A Thousand Words
A Thousand Words
Brendon/Spencer, Shane
adult
~1570 words
Fiction. Not meant to imply that these people are doing this. If you are them or know them, please don't read this. Or tell me.
Written originally via text message for shutyourface on her birthday, cleaned up by why_me_why_not for public consumption. Any remaining mistakes should be blamed on me alone.
*
Shane packed up his bedroom and most of his photography equipment when he moved from his and Brendon's place to the new apartment with Regan, but there are things he's missing. He's still got his key to the old place, so it's nothing to stop by one afternoon and pick up the Canon Rebel he uses for casual photography and the extra Wii remote (that is his no matter how much Brendon protests that it was purchased jointly; the fucker can afford to buy his own, especially now that he's got Spencer sharing housing expenses).
It's quiet when he lets himself in, but that doesn't mean anything; they insulated the walls of the room that became Brendon's studio. Shane finds the Canon where he left it, on the shelf in the entry closet. He's got it in hand, and he decides that he'll find the remote before he gathers odds and ends from the kitchen - that is his French press, thank you very much, and Brendon doesn't drink plain coffee anyway; he likes the fancy, girly macchiato shit - so he passes through the arched entry to the living room, where he stops dead.
Brendon is sprawled across Spencer on the sofa, and although he can't see it from this angle, Shane is pretty sure they're naked. The way they're sprawled together doesn't say naptime, it screams sweaty, exhausting sex.
He's not sure if he wants to bleach his brain or grab his camera. Objectively, they are attractive: Brendon's dark hair and tanned skin make a sharp contrast to Spencer's pinkening sunburn, and the sunlight filtering through the closed curtains cast intriguing shadows on Spencer's face. But it's Brendon, the kid he's known since he was a dorky eleven-year-old, who confided in Shane when he kissed a girl (and a boy) for the first time, who got grounded for not ratting Shane out when his parents demanded to know who gave him pot when he was fourteen. That Brendon is not hot, not to Shane. Nor is he fucking his bandmate. Except for how apparently Shane is wrong on both counts. He's already lifting his camera, checking the battery, when Spencer's hand shifts and a grumbled "mmmph" emerges from where Brendon's face is buried in Spencer's neck.
Shane snaps a shot of their feet tangled together (if he concentrates on that, he can ignore the pieces of denim and cotton dangling off the end of the sofa and lying crumpled on the floor), and one of Spencer's hand where it presses the small of Brendon's back, and then focuses on the curve of Spencer's lips against Brendon's ear. He's about to move to see if he can get a decent view of Brendon's shoulder and cheek when he realizes that Spencer's eyes are open, staring at him through the lens of the camera.
"Shane."
"Dude, I know I blew your mind, but you could at least try to remember the right name. You were saying it before, when you were begging." Brendon lifts his head, and Shane can see his smug grin even at this angle.
"Fuck begging. I was just being properly appreciative of your efforts. It's only polite. Which Shane is not being, since he hasn't even asked if we're okay with him taking pictures of us like this."
Shane just barely prevents himself from taking a defensive step backwards.
Brendon's head lifts more and turns in his direction, and his body shifts like he's going to get up too, but Spencer grips Brendon's hips and holds him where he is. Brendon settles back, listening to whatever Spencer whispers in his ear, and Shane takes another moment to study them. He's struck by how relaxed Brendon is, motionless and content, which rarely happens, even when he sleeps. Shane knows that Brendon kicks, rolls, and talks even then.
Then he realizes that Spencer's hands are moving, stroking, not lightly but firmly, over sets of four oval-shaped bruises on each cheek. He jerks his eyes away when it connects what he's looking at, only to refocus on Brendon's shoulder, where there's a reddened crescent of indents, and. Oh god. Now he really does want to back away, but they're both looking at him, and he can't, he's pinned by the look in their eyes.
Brendon's voice is calm, serious, when he says, "We get the memory card. No copies, nothing uploaded on any computer but mine or Spencer's."
Shane stares, dumbfounded, and Spencer smirks. "I think you broke him, Brendon."
"Shane?"
He tries to answer, but he can't speak around the desert dryness in his mouth, so he just nods.
"Not good enough. Verbal confirmation is required." Of course it would be Spencer who demands the equivalent of a contract.
"No copies. You get the memory card, you decide what happens to any and all photos."
Spencer nods, then he's manhandling Brendon off him and shuffling him down the hallway to Brendon's bedroom. It's on the other side of the condo, so it's dim, and Shane switches the lights on without even thinking twice. Brendon falls on the bed on his back, sprawling indecently, his legs spread and his grin wide. Shane shakes his head. Brendon is always willing to put on a show; he doesn't know why he was so surprised, back in the living room.
Spencer digs lube and a condom out of the nightstand and tosses them on the pillow. He stands by the side of the bed for a long moment, his back to Shane, before putting one knee on the mattress, then the other, maneuvering until Shane has to come further into the room to get an unobstructed view of them both. His first clear shot is one of Brendon smiling into the camera, his hand sliding down, fingers brushing the bluish bruise on the arch of his hipbone before it curves around Spencer's thigh and climbs upward. Spencer glances at Shane before turning his attention to Brendon.
Shane has seen Brendon naked more times than he's ever wanted, and he lived on a bus with them, so it's not like Spencer is a stranger, but Shane has never looked at them. He studies them now like he did models in photography classes. Brendon is all smooth skin over restless energy, well aware of his own appeal and aiming it at Spencer and the camera equally. Spencer, on the other hand, is a surprise. He is intent, focused on Brendon, so Shane doesn't feel self-conscious - and even if he did, he can tell himself he's a professional, this is just another shoot - about eyeing Spencer's shoulders, broader than Brendon's and casting him into shadow, watching, clicking the shutter button, as Brendon's fingers trace the freckles that dot Spencer's arms and trail down his chest.
Spencer, Shane decides, makes a better subject naked than clothed.
He's dissociated from them as his friends, thinking about angles and light and shadow, and he knows he's getting some amazing shots. He's almost sorry that he doesn't have his video camera, because a still photo can't capture the familiarity in the way Spencer runs his fingers up Brendon's side, just soft enough to make him shiver without tickling, or the way Brendon's hands curl around Spencer's shoulders and tug him down so their chests are flush against each other. There's no audio to record Brendon's moan when Spencer mouths the marks on Brendon's shoulder - it's deeper and sexier than any of the fake sex sounds he ever makes on stage - or the growl Brendon earns when his hands, twined in Spencer's hair, tug sharply, reflexively.
Brendon squirms enough to bend his leg and his foot hooks behind Spencer's knee, and Shane actually stops to see the photo on his viewfinder. That could be Brendon and Spencer in relation to each other, a thousand words, six years, and two people, in a single moment, anchoring each other to the Earth.
There are probably a hundred photos on his memory card, and Shane could take two hundred more without running out of space. Brendon rolls them over so he's straddling Spencer's hips, and that gives him all new material. Shane moves without thought, circling the bed, never looking away from the camera. Brendon reaches for the lube and Spencer's helping get him ready, and Shane's half embarrassed to be watching this, half excited because he's never actually filmed porn sex before and it's a new thing, trying to find the best way to frame it.
Even when Brendon kneels up and Spencer holds onto his hips and pushes inside, Shane is cool with it. But then Brendon leans down and presses his lips to Spencer's, and that's not just sex. In spite of the click of the shutter and the sound of Shane moving around the room, they are oblivious to his presence, and now... now Shane feels like an intruder. He takes one more photo, a close-up of their profiles, before Brendon sits back up, and then Shane backs away silently.
Two minutes later, he's out the door, the memory card sitting on the kitchen counter. Shane hopes he can convince them later that some of the photos, shots without identifying marks and tattoos, should hang in a gallery. In the meantime, he wonders if he should be ashamed that he really wants Regan to be home when he gets there.
Brendon/Spencer, Shane
adult
~1570 words
Fiction. Not meant to imply that these people are doing this. If you are them or know them, please don't read this. Or tell me.
Written originally via text message for shutyourface on her birthday, cleaned up by why_me_why_not for public consumption. Any remaining mistakes should be blamed on me alone.
*
Shane packed up his bedroom and most of his photography equipment when he moved from his and Brendon's place to the new apartment with Regan, but there are things he's missing. He's still got his key to the old place, so it's nothing to stop by one afternoon and pick up the Canon Rebel he uses for casual photography and the extra Wii remote (that is his no matter how much Brendon protests that it was purchased jointly; the fucker can afford to buy his own, especially now that he's got Spencer sharing housing expenses).
It's quiet when he lets himself in, but that doesn't mean anything; they insulated the walls of the room that became Brendon's studio. Shane finds the Canon where he left it, on the shelf in the entry closet. He's got it in hand, and he decides that he'll find the remote before he gathers odds and ends from the kitchen - that is his French press, thank you very much, and Brendon doesn't drink plain coffee anyway; he likes the fancy, girly macchiato shit - so he passes through the arched entry to the living room, where he stops dead.
Brendon is sprawled across Spencer on the sofa, and although he can't see it from this angle, Shane is pretty sure they're naked. The way they're sprawled together doesn't say naptime, it screams sweaty, exhausting sex.
He's not sure if he wants to bleach his brain or grab his camera. Objectively, they are attractive: Brendon's dark hair and tanned skin make a sharp contrast to Spencer's pinkening sunburn, and the sunlight filtering through the closed curtains cast intriguing shadows on Spencer's face. But it's Brendon, the kid he's known since he was a dorky eleven-year-old, who confided in Shane when he kissed a girl (and a boy) for the first time, who got grounded for not ratting Shane out when his parents demanded to know who gave him pot when he was fourteen. That Brendon is not hot, not to Shane. Nor is he fucking his bandmate. Except for how apparently Shane is wrong on both counts. He's already lifting his camera, checking the battery, when Spencer's hand shifts and a grumbled "mmmph" emerges from where Brendon's face is buried in Spencer's neck.
Shane snaps a shot of their feet tangled together (if he concentrates on that, he can ignore the pieces of denim and cotton dangling off the end of the sofa and lying crumpled on the floor), and one of Spencer's hand where it presses the small of Brendon's back, and then focuses on the curve of Spencer's lips against Brendon's ear. He's about to move to see if he can get a decent view of Brendon's shoulder and cheek when he realizes that Spencer's eyes are open, staring at him through the lens of the camera.
"Shane."
"Dude, I know I blew your mind, but you could at least try to remember the right name. You were saying it before, when you were begging." Brendon lifts his head, and Shane can see his smug grin even at this angle.
"Fuck begging. I was just being properly appreciative of your efforts. It's only polite. Which Shane is not being, since he hasn't even asked if we're okay with him taking pictures of us like this."
Shane just barely prevents himself from taking a defensive step backwards.
Brendon's head lifts more and turns in his direction, and his body shifts like he's going to get up too, but Spencer grips Brendon's hips and holds him where he is. Brendon settles back, listening to whatever Spencer whispers in his ear, and Shane takes another moment to study them. He's struck by how relaxed Brendon is, motionless and content, which rarely happens, even when he sleeps. Shane knows that Brendon kicks, rolls, and talks even then.
Then he realizes that Spencer's hands are moving, stroking, not lightly but firmly, over sets of four oval-shaped bruises on each cheek. He jerks his eyes away when it connects what he's looking at, only to refocus on Brendon's shoulder, where there's a reddened crescent of indents, and. Oh god. Now he really does want to back away, but they're both looking at him, and he can't, he's pinned by the look in their eyes.
Brendon's voice is calm, serious, when he says, "We get the memory card. No copies, nothing uploaded on any computer but mine or Spencer's."
Shane stares, dumbfounded, and Spencer smirks. "I think you broke him, Brendon."
"Shane?"
He tries to answer, but he can't speak around the desert dryness in his mouth, so he just nods.
"Not good enough. Verbal confirmation is required." Of course it would be Spencer who demands the equivalent of a contract.
"No copies. You get the memory card, you decide what happens to any and all photos."
Spencer nods, then he's manhandling Brendon off him and shuffling him down the hallway to Brendon's bedroom. It's on the other side of the condo, so it's dim, and Shane switches the lights on without even thinking twice. Brendon falls on the bed on his back, sprawling indecently, his legs spread and his grin wide. Shane shakes his head. Brendon is always willing to put on a show; he doesn't know why he was so surprised, back in the living room.
Spencer digs lube and a condom out of the nightstand and tosses them on the pillow. He stands by the side of the bed for a long moment, his back to Shane, before putting one knee on the mattress, then the other, maneuvering until Shane has to come further into the room to get an unobstructed view of them both. His first clear shot is one of Brendon smiling into the camera, his hand sliding down, fingers brushing the bluish bruise on the arch of his hipbone before it curves around Spencer's thigh and climbs upward. Spencer glances at Shane before turning his attention to Brendon.
Shane has seen Brendon naked more times than he's ever wanted, and he lived on a bus with them, so it's not like Spencer is a stranger, but Shane has never looked at them. He studies them now like he did models in photography classes. Brendon is all smooth skin over restless energy, well aware of his own appeal and aiming it at Spencer and the camera equally. Spencer, on the other hand, is a surprise. He is intent, focused on Brendon, so Shane doesn't feel self-conscious - and even if he did, he can tell himself he's a professional, this is just another shoot - about eyeing Spencer's shoulders, broader than Brendon's and casting him into shadow, watching, clicking the shutter button, as Brendon's fingers trace the freckles that dot Spencer's arms and trail down his chest.
Spencer, Shane decides, makes a better subject naked than clothed.
He's dissociated from them as his friends, thinking about angles and light and shadow, and he knows he's getting some amazing shots. He's almost sorry that he doesn't have his video camera, because a still photo can't capture the familiarity in the way Spencer runs his fingers up Brendon's side, just soft enough to make him shiver without tickling, or the way Brendon's hands curl around Spencer's shoulders and tug him down so their chests are flush against each other. There's no audio to record Brendon's moan when Spencer mouths the marks on Brendon's shoulder - it's deeper and sexier than any of the fake sex sounds he ever makes on stage - or the growl Brendon earns when his hands, twined in Spencer's hair, tug sharply, reflexively.
Brendon squirms enough to bend his leg and his foot hooks behind Spencer's knee, and Shane actually stops to see the photo on his viewfinder. That could be Brendon and Spencer in relation to each other, a thousand words, six years, and two people, in a single moment, anchoring each other to the Earth.
There are probably a hundred photos on his memory card, and Shane could take two hundred more without running out of space. Brendon rolls them over so he's straddling Spencer's hips, and that gives him all new material. Shane moves without thought, circling the bed, never looking away from the camera. Brendon reaches for the lube and Spencer's helping get him ready, and Shane's half embarrassed to be watching this, half excited because he's never actually filmed porn sex before and it's a new thing, trying to find the best way to frame it.
Even when Brendon kneels up and Spencer holds onto his hips and pushes inside, Shane is cool with it. But then Brendon leans down and presses his lips to Spencer's, and that's not just sex. In spite of the click of the shutter and the sound of Shane moving around the room, they are oblivious to his presence, and now... now Shane feels like an intruder. He takes one more photo, a close-up of their profiles, before Brendon sits back up, and then Shane backs away silently.
Two minutes later, he's out the door, the memory card sitting on the kitchen counter. Shane hopes he can convince them later that some of the photos, shots without identifying marks and tattoos, should hang in a gallery. In the meantime, he wonders if he should be ashamed that he really wants Regan to be home when he gets there.