Slow Dancing In A Burning Room
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Brendon/Spencer
Summary:Things fall apart, and sometimes you can't put them back together.
Word Count: ~41,000
Warnings: Drug use, graphic sex. One scene that could possibly, maybe, somehow be construed as the beginnings of attempted non-con.
Author's Notes: I sat down and started writing this the day of the divorce, and it just kind of exploded. I don't hate Ryan, guys, no matter how things may appear; this is just my version of how it could've gone down. As always, thanks to behindthec for cheerleading and hand-holding and demanding porn. And to takkatakkatakka, who kicked my dialogue into shape and beta'ed this monster. I couldn't have done it without either of you.
"Ryan got lost," Spencer says as he flops down next to Brendon on the couch.
Brendon stares at him in disbelief. "He's been here before."
"He got lost anyway," Spencer smirks.
"I would say that's surprising, but we're talking about the dude who made his pipes explode." They roll their eyes simultaneously before turning back to the TV.
"Oh my god, stop channel surfing, you have the worst ADD I've ever- give it to me." Spencer grabs at Brendon's wrist and Brendon switches the remote to the other hand, sticking his tongue out. Spencer scowls and scrambles over so he can flop mostly on top of Brendon to make grabby hands at the remote. Brendon tickles him viciously.
"Hah," he crows, when Spencer curls away, laughing.
"Nope," Spencer says, and then, before Brendon can move, Spencer's straddling him easily, holding both of Brendon's wrists in one hand to pluck away the remote.
"Fuck you," Brendon says.
"Ooh, Love Actually."
"You're such a girl - oh wait, this is my favorite scene."
"Yeah, I'm the girl," Spencer mutters. Brendon sticks his tongue out and jumps up to dance with Hugh Grant, singing along until Bogart runs out of the kitchen to yap around his ankles. Brendon laughs and sprawls back across the couch, this time with his head in Spencer's lap.
After a few minutes, Brendon wonders aloud, "Should we eat? How long is Ryan gonna be?"
"He said he'd probably be like half an hour late-" Spencer starts.
"-So he'll be at least an hour, and we should have dinner without him," Brendon concludes. "I'll go order pizza."
"Olives and-"
"Mushrooms, I know."
He waits a few minutes, though, relaxing into Spencer's hand as it scratches gently above his ear. It's been nice, having Spencer around for the past week. Shane is a good roommate and an awesome friend, but there's always been something about the way he and Spencer just fit, effortless and comfortable.
"Go, ass, I'm hungry," Spencer says eventually, and he shoves at Brendon until he falls off the couch.
"Fuck you," Brendon squawks, dusting himself off, but he blows a showy kiss over his shoulder as he heads for the phone.
. . .
"Let me guess, one of these is completely full of hats," Spencer laughs, bringing one of Ryan's many suitcases into the spare room. Ryan scowls.
"What the fuck, Spence, help," Brendon grumbles. Air is hissing out of the mattress just as fast as he pumps it in.
"Fucktard, you have to screw the cap in."
"I'll screw your mom's cap in," Brendon smirks. "Okay, Ryan, this is your room, I'm down the hall, Spencer's next door. Shane basically has the upstairs but he's pretty much away for the next couple weeks, he's filming. Bathroom is across the hall, just be careful with the faucets." Spencer snorts.
"It was barely even my fault," Ryan says defensively. "There was a malfunction in one of the pipes."
"I'll take your word for it. We were thinking we could all go out? Celebrate your arrival, or whatever."
Ryan shrugs. "Sure. Just let me change?"
It's a club they've been to a few times before, visiting Pete or just passing through. Brendon's still getting used to the way nobody gives him a second glance in LA. It's nice, everybody else being more famous than he is.
"Oh, good song," Spencer says approvingly as they step inside.
"I'm gonna go get us drinks," Ryan says. Brendon smiles to himself as Ryan slips out of sight. Some things'll never change; Ryan has never once danced sober in all the time Brendon's known him.
It is a good song, some remix of "Under Pressure." Brendon coaxes Spencer into singing along with him as they dance. Brendon can see a girl eyeing him, but he ignores her, letting his hips swing, closing his eyes against the flashing lights. It's been a while since he went out. He and Spencer have just as good a time at home with the dogs, to be honest, but he does like dancing.
It takes Ryan a couple songs to come over with drinks, and when he does, he also has a girl. Brendon does a double take. She could be Keltie's younger, stupider, prettier sister. Ryan hands over the drinks and wraps an arm around her waist.
"We're, uh, going to the bathroom," Ryan says pointedly. "Want to come?"
"Oh, you mean-" Brendon starts. "Oh. Uh. No thanks, not tonight." Spencer does his best bitchface.
"Okay," Ryan shrugs.
"Looks like it's just you and me," the girl croons up at Ryan as they walk away.
Brendon doubles over laughing as soon as they're out of earshot, but Spencer's not laughing with him. He looks stormy.
"It's his first night back, he's supposed to be hanging out with us."
"Yeah, but you don't think that's even a little hilarious?" Brendon asks. "I mean, I didn't think there was anyone in California with a forehead like Keltie, and yet Ryan manages to find someone within like five minutes. That's impressive."
"He's so bad at rebounding," Spencer says disgustedly, but he's fighting back a smile. "You're supposed to pick someone who's nothing like the last girl."
Brendon rolls his eyes. "Do you need a rebound, Spencer Smith? How about her?" He points at a tiny platinum blonde nearby.
Some strange expression flickers over Spencer's face, more confused than anything. He just shakes his head. "C'mon, let's dance."
Brendon downs the rest of his drink and pulls Spencer close, turning around so they're back-to-front. Spencer's laugh rumbles in his ear and he leans away to set his drink on a table. Brendon shoots him a goofy grin over his shoulder and rolls his hips shamelessly, grinding back against Spencer with everything he's got. He feels Spencer's grip tighten.
It's a great DJ and Brendon, as always, gets lost in the music. Spencer matches Brendon's rhythm easily. It's hot and loud and the air is thick with sweat, and Brendon remembers why he likes going out, the pulse of the music in his chest and the press of someone else against him, the guys and girls that eye him up and down. He could pick anyone, but he doesn't want to bother tonight. Spencer splays a hand over his abs and he shivers, almost forgetting who he's with, shutting his eyes at the heat that flashes through his stomach. He gives a mental shrug and turns around to face Spencer, curling one hand around the back of Spencer's neck. Spencer looks like he's about to protest and Brendon wonders why for a moment, until he grinds up and feels Spencer hard against his thigh.
They both freeze.
"Sorry," Spencer says sheepishly. "You're a good dancer?"
"No worries," Brendon grins. "I know I am. C'mon, let's get something to drink, I'm thirsty." His heart is thumping as they head for the bar.
Brendon gets another Jack and Coke and they slide into a booth. He scans the crowd, but there's no sign of Ryan. He slumps against Spencer's side and Spencer, after a moment of hesitation, wraps an arm around Brendon's shoulder.
"Being out kinda makes me remember why I rarely go out," Spencer mumbles into Brendon's hair.
"Hmm?"
"I mean, it's fun when you're with the right friends, but. Look at her," Spencer says derisively, pointing out a girl wearing what was probably meant as a shirt, but with heels and nothing underneath. "Or her." A girl in a leopard-print dress, breasts spilling over the top.
"Him," Brendon laughs, and it's a Ryan lookalike in a paisley shirt, with carefully flatironed hair.
"Fucking pretty people are so boring," Spencer observes.
Brendon wiggles closer. "Welcome to L.A."
"I'm glad I'm here, though," Spencer says softly. Brendon smiles up at him.
They spend a good half hour judging people, pointing out the tackiest outfits and the most obvious plastic surgery, before finishing their drinks and getting up to dance again. Brendon snakes his arms around Spencer's neck and pulls him close, skin buzzing.
He's lost track of time again, but it must be late when he feels a tap on his shoulder.
"Hi," Ryan says smugly. Brendon pulls away.
"Your hair needs some work," Spencer deadpans. Brendon giggles. Ryan's hair is sticking straight up in the back and is combed straight down at the sides, where he very obviously failed at hiding the line of hickeys trailing down his neck.
"Yeah, well," Ryan not-really protests. "Um, we should go."
"Don't you want to say goodbye to Keltie version five?" Brendon needles. Ryan looks angry for a split-second, but then "Keltie version five" is actually there, pressing herself against Ryan's side with a smug smile.
"Hi," she says, in the exact same cat-got-the-cream tone Ryan had used. Brendon can see Spencer's mouth working as he tries not to laugh.
"We were just about to get going," Ryan informs her, pointedly taking her hand and removing it from his waist.
"But I-" she starts.
"Nice to meet you!" Ryan calls over his shoulder, and Brendon and Spencer exchange an exasperated glance before following him to the exit.
"You could at least pretend to be less of a dick," Spencer says waspishly. He gives the valet their parking ticket.
"Why bother?" Ryan mutters. He's prodding at one of the bruises under his ear.
"Keltie had a better ass," Brendon says absently. He's staring up at the sky, trying to catch a glimpse of a star behind the smog, and it takes him a moment to realize that Ryan's staring at him like he's been hit. "What?"
"Nothing," Ryan practically snarls. He flings himself into the backseat. Brendon watches him for a second, puzzled. Spencer huffs out a sigh and something clicks into place.
"I thought you were over her?" he asks. "Spence, you should drive."
"I am over her." His voice is impossibly flat.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to bring it up," Brendon says awkwardly. He makes an apologetic face at Spencer, who just shrugs and starts the car. It feels like a very long drive home.
Ryan's schooled his expression into something resembling a smile by the time they pull into the driveway. “Thanks for letting me crash, Bren,” he says. “Um. Are we doing anything tomorrow?”
“Not really, unless you want...” Brendon trails off. Spencer shrugs.
“Alex is in town, I might do something with him?”
“Cool.”
“See you in the morning, then. Night.”
. . .
"Was that okay?" Brendon asks nervously. Spencer and Ryan are just gaping at him, wide-eyed, so he tacks on a quick "Sorry."
"No," says Spencer. "That was- that was great."
It's only the fourth practice with him singing, and he still feels painfully uncomfortable being in the spotlight.
"That was-" Ryan starts, but his voice cracks. He clears his throat and flushes, and instead of finishing his sentence, says, "I'm gonna go get something to drink."
Brendon fidgets for a second after he goes, Spencer's gaze on him like a floodlight.
"I need water too," he says feebly, and darts through the door to the kitchen.
Ryan's rummaging through a box of popsicles, smiling slightly as he searches for, Brendon remembers, the watermelon ones. He starts a little when he sees Brendon but offers up the box.
"You- you're really good. Really good," Ryan says. "We- we're gonna be superstars." The confident lilt at the end of the sentence is the best praise Brendon's gotten from him yet, and without thinking, he does what he'd do with any of his brothers, just lunges forward and pulls Ryan into a hug.
He would've expected a little jump of surprise, but not the sharp gasp of unmistakable pain that Ryan lets out when Brendon squeezes him. Ryan goes stock-still in his arms and Brendon lets go and jumps back quickly.
"What's wrong?" he asks nervously.
"Nothing," Ryan says, voice flat.
Puzzled, Brendon asks again, "No, seriously, are you okay?"
"Don't fucking touch me," Ryan snaps out, and it's at that second that Spencer walks into the room. He looks quickly between them, at Ryan hand posed defensively over his own ribs. Brendon feels like he's missed something.
"Okay, Ry?" Spencer asks, in that tone Brendon's noticed is reserved especially for Ryan: protective, slightly reserved, a shade quieter than usual.
"No," Ryan grits out, and he's still glaring at Brendon, venomous and haunted like Brendon hit him.
"Maybe we'll end practice early today," Spencer says softly, eyes still fixed on Ryan's face.
"Yeah," Ryan says, and then he's stalking out of the room without another glance at either of them.
"I'll take you home," Spencer says wearily to Brendon, who's trying valiantly to keep his lower lip from trembling.
"What did I do?" Brendon asks, buckling himself into Spencer's car. Spencer fiddles with the radio for way longer than is actually necessary.
"Do you want to go to the park?" he says finally. Brendon shrugs and nods. It's not like he really wants to go home. They drive in silence, Brendon thinking back to the wild look in Ryan's eyes. His chest hurts, a sort of deep ache. Spencer pulls over by the ice cream truck and buys them both popsicles before Brendon can protest, and he glares when Brendon takes out his wallet.
"Thanks," Brendon says weakly, and they wander over to the swing set. It's going on dusk now and there aren't many kids around, just a few dragging their feet as their parents tug them toward cars.
"Ryan," Spencer says, like he doesn't quite know how to phrase what he's about to say. He takes a bite of his ice cream instead, and winces. "Brain freeze."
Brendon kicks his feet in the sand. "I didn't mean to- to- what did I do?" he stutters.
"Brendon, he- his dad's an alcoholic," Spencer says bluntly. But- oh. Oh.
"So he-" Brendon starts, but ends up staring down at his shoes some more. He feels sick.
"Yeah," Spencer says softly.
"I didn't-"
"You couldn't have known. He wouldn't have told you," Spencer says firmly. "You didn't do anything wrong. He's- He's like that."
They sit in silence for a while, until Brendon's ice cream is just a cherry-flavored stick and it's almost fully dark.
"We should get you home," Spencer says.
"Thanks for the ice cream," Brendon smiles, and Spencer grins back and twists his swing to bump into Brendon's side.
"Anytime. C'mon, let's go."
. . .
They're cooking breakfast around eleven the next morning when Ryan shuffles into the kitchen. "Coffee," he groans. Brendon grins and points at the pot.
"Spatula?" Brendon asks, and Spencer reaches into the drawer by his knee and hands one over. He steps around Brendon to grab the pan of bacon, shoveling it onto three plates before handing the plates over to Brendon, who adds eggs. Brendon turns around to hand Ryan his plate and finds Ryan clutching his empty mug and staring.
"What?" Spencer says. "Eat, you're a twig. Coffee's right there."
Ryan's lips curl up in the early-morning version of a smile, but he takes his plate obediently.
"You want Arts or Business?" Brendon asks Spencer, shoveling eggs into his mouth.
"Business." Brendon hands it over, along with the ketchup, which Spencer pours liberally over his eggs.
"Okay, first of all, ew, have you started doing that again? I thought Haley'd cured you permanently," Ryan says. Spencer raises an eyebrow and goes back to his paper.
"He's still gross as ever," Brendon comments, sticking his tongue out at Spencer.
"Second, you guys are like a fucking married couple," Ryan says. Brendon and Spencer look at each other and shrug simultaneously.
"We have a routine," Spencer explains. Ryan rolls his eyebrows, but reserves comment. His mouth is doing that funny indecisive thing it does when he can't decide whether to be amused or disapproving, but Brendon chalks that up to lack of caffeine. He ploughs through his eggs and the rest of the newspaper while Ryan sips at his coffee.
“I'm gonna take the dogs for a walk, who's coming?” Brendon asks when he's done. He shoves his dishes in a sink-ward direction and grabs the leashes from their hook. “Ry, does Hobo have a leash?”
“Uh,” Ryan says.
“Too many vests, not enough room in the suitcase?” Spencer says sweetly, not looking up from his paper. Brendon snorts.
“S'okay, I have an extra. Wait, Spence, where's the other one?”
“You left it on the end table by the back door.”
“Right. Okay, coming?”
“I, unlike some people, like to properly chew my food, so no, I'm not done yet.”
“I'll come,” Ryan volunteers. He pushes back his chair and smiles at Brendon.
They head off on Brendon's usual loop around the neighborhood. Ryan is stiff at his side, holding Hobo's leash gingerly like he's afraid to choke her. They pass by joggers and baby carriages, and Ryan looks somehow incongruous. It might be the pointy Italian shoes.
“So how d'you like it?” Brendon says grandly, gesturing at the road.
“It's nice. I, uh- I mean. It's really calm.”
“Weather'll be perfect for surfing any day now,” Brendon says. “There are a few good beaches within a fifteen minute drive. It should start getting pretty warm within the week.” And then he realizes he's doing that thing where he talks too much, talking about the fucking weather, and Ryan looks entirely disinterested. “I'm- I'm sorry I was a bitch about the girl, dude. I didn't know.”
“Know what?” Ryan says flatly, and his back stiffens.
“That you were still-” Brendon tries, waving around his leash-free hand. “Y'know.”
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about. So, Spencer's been staying here for a while?” His tone could be called casual by anyone who didn't know Ryan.
“Like a week. Haven't you talked to him?” Brendon says awkwardly. He feels like he's balancing on some fine invisible line.
“Not in a bit. I was in New York for a few days with Alex, just kind of busy.”
“Oh. Did you, uh- did you guys do anything fun?
“Went to some clubs. Met up with Agyness and some of her friends. Went out with the band Alex is producing. It was pretty crazy. What about you guys? Found any good spots in L.A. yet?”
Brendon laughs and it comes out almost natural. “Not really. We've mostly stayed in, y'know? We had some friends over for a barbecue a couple days ago, that was fun.”
“I guess we'll just have to explore more,” Ryan says. It sounds...pitying? Brendon scratches at the back of his neck and tries not to let his discomfort show on his face.
“Yeah, I guess so. Should we start home now?”
“Sure.”
Ryan needs a new guitar strap and he's meeting Alex for lunch, so he leaves a few minutes after they get back. He half-heartedly invites Spencer and Brendon to lunch, but they shake their heads in tandem and wave Ryan out the door.
"Let's get really, really stoned," Brendon decides, and throws his arms up in a sort of "what-fucking-ever" gesture.
"Good call."
They decide on the backyard as the best location, leaning against a tree. Brendon lights up the bowl first, holding in the smoke until he coughs, and it's not long before he feels like he's swimming through his skin, lying flat on his back and watching the light through the leaves. It makes fascinating patterns.
"Ryan's being...weird." Spencer says it slowly, but it's still more coherent than Brendon can manage right now. He suspects Spencer isn't stoned enough. He debates the merits of handing over the bowl so Spencer can smoke more, but then he decides it's too much effort and turns back to what Spencer actually said.
"Like a puzzle piece," Brendon muses.
"No. Like a Ryan-piece. A weird Ryan."
There's a bug crawling across Brendon's stomach. He doesn't want it there, so he tugs clumsily at his shirt until it comes off and tosses it across the yard. "Fucking bugs. No, like a puzzle piece. He fit-" Brendon laces his fingers together over his head to demonstrate- "with us. Like a puzzle. Fitting together. And then he...one of his little...the outline. One of his little lumps got cut off. Or folded off, puzzles fold. And now he doesn't fit." He shakes his hands a little for emphasis.
"Oh yeah," Spencer mumbles, and he lies down next to Brendon. "Why's your shirt gone?"
"Bug."
"There are a lot of bugs."
"There was one on me. On my-" Brendon blinks for a second. He can't think of a good word for stomach. Belly sounds weird. Tummy sounds weirder. He just hits himself there a few times instead.
"Oh."
"I miss yours, Spencer. Spencer, where'd your soft go?" Brendon asks cheekily, and rubs a hand over Spencer's- fuck, now he can't even think the word.
Spencer stiffens slightly, grabs Brendon by the wrist and forcibly removes his hand. Brendon trails the hand up and down his own skin instead, closing his eyes and feeling the grass against his back.
"Stop," Spencer mutters. Brendon is confused. He slits one eye open to watch Spencer roll onto his stomach.
"I can't stop, I'm high," he says eventually, and he giggles.
. . .
Ryan stays in with them that night. They pile onto the couch with the dogs after a couple joints, sprawling out to watch Planet Terror. Brendon's got his head in Spencer's lap and it takes him about half the movie to realize that Ryan keeps shooting sideways glances at them, twitchy little reflexive movements, in time with the tap of his toe. His Sidekick won't stop buzzing. Brendon wants to hit it, but he's too lazy.
“So this is what you guys do, huh?” Ryan asks softly. Cherry is getting her gun leg, so Brendon takes a second to reply.
“Pretty much,” he says. “Sometimes with beer.” He grabs the joint from Spencer's fingers and takes a long drag.
“Oh.”
. . .
"Ribbit! Ribbit!" Spencer is still croaking behind him as they come up the front steps, and Brendon falls more than steps inside, laughing too hard to breathe.
"Hey," he hears, soft from the end of the hallway.
"Ryan! Ryan, look what we got," Brendon giggles, supporting himself against the wall. "Spence, show him!" Spencer holds up his hands, which are encased in plastic frog-shaped potholders, and moves so the mouths open.
"Ribbit!" he squawks, and dissolves into laughter again. "Do the face, Bren." Brendon widens his eyes, stretches his mouth, and then realizes Ryan's just raising his eyebrows at them.
"What's up, Ry?" he asks, still chuckling.
"Nothing," Ryan says blankly. "Just didn't know where you guys went, is all. It's been, like, all day, and you didn't answer my text."
"Sorry, I realized it's my cousin's birthday in a couple days. We made an emergency gift run. And then-"
Spencer interrupts. "-we found these, and Brendon decided it would be a good idea to-"
"-hop around the store," Brendon cackles, breathless.
"Until he got kicked out," Spencer adds. "So I got them for him." He makes one of the frogs nip at Brendon's ass. Brendon jumps away and grins at Ryan, who looks utterly unimpressed.
"Cool," Ryan monotones.
"Um. What did you do?" Brendon asks. He feels suddenly uncomfortable.
"Played with the dogs. Blogged," Ryan says. He shrugs. "Whatever."
"We got hamburgers too, ready for dinner?" Brendon holds up the bag, and Spencer makes Vanna White-style gestures with his frog hands. Brendon giggles.
"Sounds good." Ryan turns away.
Spencer makes a sour face at Brendon behind Ryan's back, but they're both still smiling as they follow him outside.
After dinner, they settle in for Guitar Hero. Brendon offers the controller to Ryan first, but he just shrugs and says, "I'll play winner." He sits and texts while Brendon kicks Spencer's ass.
"Fuck you," Spencer says happily, and turns the guitar over to Ryan.
"Uh, it's okay, go another round," Ryan says, texting furiously. "What are you guys doing tonight?"
"More of this?" Brendon grins.
"Oh. Alex is having a party, he's staying in LA for a couple weeks. I- uh, you could come?" Ryan offers. Spencer shakes his head, biting his lip.
"We're good, thanks," Brendon says. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ryan give them a puzzled look.
"Okay," Ryan says dubiously. "Um. Have fun, I guess." He gathers up his wallet from the coffee table, and half-waves before heading out the door. Brendon's too busy laughing at Spencer to respond.
It's maybe fifteen minutes and three decisive victories for Brendon later when Spencer flops down on the couch in surrender. "I fold," he says grumpily into a pillow.
"Damn straight," Brendon replies, and turns on the TV. "Hey, you didn't want to go with Ryan, did you? I should've asked."
Spencer snorts. "Nah. His friends are fucking weird. What's on?"
"Pirates of the Caribbean!" Brendon exclaims, and hums the theme music.
At the next commercial break, Brendon gets up to make popcorn. "Get your own," he protests, as Spencer grabs immediately at the most buttery pieces.
"No."
"Fuck off," Brendon retorts, and scoots to the arm of the couch so he can toss popcorn at Spencer. The second piece gets caught in Spencer's beard; the third, Spencer picks up off the couch and chucks right back. Brendon catches it in his mouth.
"Nice," Spencer says mildly.
Brendon wiggles his eyebrows. "I'm good with my mouth, what can I say," he smirks. It's probably Brendon's imagination that Spencer freezes for a split second before rolling his eyes.
"Come back, I'll leave you the buttery bits," he concedes, and Brendon scoots over just in time for the movie to resume.
"Keira Knightley's weird-looking," he observes, and rests his head on Spencer's shoulder.
"That's because you like boys," Spencer points out.
"You think she's hot?"
"Sort of. Kinda looks like she'd break in half if you were too rough, though. Her wrists'd snap if you held her against a wall." Spencer says it completely casually.
"Yeah," Brendon manages. He sits up straight and scoots a couple inches farther away.
"You okay?" Spencer asks, raising his eyebrows.
"Fine." Fine, fine, fucking fine. Or he will be, once his brain decides to behave itself.
"Orlando or Johnny, then?" Spencer grins. Brendon wrinkles his nose.
"Johnny, obviously. Orlando can't act for shit. Barbossa or Norrington, I believe, is the tougher question."
Spencer laughs, throwing back his head. Brendon swallows and quickly looks down at his popcorn. "Barbossa. Norrington would ask if it was good for me, and then he'd pretend it never happened."
Brendon chuckles and settles back against Spencer's side, licking butter off his fingers. Spencer's hand comes up to card through his hair and Brendon does not, absolutely does not, feel a little thrill go through his stomach.
. . .
Spencer knocks at 3 a.m.
“It's Ryan,” he says, and it's grim and low and lost, “he's pretty fucked up.”
Brendon can't bring himself to wake up and care. It feels familiar, in a way. “He was just...really fucked up,” Ryan would whisper, hunched shoulders prepared for rejection. “I'm so fucked up,” he'd laugh, years later, sprawled out on the dock while they watched the sun set over the lake.
“Okay,” Brendon says, and Spencer shakes his head.
“Fucked up,” in this case, apparently doesn't mean “So high he can't remember the way to the air mattress” any more. Spencer's dealt with that before. No. Now it means fever-glassy eyes and flushed cheeks and a laugh that's bright like staring into the sun.
“Brendon,” he says breathlessly, “Brendon, your couch.” Spencer stands in the doorway while Brendon takes in the view; Ryan sprawled across the couch, stroking long fingers over the nubby material of a cushion, like he's never seen anything so beautiful before. Brendon's heart does a sickening sort of thud.
“Can you get him some water, Spence?” Brendon asks quietly.
“Brendon,” Ryan calls again from the couch, voice high and twisted, so Brendon sits down gingerly next to him.
“What did you take?” he asks, and isn't surprised when the only answer is another laugh, verging on hysteria.
“I feel so good, Brendon. I feel- I feel good,” and one spidery hand reaches out and ghosts down Brendon's arm. He can't help the shudder, but Ryan doesn't notice. “Brendon- Brendon, you feel good. You feel-” Ryan's staring, wide-eyed and fascinated, at his own hand running down Brendon's chest.
“Stop,” Brendon says, maybe more harshly than he means to and less harshly than Ryan deserves. Ryan turns dazed eyes upward and smiles, blinding like Brendon hasn't seen in months, maybe longer.
“Here,” Spencer says from the doorway, thank fuck, and hands the glass to Brendon, who shoves it at Ryan.
“Drink.”
“E?” Spencer asks, staring as Ryan gulps down the glass.
“I think so. But he's...I don't know. Maybe something else too.”
“Should we get him to a hospital?”
“Fuck, Spence, I don't know! Since when am I the one who deals with Ryan?” Brendon snaps, and he can't look at Spencer's reaction in the ensuing seconds of dead silence. He just looks down at his hands and whispers, “Sorry.”
“I know,” Spencer answers, cold and flat. “I know. I just- I can't.”
Brendon nods. “I'll stay up with him.”
“No, I should-”
“No.” He turns to nod to Spencer again, authoritative like he knows what he's doing, and turns away again as Ryan starts stroking his hair. “Go to sleep, you can- in the morning.”
Brendon watches Spencer’s back, stiff with anger, as he walks away.
“Brendon, Brendon, Brendon Brenny bunny,” Ryan laughs breathlessly, and he's half on top of Brendon, elbows and familiar cologne everywhere, still with that sharp giggle that's making Brendon sick and angry.
Angry, he says, “Get off me,” and shoves, and Ryan falls back onto the sofa with a gasp. Brendon clenches his teeth, looks down at his own hands, anywhere but Ryan. “I’m gonna get you some more water,” he says to the wall. “Don’t move.”
He takes a second to breathe, bracing himself against the kitchen counter, fighting with the weird little knot of emotions that’s settled in his chest. Anger, mostly, and fear. He pushes it down, tries not to let his hand shake as he pours a glass of water.
“Drink,” he says, and shoves it at Ryan. It’s hard to look at him, hard to take in the pink flush of his cheeks against the moss green of Brendon’s couch, hard not to shake him until he apologizes.
“I feel so good, Brendon,” Ryan says, earnest and breathy, eyes burning over the rim of the glass. He won’t stop moving, squirming like the feeling of being in his skin is something new and exciting, tracing one long finger through the perspiration on the glass with a shudder.
“What did you take, Ryan?” Brendon asks again, sadly this time. But he can’t be angry, not when behind the fascination Ryan looks so desperate.
“E, I think,” Ryan mumbles, running a hand through his own hair. “Maybe something else. There were pills. Vodka. Pills,” he trails off, inspecting his wrist, the tattooed skin there. His eyes are frightening in their intensity, big and dark and almost all pupil, but his voice is absent, spacey.
“You’re an idiot,” Brendon says unhappily, and he's not sure why he feels so guilty.
“You’re soft,” Ryan counters, and now it’s Brendon he’s stroking, seizing Brendon’s wrist in one bony hand and placing it on his own cheek, rubbing it over his face. He’s feverishly hot, skin desert-dry and soft, and it almost burns. Brendon stays put and lets Ryan play ragdoll, leaves his arm limp while Ryan explores it, tracing patterns over his veins. He feels sick.
"Let's...see what's on TV."
He's barely settled on The Princess Bride when Ryan's on him again, scooting into Brendon's personal space like he never does and nuzzling into the side of his neck. Brendon closes his eyes and wishes it was real. He's always the one pushing boundaries like this, not so much now as he used to, but he's the one resting his head on Ryan's shoulder during movies or moving in close for a hug after shows, and if he's lucky Ryan won't pull back. Ryan never offers himself up like that, never offers or demands comfort, and Brendon wishes he'd let that go sometimes and just cling, but he's burrowing into Brendon's side with a sigh because of a chemical, nothing more.
He repeats the lines like he always does, mumbling "Inconceivable," when Vizzini does and "As you wish," just before Buttercup pushes Wesley down the hill, but it's to distract himself more than anything. Ryan laughs anyway, a thin giggle that sends a shiver down Brendon's back. He ignores Ryan's constant movement next to him, the twitching and occasional touches, and he must fall asleep at some point.
"I don't- I don't feel good," Ryan says, and Brendon is startled back into wakefulness.
"Huh?" he mumbles, rubbing his eyes and looking to Ryan. Ryan's hunched against the arm of the couch, curled in on himself and shivering under the afghan.
"I didn't mean to," he mutters, almost to himself, and looks up at Brendon pleadingly.
"What?" Brendon says, and really, he just wants to go back to bed.
Ryan looks down at his trembling hands. "It's not like you can judge, you've done shit before."
"Ryan, I-" and Brendon's lost for words, frustrated and exhausted and really, were those two thoughts supposed to be related?
"You were an asshole," Ryan says earnestly, like this makes total sense.
"Ryan, really? You're the one who comes back to my house completely fucked up. I'm the one staying up to make sure you're okay," Brendon points out. He feels like he's explaining this to a five-year-old.
"No, Lana. And you didn't- never mind. I feel- I hate- never mind." He slouches deeper into the cushion.
"Are you okay?" Brendon asks hesitantly.
"I don't feel good," Ryan mutters again, and buries his face in his knees.
"I'm gonna make you some tea," Brendon says softly. He can see the sun starting to rise from his kitchen window as he sticks a mug in the microwave, the barest hints of pink peeking over the skyline. He's tired, eyes itching, but he can't quite tell whether the weight in his chest is exhaustion or Ryan.
He grabs an old quilt from the hall closet as he heads back into the living room. Ryan is curled fetal on his side, skinny arms clutched tight around himself, shivering. He looks impossibly frail.
Brendon remembers the way Ryan used to sleep in his old apartment, pressed almost against the wall in an effort to stay out of Brendon's space. Brendon was always the one to pull him closer, to slip an arm around his waist and smile into his neck, but when he woke up Ryan would always be sprawled across the bed, head tucked under Brendon's chin and leg hooked over Brendon's thigh. It hits Brendon like it hasn't in months, the space that's grown between them over the years. Ryan had Keltie and Brendon had one meaningless girl after another. They had Hollywood houses and king-size beds and so they stopped needing to cuddle close, to share body heat on a bare old mattress. He wants to touch, to smooth Ryan's sweaty hair back from his forehead and snuggle in next to him and turn back time.
Instead, he hands Ryan the tea and the blanket and mutters, "I'm going to bed." Ryan nods, the rising sun casting golden shadows across his skin, and Brendon turns away.
. . .
"Hey," Brendon says quietly as he sits in the plastic chair next to Ryan's.
"You didn't have to come." Ryan doesn't really acknowledge him, just stares at the watercolor on the opposite wall.
"Brought you this," Brendon offers, and hands over a smoothie. Strawberry pineapple, his special formula, Ryan's favorite. It earns him a half-hearted quirk of the lips that's far from an actual smile. Ryan starts in on the smoothie without comment, so Brendon fidgets with his getting-on-the-small-side shirt and looks around. The hallway is bleached white and smells like antiseptic and he can't stand it.
"So do they have any word yet?" he finally asks.
"He'll be fine," Ryan says shortly. "He'll be the same as ever." He takes a loud, vehement suck at the smoothie.
"That's good?" Brendon volunteers. Ryan shrugs.
"It'll be fine, same as ever. We deal." He's tugging at one cuticle almost unconsciously, mouth a bitter little line. Brendon cautiously, slowly, reaches one arm around his shoulders, offering comfort the only way he knows how. Ryan stiffens (Brendon hadn't thought it was possible; his back was already completely rigid) for a second before relaxing into it slowly, going boneless until he's slumped over with his cheek on Brendon's shoulder.
"We're gonna make it," Brendon tells him fiercely.
"I just don't want to ever be like him. I can't- I won't be," Ryan vows, and there's only the faintest hint of a tremor in his voice, but Brendon can feel the tears starting to soak through his shirt.
. . .
The clock reads three pm, and Brendon squints for a second, confused, before remembering why he's slept so late. He burrows for a second back into his pillow before taking a deep breath and getting up. He pulls on jeans, scrubs at his eyes and heads into the kitchen.
Ryan's on one side of the table, shoulders hunched sheepishly over the Style section of the newspaper, while Spencer's eyes are glaring lasers into the Business section.
"Morning," he says, extra cheerful in a feeble attempt to break the tension.
"Afternoon, actually. I guess we all had a late night," Spencer comments darkly.
"I'm sorry," Ryan says, but he keeps his gaze trained on the paper. He looks heavy-eyed and pinched.
"It's o-"
"It's not okay," Spencer cuts in venomously.
"Spence, you already gave me the lecture. Can we not do this again?" Ryan monotones.
"It's okay," Brendon says again, and he catches Spencer's eye and silently implores him to drop it.
"I'm gonna go shower," Ryan mutters, and Brendon flops down in the chair next to Spencer.
"I'm sorry I went to bed, I just couldn't- I don't think I would've been able to stay without screaming at him," Spencer says.
"It's okay. Really, Spence, I think it's gonna be okay. He- he was fucked up, yeah, but I think he was just blowing off steam. He's fine." Brendon tries to sound confident.
"I don't know if he is," Spencer confesses, and there's an unhappy curl to the corner of his mouth. Brendon wants to smooth it away.
"It was a bad break-up, you know how that feels," Brendon says, and maybe that's hitting below the belt, because Spencer puts down the newspaper and glares. "You know what I mean. A long relationship. And for Ryan, it just- it was sudden. You and Haley just kind of-"
"Dissolved. I guess so." Spencer runs a hand through his hair. "I don't know- I don't know how to talk to him about it. He wouldn't talk to me." There's frustration straining his voice, a shade or two away from panic.
"He will," Brendon says firmly, because if there's one thing that's always stayed constant in his life, it's Spencer and Ryan.
"I was pretty hard on him," Spencer mutters.
"Yeah. Well. Yeah," Brendon half-smiles. "Can't stay mad at him forever, though, right? What should we do today?"
"Dunno. When does Shane get back?"
"Not till tomorrow. Wanna hotbox the garage?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Part 2
Pairing: Brendon/Spencer
Summary:Things fall apart, and sometimes you can't put them back together.
Word Count: ~41,000
Warnings: Drug use, graphic sex. One scene that could possibly, maybe, somehow be construed as the beginnings of attempted non-con.
Author's Notes: I sat down and started writing this the day of the divorce, and it just kind of exploded. I don't hate Ryan, guys, no matter how things may appear; this is just my version of how it could've gone down. As always, thanks to behindthec for cheerleading and hand-holding and demanding porn. And to takkatakkatakka, who kicked my dialogue into shape and beta'ed this monster. I couldn't have done it without either of you.
"Ryan got lost," Spencer says as he flops down next to Brendon on the couch.
Brendon stares at him in disbelief. "He's been here before."
"He got lost anyway," Spencer smirks.
"I would say that's surprising, but we're talking about the dude who made his pipes explode." They roll their eyes simultaneously before turning back to the TV.
"Oh my god, stop channel surfing, you have the worst ADD I've ever- give it to me." Spencer grabs at Brendon's wrist and Brendon switches the remote to the other hand, sticking his tongue out. Spencer scowls and scrambles over so he can flop mostly on top of Brendon to make grabby hands at the remote. Brendon tickles him viciously.
"Hah," he crows, when Spencer curls away, laughing.
"Nope," Spencer says, and then, before Brendon can move, Spencer's straddling him easily, holding both of Brendon's wrists in one hand to pluck away the remote.
"Fuck you," Brendon says.
"Ooh, Love Actually."
"You're such a girl - oh wait, this is my favorite scene."
"Yeah, I'm the girl," Spencer mutters. Brendon sticks his tongue out and jumps up to dance with Hugh Grant, singing along until Bogart runs out of the kitchen to yap around his ankles. Brendon laughs and sprawls back across the couch, this time with his head in Spencer's lap.
After a few minutes, Brendon wonders aloud, "Should we eat? How long is Ryan gonna be?"
"He said he'd probably be like half an hour late-" Spencer starts.
"-So he'll be at least an hour, and we should have dinner without him," Brendon concludes. "I'll go order pizza."
"Olives and-"
"Mushrooms, I know."
He waits a few minutes, though, relaxing into Spencer's hand as it scratches gently above his ear. It's been nice, having Spencer around for the past week. Shane is a good roommate and an awesome friend, but there's always been something about the way he and Spencer just fit, effortless and comfortable.
"Go, ass, I'm hungry," Spencer says eventually, and he shoves at Brendon until he falls off the couch.
"Fuck you," Brendon squawks, dusting himself off, but he blows a showy kiss over his shoulder as he heads for the phone.
. . .
"Let me guess, one of these is completely full of hats," Spencer laughs, bringing one of Ryan's many suitcases into the spare room. Ryan scowls.
"What the fuck, Spence, help," Brendon grumbles. Air is hissing out of the mattress just as fast as he pumps it in.
"Fucktard, you have to screw the cap in."
"I'll screw your mom's cap in," Brendon smirks. "Okay, Ryan, this is your room, I'm down the hall, Spencer's next door. Shane basically has the upstairs but he's pretty much away for the next couple weeks, he's filming. Bathroom is across the hall, just be careful with the faucets." Spencer snorts.
"It was barely even my fault," Ryan says defensively. "There was a malfunction in one of the pipes."
"I'll take your word for it. We were thinking we could all go out? Celebrate your arrival, or whatever."
Ryan shrugs. "Sure. Just let me change?"
It's a club they've been to a few times before, visiting Pete or just passing through. Brendon's still getting used to the way nobody gives him a second glance in LA. It's nice, everybody else being more famous than he is.
"Oh, good song," Spencer says approvingly as they step inside.
"I'm gonna go get us drinks," Ryan says. Brendon smiles to himself as Ryan slips out of sight. Some things'll never change; Ryan has never once danced sober in all the time Brendon's known him.
It is a good song, some remix of "Under Pressure." Brendon coaxes Spencer into singing along with him as they dance. Brendon can see a girl eyeing him, but he ignores her, letting his hips swing, closing his eyes against the flashing lights. It's been a while since he went out. He and Spencer have just as good a time at home with the dogs, to be honest, but he does like dancing.
It takes Ryan a couple songs to come over with drinks, and when he does, he also has a girl. Brendon does a double take. She could be Keltie's younger, stupider, prettier sister. Ryan hands over the drinks and wraps an arm around her waist.
"We're, uh, going to the bathroom," Ryan says pointedly. "Want to come?"
"Oh, you mean-" Brendon starts. "Oh. Uh. No thanks, not tonight." Spencer does his best bitchface.
"Okay," Ryan shrugs.
"Looks like it's just you and me," the girl croons up at Ryan as they walk away.
Brendon doubles over laughing as soon as they're out of earshot, but Spencer's not laughing with him. He looks stormy.
"It's his first night back, he's supposed to be hanging out with us."
"Yeah, but you don't think that's even a little hilarious?" Brendon asks. "I mean, I didn't think there was anyone in California with a forehead like Keltie, and yet Ryan manages to find someone within like five minutes. That's impressive."
"He's so bad at rebounding," Spencer says disgustedly, but he's fighting back a smile. "You're supposed to pick someone who's nothing like the last girl."
Brendon rolls his eyes. "Do you need a rebound, Spencer Smith? How about her?" He points at a tiny platinum blonde nearby.
Some strange expression flickers over Spencer's face, more confused than anything. He just shakes his head. "C'mon, let's dance."
Brendon downs the rest of his drink and pulls Spencer close, turning around so they're back-to-front. Spencer's laugh rumbles in his ear and he leans away to set his drink on a table. Brendon shoots him a goofy grin over his shoulder and rolls his hips shamelessly, grinding back against Spencer with everything he's got. He feels Spencer's grip tighten.
It's a great DJ and Brendon, as always, gets lost in the music. Spencer matches Brendon's rhythm easily. It's hot and loud and the air is thick with sweat, and Brendon remembers why he likes going out, the pulse of the music in his chest and the press of someone else against him, the guys and girls that eye him up and down. He could pick anyone, but he doesn't want to bother tonight. Spencer splays a hand over his abs and he shivers, almost forgetting who he's with, shutting his eyes at the heat that flashes through his stomach. He gives a mental shrug and turns around to face Spencer, curling one hand around the back of Spencer's neck. Spencer looks like he's about to protest and Brendon wonders why for a moment, until he grinds up and feels Spencer hard against his thigh.
They both freeze.
"Sorry," Spencer says sheepishly. "You're a good dancer?"
"No worries," Brendon grins. "I know I am. C'mon, let's get something to drink, I'm thirsty." His heart is thumping as they head for the bar.
Brendon gets another Jack and Coke and they slide into a booth. He scans the crowd, but there's no sign of Ryan. He slumps against Spencer's side and Spencer, after a moment of hesitation, wraps an arm around Brendon's shoulder.
"Being out kinda makes me remember why I rarely go out," Spencer mumbles into Brendon's hair.
"Hmm?"
"I mean, it's fun when you're with the right friends, but. Look at her," Spencer says derisively, pointing out a girl wearing what was probably meant as a shirt, but with heels and nothing underneath. "Or her." A girl in a leopard-print dress, breasts spilling over the top.
"Him," Brendon laughs, and it's a Ryan lookalike in a paisley shirt, with carefully flatironed hair.
"Fucking pretty people are so boring," Spencer observes.
Brendon wiggles closer. "Welcome to L.A."
"I'm glad I'm here, though," Spencer says softly. Brendon smiles up at him.
They spend a good half hour judging people, pointing out the tackiest outfits and the most obvious plastic surgery, before finishing their drinks and getting up to dance again. Brendon snakes his arms around Spencer's neck and pulls him close, skin buzzing.
He's lost track of time again, but it must be late when he feels a tap on his shoulder.
"Hi," Ryan says smugly. Brendon pulls away.
"Your hair needs some work," Spencer deadpans. Brendon giggles. Ryan's hair is sticking straight up in the back and is combed straight down at the sides, where he very obviously failed at hiding the line of hickeys trailing down his neck.
"Yeah, well," Ryan not-really protests. "Um, we should go."
"Don't you want to say goodbye to Keltie version five?" Brendon needles. Ryan looks angry for a split-second, but then "Keltie version five" is actually there, pressing herself against Ryan's side with a smug smile.
"Hi," she says, in the exact same cat-got-the-cream tone Ryan had used. Brendon can see Spencer's mouth working as he tries not to laugh.
"We were just about to get going," Ryan informs her, pointedly taking her hand and removing it from his waist.
"But I-" she starts.
"Nice to meet you!" Ryan calls over his shoulder, and Brendon and Spencer exchange an exasperated glance before following him to the exit.
"You could at least pretend to be less of a dick," Spencer says waspishly. He gives the valet their parking ticket.
"Why bother?" Ryan mutters. He's prodding at one of the bruises under his ear.
"Keltie had a better ass," Brendon says absently. He's staring up at the sky, trying to catch a glimpse of a star behind the smog, and it takes him a moment to realize that Ryan's staring at him like he's been hit. "What?"
"Nothing," Ryan practically snarls. He flings himself into the backseat. Brendon watches him for a second, puzzled. Spencer huffs out a sigh and something clicks into place.
"I thought you were over her?" he asks. "Spence, you should drive."
"I am over her." His voice is impossibly flat.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to bring it up," Brendon says awkwardly. He makes an apologetic face at Spencer, who just shrugs and starts the car. It feels like a very long drive home.
Ryan's schooled his expression into something resembling a smile by the time they pull into the driveway. “Thanks for letting me crash, Bren,” he says. “Um. Are we doing anything tomorrow?”
“Not really, unless you want...” Brendon trails off. Spencer shrugs.
“Alex is in town, I might do something with him?”
“Cool.”
“See you in the morning, then. Night.”
. . .
"Was that okay?" Brendon asks nervously. Spencer and Ryan are just gaping at him, wide-eyed, so he tacks on a quick "Sorry."
"No," says Spencer. "That was- that was great."
It's only the fourth practice with him singing, and he still feels painfully uncomfortable being in the spotlight.
"That was-" Ryan starts, but his voice cracks. He clears his throat and flushes, and instead of finishing his sentence, says, "I'm gonna go get something to drink."
Brendon fidgets for a second after he goes, Spencer's gaze on him like a floodlight.
"I need water too," he says feebly, and darts through the door to the kitchen.
Ryan's rummaging through a box of popsicles, smiling slightly as he searches for, Brendon remembers, the watermelon ones. He starts a little when he sees Brendon but offers up the box.
"You- you're really good. Really good," Ryan says. "We- we're gonna be superstars." The confident lilt at the end of the sentence is the best praise Brendon's gotten from him yet, and without thinking, he does what he'd do with any of his brothers, just lunges forward and pulls Ryan into a hug.
He would've expected a little jump of surprise, but not the sharp gasp of unmistakable pain that Ryan lets out when Brendon squeezes him. Ryan goes stock-still in his arms and Brendon lets go and jumps back quickly.
"What's wrong?" he asks nervously.
"Nothing," Ryan says, voice flat.
Puzzled, Brendon asks again, "No, seriously, are you okay?"
"Don't fucking touch me," Ryan snaps out, and it's at that second that Spencer walks into the room. He looks quickly between them, at Ryan hand posed defensively over his own ribs. Brendon feels like he's missed something.
"Okay, Ry?" Spencer asks, in that tone Brendon's noticed is reserved especially for Ryan: protective, slightly reserved, a shade quieter than usual.
"No," Ryan grits out, and he's still glaring at Brendon, venomous and haunted like Brendon hit him.
"Maybe we'll end practice early today," Spencer says softly, eyes still fixed on Ryan's face.
"Yeah," Ryan says, and then he's stalking out of the room without another glance at either of them.
"I'll take you home," Spencer says wearily to Brendon, who's trying valiantly to keep his lower lip from trembling.
"What did I do?" Brendon asks, buckling himself into Spencer's car. Spencer fiddles with the radio for way longer than is actually necessary.
"Do you want to go to the park?" he says finally. Brendon shrugs and nods. It's not like he really wants to go home. They drive in silence, Brendon thinking back to the wild look in Ryan's eyes. His chest hurts, a sort of deep ache. Spencer pulls over by the ice cream truck and buys them both popsicles before Brendon can protest, and he glares when Brendon takes out his wallet.
"Thanks," Brendon says weakly, and they wander over to the swing set. It's going on dusk now and there aren't many kids around, just a few dragging their feet as their parents tug them toward cars.
"Ryan," Spencer says, like he doesn't quite know how to phrase what he's about to say. He takes a bite of his ice cream instead, and winces. "Brain freeze."
Brendon kicks his feet in the sand. "I didn't mean to- to- what did I do?" he stutters.
"Brendon, he- his dad's an alcoholic," Spencer says bluntly. But- oh. Oh.
"So he-" Brendon starts, but ends up staring down at his shoes some more. He feels sick.
"Yeah," Spencer says softly.
"I didn't-"
"You couldn't have known. He wouldn't have told you," Spencer says firmly. "You didn't do anything wrong. He's- He's like that."
They sit in silence for a while, until Brendon's ice cream is just a cherry-flavored stick and it's almost fully dark.
"We should get you home," Spencer says.
"Thanks for the ice cream," Brendon smiles, and Spencer grins back and twists his swing to bump into Brendon's side.
"Anytime. C'mon, let's go."
. . .
They're cooking breakfast around eleven the next morning when Ryan shuffles into the kitchen. "Coffee," he groans. Brendon grins and points at the pot.
"Spatula?" Brendon asks, and Spencer reaches into the drawer by his knee and hands one over. He steps around Brendon to grab the pan of bacon, shoveling it onto three plates before handing the plates over to Brendon, who adds eggs. Brendon turns around to hand Ryan his plate and finds Ryan clutching his empty mug and staring.
"What?" Spencer says. "Eat, you're a twig. Coffee's right there."
Ryan's lips curl up in the early-morning version of a smile, but he takes his plate obediently.
"You want Arts or Business?" Brendon asks Spencer, shoveling eggs into his mouth.
"Business." Brendon hands it over, along with the ketchup, which Spencer pours liberally over his eggs.
"Okay, first of all, ew, have you started doing that again? I thought Haley'd cured you permanently," Ryan says. Spencer raises an eyebrow and goes back to his paper.
"He's still gross as ever," Brendon comments, sticking his tongue out at Spencer.
"Second, you guys are like a fucking married couple," Ryan says. Brendon and Spencer look at each other and shrug simultaneously.
"We have a routine," Spencer explains. Ryan rolls his eyebrows, but reserves comment. His mouth is doing that funny indecisive thing it does when he can't decide whether to be amused or disapproving, but Brendon chalks that up to lack of caffeine. He ploughs through his eggs and the rest of the newspaper while Ryan sips at his coffee.
“I'm gonna take the dogs for a walk, who's coming?” Brendon asks when he's done. He shoves his dishes in a sink-ward direction and grabs the leashes from their hook. “Ry, does Hobo have a leash?”
“Uh,” Ryan says.
“Too many vests, not enough room in the suitcase?” Spencer says sweetly, not looking up from his paper. Brendon snorts.
“S'okay, I have an extra. Wait, Spence, where's the other one?”
“You left it on the end table by the back door.”
“Right. Okay, coming?”
“I, unlike some people, like to properly chew my food, so no, I'm not done yet.”
“I'll come,” Ryan volunteers. He pushes back his chair and smiles at Brendon.
They head off on Brendon's usual loop around the neighborhood. Ryan is stiff at his side, holding Hobo's leash gingerly like he's afraid to choke her. They pass by joggers and baby carriages, and Ryan looks somehow incongruous. It might be the pointy Italian shoes.
“So how d'you like it?” Brendon says grandly, gesturing at the road.
“It's nice. I, uh- I mean. It's really calm.”
“Weather'll be perfect for surfing any day now,” Brendon says. “There are a few good beaches within a fifteen minute drive. It should start getting pretty warm within the week.” And then he realizes he's doing that thing where he talks too much, talking about the fucking weather, and Ryan looks entirely disinterested. “I'm- I'm sorry I was a bitch about the girl, dude. I didn't know.”
“Know what?” Ryan says flatly, and his back stiffens.
“That you were still-” Brendon tries, waving around his leash-free hand. “Y'know.”
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about. So, Spencer's been staying here for a while?” His tone could be called casual by anyone who didn't know Ryan.
“Like a week. Haven't you talked to him?” Brendon says awkwardly. He feels like he's balancing on some fine invisible line.
“Not in a bit. I was in New York for a few days with Alex, just kind of busy.”
“Oh. Did you, uh- did you guys do anything fun?
“Went to some clubs. Met up with Agyness and some of her friends. Went out with the band Alex is producing. It was pretty crazy. What about you guys? Found any good spots in L.A. yet?”
Brendon laughs and it comes out almost natural. “Not really. We've mostly stayed in, y'know? We had some friends over for a barbecue a couple days ago, that was fun.”
“I guess we'll just have to explore more,” Ryan says. It sounds...pitying? Brendon scratches at the back of his neck and tries not to let his discomfort show on his face.
“Yeah, I guess so. Should we start home now?”
“Sure.”
Ryan needs a new guitar strap and he's meeting Alex for lunch, so he leaves a few minutes after they get back. He half-heartedly invites Spencer and Brendon to lunch, but they shake their heads in tandem and wave Ryan out the door.
"Let's get really, really stoned," Brendon decides, and throws his arms up in a sort of "what-fucking-ever" gesture.
"Good call."
They decide on the backyard as the best location, leaning against a tree. Brendon lights up the bowl first, holding in the smoke until he coughs, and it's not long before he feels like he's swimming through his skin, lying flat on his back and watching the light through the leaves. It makes fascinating patterns.
"Ryan's being...weird." Spencer says it slowly, but it's still more coherent than Brendon can manage right now. He suspects Spencer isn't stoned enough. He debates the merits of handing over the bowl so Spencer can smoke more, but then he decides it's too much effort and turns back to what Spencer actually said.
"Like a puzzle piece," Brendon muses.
"No. Like a Ryan-piece. A weird Ryan."
There's a bug crawling across Brendon's stomach. He doesn't want it there, so he tugs clumsily at his shirt until it comes off and tosses it across the yard. "Fucking bugs. No, like a puzzle piece. He fit-" Brendon laces his fingers together over his head to demonstrate- "with us. Like a puzzle. Fitting together. And then he...one of his little...the outline. One of his little lumps got cut off. Or folded off, puzzles fold. And now he doesn't fit." He shakes his hands a little for emphasis.
"Oh yeah," Spencer mumbles, and he lies down next to Brendon. "Why's your shirt gone?"
"Bug."
"There are a lot of bugs."
"There was one on me. On my-" Brendon blinks for a second. He can't think of a good word for stomach. Belly sounds weird. Tummy sounds weirder. He just hits himself there a few times instead.
"Oh."
"I miss yours, Spencer. Spencer, where'd your soft go?" Brendon asks cheekily, and rubs a hand over Spencer's- fuck, now he can't even think the word.
Spencer stiffens slightly, grabs Brendon by the wrist and forcibly removes his hand. Brendon trails the hand up and down his own skin instead, closing his eyes and feeling the grass against his back.
"Stop," Spencer mutters. Brendon is confused. He slits one eye open to watch Spencer roll onto his stomach.
"I can't stop, I'm high," he says eventually, and he giggles.
. . .
Ryan stays in with them that night. They pile onto the couch with the dogs after a couple joints, sprawling out to watch Planet Terror. Brendon's got his head in Spencer's lap and it takes him about half the movie to realize that Ryan keeps shooting sideways glances at them, twitchy little reflexive movements, in time with the tap of his toe. His Sidekick won't stop buzzing. Brendon wants to hit it, but he's too lazy.
“So this is what you guys do, huh?” Ryan asks softly. Cherry is getting her gun leg, so Brendon takes a second to reply.
“Pretty much,” he says. “Sometimes with beer.” He grabs the joint from Spencer's fingers and takes a long drag.
“Oh.”
. . .
"Ribbit! Ribbit!" Spencer is still croaking behind him as they come up the front steps, and Brendon falls more than steps inside, laughing too hard to breathe.
"Hey," he hears, soft from the end of the hallway.
"Ryan! Ryan, look what we got," Brendon giggles, supporting himself against the wall. "Spence, show him!" Spencer holds up his hands, which are encased in plastic frog-shaped potholders, and moves so the mouths open.
"Ribbit!" he squawks, and dissolves into laughter again. "Do the face, Bren." Brendon widens his eyes, stretches his mouth, and then realizes Ryan's just raising his eyebrows at them.
"What's up, Ry?" he asks, still chuckling.
"Nothing," Ryan says blankly. "Just didn't know where you guys went, is all. It's been, like, all day, and you didn't answer my text."
"Sorry, I realized it's my cousin's birthday in a couple days. We made an emergency gift run. And then-"
Spencer interrupts. "-we found these, and Brendon decided it would be a good idea to-"
"-hop around the store," Brendon cackles, breathless.
"Until he got kicked out," Spencer adds. "So I got them for him." He makes one of the frogs nip at Brendon's ass. Brendon jumps away and grins at Ryan, who looks utterly unimpressed.
"Cool," Ryan monotones.
"Um. What did you do?" Brendon asks. He feels suddenly uncomfortable.
"Played with the dogs. Blogged," Ryan says. He shrugs. "Whatever."
"We got hamburgers too, ready for dinner?" Brendon holds up the bag, and Spencer makes Vanna White-style gestures with his frog hands. Brendon giggles.
"Sounds good." Ryan turns away.
Spencer makes a sour face at Brendon behind Ryan's back, but they're both still smiling as they follow him outside.
After dinner, they settle in for Guitar Hero. Brendon offers the controller to Ryan first, but he just shrugs and says, "I'll play winner." He sits and texts while Brendon kicks Spencer's ass.
"Fuck you," Spencer says happily, and turns the guitar over to Ryan.
"Uh, it's okay, go another round," Ryan says, texting furiously. "What are you guys doing tonight?"
"More of this?" Brendon grins.
"Oh. Alex is having a party, he's staying in LA for a couple weeks. I- uh, you could come?" Ryan offers. Spencer shakes his head, biting his lip.
"We're good, thanks," Brendon says. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ryan give them a puzzled look.
"Okay," Ryan says dubiously. "Um. Have fun, I guess." He gathers up his wallet from the coffee table, and half-waves before heading out the door. Brendon's too busy laughing at Spencer to respond.
It's maybe fifteen minutes and three decisive victories for Brendon later when Spencer flops down on the couch in surrender. "I fold," he says grumpily into a pillow.
"Damn straight," Brendon replies, and turns on the TV. "Hey, you didn't want to go with Ryan, did you? I should've asked."
Spencer snorts. "Nah. His friends are fucking weird. What's on?"
"Pirates of the Caribbean!" Brendon exclaims, and hums the theme music.
At the next commercial break, Brendon gets up to make popcorn. "Get your own," he protests, as Spencer grabs immediately at the most buttery pieces.
"No."
"Fuck off," Brendon retorts, and scoots to the arm of the couch so he can toss popcorn at Spencer. The second piece gets caught in Spencer's beard; the third, Spencer picks up off the couch and chucks right back. Brendon catches it in his mouth.
"Nice," Spencer says mildly.
Brendon wiggles his eyebrows. "I'm good with my mouth, what can I say," he smirks. It's probably Brendon's imagination that Spencer freezes for a split second before rolling his eyes.
"Come back, I'll leave you the buttery bits," he concedes, and Brendon scoots over just in time for the movie to resume.
"Keira Knightley's weird-looking," he observes, and rests his head on Spencer's shoulder.
"That's because you like boys," Spencer points out.
"You think she's hot?"
"Sort of. Kinda looks like she'd break in half if you were too rough, though. Her wrists'd snap if you held her against a wall." Spencer says it completely casually.
"Yeah," Brendon manages. He sits up straight and scoots a couple inches farther away.
"You okay?" Spencer asks, raising his eyebrows.
"Fine." Fine, fine, fucking fine. Or he will be, once his brain decides to behave itself.
"Orlando or Johnny, then?" Spencer grins. Brendon wrinkles his nose.
"Johnny, obviously. Orlando can't act for shit. Barbossa or Norrington, I believe, is the tougher question."
Spencer laughs, throwing back his head. Brendon swallows and quickly looks down at his popcorn. "Barbossa. Norrington would ask if it was good for me, and then he'd pretend it never happened."
Brendon chuckles and settles back against Spencer's side, licking butter off his fingers. Spencer's hand comes up to card through his hair and Brendon does not, absolutely does not, feel a little thrill go through his stomach.
. . .
Spencer knocks at 3 a.m.
“It's Ryan,” he says, and it's grim and low and lost, “he's pretty fucked up.”
Brendon can't bring himself to wake up and care. It feels familiar, in a way. “He was just...really fucked up,” Ryan would whisper, hunched shoulders prepared for rejection. “I'm so fucked up,” he'd laugh, years later, sprawled out on the dock while they watched the sun set over the lake.
“Okay,” Brendon says, and Spencer shakes his head.
“Fucked up,” in this case, apparently doesn't mean “So high he can't remember the way to the air mattress” any more. Spencer's dealt with that before. No. Now it means fever-glassy eyes and flushed cheeks and a laugh that's bright like staring into the sun.
“Brendon,” he says breathlessly, “Brendon, your couch.” Spencer stands in the doorway while Brendon takes in the view; Ryan sprawled across the couch, stroking long fingers over the nubby material of a cushion, like he's never seen anything so beautiful before. Brendon's heart does a sickening sort of thud.
“Can you get him some water, Spence?” Brendon asks quietly.
“Brendon,” Ryan calls again from the couch, voice high and twisted, so Brendon sits down gingerly next to him.
“What did you take?” he asks, and isn't surprised when the only answer is another laugh, verging on hysteria.
“I feel so good, Brendon. I feel- I feel good,” and one spidery hand reaches out and ghosts down Brendon's arm. He can't help the shudder, but Ryan doesn't notice. “Brendon- Brendon, you feel good. You feel-” Ryan's staring, wide-eyed and fascinated, at his own hand running down Brendon's chest.
“Stop,” Brendon says, maybe more harshly than he means to and less harshly than Ryan deserves. Ryan turns dazed eyes upward and smiles, blinding like Brendon hasn't seen in months, maybe longer.
“Here,” Spencer says from the doorway, thank fuck, and hands the glass to Brendon, who shoves it at Ryan.
“Drink.”
“E?” Spencer asks, staring as Ryan gulps down the glass.
“I think so. But he's...I don't know. Maybe something else too.”
“Should we get him to a hospital?”
“Fuck, Spence, I don't know! Since when am I the one who deals with Ryan?” Brendon snaps, and he can't look at Spencer's reaction in the ensuing seconds of dead silence. He just looks down at his hands and whispers, “Sorry.”
“I know,” Spencer answers, cold and flat. “I know. I just- I can't.”
Brendon nods. “I'll stay up with him.”
“No, I should-”
“No.” He turns to nod to Spencer again, authoritative like he knows what he's doing, and turns away again as Ryan starts stroking his hair. “Go to sleep, you can- in the morning.”
Brendon watches Spencer’s back, stiff with anger, as he walks away.
“Brendon, Brendon, Brendon Brenny bunny,” Ryan laughs breathlessly, and he's half on top of Brendon, elbows and familiar cologne everywhere, still with that sharp giggle that's making Brendon sick and angry.
Angry, he says, “Get off me,” and shoves, and Ryan falls back onto the sofa with a gasp. Brendon clenches his teeth, looks down at his own hands, anywhere but Ryan. “I’m gonna get you some more water,” he says to the wall. “Don’t move.”
He takes a second to breathe, bracing himself against the kitchen counter, fighting with the weird little knot of emotions that’s settled in his chest. Anger, mostly, and fear. He pushes it down, tries not to let his hand shake as he pours a glass of water.
“Drink,” he says, and shoves it at Ryan. It’s hard to look at him, hard to take in the pink flush of his cheeks against the moss green of Brendon’s couch, hard not to shake him until he apologizes.
“I feel so good, Brendon,” Ryan says, earnest and breathy, eyes burning over the rim of the glass. He won’t stop moving, squirming like the feeling of being in his skin is something new and exciting, tracing one long finger through the perspiration on the glass with a shudder.
“What did you take, Ryan?” Brendon asks again, sadly this time. But he can’t be angry, not when behind the fascination Ryan looks so desperate.
“E, I think,” Ryan mumbles, running a hand through his own hair. “Maybe something else. There were pills. Vodka. Pills,” he trails off, inspecting his wrist, the tattooed skin there. His eyes are frightening in their intensity, big and dark and almost all pupil, but his voice is absent, spacey.
“You’re an idiot,” Brendon says unhappily, and he's not sure why he feels so guilty.
“You’re soft,” Ryan counters, and now it’s Brendon he’s stroking, seizing Brendon’s wrist in one bony hand and placing it on his own cheek, rubbing it over his face. He’s feverishly hot, skin desert-dry and soft, and it almost burns. Brendon stays put and lets Ryan play ragdoll, leaves his arm limp while Ryan explores it, tracing patterns over his veins. He feels sick.
"Let's...see what's on TV."
He's barely settled on The Princess Bride when Ryan's on him again, scooting into Brendon's personal space like he never does and nuzzling into the side of his neck. Brendon closes his eyes and wishes it was real. He's always the one pushing boundaries like this, not so much now as he used to, but he's the one resting his head on Ryan's shoulder during movies or moving in close for a hug after shows, and if he's lucky Ryan won't pull back. Ryan never offers himself up like that, never offers or demands comfort, and Brendon wishes he'd let that go sometimes and just cling, but he's burrowing into Brendon's side with a sigh because of a chemical, nothing more.
He repeats the lines like he always does, mumbling "Inconceivable," when Vizzini does and "As you wish," just before Buttercup pushes Wesley down the hill, but it's to distract himself more than anything. Ryan laughs anyway, a thin giggle that sends a shiver down Brendon's back. He ignores Ryan's constant movement next to him, the twitching and occasional touches, and he must fall asleep at some point.
"I don't- I don't feel good," Ryan says, and Brendon is startled back into wakefulness.
"Huh?" he mumbles, rubbing his eyes and looking to Ryan. Ryan's hunched against the arm of the couch, curled in on himself and shivering under the afghan.
"I didn't mean to," he mutters, almost to himself, and looks up at Brendon pleadingly.
"What?" Brendon says, and really, he just wants to go back to bed.
Ryan looks down at his trembling hands. "It's not like you can judge, you've done shit before."
"Ryan, I-" and Brendon's lost for words, frustrated and exhausted and really, were those two thoughts supposed to be related?
"You were an asshole," Ryan says earnestly, like this makes total sense.
"Ryan, really? You're the one who comes back to my house completely fucked up. I'm the one staying up to make sure you're okay," Brendon points out. He feels like he's explaining this to a five-year-old.
"No, Lana. And you didn't- never mind. I feel- I hate- never mind." He slouches deeper into the cushion.
"Are you okay?" Brendon asks hesitantly.
"I don't feel good," Ryan mutters again, and buries his face in his knees.
"I'm gonna make you some tea," Brendon says softly. He can see the sun starting to rise from his kitchen window as he sticks a mug in the microwave, the barest hints of pink peeking over the skyline. He's tired, eyes itching, but he can't quite tell whether the weight in his chest is exhaustion or Ryan.
He grabs an old quilt from the hall closet as he heads back into the living room. Ryan is curled fetal on his side, skinny arms clutched tight around himself, shivering. He looks impossibly frail.
Brendon remembers the way Ryan used to sleep in his old apartment, pressed almost against the wall in an effort to stay out of Brendon's space. Brendon was always the one to pull him closer, to slip an arm around his waist and smile into his neck, but when he woke up Ryan would always be sprawled across the bed, head tucked under Brendon's chin and leg hooked over Brendon's thigh. It hits Brendon like it hasn't in months, the space that's grown between them over the years. Ryan had Keltie and Brendon had one meaningless girl after another. They had Hollywood houses and king-size beds and so they stopped needing to cuddle close, to share body heat on a bare old mattress. He wants to touch, to smooth Ryan's sweaty hair back from his forehead and snuggle in next to him and turn back time.
Instead, he hands Ryan the tea and the blanket and mutters, "I'm going to bed." Ryan nods, the rising sun casting golden shadows across his skin, and Brendon turns away.
. . .
"Hey," Brendon says quietly as he sits in the plastic chair next to Ryan's.
"You didn't have to come." Ryan doesn't really acknowledge him, just stares at the watercolor on the opposite wall.
"Brought you this," Brendon offers, and hands over a smoothie. Strawberry pineapple, his special formula, Ryan's favorite. It earns him a half-hearted quirk of the lips that's far from an actual smile. Ryan starts in on the smoothie without comment, so Brendon fidgets with his getting-on-the-small-side shirt and looks around. The hallway is bleached white and smells like antiseptic and he can't stand it.
"So do they have any word yet?" he finally asks.
"He'll be fine," Ryan says shortly. "He'll be the same as ever." He takes a loud, vehement suck at the smoothie.
"That's good?" Brendon volunteers. Ryan shrugs.
"It'll be fine, same as ever. We deal." He's tugging at one cuticle almost unconsciously, mouth a bitter little line. Brendon cautiously, slowly, reaches one arm around his shoulders, offering comfort the only way he knows how. Ryan stiffens (Brendon hadn't thought it was possible; his back was already completely rigid) for a second before relaxing into it slowly, going boneless until he's slumped over with his cheek on Brendon's shoulder.
"We're gonna make it," Brendon tells him fiercely.
"I just don't want to ever be like him. I can't- I won't be," Ryan vows, and there's only the faintest hint of a tremor in his voice, but Brendon can feel the tears starting to soak through his shirt.
. . .
The clock reads three pm, and Brendon squints for a second, confused, before remembering why he's slept so late. He burrows for a second back into his pillow before taking a deep breath and getting up. He pulls on jeans, scrubs at his eyes and heads into the kitchen.
Ryan's on one side of the table, shoulders hunched sheepishly over the Style section of the newspaper, while Spencer's eyes are glaring lasers into the Business section.
"Morning," he says, extra cheerful in a feeble attempt to break the tension.
"Afternoon, actually. I guess we all had a late night," Spencer comments darkly.
"I'm sorry," Ryan says, but he keeps his gaze trained on the paper. He looks heavy-eyed and pinched.
"It's o-"
"It's not okay," Spencer cuts in venomously.
"Spence, you already gave me the lecture. Can we not do this again?" Ryan monotones.
"It's okay," Brendon says again, and he catches Spencer's eye and silently implores him to drop it.
"I'm gonna go shower," Ryan mutters, and Brendon flops down in the chair next to Spencer.
"I'm sorry I went to bed, I just couldn't- I don't think I would've been able to stay without screaming at him," Spencer says.
"It's okay. Really, Spence, I think it's gonna be okay. He- he was fucked up, yeah, but I think he was just blowing off steam. He's fine." Brendon tries to sound confident.
"I don't know if he is," Spencer confesses, and there's an unhappy curl to the corner of his mouth. Brendon wants to smooth it away.
"It was a bad break-up, you know how that feels," Brendon says, and maybe that's hitting below the belt, because Spencer puts down the newspaper and glares. "You know what I mean. A long relationship. And for Ryan, it just- it was sudden. You and Haley just kind of-"
"Dissolved. I guess so." Spencer runs a hand through his hair. "I don't know- I don't know how to talk to him about it. He wouldn't talk to me." There's frustration straining his voice, a shade or two away from panic.
"He will," Brendon says firmly, because if there's one thing that's always stayed constant in his life, it's Spencer and Ryan.
"I was pretty hard on him," Spencer mutters.
"Yeah. Well. Yeah," Brendon half-smiles. "Can't stay mad at him forever, though, right? What should we do today?"
"Dunno. When does Shane get back?"
"Not till tomorrow. Wanna hotbox the garage?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Part 2