eyeliner everywhere.

"Nothing," Spence says. "There was a line."

*

"You know what the thing about bands is?" William asks, rhetorically, and waves his joint; Spencer scrunches up his nose at the smell. "Thing about bands is they gotta make music. If you don't make music, then you're not a fucking band." He says this like it's a big Confucian revelation, and Spencer just nods, brows raised a little.

"That's right, that's so right," Brendon chimes in; he's flushed, sitting in the Butcher's lap, and his hair is everywhere. Spencer feels like hitting him for having fun when he himself is not. Spencer grabs the bottle of flavored vodka from the table, and to everyone's audible amusement - but he so doesn't give a shit, seriously - takes a big sip, then another one, the liquor burning down his throat.

Somebody hollers; Spencer puts down the bottle again, head swimming. He tried not to feel guilty for drinking and now he does anyway. He stumbles to his feet and towards the door of the bus.

"Hey, Conrad," Tom's guitar tech -Joe? Jon? - says loudly from the kitchenette, tilting his chin in Spencer's direction as Spencer looks at him. "Looks like you don't hafta get him drunk tonight."

Spencer's flips him off and stumbles out into the cold. He left his hoodie on the armrest of the couch, he realizes two steps away from the bus. It's so cold the hair at the small of his neck stands up. Seven steps away from the bus, he hears the door open and close once more, then heavy steps behind him, and he doesn't have to turn to know whose hands are closing around his middle, splayed over his stomach like pinned butterflies.

"I fucking love your tummy, Smith," Tom says into his ear, breath hot and moist against his skin, feeling even hotter compared to the cool night air. "It's like, soft and squishy. Squishy. Can I make a wish when I rub it?" He laughs against Spencer's neck, and Spencer wiggles out of his grip, cheeks hot with embarrassment.

He turns to face Tom, his arms going around his middle instinctively, glaring. "I'm not-" he starts, but doesn't even know what he wants to say. His belly is tingly, and he wants it to go away right this moment, and he wants Tom to stop staring at him.

Tom tilts his brow at him and pushes his hands into the pockets of his jeans; his hair is all askew, and Spencer wants to reach up and set it straight again. "Why're you doing this?" he asks instead and juts out his chin with faux-confidence.

"Doing what?" Tom grins at him. He's bouncing from his toes to his heels and back again, over and over, as if he's going to bound forward any second.

"I'm going back to my bus," Spencer says and turns around, stalking off. This is not. Something he should have to put up with. Tom apparently thinks otherwise. Tom apparently thinks it's a good idea to grab Spencer's belt, make him stumble and then fall when he just lets go.

Spencer sputters for a moment, climbing back to his feet, and frowns at the sharp pain shooting through his scraped-open palms. "What the fuck?" he hisses and Tom actually looks apologetic.

"Sorry, I-" He shrugs a bit, his smile genuine. "Didn't think you'd-" He takes Spencer's hands in his own, turning the palms up, examining him in the dim light of the street lamps. Spencer feels his glare soften a little, but pulls his hands away after a moment.

"Let me make it up to you," Tom says, and the old, familiar tone is back.

"What-" Spencer begins, but he doesn't get much farther before Tom walks him backwards until his back hits the bus again, pressing him against it and their mouths together. Tom tastes like whiskey. He always tastes like whiskey when he kisses Spencer. Well, the one time that he did. Spence whimpers a bit, knowing he should push him away, but parts his lips anyway, granting entrance.

Tom kisses like a drowning man, Spencer thinks. He kisses like he wants to hold onto your lips with his teeth as the current carries him away, desperate and hungry and wild. It makes Spencer breathless, speechless, and makes him cling like he's the one who's drowning.

*

Jon likes cats and coffee and cinnamon rolls, and he always smells like moss and earth and fresh wood, clean and new. Spencer gets to know of all these things in Bristol, before the show, when they're out and about exploring the city and all the little streets and cafes. Jon ends up with them somehow, losing Bill and Tom somewhere along the way, and Spencer does not mind at all.

Brendon clings to him like a tiny monkey, and only two hours later, when they're having lunch at the harbor, sitting on the wall, the water below their feet, eating fish and chips, the two of them are already singing Disney songs at the top of their lungs.

*

So, this is how it all starts.

On the plane from Washington to London - Heathrow, Spencer, for some unfathomable reason, ends up sitting next to the blond guitarist from the Academy. Spencer knows his name - it's Tom Conrad, they met before on a tour - and ten minutes into the flight he also knows that Tom takes a lot of pictures and knows how to convince flight attendants to give him free alcoholic drinks.

Spencer throws Ryan helpless glares, but Ryan is asleep, his headphones plugged in. Tom goes on babbling about Chicago and the band and how funny Pete Wentz is and if Spencer has a boyfriend, and Spencer flushes hotly all over, fumbles for his own iPod and turns the music up really high.

He doesn't sleep at first, but drifts off slowly; when he wakes again, one or two hours away from their destination, it's the Butcher in Tom's seat now, sleeping with his mouth open.

*

Tom doesn't talk to him the next day; he just quietly helps Jon set up his guitar and amps and everything after Panic's set, and Spence sits backstage, his feet dangling off the side of the stage, drinking diet soda. He's sweaty and gross from playing, and wants nothing more than to go shower, but he drew the shortest straw and has to wait until everyone else is done. Last time this happened, Tom sat behind him and pushed his hands under Spencer's T-shirt, whispering silly jokes until Spencer had enough, embarrassed about so much attention, and jumped off the stage.

Nothing happens today; Tom isn't even looking at him. His face is grim and he holds his guitar like a gun, ready to shoot somebody. Spencer draws his knees up to his chest and hides his face against them so he can't watch Tom anymore. Not that he wants to.

*

They play their last show in Birmingham and fly home that very night. Spencer has caught a slight cold and takes a NyQuil right before they get on the plane; he passes out minutes after take off, sleeping until they land again in Washington.

Ryan shuffles him through the gates to board their flight to Vegas, and Spencer sleepily looks back, only to see Tom padding off with the other guys to another gate.

*

They're in Vegas, in Spencer's house, and Brendon is sprawled on the couch, munching chocolates. Spencer's cold still hasn't worn down, and he's developed a slight cough. Ryan is telling him about his girlfriend, that she had a Myspace conversation with another boy that lasted like six pages, Spencer, six pages! and Spencer is just really tired.

They haven't seen Brent since they got back, and while Brent isn't usually hanging out with them twenty-four-seven, it's weird not to hear from him at all, especially since they'll go back on tour tomorrow. Spencer is tapping his fingers against his phone nervously; he doesn't know what he's expecting. A call from Brent, maybe Pete.

He's nervous and jittery and doesn't even know why, and Ryan just won't shut the fuck up about his girlfriend, and Spencer is surprised by how sudden and violent the urge to hit him is.

He grabs his phone, steps outside into the fresh January air and dials Brent's numbers. Brent doesn't pick up for the first seven rings, and when he does he sounds very far away.

"Wha'," he says.

"Hey," Spencer says. He doesn't even know why he called, so he just says, "You ready to catch our flight tomorrow?"

Brent grunts into the phone. "Yeah, yeah." Spencer bites his lip and feels sad. He remembers before - not too long ago, even - when he could call Brent and they'd just talk. Not like he and Ryan - nobody will ever understand him like Ryan does - but there was sort of a comfort, a mutual peace between them. Now Spencer feels like he's constantly pushing.

"Cool," he says. "See you tomorrow then." He hangs up. He can see Ryan and Brendon talking animatedly through the glass door; Ryan's handing over his phone and waving his hand, and Brendon reads something on the screen before replying. He can see Ryan's lips molding softly around the sharp "P" in Pete's names, and for a moment Spencer wishes he had a rockstar sort-of boyfriend too.

*

Spencer doesn't really understand the logic behind tour planning, and by no means would he ever claim otherwise, but he honestly thinks it's fucking stupid to fly to Michigan and then to Canada and then back to the States to board a bus there.

By the time they hit Providence, Spencer sort of wants to kick their tour manager. It's only the sixth date - seventh day on the road - and Spencer feels worn and tired already. England, he remembers, was different.

Now it feels like they have to prove something, anything. Spencer doesn't even know. He wanders around restless after the show, his hair standing up and wet, letting it dry in the humid air of their motel.

He likes hotel nights; real beds and real showers, real food sometimes, even. There's nobody here at their hotel, either; maybe it's just that the season is wrong, or the peeling tapestry and the old, one-eyed receptionist are sort of a deterrent.

Spencer has taken his shitty, old-ass camera with him and is photographing dusty window sills and the flaking paint on the handrail of the stairs. He feels a little ridiculous, but Ryan's sleeping, Brendon and Brent are headed off somewhere with the Academy guys and Spencer has nothing to do.

Jon showed him a couple of pictures last night, all soft colors and lightening, and it made Spencer want to take some of his own, even though he knows he'll never be that good. He sort of gets it, though - viewing the world through a viewfinder, banning it on digital cellophane and shit.

He walks up the stairs and finds a broken champagne flute in the corner of the landing. It's dusty and gray, and looks like it's been there forever. He kneels tenderly, focusing the camera on the object, takes a blurry picture anyway when a noise behind him makes him jerk. He catches himself against the wall with one hand, heart thudding.

"The light is way too shitty for your camera in here, Smith," Tom says. He's not looking at Spencer, really; his camera is raised and Tom is hiding behind it. Spencer feels himself flush hotly, both both because he's been caught at his amateurish attempts at taking pictures and at the sound of the shutter on Tom's camera. It goes click-click-click, catching every movement, and Spencer wants to run away.

Tom hasn't talked to him since they arrived; just one little hello, sort of off-handish, at the airport in Grand Rapids.

Spencer doesn't say anything. He bites his lip and looks away, letting his bangs fall over his eyes.

"Don't you think it's funny, too," Tom says, still taking pictures, "that the venue was called Heartbreak Hotel?" He snorts a little. Spencer feels his heart clench. "And that Mike's girlfriend broke up with him exactly today?" He adds that nearly as an afterthought. As if it wasn't really what he wanted to say.

Spencer pushes himself off the floor, stuffing his camera into the pocket of his jeans. "I gotta go shower," he says, then cringes at how bad his lie is.

"Your hair is wet," Tom says and finally lowers his camera. "You just showered. What do you wanna shower again for?"

"None of your business," Spence bites out and tries to push past Tom down the stairs. Tom catches him around the waist, though, and presses him against the wall, dust raining off the ceiling from the impact. He smells clean; his breath is soft and warm. No whiskey, vodka, or rum.

"If you're gonna shower again now anyway," Tom whispers against his ear. "Let me make you dirty first."

"No, no," Spencer says and pushes at Tom's shoulder, winding out of his grip. He stumbles down one, two stairs, and comes to a halt, panting, leaning against the handrail. "What do you even want from me?" he asks, voice breaking a little. He doesn't want to stop and wait, knows he shouldn't, but finds himself stilling anyway.

Tom follows him down the stairs and kisses him, hands on the rail right next to Spencer's. It feels different; Tom Conrad kisses differently when he's sober, apparently. His lips are soft and yielding, and he flutters his eyes shut. Spencer inhales shakily against Tom's mouth, then closes his eyes as well and parts his lips to deepen the kiss a little.

It's nearly sweet, and Tom's hands wander to his waist, framing his hips. Spencer lets go of the handrail and reaches up to hold onto Tom's waist, kissing back. Tom pulls away after a moment, and Spencer chases the kiss, breathless, his heart thundering loudly in his chest. Tom moves to step away, but Spencer holds on; he tiptoes forward until he can press against Tom again and nipps at his lower lip.

Tom growls a little, and presses closer, fingers digging into the small of Spencer's back, pulling him in. Spencer breaks away after a moment, shivering softly. The hair at the back of his neck is standing up and his face is flushed.

Tom licks his lips and leans in again when suddenly his phone starts vibrating and ringing loudly. Spencer jumps back a little, and Tom fumbles for his phone, stepping away and answering. He exchanges a few quick words with someone - Jon, Spencer assumes - and Spencer waits, looking away, while he wipes his lips dry.

"I should-" he gestures, and edges down the stairs once Tom finishes. "Go." Tom doesn't hold him back this time, and Spencer fumbles the old key to his room out of his pocket.

Heartbreak Hotel. What a joke.

*

In New York, Spencer gets really drunk. He doesn't even plan it, or like, think about it until William drags him to his hotel room, stumbling a little already. Ryan's there - and yes, Spencer did wonder where he suddenly vanished off to - and while he's not drinking, he seems very wrapped up in a game with the Butcher and Brendon, so Spencer doesn't feel quite as guilty when William hands him a shot glass and tells him to down the fucker.

William's all sorts of lanky and self-aware, loud on stage, but he's quiet and stumbles over his words when you catch him without the microphone. Spencer likes talking to him; he curls up on the couch, where two of the tech guys are playing Halo, and lets William press more and more drinks in his hand as they talk.

By the time William starts telling him about his crazy uncle, Spencer's already quite drunk. His head is swimming a little, and he excuses himself to the bathroom, not able to follow the conversation anymore. He relieves himself and washes his hands, then returns. His head feels woozy, and he steps outside for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut.

Tom finds him there, leaning against the wall; Spencer doesn't notice until Tom presses against him, body warm, nuzzling his neck.

"Hey baby," he says, hands on Spencer's hips again. Spencer sighs a little and wraps his arms around him, holding him close. "You're so drunk," Tom continues; his breath is so warm against Spencer's neck and his body is solid, a comfortable weight against Spencer's own.

Spencer turns his head a little and presses a soft, chaste kiss to Tom's lips before pulling away again. "Why do you ignore me all the time?" he whispers against Tom's mouth.

Tom shakes his head, breath coming in short puffs. "Not ignoring you." He kisses Spencer again, more hungry now, tongue and teeth, and Spencer flutters his eyes shut, his head swimming and anticipation tugging inside him. He sucks on Tom's tongue and holds onto his T-shirt as Tom pushes his hands into the back of his jeans, squeezing tightly. He draws back after a moment to hook his thumbs into the waistband of Spencer's jeans, pulling him a few doors down, and Spencer follows stumbling, his face red.

Tom fumbles his keycard from his pants, pushes open the door to his room and pulls Spencer inside. The door falls shut to a dark, overheated hotel room, but Spence doesn't care; Tom growls a little and presses him into the door, kissing him hard.

He whimpers a little, his hands wandering up against Tom's chest, and pushes him towards the bed. Tom breaks the kiss and slides his fingers under Spencer's T-shirt, raising it up and over his head, while Spencer toes off his shoes. Tom follows suit, unbuttoning his shirt with nimble fingers, then unbuckles his belt, letting it hang open while he deals with Spencer's fly.

Spencer moans a little, dick twitching, nearly instantly hard at the brush of Tom's fingers, and steps out of the hindering garment when Tom prompts him to, breathing hard, his hands on Tom's waist.

"Yeah?" Tom asks, and grabs Spencer's hips, not waiting for his answer before he turns them both, Spencer tumbling onto the bed, Tom climbing over him, spreading his body over Spencer's as he kisses him again, biting at his lips, his hips moving down against Spencer's thigh, the worn denim rough against his skin.

He sits up and back again after a moment and takes off his jeans and underwear, his socks, and Spencer pulls himself up, pressing a soft, wet kiss to his collarbone, then his neck, lingering. He's so hard it's almost painful, and Tom reaches down and palms him through his underwear. Spencer whimpers softly, bucking up, wanting more, and Tom moves to fist his own cock, too, rubbing Spencer's softly, and Spencer lets his forehead drop on Tom's shoulder, panting wetly against his skin.

"Spencer, Spencer," Tom says, and ducks his head to nudge him with his nose, then kisses him hungrily. His mouth is wet, and god, Spencer moans again despite himself. He trails his hand down Tom's thigh and curls his fingers around his cock, pushing Tom's hand away, starting to stroke lightly, having to pull back and away from the kiss, his whiskey muddled brain not able to concentrate on two things at once.

Tom groans, low and rough, brows furrowed, his teeth on his lower lip, and Spencer moans softly, then dives down and licks the tip of Tom's cock. Tom hisses out a curse and his hips come off the bed, thighs flexing under Spencer's hands. He hesitates only for a small moment, then slides onto the floor, sitting between Tom's legs. His heart is racing nervously, and he's never done this, but Tom's cock is right in front of him and he wants it so bad it almost hurts.

"Fuck, Spence," Tom grits out and pushes his fingers into Spencer's hair, encouraging him to come closer, and Spencer does.

"Please-" Tom says, and Spencer dips his head down and wraps his lips around Tom's cock, trying to cover his teeth. He closes his eyes and sucks farther down, cheeks hollowing a little, and hopes he's doing at least somewhat okay. Tom growls and bucks up, pulling at Spencer's hair, and Spencer chokes only a little, trying to keep his rhythm as he bobs his head up and down, covering what he can't take of Tom's cock with his fingers, delicately curled around the base, following the movement of his mouth.

"Fuck, yeah, yeah," Tom groans, voice rough, and Spencer has to hold onto the duvet next to Tom's hip to keep his balance as Tom continues thrusting into his mouth. Tom keeps babbling, his voice growing hoarser with every word, and Spencer breathes hard through his nose, the blood rushing in his hears.

"Yeah, god, this your first time?" Tom keeps talking, hips moving relentlessly. "Your mouth feels so good, shit-" Spencer curls over, trying to take him deeper, oddly aware of his stomach, his cock hard and twitching.

Tom shakes his head and curves his hips away, tugging at Spencer's hair until he pulls off, his still hard dick sliding over Spencer's lower lip for a moment. The smell of sex and Tom's panting fill the room, and Spencer looks at him again as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His lips are swollen and tender; when he tries to speak, his voice sounds rough.

"Tom-" Spencer climbs back onto the bed, beckoned by Tom's hands on his shoulders. They tumble down a little awkwardly, legs and arms and wet lips pressed together hotly. Tom's fingers find the waistband of his boxerbriefs and pull them down, over the soft curve of his ass, and Spencer arches his hips off the mattress to ease the process. Tom is pressed against him, all warm, and for a tiny moment, when Tom pulls back and drags his hands over Spencer's chest and belly, Spencer feels a rush of embarrassment, of don'tlookatmedon'tlookatme, until Tom leans down again and presses a kiss to his collarbone, chin, higher, their lips meeting.

He sighs a little, pushes his hands into Tom's hair and holds him there, kissing back hungrily; his legs shift around until Tom gets it, finally, and settles between them, rutting against him, their dicks sliding together hard and fast.

"Can I fuck you?" Tom pants out roughly, punctuating his words with small thrusts of his hips, his beard rough as he sucks on Spencer's neck. "I really wanna fuck you," he repeats and Spencer moans softly, spreading his legs more widely, shivering.

"Okay, okay," he says and ducks down to capture Tom's mouth again, wanting to kiss him. "Do it," he continues, stomach twisting nervously. Tom groans and slides off him, bending over the side of the bed; he re-emerges only a second later with a condom between his fingers, which he drops on the sheets.

He shuffles closer again, pushing Spencer's legs up by his thighs, and Spencer sucks his bottom lips between his teeth; the alcohol is wearing off a little, his head less dizzy, and he's becoming more aware of the humid heat of their hotel room and the contact of their bodies. Tom's fingers slide from his thigh to the crease of his thigh and curl around his cock, and Spencer lets out a tiny, desperate hiss, eyes falling shut.

He feels Tom lean over him and rummage around in the nightstand, then opens his eyes again to watch Tom sit up, staring right at him. His hand is moving softly on the underside of Spencer's thigh, edging lower, and Spencer shifts his hips towards him, swallowing nervously, glancing at the small pack of vaseline in Tom's right hand.

"Never been fucked before?" Tom asks and ghosts his fingers over Spencer's entrance, rubbing softly.

"Shut up," Spencer grits out and feels his cheeks go red. "I'm not a virgin, shut up." Tom's finger probing at his entrance is sending shivers up his spine, his cock twitching. Tom moves over him again and kisses him, biting at his lips, and pushes a slick finger into him; Spencer didn't notice him rip open the Vaseline or slick up, and he hisses in surprise, biting down hard on Tom's lip by accident.

"Shit," Tom curses, but he doesn't seem to mind if the way he pushes his hips into Spencer's thigh is any indication. He starts moving his finger a little faster, pushing into him every time he rocks down, their mouths pressed together firmly, drinking each other's breaths. Spencer can feel his body buzz and he moans softly and lets his thighs fall open, wanting more.

"You like it," Tom groans, pulling back and adding another finger, moving faster. Spencer whimpers and moves his hips up to meet his fingers, gaze fixed on Tom's face. There's a grin playing around his mouth, wild, and he licks his lips before he continues, wiggling his fingers. "You done this before?"

"Shut up," Spence replies again; his voice breaks at the last word, into a high, keening sound as Tom pushes his fingers deeper, making his toes curl. "Now, now," he whines, his anxiety making room for something else. He fumbles around on the pillow for the condom, hands shaking a little, and finds it finally; Tom leans down again, pressing his mouth against Spencer's neck, sucking, and takes the condom from his fingers while Spencer lets his eyes fall shut, breathing hard through his nose as he feels Tom working the condom on himself, feels him shift and move and align.

Then Tom's mouth is on his again, their breaths mixing in the steady rhythm of their chests rising against each other. Tom kisses him, surprisingly gentle, nibbling at Spencer's lips, as he pushes in, large and sort of burning. Spencer pulls away, hands sliding to Tom's back, and digs his nails into the ever yielding flesh, lips parting silently; Tom feels huge and impossible, and he's groaning with every inch, riding his hips into Spencer's. Spencer inhales shakily when Tom's finally all the way inside.

"Yeah?" Tom asks, but doesn't wait for an answer, starting to roll his hips before Spencer has even had a change to breathe again. He turns his head to press his nose against Spencer's neck, fingers pressing into his hips, and Spencer flexes his thighs, moaning with every thrust, cock twitching against his stomach.

His body adjusts quickly, the rough burn of the first few thrusts mellowing down to something more tolerable, and every time Tom thrusts into him, grunting out his name, Spencer rocks up against him, their hips finding a hard, steady rhythm. He closes his eyes, biting back the sounds that are trying to escape his throat, every thrust pushing him closer.

Tom keeps talking, a steady stream of dirty whispers, hot against Spencer's skin; Spencer cries out softly, and then again at a particularly hard thrust. Tom bites him softly, then a little harder, the bed creaking as he speeds up. Spencer whines loudly and reaches up to hold himself against the headboard, body curving off the bed.

"Fuck, fuck," Tom moans, pushes himself up - cold air hits Spencer's skin where he was before covered in Tomtomtom - and grips Spencer's hips tight, holding him in place as his thrusts become frantic. Spencer meets his eyes, gripping the pillow over his head with one hand and wraps his other around his dick, stroking fast. He lets out a long whine, coming all over his stomach, voice breaking as Tom continues to shove into him.

"Shit, Spence," he grits out and speeds up once more, fucking Spencer through his orgasm. He collapses on top of him, body hot and sweaty and sticky, and Spencer pulls him close and kisses him desperately, curling his toes in the shivers of aftershock passing through him.

He comes down from the high after a couple of moments, his breathing calming down; Tom is still nuzzling against his lips, tiny soft kisses, but he pulls away when Spencer opens his eyes, gingerly sliding out of him. Spencer winces a bit, feeling tender, and curls onto his side while Tom disposes of the condom and washes his hands in the bathroom.

He returns a moment later and lies behind him, pulling him close. Spencer feels more sober now, and cold. Tom's breath smells more strongly of whiskey than before, but he thinks he probably just didn't notice. He closes his eyes, sighing a little, and presses his back against Tom's chest, seeking out his warmth.

Tom kisses the small of his neck; Spencer can feel him smile against his skin before he speaks. "So how was your first time?"

Spencer elbows him, but not too hard, and shakes his head. "You weren't. My first. Or whatever." Tom laughs quietly and wraps his arms around his middle, holding him close.

Okay, Spencer thinks, and lets him.

*

The thing is, Spencer didn't really expect Tom to stay for morning cuddles or anything, but when he wakes in the middle of the night, it sort of stings that Tom's not there anymore. The hotel room is dark, and somebody opened the window and the icy night air is seeping in. Spencer groans and rolls onto his back, body sore. The other side of the bed is cold. Spencer takes a few moments to assess the situation: bed empty, bathroom empty, nobody by the window. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, and then sits up, rubbing his eyes.

He dresses quickly, checking in his jeans for his keycard, and then leaves. Brent isn't back in their hotel room yet, and Spencer is sort of glad that he can just take off his clothes and step into the shower without having to worry about waking someone. He scrubs the dirt and sweat off his body, and when he steps out of the shower he wipes the vapor off the mirror.

He brushes his teeth and when he looks up again, he notices the marks on his neck and collarbone. He reaches up and covers them with the palm of his hand, frowning deeply for a moment, then turns around and grabs a towel.

It's three a.m. and they need to be up by seven. Spencer has no time for any of this.

*

Spencer can't find his phone; he knows he still had it last night when he was talking to William, but then in the morning, when he woke up in his hotel room with Ryan banging on the door, it was gone.

"Okay," Ryan says, "so you're sure you didn't leave it somewhere on the bus?" Spencer shakes his head and ruffles his own hair in worry, holding on.

"Venue?" Ryan asks for the third time and again Spencer shakes his head. It's not the phone per se - he's a rockstar now, he can totally make Pete Wentz buy him a new phone - but it's all the numbers and contact data (and especially all the private data Spencer has saved on it); all that is what worries him most.

He sits down on the couch next to Ryan and buries his face in his hands. "This fucking sucks."

Ryan presses against him, arm around his shoulder. Spencer leans against him for a moment and then pulls away, sighing deeply. It's still another hour until the next town - some insane name, Spencer cannot seem to remember - and he's itching. He wants to go back and re-check the hotel room and the venue, but Zack said that he'd let the staff know to look out for his phone.

He leans back against the backrest of the couch and Ryan curls against him, head on Spencer's shoulder, legs pulled up. Spencer grabs for the blanket next to him and spreads it over them because somebody left the stupid window open and it's way too cold in here and the blanket is much closer than the window. The clock on the DVD-player reads 8:37AM and that is just way too early for Spencer. He closes his eyes for only a second and then falls asleep anyway, Ryan all warm against him under the blanket.

He wakes when the bus stops; somebody closed the window and Spencer is way too warm under the blanket. He blinks, disoriented, and sits up, stretching, and rubs his eyes. Brendon's on the couch, very quietly playing Need for Speed on mute, legs crossed, eyes fixed on the screen. He turns only a little when Spencer moves, smiling at him, before turning back to his game.

"We there?" Spencer croaks, then clears his throat before picking up a bottle of water from the floor and taking a few small sips.

"Yeah," Brendon says without looking away from the screen; Spencer watches him for a few moments, then pulls the blanket over himself again, curling up a little. It's weird how Brendon sometimes gets so focused, concentrated. Spencer's known him for so long already now, but it's always an odd sight. He leans back against the couch and closes his eyes again, yawning loudly.

Outside the lounge he can hear people moving around, Ryan talking to someone; he comes in a moment later and sits on the couch next to Spencer, handing him a cup of coffee.

"This town," he says, "is called Poughkeepsie, can you believe it?"

"Write a song about Puffkeepsie. And who the hell names a town that? What's even mean? Sounds like a curse," Brendon says absently and crashes his car into a tree. "Crap, see what Puffkeepsie made me do?" He turns and gives Ryan a long and woeful look and Ryan rolls his eyes and takes a sip from his coffee.

"You're saying it wrong," he says and stretches, shoulders bumping with Spencer's.

"Where's Brent?" Spence asks, craning his neck to see around the door. He can't, actually, but at least he's trying.

"I don't know?" Ryan shrugs and pulls his legs onto the couch. "I think he's still sleeping? He was still sleeping when I woke up."

Spencer nods and sighs, sipping his coffee. It's pretty horrible; Spencer is sort of rethinking his rash decision to rebuff Ryan (jokingly) when he asked if they could have Jon as a second guitarist (and to make coffee all the time).

He hears the bus door open a moment later and then Tom is stumbling into the lounge, cheeks red from the morning cold outside, wrapped in a hoodie. Spencer tilts his brow, questioning, then spots his phone in Tom's hand, feeling a rush of relief roll through him.

"You left that in my hotel room last night," Tom says, grinning, and tosses his phone at him. Spence barely manages to catch it without spilling his coffee, letting it bounce off his belly, as he flushes hotly.

"What," Ryan says and gives him a funny look.

"Nothing," Spencer grits out, and pushes his coffee cup into Ryan's hand, then gets up. He stuffs his phone into the backpocket of his jeans, and hustles Tom into the kitchenette. His face is all hot, and he suddenly feels icky from having just woken up.

"Yeah, what?" Tom says, grinning still, and grabs Spencer's hips, pressing him against the counter, turning the tables on him.

"What, what are you even thinking?" Spencer asks. "And why didn't you just give me the phone in the morning. We met in the lobby!" He doesn't quite know why he's so angry. It's like it's bubbling up from somewhere and he can't stop it, couldn't if he wanted to.

Tom face falls a little and he lets go of Spencer's hips, letting his hands drop onto the edge of the counter. "What," he says again, voice hard, "don't want your friends to know who fucked you last night?"

Spencer opens and closes his mouth, not sure what to say to that. Tom is staring at him, jaw tight, and Spencer looks away, opening his mouth to say something, but is saved when the bus door opens and Jon stumbles in. Tom pulls away abruptly, and then Brendon is bounding into the kitchenette, flinging his arms around Jon's neck.

*

Spence really enjoys Jon's company. He's sort of laid-back and funny, easy going. Spencer doesn't feel judged or evaluated when he's talking to Jon; he listens to Spencer quietly, nodding along, but never seems uninterested or bored, and somehow Spencer finds himself talking about Brent and the band and how he feels like it's all sort of crumbling. He hasn't even told Ryan that much, although Ryan probably knows what he's thinking anyway.

"Hm," Jon says after a few moments. "It's a tough situation," he continues and taps his fingers against his knee, thinking.

"Yeah," Spence says and pulls his knees up to his chest. It's after the show in Atlantic City and they're sitting in the restaurant, watching the staff close up the place; it's late already and Spencer is tired. They're not looking forward to another night on the bus, a little over three hours to Washington; all Spencer really wants is a bed and a real shower and marshmallows. He tells Jon as much.

"Marshmallows are totally not rockstar food," Jon says with a grin, and finishes his beer. Spencer rolls his eyes and when the waitress gives him a mean look, he gets up followed by Jon.

"Totally is. All that sugar gets me high," he replies and shakes his head, laughing. Jon huffs out a laugh and raises his Polaroid camera, snapping a shot just as they leave. Tom falls in step with them, coming out of nowhere.

"Hey, Walker," he says, and Spencer looks up at him, trying to catch his eyes, but Tom won't even acknowledge him.

"I gotta go meet Ryan," he says and starts towards his bus, trying not to run even though he wants to.

*

"So, I had sex with Tom Conrad," Spencer says when Ryan raises his camera to take a picture of the White House. Brendon and Brent are somewhere ahead, Zack on their heels, and Spencer is pretty sure now's the best moment.

Ryan lowers his camera and gives him a long look, then rolls his eyes. "Duh," he says, "I know, Spence."

Spencer frowns a little and glares at Ryan. "Okay, good, then we both know it."

Ryan snorts a little, then raises his camera again and takes a shot of Spencer frowning at him. "It was sort of obvious," he replies, putting his camera into his bag.

"What, no, it's not," Spencer says automatically. Ryan's smiling at him, small and a little curious too, and Spencer shrugs and falls into step with him, following Zack after Brendon and Brent down the street.

Ryan laughs and hooks arms with him, shaking his head. "Come on, dude," he continues, teasing, and Spencer hides his face behind his collar.

*

So, this is how Valentine's Day happens. Norfolk is not a hotel night and Spencer feels really fucking tired after their show - venue too small, badly aired, too many kids out there - and all he really wants is sleep. He gets first shower; he scrubs the dirt and sweat off his body and out of his hair, and when he comes back into the dressing room, there's red light and the Butcher is sprinkling people with heart-shaped confetti.

"Spontaneous party!" Brendon yells over the music, jumping at Spencer's side, and Spencer gives Zack a helpless look, but he just gives him a thumbs up and turns back to talking to one of the guys from the venue.

There's girls, too; somebody presses a glass of alcohol (and another and another) into Spencer's hands, the music echoing through the halls and rooms of the backstage area. Spencer sits with the Butcher, now on his third glass of JD and coke, and talks to him about drumming and how fucking amazing Andy Hurley is and that yes, Spencer would kiss Dave Grohl rather than Meg White.

"That's pretty gross," the Butcher says and pulls a face, finishing his beer. "The dude's got a fucking beard."

"Yeah, well, so what," Spence replies, voice slurring a little, then takes the joint the Butcher offers him. It's his second drag that night, and with all the alcohol he's had already, he's starting to feel a little - very - woozy.

The Butcher laughs out loud and Spencer reaches beside himself to pour himself another drink. More JD, less coke, and downs it halfway. "Maybe I like beards," he says when he's done drinking and wiping his mouth.

"Maybe I like your mom," the Butcher replies and starts laughing; Spencer gives him the finger, but leans back against the couch, lips curling into a grin. He nudges the Butcher's shin with the toe of his sneaker as somebody calls his name, then watches him get up and stumble over to whoever needed his attention.

His vision wavers when he takes another sip from his drink (and another), then finishes it and puts the glass on the floor next to his foot. He closes his eyes, head falling against the backrest of the couch. The music is weaving around him, a little too loud to be entirely pleasant, but making his body hum. He turns his head, eyes opening slightly when a body settles next to him, and then smiles when he recognizes Tom.

"Hey baby," Tom says, pressing close, one arm sliding around Spencer's shoulder, his other hand finding his thigh, squeezing softly. Spence hums a greeting, leaning into him, heart racing a little.

"Come dance with me," Tom continues, nuzzling Spencer's ear, and Spencer shakes his head, laughing and blushing. He's not gonna dance with Tom here where everyone can see and when he can hardly stand. But Tom just grabs his hips and drags him up, holding him, pressed tightly against him. His fingers dig into Spencer's hips, holding tightly, and Spencer has to reach up to wrap his arms around his neck so he doesn't lose his balance.

He sways them for a moment, in the rhythm to the song, kissing Spencer's chin, then humming into his ear. Spencer laughs, shaking his head, and tugs at Tom's hair, but doesn't pull away either.

"Come on," Tom repeats, squeezing his hips. He's so close and so warm, and Spencer doesn't want to let go ever, so he sways in Tom's rhythm, nothing but a slow to and fro. Tom is whispering along to the song into his ear, his breath soft and hot, and Spencer shuts his eyes, sighing.

Tom raises his voice a little. "Can't you see what you've done to my heart," he sings, then hums some of the verse; his voice is a little rough, but pleasant, mingling with the music. "Yeah we slow hands, you put the weights all around yourself," Tom continues, voice growing quieter, "I admit my incentive is romance-" He switches to humming again and Spencer shakes his head, laughing, and then turns a little, pressing his mouth to Tom's, kissing him softly.

Somebody hollers next to them, but Spencer ignores them, letting Tom pull him back onto the couch. They curl up there, kissing until Spencer pulls away, nudging his nose against Tom's.

"What's with us?" he asks, a little breathless, the words just tumbling from his lips. "You only like me when you're drunk."

Tom laughs and shakes his head, his hands still in Spencer's hair, stroking softly. "You only like me when you're drunk," he says, then kisses him again. Somebody whistles, and when Spencer opens his eyes he sees Bill tumbling down onto the couch next to Tom.

"Boys, boys," he says, and Spencer pulls away, pushing his hair out of his face. Tom groans and shakes his head, eyes narrowing a little; he turns a bit and looks at Bill while Spencer sort of hides behind him. They exchange a few words that Spence can't hear over the music and then Tom is pulling him up and out of the room, arm around his waist, holding his hip tightly.

"Where're we going?" he asks, but lets Tom lead him outside anyway; it's chilly and Spencer shivers and curls against Tom when they sit on a bench just outside the venue. Tom fishes a battered pack of cigarettes from his jeans and puts one between his lips, flicking his lighter open. He takes a long deep draft, letting the smoke curl from his nose; Spencer watches him, looking up at his chin, lips, and puts his head on Tom's shoulder.

"Fucking Valentine's Day," Tom says after a moment and pulls Spencer closer, arm around his shoulder, sort of possessive.

"Valentine's Day sucks," Spencer chimes in, eyes closed. He doesn't know what they're doing or what's happening, but he'd rather they have this odd truce than their constant biting and clawing.

Tom finishes his cigarette and flicks it away, then turns his head and buries his nose in Spencer's hair; Spencer can feel his breath, warm and soft, and Tom's arm around him is comforting, steady but not forceful.

"Why're we only like this when we're drunk?" he asks after a moment, turning his face against Tom's neck, lashes fluttering against Tom's skin.

"Dunno," Tom replies quietly. "Dunno. You're pretty bitchy when you're not drunk." He laughs softly, but doesn't let go, and Spencer just presses a little closer.

"Shut up, you're not any better," he mumbles against Tom's skin and then wraps his arm around his middle. Tom carefully puts another cigarette between his lips, and they stay like this for a while, the cold creeping up the legs of Spencer's pants and making him shiver slightly as the alcohol slowly starts to fade.

When Tom, cursing, finishes his pack of cigarettes, Spencer slowly disentangles himself from his arm, sitting up, blinking. "I'm so cold," he says and rubs his arms a little. Tom's giving him a curious, cautious look, and Spencer leans over and kisses the smoke from his lips. "Bus?" he continues, and Tom nods, finally.

They undress to their underwear, shoving at each other's shoulders, and Tom leaves his stupid socks on, but Spencer really doesn't mind today. He's tired and cold and Tom curls up behind him in Spencer's tiny bunk, his naked chest pressed to Spencer's equally naked back, his socked feet pushing against Spencer's freezing toes until they fall asleep.

*

Tom doesn't, like, come to hang out with them for the whole day after that. But he has breakfast with Spencer and Brendon, is not an asshole, and at the next stop leaves for the Academy bus. Brendon buries is face in a donut and doesn't say anything.

They get into a routine somewhere between Atlanta and L.A. - of seeing each other, being with each other's friends, being in each other's space - and Spencer learns the architecture of Tom's sharp edges, both physical and mental. He learns that Tom is ticklish only when he plays Halo and that he talks in his sleep if he's not gone to bed drunk.

Spencer tries to keep track of the times Tom nuzzles his neck when nobody is really looking, and tries to memorize the way his fingers splay out over his hips backstage after shows when they kiss. He doesn't even realize how much time has passed when Ryan reminds him one night that dude, we're playing at home tomorrow.

"I fucking missed this city," Brent says when they pass the city border; they're all perched by the one window in the kitchenette (have been for over 20 minutes) waiting. Spencer stares outside, watches the suburbs pass and merge into the strip. It doesn't feel like coming home - he remembers the last time they played a show in Vegas, nobody even knew who they were. Ryan presses against him a little, letting his head rest on Spencer's shoulder.

Brendon is unusually quiet, his hands on the window sill, eyes fixed on the outside. Spencer watches him for a moment, arm around Ryan's waist, then Brent nudges him and points outside at their venue and the smiling faces of their families.

*

Spencer spends the evening after the show with his family, curled up next to them on the couch, watching stupid Disney films. His mom has her arm around his shoulders like she's never going to let him go again and Spencer doesn't even want her to. The twins come crawling into his bed that night, and both of them cry when his dad drives him back to the venue to catch the bus the next morning.

They're barely out of Vegas, and Spencer already misses it so much he can't breathe. He sleeps curled up with Ryan in his bunk that night, and the night after, too, needing the comfort of a familiar, familial body.

Tom shows up unannounced when they stop in San Diego, out of breath and grinning, and he has a white chocolate mocha for Spencer.

"Still homesick, dude?" Tom asks sitting down, nudging Spencer's toes with his hand, fingers curling over his feet for a moment.

"Shut up," Spencer says, for a moment falling back into his old tone, and then sits up, leaning against Tom. He smells clean, his shirt is fresh, and his beard scratches Spencer's cheek when he leans up to kiss him. They share breath for a moment, soft and lingering, until Spencer jerks away, barely avoiding spilling his coffee.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Brent says, ducking his head, knocking the lounge door shut again while Brendon peeks through the gap before disappearing, too. Spencer shakes his head and then can't help but start laughing; he turns his head and hides his face against Tom's neck, the tension of the week falling off him, miraculously.

*

Brent doesn't show up for the San Francisco show. Spencer can't exactly determine the time and place Brent decides it's appropriate to get high and subsequently lost on the metro, because he spends the afternoon on Tom's hotel bed, occupied.

Tom knocks him out of the shower two hours before the show because Brendon called and they can't find Brent.

"Shit," Spencer curses, and awkwardly steps into his boxers and jeans, hopping around until they finally give in and pull up over his still-wet skin. "Fucking shit," he repeats, and sees Tom watching him curiously as he puts on his shirt and looks for his Sidekick.

"That dude, you must've seen it coming," Tom eventually says. He shakes a cigarette from his half-smoked pack and lights it, hair standing up in all directions, and Spencer just wants to kick him in the side. They're on in two hours - no, seventy-six minutes now, because Spencer couldn't find his underwear - and Brent is nowhere to be found.

"Shut the fuck up," he grits out, pushing his hair back. Tom made him stay, Tom dragged him off to the hotel room when he should've been out there, taking care of his - Ryan's - band.

"Dude, I don't have him hidden in my fucking pocket," Tom cranks out, brows furrowing in visible annoyance. Spencer stares at him for a moment, brows knitting, then grabs his phone and his hoodie and jogs down into the lobby.

"Where have you been? And why's Conrad answering your phone?" their tourmanager says; he looks more than worried, and Spencer wants to go and hide his head in the potted plant by the door and never come out again.

Spencer opens his mouth to answer, but then Jon says, "Right, he's not on our bus either, I just called Bill."

Spencer groans and rubs his eyes; they should be on their way to the venue now to do sound check and relax before the show, and instead they're worrying about a runaway bassist. They divide up in teams, and start searching the hotel and the immediate area; they keep calling Brent's phone.

He and Jon are searching the pool and sauna area, shoes and socks in their hands, when Ryan calls.

"Yeah?" Spencer says breathless, sweat trickling down his neck, the humid air making his chest hurt.

"He's on the metro on the other side of the city," Ryan says. He sounds quiet and restrained, and Spencer winces in worry. They exit out into the hall and Spencer slips back into his shoes, stuffing his socks into the pockets of his jeans.

"Will he make it?" he asks and Jon keeps watching him as they walk, eyes worried. Spencer hangs up when they get down to the lobby and he sees Ryan.

"No," Ryan says and holds out Spencer's bag. "I got your things." Spencer takes the bag, and his hands are shaking; Jon reaches out as if to touch him, but Spencer takes a deliberate step forward into Ryan's personal space before they walk - run - outside to their waiting cab.

"What're we gonna do?" Spencer asks feeling a surge of panic rise up inside him, bitter and vile. He tries breathing calmly for a few seconds because he can't panic must not panic.

Brendon ends up having to cover Brent's bass parts while he sings, and Spencer bangs his drums and tries not to think of anything but getting this show over with as best as possible.

*

Brent shows up, out of breath and still high, twenty minutes after Spencer's showered and is sitting in the dressing room, waiting for Ryan to get done. He sits next to Spencer without a word, and Spencer grits his teeth and doesn't say anything.

"What're you gonna do?" Brent asks after a moment; Spencer turns to look at him and finds him reclined against the couch, eyes closed. He remembers playing video games with him and reading Spiderman and being stupid.

"I don't know. It's not my decision to make." It's Ryan's band, he wants to add, but then doesn't because it doesn't seem fair.

"I'm sorry," Brent eventually says, and then Brendon sits down between them; Spencer is always amazed by Brendon's innate ability to sense and relieve tension if necessary. He leans against him and puts his head on Brendon's shoulder.

Spencer really wants to go outside, get his phone, and call Tom, who by now - is probably fucking smashed. It's not a good idea, though. He and Tom, they are convenient, they're not- whatever it takes to have the right to call when you don't know what to do about the bassist of your band.

*

Spence wakes to his phone vibrating under the pillow of his bunk, blindly grabs for it and picks up, thinking it's Ryan or his mom or whoever's crazy enough to call at 3 a.m.

"I wanna fuck you," Tom says - slurs - without preamble. Spencer blinks and shakes himself awake a little more to answer, but then Tom is already continuing, voice low and rough. "Love the way you beg me when I got my cock inside you-"

Spencer sputters and flushes hotly, shaking his head. "Where- where the hell are you, and why are you calling me?"

"Bunk, drunk," Tom says, voice a little raspy, the speed and depth of his breathing apparent. "Jerking off. Everybody's somewhere else."

Spencer swallows tightly and shifts onto his side, freeing his growing erection press against the mattress. "Why're you- why're you calling me when you-"

"You know what I think about?" Tom interjects, then groans, and Spencer feels his own breath hitch, letting out a breathy little moan as he feels his erection strain against his boxers harder. "I think about coming on you, I want to so bad but I know you're not- you wouldn't- so I just think about it- shitjesusfuck-" Tom groans louder, the sound sending a hot shiver up Spencer's spine. "-about jerking off on you after fucking you or- when you blow me-" He breaks off again, panting through the line.

Spencer bites his lip, whimpering and moving his hips up a little, not even wanting to. "I'd let you, I would," he grits out, trying to talk as quietly as possibly, then ducks under the blanket, hoping it'll muffle his sounds.

"Shit, yeah?" Tom says and then nothing more, just breathy moans and groans and the rustle of fabric until he comes, sending a stream of profanities through the phone.

"Did you-?" Spence asks unnecessarily, heart thudding hard and fast in his chest, breath coming quick.

"Are you hard?" Tom asks instead of replying, and Spencer lets out a soft moan, affirmation. In the bunk above him, Ryan shifts with a groaning sound, mumbling in his sleep and Spencer freezes, holds his breath above the racing beat of his heart.

"Finger yourself," Tom continues and Spencer has to bite his lip for a moment in order not to make a sound.

"Can't. Not alone," he grits out, breathing through his nose, trying to make his erection go away.

"Come over here-" Tom starts, and Spencer has hung up and is out of his bunk, winding into his jeans and slipping on his shoes before the display of his phone has even turned off.

*

They don't kick Brent out. Spencer calls Pete on the next hotel night and sets the phone to speaker, Ryan sitting next to him on the bed, arms around his knees, lips tight. Spencer feels horrible for not having asked Brendon to come, but Brendon is rooming with Brent and. And it's still Ryan's band, after all.

*

The tour ends two weeks later in Chicago; Spencer feels both closure and tiredness, watching Academy play from backstage. He and Ryan are huddled together, their wet hair tousled, drinking diet soda. Brendon is singing and dancing along, and Spencer feels weirdly peaceful when William announces the last song - no really, this is the last song, for real now - and Tom starts stringing the first chords of Checkmarks.

Their flight takes off at eleven-thirty and Spencer is counting down the minutes to it; he can't tell whether he's afraid or excited and what the twisting sensation in his stomach is, and when Tom comes backstage finally, sweaty and his hair sticking up, Spencer can't help but smile at him, chin pressed against his knees.

He waits for Tom to emerge from the showers in the hallway outside the Academy dressing room, reading news feeds on his phone.

im outside waiting, he texts finally, the voices behind the door getting louder; he doesn't wanna go inside there and talk to Bill because suddenly it all feels so awkward with all of them knowing who he's waiting for.

Tom emerges three minutes later, with his belt unbuckled and a towel over his head.

"What's up?" he says with a smirk and Spencer huffs out a frustrated breath and pulls him down for a kiss. He can feel Tom smiling against his lips, his beard gruff against Spencer's skin, and he wraps his arms around Tom's neck, not wanting to let go.

He breaks away after a moment and Tom leans down and presses their foreheads together. The moment is oddly solemn, tiny droplets of water finding their way down Spencer's hands from Tom's hair, their noses nudging. Spencer closes his eyes for a moment and then Tom's hands find their way up his back to his face, cupping his cheeks.

"Twenty-four days 'til I see you again," Tom says and kisses him again. Spencer breaks away after a second when his phone starts buzzing sharply against his thigh.

"I have to go," he says, but kisses Tom again instead.

"'Kay," Tom says against his lips, biting and sucking until Spencer pulls in a desperate breath and moves away to slip out from under his arms.

He hesitates for a moment, hand hovering over the handle of the door outside, looking back; he's not sure what he wants to say, so he says nothing and slips outside, finding Ryan waiting for him, arms crossed, half a frown, half a smirk on his face.

"You done playing Danielle Steele?" he asks, grinning, and Spencer rolls his eyes and punches his shoulder lightly.

Part ii