In Our Bedroom, After the War; GSF; NC-17 (1/9)
.spencer.
Spencer gets into college just as Ryan is deciding that he needs to be done with it.
They talk on the phone almost every night that Spencer and Brendon aren't crashing on the floor of Ryan's dorm, and when Spencer gets his letter, his hands are shaking.
"I did it, man," he says, whispers, really, into the phone. "I did it. I got in." He can hear the tiny exhalation of Ryan's breath; can hear him stop chewing, fold the napkin over his burger carefully.
"That's awesome, Spence," he says, and he sounds as proud and as excited as he possibly can. This is Ryan, though, so that's not saying much. "That's really awesome."
Spencer gets into college, starts making plans, starts slowing collapsing the walls of his life, makes lists and notes, mentally packs his suitcases, and while he's doing all of that, while he's spiriting himself away, Ryan meets Michael.
"Michael Guy Chislett," Ryan says, eyes full of stars like Spencer hasn't seen for years. "We're in Brit Lit together. He's from Australia, Spence, he has an accent."
Ryan gushes like someone he's not and Spencer smiles at him as he packs, emptying his room of the important detritus of eighteen years worth of life. Brendon sits backward on his desk chair, swinging it back and forth in short, pointed jerks of movement.
"I don't like him," Brendon says when Ryan's in the bathroom. "Spencer, I really don't fucking like him."
Spencer has his own theories on the origins of that, nights of holding Brendon close after his parents told him he didn't exist and Brendon choosing to crash in Ryan's dorm instead of forcing himself on Spencer's family until Spencer had forcibly made him come and stay, but he won't say anything.
"You're going to have to keep an eye on him," Spencer says with a grin that's just a little strained. "I'll be. I'll be away."
Brendon ducks his head and nods, swallows hard and Spencer's over his bed and hugging him tight before Ryan comes back, wiping his hands on his thighs. "Jesus, what? He's not leaving yet."
Even so, he kneels down beside Brendon and circles them both, knocking all their foreheads together in a moment of a world that exists only for them.
*
It's a little unorthodox, but then, when it comes to Ryan, Spencer's parents tend to be that way. They'd adopted Ryan at six and Brendon at sixteen, and they had never looked back, not really.
"Just." Ginger's wringing her hands, lip bitten and bloody red. "Brendon, just promise me you won't let him drive the entire way." Brendon grins at her, leaning forward and into a hug, squeezing tight, even though he's going to see her before Spencer does.
"Mom, Ryan'll be fine." Spencer says and she smiles weakly at him, giving him another squeeze, which brings the entire count up to about twelve just since they got out to the front porch.
"I might even let Spence drive, Ging," Ryan says, and Spencer’s mom grabs Ryan into another hug before she's letting him go and his dad is laying a comforting hand on her shoulder.
"You boys get yourselves there in one piece," she says, and she's starting to cry again, the tears barely making an imprint on her cheeks in the sweltering afternoon heat. "And boys," she says, hands on Ryan and Brendon's arms. "Call on your way back, okay? You know how I worry."
They do know how she worries, and when Spencer leans forward to kiss her goodbye again, to whisper something that sounds suspiciously like a, "I'm going to miss you, mom," she squeezes him tight again, keeping him close.
By the time they get to the car, Spencer's grinning like he can't stop himself and even Ryan musters up a smile. He's got the first shift, the first seventy miles 'til they have to stop up and refuel and he and Spencer settle in the front with contented sighs and direct connection with the air conditioner.
Brendon's in the backseat, head ducked, eyes closed. The corners of his mouth are turned down.
*
The drive takes four days with Ryan and Spencer trading off and Brendon lounging in the backseat with his sunglasses on and a battered Rolling Stone propped up against his knees. When they'd planned the drive it had been just Ryan and Spencer; Brendon's parents weren't going to let him go, then Brendon dropped that little bombshell and suddenly he could do whatever the fuck he wanted but go home.
Chicago comes on Saturday afternoon and Spencer's not driving. He doesn't say so, but his hands are shaking. Ryan had seen when they’d stopped for gas and got in the driver’s seat without a word.
"Man, it's pretty out here," Brendon says with a small note of wonder in his voice. "There's no fucking sand anywhere."
Ryan snorts and Spencer half smiles, drumming his fingers on the dashboard. There was a reason he didn't pick a school near to home, didn't apply anywhere within a hundred miles of the great state of Nevada. It feels, sometimes, like the sand has sunk into his lungs and become a part of his skin, drying him out to a husk one day at a time.
"You could always stay with me," Spencer offers and it's joke, hardy har, except that it really isn't, and Brendon goes still. "Sleep in my dorm for a change."
Ryan turns into campus and looks at Spencer from behind his sunglasses, a warning glance, because it's cruel to offer things they can't have, unfair to all three of them. "Nah," Brendon says, filling the silence with words a little too loud and a little too fast, "Ryan won't leave Michael Guy in Vegas and I can't leave his ass alone."
Spencer knows he's imagining accusation in the words, however gentle, but it still settles in his gut, right next to the deep contentment of breathing air with lake water laced through it.
*
The plan, the original plan was for the guys to stay a night, in case Spencer's roommate was just this side of insane, or two, on the off chance that he'd bagged someone normal.
They end up staying for four nights because Jon Walker is just that awesome.
Spencer even catches Ryan smiling at him on the fifth day, when they definitely definitely definitely need to leave within the next twelve hours or Brendon's going to miss his first day of classes.
"I'm just saying," Jon is a little on the short side, with a mop of brown bangs that fall into his eyes and the kindest smile Spencer's ever seen. "Mufasa could kick King Triton's ass. It's a proven fact and not only because he's a fucking lion."
He hugs Brendon at least fifteen times before they get to the car, and is kind enough to pretend that he doesn't notice that Ryan's sunglasses are permanently affixed to his face, or how Brendon's eyes are red and getting redder, bloodshot too, his skin paler than usual.
They get to the car in the short-term-student-parking-garage, and Jon snaps his fingers suddenly, biting lightly on his bottom lip. "Shoot, you guys, I gotta go. I completely forgot I was meeting my brother," he shrugs, comically. "I'm on rugrat duty," he winks, the look exaggerated. "He and my sister-in-law are having quote-unquote family togetherness time at the nearest Best Western." He winces then, but under it, Spencer can see where his smile is hiding. "The things people have to resort to when they procreate."
He winks at Spencer, hugs Brendon again, and practically tackles Ryan to the ground when he tries to get away with just a handshake.
"It was good to meet you, JonWalker," Brendon says, and even though he's grinning and he means it, the Mormon politeness gene has been ingrained into him deep.
"Come and visit us, okay?" Jon says, and it's not a question, even though by rights, it should be. "I'll be expecting you." He turns and walks away, and he's not heading towards the regular parking lot, he's heading back towards the dorms, Spencer can tell, but he stays quiet, appreciating the gesture.
"I -- " Spencer starts, but Ryan shushes him with a slender finger to his lips, leaning forward and digging his chin into the fleshy meat of Spencer's shoulder.
"I'm really going to fucking miss you," Ryan says, and for the first time in months, for the first time since Spencer got accepted into college halfway across the country, he sounds like himself. "If you don't call me at least once a day -- "
" -- Twice," Brendon says.
" -- I will kill you," Ryan finishes, and if he's sniffing a little when he pulls back, Spencer pretends not to notice. "I am so not even remotely joking, Spencer Smith." He sniffs again, reaching under his oversized frames to wipe at his eyes. "Kill you with my hands."
He doesn't say anything else, yanking open the driver's side door of the car and sliding inside. He slams the door, but Spencer ignores that, too.
Brendon's not even trying to hide his tears anymore. He's always been shit at hiding things from Spencer anyway. He sniffles as he shuffles forward, clinging to Spencer for all he's worth.
"I don't," he pauses himself, the words stuttering to a stop in his throat, and Spencer can feel it when he swallows, that's how closely together they're pressed. "I love you, Spencer Smith," he whispers, and when he pulls back, his lip is bloody and torn open. "If you forget about me, I'll be worse than Ross," he says, and he's trying for a smile but his chin is wobbling. "You don't even know."
When Spencer finally lets him go, Ryan's on the phone, Spencer can just see him in the rearview mirror, the plastic pressed tight against his ear.
Neither of them wave goodbye.
*
Spencer doesn't think he'll be able to do it the first night, laying in an unfamiliar bed without Brendon curved along his front and Ryan fitted along his back, but somehow he manages to adjust, settling into a life. Jon stays awake too, that first night, headphones in his ears as he hums along. Maybe it conscious, maybe it's not, either way, Spencer appreciates the gesture and he buys Jon coffee in the morning as a thank you.
"Caffeine," Jon groans, raking a hand through his hair. "You are a fucking saint and I'm keeping you until I graduate."
"Promises, promises," Spencer mumbles over the rim of his cup and Jon looks up, smiling, and strangely, suddenly that's what it becomes, and a little more of Las Vegas' cheap glitz and shine sloughs away.
He goes to class and meets people, makes a couple friends and realizes quickly that he's going to keep Jon Walker around for the rest of his life if he has anything to say about it. There's an ease to being on campus, wandering around the grounds on his free hour and sitting on the quad against the trees to think. It's fucking nice and he's happy, which is more than he expected when Brendon and Ryan drove away.
And he calls them every night, without fail, regardless of where he is or what he's doing.
Lying on his stomach, phone tucked between his shoulder and ear, he calls them one at a time. Sometimes they conference; it's not hard, Brendon and Ryan, to no one's surprise, decided to split the cost of a moderately less-than-shitty two bedroom apartment rather than each trying their luck with their own possibly rat-infested one bedrooms.
They don't manage to conference call all the time, though, which is strange and Spencer doesn't quite know what that means.
Ryan starts beginning every story and too many sentences with, "Michael and I," and Spencer nods to the text books spread open in front of him, even though he knows Ryan can't see. He learns the trick of making the right noises in the right places, questioning and listening and he hates, just a little, that Ryan can't tell the difference any more.
"Fucking Michael Guy," Brendon says and Spencer can hear the soft whistle of the wind that means he's standing on the little back porch, not inside where Ryan can hear. "I swear to God, he's a controlling asshole and one of these days he's going to do something stupid to Ryan and I'm going to kill him."
Spencer only has noises for that too, though they're more of assent and he hopes Brendon can hear the, "I'll hold his skeevy arms behind his back while you punch," in his sighs.
Jon comes back from a late class as Spencer hangs up, his "I love you," dying in the quiet room, snapping his phone shut and tossing it onto his desk with a defiant clatter. He closes his book, too, and drops it down beside his bed. The words have begun to blend and bleed together and there's no point in reading when he won't remember.
"What light from yonder window breaks?" Jon proclaims, kicking off his flip-flops. "Fucking love Shakespeare, Spence. I'm so glad I took this class." He sits on his bed and catches Spencer's face; his laughter dies. "What hath crawled up thine ass and died?"
Spencer waves his hand. "Nothing. Just. Ryan and Brendon. Ryan has this boyfriend Brendon can't stand."
Jon makes a sympathetic noise and crosses the room, sliding onto Spencer's bed. It's a little strange; they haven't crossed this realm of intimacy before, but Brendon somehow turned Spencer into a touch whore through sheer osmosis and his breath comes a little bit easier with Jon purring into his ear and petting his stomach.
It's nice, and it's something that Spencer gets used to, even though he never thought he'd welcome an unfamiliar body.
*
Christmas comes, and Jon begs and pleads, but there is nothing on this earth that will get Spencer to stay in Chicago for the holiday.
"They would flay me alive, Walker," he says on the last day of classes before finals are really supposed to start. They've both started packing as much of their crap as they'll need for three weeks they'll be spending away, and Spencer's all but done with studying for his exams. "I'm serious, I don't think my parents would even be as mad as they would be, seriously."
It's slightly horrifying to realize that it's the truth. Spencer doesn't think about it that often, but he doesn't call his parents nearly as much as he calls Brendon and Ryan. Neither parties involved seem to mind, and when he does manage to catch his mom on the phone she swears up and down that she always drops off an extra casserole for them on Friday nights even though they always tell her not to.
"I don't know how they're surviving without you, Spence," she tells him, and her voice sounds sad, even though he knows she doesn't mean for it to be.
"Tell them to come too," Jon says, and Spencer knows he's joking, that he has to be joking. Spencer's met the Walker clan more than a few times, considering their home is only just outside of the city limits and Jon goes over there more often than he likes to admit. "I want them to come. They promised me they would come and see us and they have not fulfilled their part of the bargain. I am keeping you clean and well fed," he leans close, tweaking Spencer's cheek. "You're plump and pleasant, the witch'll make a good meal out of you yet," he bares his teeth and moving to chomp down on Spencer's shoulder.
"Which one am I," Spencer asks, turning to lie flat on his back, closing his eyes against the image of the Day-Glo stars Jon's stuck on the ceiling over his bed. "Hansel or Gretel?"
Jon presses his face against Spencer's neck, brushing the hint of his smile there. "Gretel. Obviously. You're the pretty one, dude."
*
Spencer manages to avoid it for a few days, but Jon is persistent when he wants to be, and he catches Spencer in the early morning, when soft rays of winter sunshine are peeking in through their blinds and Spencer's warm and comfortable, nestled in his blankets.
"Are you afraid they wouldn't come?" It's a highly presumptuous question. Even at eight-fifteen in the morning, Spencer knows this. He also knows that in the past three and a half months, Jon Walker has become one of his best friends. He lets it slide, because Jon may possibly have a point.
"Maybe," Spencer says, snuffling into his pillow and taking the coward's route, avoiding Jon's eyes. "They're not made of money, Jon. It's not like Chicago is close."
Jon makes a humming noise that sounds like acquiescence, and he doesn't bring it up again, even though Spencer can tell that he wants to.
"Next Christmas," he says when they're standing in the airport terminal and Spencer's already got his duffel checked in. "Next Christmas, I want the three of you at my house." He shrugs, lifting his keys and touching the tip of his house key to the warmth of Spencer's cheek. "Mama Walker demands it. I can't spend all of my waking hours talking up guys she's never even met. I am not," he says, waggling his eyebrows. "That kind of boy."
"Have a good Christmas, Walker," Spencer says, leaning forward on impulse to brush Jon's cheek with his lips. It's accidental as far as those things go, almost comic in a sense, because instead of the light smattering of stubble he expects, all he feels is the silky smooth skin of Jon's lips.
His eyes snap open and he'd stumble backwards if he weren't so composed. If he didn't have his carryon behind him anyway, standing stiff and straight, protecting him from losing his balance.
Jon doesn't seem affected at all, just smiles and tweaks Spencer's cheek, leaning forward to hug him, putting everything he has in it.
"If you don't call me at least once a day, I will get you, Spencer Smith," he says, and even though the words are menacing, his smile is anything but. "I will get you so hard."
Spencer says goodbye, and it's harder than he'd imagined to keep from saying, "I love you."
*
On Christmas Eve they sit on the roof with blankets and hot chocolate, staring up, the stars and the faint glow of the holiday gamblers, lighting up the night. It's a little funny to Spencer, Brendon and Ryan huddled in their sweats and long sleeved shirts and jackets, while he's got on an unzipped hoodie and doesn't feel a thing.
He thinks about waking up to snow batting against the window and Jon singing butchered versions of Christmas carols as he pulls on boots and wonders why his chest aches, just a little bit.
"Jon wants us to come to his house for Christmas next year," Spencer says suddenly, softly, without preamble and Brendon and Ryan both go still.
The funny thing is, Spencer doesn't know which is the more appealing image, Jon sitting up there on the roof with them, cracking jokes about Christmas in the desert, or Brendon and Ryan sitting in Jon's living room, huddled beneath three parkas each and bitching they're going to freeze to death before the night is out.
Spencer wants them both, in the same breath, in the space between heartbeats and the air between their bodies pressed together, and he kisses Ryan's temple first, then Brendon's, just because he can.
"He's just being nice?" Ryan says and Spencer knows it's meant to be a statement of fact in the world as Ryan sees it; where no one loves him and no one wants him, but it comes out a question. It's a testament to Jon, Spencer thinks, that he can make Ryan question one of the basic truths of his life.
"No," Spencer says, "He's not."
At midnight, fireworks go off somewhere else in the desert, lighting up the dark sky with sparks of brilliantly colored flashes, red and gold and green and Spencer sighs a little.
"Come here," he murmurs, sliding his fingers under Brendon's chin and drawing him in for a kiss, sweet and simple. Brendon smiles at him, eyes half lidded, and tightens his hands on Spencer's knee. "You too." He turns to Ryan and repeats the process. It's the same ritual they've had on Christmas since before they knew it was anything resembling strange.
Brendon and Ryan next, mouths pressed together over Spencer's knees and that, he thinks, is what happiness looks like.
*
New Years is cheap champagne provided by his parents, with the chuckled promise that they don't tell anyway, and Ryan wryly pointing out that drinking while underage isn't illegal, that, technically, it's only the purchase of alcohol that is.
Two days later Spencer's back at the airport, with Ryan and Brendon's faces pressed into either side of his neck as he tries not to cry. Brendon's shoulders are hitching underneath his hand and, though Ryan is still, Spencer hasn't been his best friend for the vast majority of their lives to not understand the feeling written in the tight grasp of his skinny fingers in Spencer's shirt.
"I love you," Spencer says as they stand at the security check in, chin starting to tremble. "I love you both."
Chicago in January is tinged gray and flat and Spencer walks through the airport almost wishing for the feeling of sandstorm winds whipping against his skin and the baked afternoon sun turning the land to stone all around him. The cold cuts through his jacket and flesh, seeping into his bones and he misses them.
"Spencer Smith." Jon's voice cuts through the haze and Spencer stares at him standing by baggage claim in a ridiculous new orange parka, gloves and a hat, smiling smiling smiling, and holding his arms out.
It's maybe like a scene from a movie, stretched out in slow motion; Spencer runs to him, dodging stranded travelers and weeping toddlers, irritated parents and tearful siblings and throws himself in Jon's arm, presses his face to the curve of Jon's shoulder and the fur lined hood of his coat and cries, a little, fingers tight in his sweater.
"Hey, hey," Jon murmurs, "Miss me?"
Spencer nods and chuckles and doesn't care that it's a little strange and that people are staring when he laces his fingers in Jon's as they walk to the car.
*
It takes a few days to get the story out, and Jon doesn't seem to notice that Spencer's only giving details of his vacation in pieces.
"Ryan's boyfriend Michael," he says finally, a week after classes start, and they're collapsed back against their respective beds, mutually bitching about professors and classmates and how they're majoring in pretty similar things but still don't manage to have a class together. "Ryan's boyfriend Michael went to Australia for Christmas. He's still there."
Jon, to his credit, doesn't look very surprised, but he does look comforting. He is comforting, especially when he crosses the divide and wraps an arm around Spencer's shoulder, nuzzling his cheek against Spencer's neck.
Spencer tries not to lean into it.
"Is that a bad thing?" Jon asks finally, breaking the silence, breath warm and tickling on Spencer's cheek. Spencer flinches, because he doesn't mean to react and reacts because he hadn't meant to flinch in the first place.
He sits up a little, pulling away just as slightly.
"It's just a thing. I don't think good or bad really factor into it." He's choosing his words carefully, but Jon's face doesn't change, not really.
He smiles a little ruefully, palms raising. "I wouldn't have left -- " Spencer can see the word forming on Jon's lips, but he shakes his head at the last second, smiling again in this quietly guarded way. "Ryan," the word fits in seamlessly, but Spencer had been paying attention. Spencer had seen. "I wouldn't have, but he's from Oz, right? Like, that makes sense. It sucks that he didn't ask Ryan to go with him though."
Spencer winces and flinches and it must do something really horrific to his face because Jon's wincing too, pulling him close again.
"He did ask," Spencer whispers quietly, and Jon's eyes flicker briefly, but he stays quiet. "He did ask, and he's fucking loaded, and Ryan could have said yes, but he didn't." Spencer doesn't need to say why, and Jon's not pressing, but he whispers something quiet anyway, pausing with a wave of his hand. "Bren doesn't really have anyone else. So Ryan couldn't, you know?"
Jon nods like he does, and Spencer's not sure if he believes it, but it's nice that Jon's trying. It's nice that Jon cares.
.ryan.
"Vegas," Jon says, stretched out on beach towel on Spencer's front lawn, wearing a pair of cheap sunglasses bought at the airport. "Is really fucking hot."
Brendon giggles out a laugh and Spencer chuckles, but he's red faced and sweating and Ryan knows he's trying his damndest not to show how much a year in the wilds of fucking Chicago have weakened his blood. "Technically, we're in Summerlin," Ryan says vaguely, swigging water from a bottle.
"Summerlin," Jon says, rolling his eyes, "Is really fucking hot."
Spencer and Jon have been in Nevada three days, one of which had both of them lying unconscious in the matching twin beds in Spencer's room after a red eye flight and an unexpected layover in Iowa following mechanical problems that had Brendon nearly having a panic attack over the phone in the airport six hours after the fact. They passed out in the back seat on the way to Spencer's house, woke up long enough to stagger inside, and passed out again.
Brendon and Ryan had eaten breakfast with the Smiths, Brendon teasing Crystal, and Ryan smiled because, for once, life was back as it belonged and he could forget that he didn't really belong to Ginger and Jeff. Ryan's gotten used to not belonging to anybody.
They have the house now, the girls gone to play with friends and the parents at work; Ryan's sitting on a lawn chair beside Spencer with Brendon and Jon spread out at their feet and life is fucking good, really motherfucking good.
"Hey, Ryan," Jon says and his voice is heat mellow and happy. "Do I get to meet this boyfriend you talk so much about?"
Brendon pushes himself up in a single motion that can't be taken as anything but angry. He brushes off his cut-off shorts and straightens his tee shirt, an old New Kids on the Block one bought at the ARC near their shitty apartment downtown. "I'm going to get more water. Lemonade. Snacks. Whatever. I'm going to get more." He trips and stutters over the words and Spencer casts Ryan a questioning glance that he has to look away from.
"Did I say something?" Jon asks, voice soft and worried, and Ryan wants to smack Brendon as much as he wants to smack Michael, which is a more and more common state of affairs.
"No," Ryan says and his voice sounds falsely cheerful, even to his own ears, enough to make him flinch and look in his lap like he's done something wrong, like he's guilty. "No, it's fine. Michael went back to Australia for the summer. Missed his family and all that."
Spencer inhales and Ryan can hear the questions, but he cuts them off with a look and Spencer shakes his head.
He can't lie to Spencer, or to Brendon for that matter, and he has a feeling it would be pretty fucking hard to do to Jon, so it's easier to forgo the questions entirely.
Yes, Michael Guy had asked him to go too and yes, he'd offered to pay for it, too. He might have even given Ryan a ticket with a red ribbon wrapped around it and a smile that went all the way to the corners of his eyes, but Ryan won't talk about that, or the way he didn't even have to think before saying no.
Yes, Michael asked Ryan to move in, but that's another story for another fucking day and it's summer and he has Spencer and Jon and it's not worth it.
"Anyway. Who wants to go fuck around Vegas later?" Ryan asks and Brendon comes back with a handful of oatmeal cream pies and a pitcher of lemonade.
*
Ryan's phone rings six inches from his head, buzzing loudly where it's sitting on Spencer's on bedside table and Jon snuffles in his sleep, turning over in his sleeping bag. He gropes in the darkness and finds it, flips it open without checking the caller ID, momentarily forgetting that the only people he ever wants to talk to are all asleep within six feet of him. The blue lights on the digital clock glow just after four in the morning and Ryan is not fucking impressed.
"Hello?" he rasps, turning onto his side and curling into a ball, trying to keep his voice low. He thinks, for a moment, it could be his father, calling in the middle of a bender to ramble, his laugh booming with booze soaked splendor, but those moments died long ago to angry silence that Ryan won't go out of his way to fix.
"Hello, Ry," Michael Guy says, voice is gratingly easy and relaxed and Ryan goes still, anger blooming and throbbing in his chest.
He pushes himself up and climbs over Brendon to lean against the wall, scrubbing at his eyes. "Michael. What the fuck?"
"Well, good day to you too." His tone shifts, goes dark and angry and Ryan is not ready for this song and dance again, it's worn thin and old and he has no patience for it.
Even so, Jesus, he can't hang up.
"It's four in the fucking morning," Ryan hisses, scrambling to his feet and stumbling across the room. He trips on Jon's legs, which earns him a sleepy grunt and then manages to grind his heel into the small bones of Jon's hand and gets a weak swat at his calves. "What?"
"Jesus, sorry, I forgot about the time."
The hallway's lit by two small lights plugged into the wall, a holdover from the days when the girls were still afraid of the dark and wouldn't get up for the bathroom unless they could see. "Obviously you forgot." Ryan eases down the stairs, skips the creaking boards he's knows better than his own.
The house is quiet and Ryan drops onto the couch, tucks his feet up under his thighs and sinks down.
"It was a fucking accident, Ry, Jesus."
"It doesn't matter. What do you want?" Ryan bites down hard on his lower lip and imagines he can hear people laughing in the background, all the friends Ryan has only ever heard snippets about. They're incidental in his life and pivotal to Michael's and it's strange, the parallels that run between their lives.
"I wanted to hear your voice," Michael snaps, "Stupid of me, I know that now."
Ryan doesn't believe that, break that they're taking, aside. He knows Michael, knows how his mind works, and he never calls someone just to hear their voice.
"You're checking up on me," he says and Michael says nothing. "Fuck you."
He can hear Michael's sharp inhale, can picture the look that would slide across his face if he where there, the indignation and anger and sliver of guilt because he knows that Ryan's right.
He remembers the fight before Michael had left, both of them screaming, Michael saying that Ryan didn't care, about him, about anything; Ryan screaming that Michael didn't understand, the both of them circling around need and want and loyalty.
"And why should it matter?" Michael snaps back, "Or have you already found someone else to fuck you? Jesus, Ryan, two weeks, that's got to be some kind of record."
The accusation, baseless and groundless, rankles and Ryan's mouth opens without thought.
"And you're telling me that by the time you come back to the states you won't have found some pretty piece of ass to fuck? Fuck you."
There's a click in his ear and it takes Ryan a long moment to realize that Michael's hung up.
As far as answers go, it doesn't amount to much, but Ryan's always believed that actions speak louder than words, anyway.
*
It's an accident.
If Spencer asks or if Brendon -- Brendon won't ask. He won't. If Spencer asks, because Spencer will, Ryan will say, "It was an accident."
And Spencer will say, "What, you tripped and fell and accidentally landed on his dick?" And maybe he'll be angry for a little while -- he was angry for a little while after Brent and that turned out fine, they even laughed about it later, it was funny, like, "Oh god, Ryan, how could you fuck Brent?"
This will be exactly like that.
Except Jon rolls over in the morning, the smooth palm of his hand coasting over Ryan's stomach, and he's so warm, and he fits so well, and he's so Jon that Ryan feels himself moving closer instead of pulling away. Jon kisses the back of his neck like he belongs there, and when Ryan opens his eyes the room is spinning in front of him.
"I," he says very quietly, voice a whisper. "I, possibly had too much to drink last night." The fact that he hasn't thrown up yet is a major feat, and the fact that he hasn't thrown up on Jon decrees that he probably deserves a medal of some sort; possibly Valor, but he'll have to do some research beforehand.
"Everybody has their moments, Ry," the nickname slides off of Jon's tongue easily, even though he's only been there for a week, and Ryan's only really physically been with him the sum total of twelve days. "Summer is definitely the roughest season."
"What," Ryan says, deadpan, eyes sliding closed again, because if he can't see, the room can't move. "Not Christmas?"
"Are you kidding, man? Snow. Snow on the ground. Eggnog. I have two words for you: Christmas. Sweaters. Who would want to kill themselves with the lure of Christmas sweaters hanging around?"
Ryan snorts, because in his experience, Christmas sweaters are ugly and patterned with red-nosed reindeers that have actual lights in the nose. "Too fucking hot to kill yourself in summer," he mumbles, and now Jon smiles, snorts really, hiding his giggles into Ryan's neck.
Ryan likes how it feels, and he's honestly not expecting it when Jon pulls back a little, bangs falling into his eyes, grinning. He's not expecting to grin back, and he's certainly not expecting it when Jon leans forward and kisses him, hand coming up to cup at Ryan's cheek, the stubble on Jon's chin brushing roughly against the skin of his.
He kisses back because it feels nice, and because the room isn't spinning with Jon's hands on him. He kisses back because Jon isn't Michael -- Jon is nothing like Michael, and they're broken up anyway. Ryan doesn't care about Michael Guy Chislett and the country of Australia and their stupid accents and their stupid hair and the way they produce stupidly hot musicians who are shitty boyfriends and don't understand that Best Friends coming home for the summer totally trump traveling halfway across the world.
It's not that difficult a concept to understand. Ryan would have even probably considered going, at least for a little while, if Michael hadn't just automatically assumed that he would.
He huffs a little against Jon's mouth, and Jon must take it as a sign of -- something, because he presses in closer, nipping Ryan's bottom lip, and that is. Well. Kind of nice, actually.
Ryan hadn't expected to fall into bed with Jon, and he hadn't expected Jon to stay, or to kiss him in the morning, but what he expects least is what he should have prepared for best; Spencer pushing into the room without knocking, looking sleep warm and bleary in worn out boxers and nothing else, eyes lidded and then suddenly wide, mouth taut.
"Spence, I -- " There don't seem to be proper words though, and Ryan understands the sickness in his stomach, firmly believes in the regret that's there, too. What he can't process is the guilt and why it claws at his insides until he's positive they're bleeding.
*
Ryan is the oldest, chronologically at least.
It's never really felt that way. Spencer has a gift, a knack really, for taking care of people both when they want to be taken care of and when they don't; when Brendon's bright smiles have begun to turn bitter with the passage of time and Ryan himself lets the quiet seep into his soul. Jon is an old soul, or becoming one and he balances them out, giving Spencer a place to rest.
It's childish, and he's considering sticking his fingers in his ears and screaming, "I can't hear you," at the top of his lungs so that maybe it'll go away, like monsters under the bed and ghosts in the closet. If I can't see you, you can't see me, or something like that. Like kids playing hide and seek, except it stopped being a game when hands and mouths and dicks got involved.
"We have to talk about this," Spencer says, low and pissed and urgent, standing on the stairs. Jon and Brendon are already eating, flicking cereal at each other to the delight of the girls and that's how Ryan knows Spencer didn't tell Brendon and he doesn't know why the thought makes him both sick and glad in the same moment.
Ryan jerks his head, folds his arms and retreats in the shell that has thinned over the years, going unused for weeks at a time without Spencer's eyes making cracks in his walls and Brendon's arms turning them to putty, but it can still stand, for a little while at least. "There's nothing to talk about."
They join the table and the something shifts. Brendon flicks his gaze between them both, asking questions with his eyes with answers neither of them are willing to give. "How'd you sleep?" he asks and Ryan chokes on his coffee, hands clenching into fists.
The worst part, the worst part comes after Jon sets his bowl in the sink, rinsing it out because he was raised polite.
"I'm going to shower and all that," he says, hand on Ryan's shoulder and Ryan knows, a split second early, from the shift of Jon's body that he's going to press a sloppy, easy kiss to the top of Ryan's head and even Brendon isn't that blind, not by a long shot.
He shifts away, pushes forward and Jon goes too still for a moment, then turns silently and shuffles out of the kitchen.
"Is Jon okay?" Brendon asks, brow furrowing and Spencer shoots Ryan a look, an accusatory glare and Ryan is sorry, okay, he's fucking sorry but he can't say it.
Spencer knows that.
Even though, okay, Ryan's not sure he really is sorry. At some point in the night, with Jon's callused palms easy on his hips and his mouth tracing wet, meandering lines down Ryan's collarbone, Michael went away from the front of his mind, melted into the background and everything became about Jon. The thought's uncomfortable precisely because it seems to fit so well and Ryan shakes his head to get it out.
"He's fine," Spencer says, and he sounds disappointed, which is a hundred times worse than outright anger could ever be. "He doesn't sleep well in strange beds."
Brendon drains the extra milk from his bowl and nods sympathetically. "That sucks."
*
Ryan and Brendon go home eventually, even though it takes longer than Ryan likes. Jon doesn't try to corner him or anything, Ryan's pretty positive that he's not that shifty, but he still breathes a little easier when they're out of Spencer's parent's house.
It's not a sensation he's had in a while, if ever.
"It's really good having them home," Brendon says when they settle in the car for the fifteen minute drive back to their apartment. Ryan swallows something that tastes strangely like bile and makes sure to keep his eyes on the road.
"This isn't Jon's home, you know," he mutters, surprised at how brittle his voice sounds. Brendon rolls his eyes, saying something under his breath that sounds vaguely like, "Duh, obviously," and drumming his fingers against the center console.
"I'm glad he came," Brendon says after a minute so quiet Ryan could have sworn he was sleeping, except for the fact that Brendon is rarely ever quiet when he sleeps. "I'm glad he came. He makes Spence happy, don't you think?"
The thing is, the one part of Brendon Ryan absolutely hates are his eyes.
Ryan fucking hates Brendon's eyes, and he hates that Brendon's looking at him now, hates that Brendon's got his bottom lip tucked under his teeth like he does when he's doing some serious contemplation.
"Is there something on my face?" he doesn't mean to spit out the words, but there they are. It's a testament to how long they've been friends that Brendon doesn't even flinch.
"Aren't you glad he's home?" Brendon asks, and Ryan doesn't have to ask about the "he" in question. The "he" there is pretty self explanatory, and Ryan can't even think about Spencer without losing his breath and tasting Ginger's blueberry pancakes in his throat again.
"Sure, I'm glad, Bren," he says quietly. "It sure as fuck beats flying to Australia." Now Brendon flinches, but then, he feels things differently than Ryan and Spencer do, he always has.
"I'm glad you didn't go," he mumbles, dropping his hand on Ryan's shoulder, the touch absent and completely innocuous.
Ryan almost runs them off the road.
.part two.