Slow Dancing In A Burning Room (2/5)

[livinglifeloud]

Shane gets back late on Thursday night - more like Friday morning. Ryan's out again, while Spencer and Brendon are squabbling over the bag of chips in front of the TV.

“Honey, I'm home,” comes the shout from the hallway.

“Honey, get your ass over here, it's not worth getting up to hug you,” Brendon retorts, and Shane's pretending to pout when he comes into view. Brendon gives in and gets up. They do their manly little fist-bump, grin at each other, and then bear-hug.

“Thanks for making sure this idiot was okay without me,” Shane says to Spencer.

“Fuck you. I'm gonna get another beer, you want?” Brendon asks, and Shane nods emphatically.

They sit down with their beers and make small talk about Shane's flight for a few minutes. “I, uh-” Shane says eventually. “I guess I should tell you something?”

“Should you now?” Brendon asks.

Shane hesitates, then takes a deep breath. “I'm moving in with Regan.”

“That's awesome!” Spencer grins, and Brendon rolls his eyes. Shane actually looked nervous.

“Dude, that's seriously awesome, I'm happy for you,” he reassures, and Shane smiles at him.

“Okay, cool. I guess...I mean. I was thinking pretty soon after I get back from filming?”

“No worries,” Brendon says. “It means we need to throw you an emergency goodbye party tomorrow night, though.”

“Sounds good,” Shane laughs.

. . .

Shane is with Regan the next day, but he promises to be back at the house around 8 for his party. Spencer, Ryan, and Brendon spend the morning at the park with the dogs and then go for lunch and shopping in Silver Lake. Ryan still seems distant, somehow, lost somewhere in his head, spacey and uninvolved. Brendon doesn't know what to do about it, so he carries on as usual, laughing with Spencer and pretending he's Cinderella as he tries on shoes.

They go home to set up the house, bring out burgers and beer and Shane's favorite bong, and friends start to show around 9. Brendon's sent to get more beer a little while later, since he's voted Most Sober. He needs cigarettes anyway.

There's a shriek of laughter from the backyard as he pulls in, then a crash and more laughter. He rolls his eyes. Hopefully they haven't knocked over the barbecue; at least, he wants another tofu dog.

"Come get your booze," Brendon calls, and toes the door shut behind him. There's no answer, just a buzz of talk from outside.

"Bren-" he hears, and nearly collides with Regan as she comes in through the sliding door.

"What's up? Here," he says, and shoves a six-pack into her arms.

"No, you'd better-" she says worriedly. Brendon raises his eyebrows and steps outside. There's a knot of people crowded around the bushes next to the short flight of stairs that leads up to the deck.

"What-" he starts, and before he can finish, Shane's straightening up and pulling Ryan with him, a flushed, dazed-looking Ryan with leaves in his hair.

"Brendon! Booze!" Ryan cries, and holds out his arms like a child.

"-the fuck," Brendon finishes. He pushes past everyone and grabs onto one of Ryan's arms. He's swaying unsteadily. "Where's Spencer?" Brendon asks Shane, as the crowd around them begins to dissipate, going back to the pool and their food. The party's grown since he left.

"Hotboxing the guest room with a couple people. Brendon, he fell. Like, just leaned over the side of the stairs and fell," Shane says urgently. "Should we take him to a hospital? I don't think he landed badly, and he was only on the third step, but-"

Brendon looks at Ryan, who's grinning at him wordlessly. "No, he'll be fine. What- he was fine when I left, right? It was only a half hour ago, he must've..." They shouldn't bring him to the hospital right now, not when he must have more than just beer in him. "Whatever. Go enjoy your party," he says to Shane grimly, and pulls Ryan up the stairs. He needs some water, needs to sober up before Spencer sees him.

"My skin was too hot, so I tried to jump in the pool, but the pool was really far away. I missed," Ryan informs him.

"Yeah, that happens sometimes," Brendon says, all his concentration directed toward pulling Ryan up the stairs.

"Let go of me," Ryan protests, seeming to suddenly realize that Brendon's holding him, and before Brendon can do anything, he's tugging himself out of Brendon's grasp, running back down the stairs, and shouting as he launches himself into the pool. Brendon just stares.

He's not the only one. Most of their friends are watching with raised eyebrows as Ryan splutters to the surface, laughing breathlessly.

"Ryan, c'mon," he says quietly, crouching by the side of the pool and feeling like he's talking to one of his dogs.

"'Kay. My skin's not hot any more," Ryan says happily, and scrambles clumsily over the side. He puts one dripping-wet arm around Brendon's shoulder as they head for the house and Brendon lets him.

"You know you just made an absolute dick of yourself, right?" he says quietly. It's probably no use telling Ryan that right now, but he can't help himself. Ryan just laughs.

"I'm having fun," he says simply. Brendon isn't quite sure whether to believe him.

. . .

"Die, motherfucker," Brendon crows, as Shane's character respawns.

"Dude, I'm tired, shut up," Shane retorts.

"It's only- oh. Yeah. Two in the morning, okay."

"Call it a night?"

"Are you giving up?"

"Never. Or, at least, not till I finish this beer," Shane says decisively.

There's silence, apart from the on-screen shots and explosions. Shane and Brendon spent most of the afternoon doing some packing, since Shane'll be moving out just a couple days after his last shoot. Spencer went to sleep an hour ago and Ryan's out. Brendon wishes that he'd maybe, occasionally, stay in with them, but whenever he thinks about bringing it up, he feels like a parent telling a teenager it's family night. He's not Ryan's parent. Still.

"Where's Ryan?" Shane asks, reading Brendon's mind.

"Out with- I dunno. Somebody. Hah, missed me."

"Fuck you. Was Spencer pissed when you told him about last night? He didn't say anything to me."

"I didn't tell him," Brendon confesses.

"There was a huge bruise on Ryan's forehead, didn't he notice?"

"I, uh. He asked Ryan, I was there. Ryan just said he tripped. I didn't say anything." He can tell Shane's trying to glare disapprovingly at him and he looks at the screen stubbornly.

"I don't- you think he has a problem?" Shane asks quietly.

"I think- no. He'll be fine. We'll start with the new album and he'll straighten himself out." He says it with more confidence that he feels.

"He- I don't know," Shane says doubtfully.

"He's an adult. He's allowed. He's still getting over the Keltie thing. I mean, I don't think it'll get any worse. So he's been drinking a lot." Brendon feels better about it as he keeps talking, like he's convincing himself too.

"Gotcha," Shane grins.

"Fuck you," Brendon retorts.

The doorbell starts ringing, which is to say, it keeps ringing. Brendon pauses the game with a sinking feeling in his chest while Shane raises his eyebrows and pointedly says nothing.

The bell is still ringing, the same two notes chiming over and over, when Brendon opens the door. It's Ryan. Of course it's Ryan. He's leaning into the doorframe, finger pressed against the button.

"Heeeeyy," he slurs when he sees Brendon.

"I gave you a key for a reason," is the only thing Brendon can think to say.

"Oh," Ryan says, eyes genuinely shocked. "Right." He's still ringing the bell.

"You should come inside." Brendon hooks one arm around Ryan's waist and pulls, and Ryan follows without protest. He's a dead weight, hanging from Brendon's shoulder and dragging his feet, and Brendon checks the driveway before closing the door behind them. At least there's no car, so Ryan got a taxi. Silver lining.

Shane raises his head as they come in, and as Ryan flails one hand in a sort of wave he just looks dumbstruck. Brendon looks at him helplessly.

"I'm going to bed," Shane says firmly, and Brendon knows this is him washing his hands of the entire thing. Of Ryan.

"I-" Ryan starts, and then he's launching himself away from Brendon, stumbling to the bathroom. Brendon closes his eyes and tries to calm down. At least, from the sound of it, Ryan made it to the toilet. Another silver lining.

"He's all yours," Shane says, and stalks toward the stairs.

Brendon takes another deep breath before entering the bathroom. Ryan's slumped against the wall next to the toilet, narrow chest heaving. The front of his shirt is a mess. Brendon flushes the toilet for him, pours a glass of water.

"I don't- don't want-" Ryan says as Brendon turns to hand him the glass. He's scrabbling at the front of his shirt, pulling at the snaps.

"Your shirt has snaps?" Brendon is not proud to say. He's even less proud of the edge of hysteria that colors his voice.

"Vintage," Ryan slurs, and then he's pulling the shirt off and clumsily tossing it in a corner, and Brendon is about to be sick himself.

Ryan's always been thin, always been bony, but Brendon's seen him shirtless enough to know that it's normal for him. This...this is not normal. He can see every rib under too-pale skin, see the hollows under Ryan's collarbone, see every labored breath. Brendon's chest feels tight, too small for his heartbeat. He sinks down next to Ryan and hands him the glass of water, but after a few sips, Ryan turns and starts throwing up again. There's nothing but liquid coming up, pure alcohol and stomach acid, and Brendon wants to shake his head and stand up and run away. He can't. He just sits and waits, rubs circles into the cold skin of Ryan's back and tries to ignore the visible knobs of his spine.

He doesn't know how much time goes by like that, sitting against the wall on the cold tile. He doesn't look at Ryan, tries not to hear the gasping breaths between bouts of vomiting, doesn't let himself focus on anything but the infinitesimal cracks in the ceiling. It could be four in the morning or just fifteen minutes later when he hears footsteps.

Spencer's there before Brendon has a chance to react, squinting into the light with his hair mussed and pillow creases on his cheeks. Brendon's stomach clenches into a tight little knot.

It takes a second for Spencer to really see what's happening - and then Brendon sees his eyes go wide, and whatever panic Brendon felt before is magnified a hundredfold as Spencer's expression turns, not to anger, but to fear. He can see Spencer's hands clench unconsciously into fists, see the same old reflex to protect, but there's nothing for him to do, no bullies to confront, no house to whisk him away from with the promise of a sleepover. Faced with this, with Ryan's back pale and hunched and heaving, there's nothing he can do.

"He'll be okay," Brendon says, barely a whisper.

"I- go to bed," Spencer says abruptly.

"No, it's fine," Brendon protests.

"No. This is- I'll take care of him." There's that same defensive, businesslike set in his shoulders that Brendon knows so well, even if he's seen less of it lately. Spencer's already grabbing a washcloth and running it under cold water.

"Thanks," Brendon mumbles, and unfolds himself from the floor. "I-" he looks wearily at Spencer, pleading, and Spencer nods, cheeks still pink from sleep, lips pinched and twisted. Without thinking, Brendon raises a hand and smoothes the pad of his thumb across Spencer's mouth, a sudden childlike impulse to wipe the frown away. Spencer's eyes go wide and Brendon steps back, throat constricted, stomach fluttering again.

"Night," he says quickly, and turns to go.

. . .

Shane's the only one awake before Brendon the next day.

“Sorry,” Brendon says before Shane has a chance to say anything. He looks a little surprised but mostly sympathetic.

“S'okay. I know- Nothing you could've done about it, I guess.”

“No, I- not fair to you,” Brendon mumbles around a coffee cup.

“Nah, no worries. I'll be away again starting in a couple days, remember? You guys can sort your shit out. I've gotta go now, meeting.” Shane clears his dishes and hesitates before he goes to give Brendon a quick hug. “It'll work out, you guys always pull through.”

“Thanks,” Brendon says, but he's dizzy all of a sudden. Never, not once, has he even considered that they wouldn't pull through, that Ryan wouldn't sort himself out, that the band wouldn't be together until they were too arthritic to play their instruments. The idea of it put into words, even in the form of a reassurance, is too much, a sort of rushing in his ears, a stabbing jolt in his stomach. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes to keep from crying.

“You okay?” is the next thing he hears, a couple minutes later. Spencer's standing in the doorway, pajama pants slung low on his hips, hair sticking up at odd angles.

“Mostly,” says Brendon feebly, but no, that's not even true. He clenches his teeth and wonders how an adult would handle this situation.

“We need to talk to him,” Spencer sighs, flopping down into a chair. He's pale and worn-looking and Brendon's rarely wanted to hug him so badly. He doesn't let himself touch. He's going to be a fucking adult, and he's going to handle this, and they're going to be fine. But really, thank fuck for Spencer.

“I don't- what do we say?” Brendon asks quietly.

“I have no clue,” Spencer mutters, face in his hands.

“Just- I guess. Ask him what's wrong? He said some stuff, the other night, about being an asshole. I think he's still dealing with the Keltie thing.”

“Yeah,” Spencer nods slowly. “Just- yeah.”

Half an hour later, they're sitting in silence with their coffee when Ryan walks in. It's satisfying, in a way, that he looks worse than either of them, eyes bloodshot and baggy, skin dull.

“Morning,” he croaks.

“We need to talk to you,” Spencer says without preamble.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that to you guys," Ryan rasps. His voice sounds awful, raw and wrecked.

"We know. But seriously, Ryan, are you okay?" Spencer pleads. Brendon knows it was the wrong thing to say as soon as the words leave Spencer's lips. Ryan's eyes go dead in a way that Brendon knows all too well.

"I'm fine," he says, voice absolutely clear of any sort of inflection. Spencer looks at Brendon, who doesn't know what to do except shrug.

"We're worried about you," Spencer says softly.

"It's nothing." Ryan's chin is set defiantly. "I got a little fucked up, I'm sorry you guys had to deal with it."

"It's not-" Brendon says helplessly. "Are you still upset about Keltie?"

Ryan blanches, face going dead pale, a snarl starting to tug at his lip. "No. Why do you guys keep bringing her up? That has nothing to do with anything."

"'Just cause if you are - talk to us,” Brendon says. “Please, we want to help, we don't like to see you unhappy. I know how hard it must be-"

"How would you know?" Ryan near-whispers. "How would you know what it's like? How long was your last relationship?" His voice is venomous.

"That's not fair, Ryan," Spencer says softly. Brendon had almost forgotten about him; all he can see is Ryan's face, too pale, eyes dark and fierce.

"Brendon, what gives you the right?" he asks, piercing and pointed. "It's not like you haven't done shit. You've done coke. Hell, you've done coke off my stomach. And now you're telling me what's okay?"

"Brendon's never gotten like this before," Spencer interjects. "Ryan, we're your friends. We're worried about you."

"Since when does a few fun nights mean you have a problem? You want to be my friends? Then be my fucking friends. Don't try to be my parents," Ryan snaps.

"We care about you more than your parents ever did. Friends are the family you choose, remember?" Spencer says, so soft as to be almost inaudible. "And if you don't want to turn out like them..." It's the plain truth, it's nothing Ryan hasn't said himself before, but Ryan takes it like Spencer hit him.

"I don't- I'm not-" he says, helpless and cracked, and then he's gone, spinning on his heel, and the door slams before Brendon can process what happened. All he can see is Ryan's face, wide-eyed and terrified.

It takes him a second before he can move. He walks stiffly, mechanically, out the door, but Ryan's car is gone. He takes a deep breath and goes back inside.

Spencer's right where Brendon left him, one hand braced on the table, mouth moving soundlessly. Brendon doesn't think about it before hugging him, wrapping shaking arms around Spencer's ribcage and squeezing as tightly as he possibly can. It's easier to breathe, somehow, when he can feel Spencer's racing heartbeat pressed just over his own.

"I shouldn't have said that," Spencer whispers hoarsely into Brendon's hair.

"No, it's true," Brendon says back, muffled in the faded cotton of Spencer's shirt. He can almost pretend that things might be okay, now that he's enveloped in Spencer, wrapped tight in muscled arms that feel solid, secure. But still he feels sick, chilled, like the rest of the world is spinning too fast and he can't catch up.

"I miss him," Spencer confesses, gasps almost, thin and painful.

"It'll be okay," Brendon vows, and holds on tighter. Right now, it's the only way he'll stay standing. He can feel Spencer's hands on him, warm and reassuring, clutching at the back of his shirt and cupping the nape of his neck, and it's the best thing he's felt in weeks, bone-melting and comforting beyond words.

The next time Spencer speaks, his voice is calmer, the same no-nonsense tone that Brendon knows so well. "Have you talked to Jon?"

"Nope," Brendon says miserably.

"We should- call him," Spencer says, but he's gentle when he pulls away, one hand lingering at Brendon's waist like it doesn't want to leave.

Brendon takes a deep breath and nods, attempts a smile. Spencer grabs the phone from the kitchen wall and dials.

"Hey, it's Spence," he says after a second, and puts the phone on speaker.

"Yo," Jon says. Brendon can hear his smile and he grins himself, in spite of everything. No matter how much time they all spend together, he always misses Jon when he's in Chicago.

"How's everybody?" Brendon asks, because he can hear loud laughter in the background.

"Great. Hanging out with Tom and Al, they have a show tonight. Beckett's here too, he says hi."

"We- maybe we should call you back tomorrow," Spencer says.

"Nah, it's cool, what's going on?"

"It's- it's Ryan." Spencer looks to Brendon for help. “It was like. I don't know. It's been kind of weird since he's been here. He hasn't really been himself?”

“The first couple days were just, like. Awkward. I don't know.”

“Like he didn't know how to talk to us. He doesn't seem to want to hang out. I don't know.”

"He's been getting pretty- he's been doing some stuff," Brendon contributes.

"Define stuff?”

"Coke. E. We don't know exactly, but he's been drinking pretty heavily too, and- we thought you'd want to know," Spencer finishes.

"Huh," Jon muses, and even across the phone Brendon can picture him picking at the hem of his t-shirt, his usual mode of fidgeting while he thinks. "I wouldn't worry," Jon says eventually, and Spencer's eyebrows shoot up into his hairline.

"Jon, you'd worry if you were here," he says. "We tried to talk to him about it today. And I might've said something...I might've set him off a little. But he walked out, he- he's not doing so well."

"He'll be fine, don't worry about it," Jon says again. "You'll see. We need to start writing songs again soon, he'll settle right down. Don't worry, it was the same way with- well. Yeah, I've seen it before. He's just bored, maybe. He needs to have something to do."

And in Jon's tone of voice, it all sounds so logical. Boredom. Simple. Maybe it's just a phase.

"You think?" Brendon says hopefully.

"I know. Seriously, I wouldn't worry." Spencer's smiling a little too, nodding.

"Thanks," he says to Jon. "We'll talk to you soon, yeah? Say hi to everyone for us."

"Will do. Peace," Jon says, and hangs up.

Spencer's shoulders relax a little as Brendon watches him put the phone back on the hook. "I'm gonna go take a shower," he says. "We should stay in today, for when- to wait for Ryan."

"Good idea," Brendon says. There's still a lingering ball of unease at the pit of his stomach, and he has a feeling it won't go away until they talk to Ryan. Spencer heads for the bathroom and Brendon grabs a guitar.

He's sitting on the porch, picking out "All The Small Things," when Spencer emerges, running a hand through damp hair. He smiles at the song choice.

"Kind of surreal, huh? Start out covering them, end up opening for them?" He sits down next to Brendon and there's pride in his voice, even if he's looking down at his hands.

"We're doing pretty good," Brendon grins, and hammers out the opening line of "The Rock Show."

Spencer plays fetch with the dogs for a while as Brendon fiddles with some chord progressions. There's one he likes, really likes, but it's poppy and polished, nothing like the rough demos they'd recorded on Garage Band during the last tour.

"'S’good," Spencer comments, chucking the tennis ball one more time as he sits down on the other lounge chair.

"Yeah," Brendon muses, and he remembers Ryan. It feels so wrong to even be thinking about writing songs without him, this great gaping hole that should be filled with obscure metaphors and pursed lips. He shakes it off. They're not writing anything without Ryan.

"Put your clothes back on, I'm home," Shane hollers, and Brendon hears the door slam.

"We're out here," Spencer calls back, and Shane comes out the door.

"How's Ryan?" he asks, glancing toward the pool and then, puzzled, between the two of them.

"He's not here," Spencer says shortly.

"What happened?" Shane asks, and plops down next to Brendon.

"We tried to talk to him, he walked out," Brendon says. His stomach is twisting again.

"Dude," is Shane's answer, and he looks concerned and worried and everything else Brendon doesn't want anyone to be right now.

"We talked to Jon, though, he thinks it's gonna be okay," Spencer reassures him.

"How?"

"He thinks Ryan's just bored," Brendon answers.

"Brendon. You do realize Ryan spent the last break here watching America's Next Top Model reruns, right?" Shane says. Brendon shakes his head mutely. He doesn't want to think about this. There's nothing wrong. This is just different, and yet Shane's looking at him like he's an idiot.

"He'll be fine," Spencer says firmly, and Brendon casts him a grateful look.

"Okay," Shane says dubiously. "Halo or Rock Band?"

They waste away most of the afternoon playing video games, but Brendon feels sick. Shane said exactly what he was refusing to consider, and the more he turns it over in his mind, the more flaws he can see with Jon's idea. He can't concentrate, can't play even the songs he knows by heart, keeps glancing at the clock and willing Ryan to walk through the door.

"You okay?" Spencer asks around six, after Brendon's flubbed the easiest drum solo ever. He puts one hand on Brendon's shoulder, warm and reassuring, and Brendon leans into it, letting out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

"Fine," he says softly, "Just tired. I'm going to make dinner." Spencer raises an eyebrow. Brendon half-smiles up at him and repeats, "Fine."

They stay up late that night, watching movies even though Brendon's exhausted, a leaden weight settled into his limbs. Shane goes to bed early and it's just the two of them, straight-faced and somber through Blazing Saddles. Brendon can't help looking at the door every few minutes.

It's two in the morning when Spencer says, "We should go to bed."

"But-"

"No. We have the Blink tour thing tomorrow. We need to sleep."

"What if-"

"Ryan will be there. He wouldn't miss this for the world," Spencer says firmly, and Brendon glances at the door one more time before standing up wearily.

His bed feels cold and empty and too big, and as exhausted as he is, he can't sleep. He feels like a child again, lost and helpless, in far over his head. Brendon tosses and turns for what feels like a lifetime, but no matter how he curls up, the bed never seems to get warmer. He's about ready to get up and get another quilt when he hears a knock. Brendon's heard pounds painfully in the hope that it's Ryan, but before he can find his voice, the door cracks open and Spencer peers inside.

"Can I-" he clears his throat and, instead of finishing his sentence, crawls into bed with Brendon. He's a warm, comforting weight as he scoots over so they're almost touching. "Is this okay?" he asks softly, and Brendon doesn't answer, just wriggles in close and buries his head in the crook of Spencer's arm. It's perfect. He can feel his eyes drooping shut already.

"Thank you," Spencer whispers.

. . .

"Ryan?" Brendon hears Spencer whisper from his left.

"Yeah. Can't sleep," Ryan whispers back, over the sound of Brent's snoring.

"Me neither," Brendon pipes up timidly.

"Don't know how he can," Spencer mutters, and Brendon sees his outline, silhouetted in the faintest bit of moonlight, as he sits up. Ryan tiptoes over Brent's sleeping form and settles down on the edge of Brendon's sleeping bag, leaning his head against Spencer's shoulder.

"He said we had something he'd never heard before," Ryan says again, awe coloring his voice even though they've been over this hundreds of times already today. "He said Brendon had charisma." Brendon can't help but snort at that. He'd tripped over his feet three times during their performance. Spencer just lets out a strangled, happy sound, no words. Brendon knows what he means.

"I-" Spencer starts, and stops again. Brendon gropes in the darkness until he finds both their hands, Spencer's large and callused, Ryan's slim and delicate. He squeezes with everything he's got and Ryan gives a watery sort of chuckle.

"You guys," Brendon breathes.

"I know," and Spencer's voice cracks on the whisper. Brendon can tell he and Ryan are holding hands too, the three of them linked, forever and inextricably, as they sit there in the darkness, with the weight of the day pressing in on them like the most wonderful kind of suffocation.

"You guys are-" Ryan chokes, barely audible, and he clears his throat and tries again. "I can't- You guys are the best family I've ever had."

Brendon grins stupidly and tackles Ryan into a awkward hug, ignoring the squawk of protest and clinging until Ryan's hands find their way to Brendon's back, holding on for dear life. They topple over when Spencer joins in, two pairs of arms anchoring Brendon and leaving him breathless.

"The fuck," Brent mumbles from above them, and Brendon realizes they landed on his feet. "So fucking gay."

"Group hug," Spencer laughs, one hand finding the ticklish spot just under Brendon's ribs.

"Tomorrow. Sleep," Brent yawns, and turns over. Spencer, Ryan, and Brendon are still tangled together, Brendon's leg half-twisted uncomfortably beneath him, and they separate a little sheepishly, sitting back up. But they're still in their circle, Spencer's knee brushing Brendon's and his hand on Ryan's wrist, grinning at each other. Brendon knows he's exactly where he belongs. He's with his family.

. . .

He drifts slowly awake the next morning, growing only gradually aware of how closely he and Spencer have intertwined in their sleep. One hand is pressed against Spencer's heart, the only thing between their bodies, and the other is curled at his back, fingers brushing bare skin where his shirt is rucked up. Spencer's hand is splayed at the base of Brendon's spine, just above the curve of his ass, and the bare skin of his neck against Brendon's forehead is hot and soft. Brendon's on the verge of overheating, but he can't bring himself to move.

It brings back memories of the early days, when they first started touring; he'd climb into Spencer's bunk some nights, unable to sleep, not used to the rolling movement of the road, not used to having someone who would let him cuddle. He doesn't know when they all lost that, the easy touching they used to share. Maybe it was the girls; when they had someone else to sleep with, they didn't need each other any more. Maybe it was growing up, the forced change, the feeling of immaturity Brendon still gets with the impulse to hug. Whatever happened, he suddenly misses it like he's been punched in the stomach.

"Morning," Spencer mumbles, yawning into Brendon's hair and unconsciously settling closer. His hand traces lazy circles up Brendon's spine, slipping under his shirt, and Brendon nuzzles his neck without thinking about it, lips brushing just below Spencer's jaw. Spencer shifts as if to pull away and Brendon pulls closer.

"Don't. M'sleepy," he whispers hoarsely.

Spencer stays, moving his hand from Brendon's back to his neck, scratching gently like Brendon's a puppy. He wants to stay like this all day.

"We should," Spencer starts reluctantly, and Brendon pulls away a few inches to glare at him.

"No," he says petulantly, because dammit, he just woke up and it's his bed and he's allowed to be a child, fuck what they should. Spencer smiles at him softly, eyes half-closed and happy.

"'kay," he whispers, but he doesn't close his eyes and Brendon doesn't move. They stay locked like that for a long moment as Brendon counts heartbeats. His are going oddly fast.

He can see every one of Spencer's freckles, standing out against sleep-flushed cheeks. He feels dazed as Spencer inclines his head, just the slightest bit, so their foreheads touch, and Brendon breathes in shakily, scared to break this- whatever this is.

But he knows this, this is the moment before a kiss, this is Spencer's breath ghosting over his jaw and Spencer's fingers sliding across his neck and sending tingles down his spine, and Brendon's stomach does a single flip-flop before he starts to lean in...

...and someone knocks on the door.

Spencer's breath catches in his throat, eyes flying wide open. "Ryan?" he whispers, and Brendon's scrambling over him, forgetting, for the moment, what just happened.

"Ry-" he says, as he flings open the door, but it's Shane, hand raised like he's about to knock again.

"No, sorry," Shane says guiltily. "I-" and then he seems to notice Spencer, who's sitting in Brendon's bed looking disappointed. Shane raises his eyebrows and Brendon shrugs defensively.

"Huh,” Shane says. “Um. No, not Ryan, sorry. He's- he didn't come home last night, I checked. I just wanted to tell you I'm leaving."

"Oh, right. See you in a couple days, then?" Brendon gives him a quick, awkward hug and Shane waves to Spencer as he turns to go.

Brendon slumps against the doorframe, realizing as his hands shake how much he wanted Ryan to be on the other side of that door. He can hear Spencer's bare feet padding across the floor towards him.

"I'm gonna-" he starts, but he can't remember the rest of the sentence when he turns around and finds himself chest-to-chest with Spencer.

"Yeah, I was gonna-" Spencer says, looking down at his feet. Brendon's heart is thumping crazily in his chest. Spencer looks up, eyes piercing and wide, and he goes dry-mouthed for a second. Spencer's staring like he can see inside Brendon's head, and that what makes him step back quickly, bumping against the door. He really doesn't want Spencer knowing what he's thinking about right now.

"Shower," he finishes.

"Right," Spencer says easily, like nothing happened, and Brendon has to remind himself to breathe as he walks down the hallway toward the bathroom. It was nothing. Early-morning disorientation. Nothing.

He checks the time on the way to the shower. It’s only noon, and the Blink party isn’t until 9. Ryan has plenty of time to get back. No reason to worry.

He showers and gets dressed, and heads into the living room. Spencer’s frowning at the wall, telephone cradled between his shoulder and ear.

“Ry, please come back,” he says into the receiver. “Please. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.” Brendon wonders if it’s the first message he’s left. Spencer hangs up and turns to him, shoulders slumped.

“He won’t pick up?” Brendon asks. Spencer shakes his head.

“He’ll be home,” Spencer says firmly. It sounds like he’s willing it to be true.

They spend the afternoon in the pool, and Brendon knows he's not the only one who keeps glancing at the door. There's no sign of Ryan as the hours wear on, no missed calls, no texts. Brendon can't breathe.

“I'm gonna make dinner,” he calls, early, and heads inside to make pasta.

He busies himself with water, tomatoes, onions, and garlic when he gets into the kitchen, but he's not remotely hungry. There's a constant refrain of what if what if what if running through his head. He chops the tomatoes with more force than is completely necessary and then starts in on the onions, but as soon as his eyes start stinging, he's gone. He lets the tears fall, hand still chopping rhythmically, eyes completely clouded over, choking with the effort of keeping himself quiet, until his hand falters and he feels a sharp pain in his finger.

"Fuck," he says bitterly, and lets go of the knife, sinking to the floor and feeling roughly five years old. It's just too much, too much fear, nothing left to hold on to, Ryan's words still resounding through his head and hurting worse than his thumb. He knows, in a distant corner of his mind, that he's dripping blood on his jeans, but he just. Doesn't. Care.

"You okay?" he hears, and Spencer's standing in the doorway.

"I cut myself," Brendon whimpers, and how is he such a child. Spencer grabs a paper towel and sits down next to him, wrapping one arm around Brendon's shoulders to press the towel into his thumb.

"It's fine, not that deep," Spencer says, and Brendon starts crying again, rough sobs fighting through his chest until he's shaking.

"I can't do anything right, I can't, I don't know what to do, and it hurts, Spencer, this fucking hurts, and I feel so fucking useless," he babbles, all in one broken breath, burying his damp face in Spencer's shoulder.

"Me too," Spencer says softly. Brendon curls in closer, wrapping one arm around Spencer's stomach and cradling the injured hand in his lap. Spencer just waits, callused thumb rubbing gently at Brendon's shoulder, warm and familiar. Brendon can breathe, finally, feels the tension melting away, until the last of his tears have disappeared into Spencer's shirt and he's taking deep, shuddering breaths. Spencer still doesn't move. Brendon doesn't have words to express how grateful he is, how much the simple physical contact helps.

"Sorry," he whispers.

"Shut up," Spencer whispers back, and Brendon can hear him smiling. "Should I finish up the pasta?"

"No, I got it," Brendon says shakily, but Spencer helps him anyway.

. . .

Ryan doesn't show.

"Ready?" Spencer doesn't-really-ask, lips set thin and white. Brendon's not. Not at all. This is wrong, this is the world sliding out from beneath his feet, he can't breathe so how is he supposed to go out and smile to photographers and pretend he's fine? "I'll be right there panicking with you," Spencer says softly, and Brendon's laughter is just at the edge of hysteria. Spencer reaches out and squeezes his hand, and they get out of the car and face the spotlights.

It's a blur of nightmare moments, flashbulbs and baring his teeth in what he hopes is a smile, telling reporters that Ryan's home with the flu, and Spencer's hand on the small of his back is the only thing that lets him breathe. He can't help but keep glancing beyond the photographers, heart thudding every time another car pulls up. There's a space at his side where there should be messy hair and shitty fashion choices and a dry monologue about other peoples' shittier fashion choices. Now, there's just Spencer, taking a spare moment, free of reporters, to take Brendon's hand in his and ease the iron band that's taken up residence around Brendon's lungs. Brendon squeezes back and closes his eyes for the barest second, and then there's a camera in his face and Spencer's hand, his lifeline, is gone.

He makes it, barely. He's dry-eyed and mostly composed and then it's over, it's over and Ryan's not there.

"Go, please," he chokes out and Spencer hits the gas before the tears start to fall.

Brendon can't breathe, can't see, can't feel anything but the sobs wracking his body and the thumping throb of dread in the base of his stomach. He doesn't really notice when Spencer pulls over, just stops the car at the side of the road, until there's a hand on his shoulder and the quick, stifled gulp of a sob that isn't his. Brendon scrambles over the gearshift without thinking, clambering awkwardly into Spencer's lap, barely seeing. He needs to touch, needs to know he's not alone.

How did they get here? How did he let this happen? Was it gradual, something he should've seen in time? All he knows is that it could be too late to fix.

It hurts, this rushing in his ears, the corrosive desperation that's spinning his head in circles. It feels like the last fight with his parents, the way something had just broken, and the simple act of walking down the steps had been something irreversible and irreconcilable, the step off the edge of a cliff into an awful, inevitable fall. But he still wants to hope, even after everything.

He doesn't know how long he's collapsed there, sprawled in Spencer's lap. He can't seem to shake it, the sickness, the fear, the heart-stopping feeling of an end. He still feels nauseous when the tears begin to dry, shaking sobs turning into watery hiccups and then to deep, gasping breaths, harsh against his raw throat. Spencer's holding on like Brendon's a life preserver.

"We're not giving up on him," Spencer says, fierce even though his voice sounds destroyed. "I'll call Pete tomorrow, we'll find him. We'll do whatever it takes. He's not- we might need to write the album without him. But he'll be all right."

"Write it without him?" Brendon whispers, numb.

"We- if this is how it's gonna be- I don't know what else to do," Spencer confesses.

"The band- if something happens to the band- I don't know what to do. Just tell me how to fix it, how do I make it better, what- what did I do? Spence, it's all I have, I can't lose it, we can't lose him, it's
everything. It's- this is everything." His voice cracks and he takes a deep breath, burying his face in Spencer's chest. He'd walk to hell and back if Spencer told him to do it, and Spencer doesn't know. Spencer can't not know.

"No," Spencer snaps. "No, Brendon. Look at me." He slides a hand between them to cup Brendon's chin, tilts it up till they're face-to-face. "Brendon," he says, and his eyes are blazing. "I promise, whatever happens, you have me. Always."

Brendon can feel things splintering, cracking deep and irreparable, but all he can feel is a fiery rush of gratitude and maybe something else, something he really doesn't want to think about. He places his own hand over Spencer's where it's cupped around his jaw, laces their fingers and presses a soft kiss to the delicate inside of Spencer's wrist. It's not enough. He leans forward, brushes his lips over the corner of Spencer's mouth, and whispers in his ear: "I love you."

He buries his face in Spencer's neck and wills his heart to slow, trying not to notice the way Spencer goes stiff for a second before petting Brendon's hair again.

He breathes, feels Spencer's thumb stroking the back of his neck, inhales the mix of cologne and sweat and sweet that's always been Spencer. He can still feel the part of his lips that were pressed, ever so briefly, against Spencer's. It feels like Fever all over again, a simple brush of a kiss and he can smell facepaint and velvet.

"You too, Bren," Spencer mumbles into his hair. Spencer's rubbing circles into his back, skin warm under Brendon's cheek, and even though (he finally realizes) his legs are cramped and his back twisted awkwardly, he wants to melt into Spencer and not move until this all blows over.

He untangles himself a few minutes later, and he feels like he should be reeling, should be stunned at the way his world is being rocked to its core. But instead, he feels calmer than he has in days.

“Let's go home?” he asks, and Spencer starts the engine.

Any sense of calm disappears when he sees Ryan's car sitting in the driveway. He can feel his heart thumping in his throat.

"Spence," he whispers, and Spencer's ghastly white next to him, but he nods stiffly and gets out of the car. Brendon wonders if he's going to pass out, but he follows.

Ryan's sitting on the couch, head bowed, hands folded in his lap and chest heaving. If he were anyone else, Brendon knows he'd be crying. He's seen this before.

"I know this isn't enough, but I'm sorry," Ryan says to his own hands. Brendon sits down hard on the couch next to him. It's so far from anything approaching enough.

"We told them you had the flu," Spencer spits. His voice is shaking. "We had to stand there and smile and tell them you were sick, when you and I both know there was a time when nothing short of an atom bomb would have made you miss that. What. The fuck. Happened."

"I don't know. I didn't- I didn't think you wanted me back," Ryan says thinly, so soft Brendon has to strain to hear it.

"We'll always want you back," Brendon vows helplessly. What else can he say?

"I'll be better. I'll try to get better," Ryan looks up, finally, eyes bloodshot and begging.

"Please don't do that to us again," Spencer says, voice shaking still, but Brendon doesn't think it's anger any more.

"I promise," Ryan says fiercely, and he stands up and wraps skinny arms around Spencer, who sighs into it. It's the first time Brendon's seen them touch in weeks, he realizes.

"How do we know you mean it this time?" Brendon asks. He doesn't want to doubt, he really doesn't, but.

"I just- I missed a tour announcement. For our tour. With Blink-182. I guess - I scared myself." Ryan frees himself from Spencer and looks beseechingly at Brendon. He half-shrugs and Brendon can't help it, never could; he jumps up and flings himself at Ryan.

"Please, please, please," Brendon whispers without thinking. It all feels too fragile, but god does he want it to be real, for everything to be right again. Ryan, nearly two-dimensional in Brendon's arms, isn't even the most delicate thing here.

"Want to watch Moulin Rouge?" Spencer says nervously, and Ryan beams at him. They settle into the couch with Hobo and Bogart curled at their feet and they sing along just like they used to. Brendon looks to Spencer at his favorite part, the descent of the swing. He sees Spencer staring raptly not at the screen, but at Ryan's profile, half-smiling, his eyes showing the same blend of terror and hope that Brendon's feeling so intensely right now, hope that this might be enough to start repairs, start plastering over the cracks.

Try as he might, Brendon can't sleep that night. It all just feels so fragile, so fleeting, and he wants to get up and crawl onto Ryan's air mattress and make him swear, again and again, that it'll be okay. He wants to hope. Hope is never something he's had a problem with; he remembers, all too clearly, when that and a couple smoothies a day were all that kept him going. But this feels too big, too sudden, for him to do anything but take a deep breath and hold on for the ride.

The clock reads three when he gives up and pulls on sweatpants. He needs air, maybe, or a hot cup of tea, or a joint. He goes with the first, stepping out onto his porch and taking a deep breath. It's a perfect night, clear and warm and breezy, and the pool is glinting there in the light from the half-moon, so he slips down his sweatpants, pads down the steps, and lowers himself into the water.

It's a couple degrees over the air temperature, complete perfection, but Brendon's still having trouble breathing. He does a couple laps, trying to splash as little as possible, and grabs the edge of the diving board for a pull-up. He just wants to be able to relax, for fuck's sake.

He almost lets go and splashes right back into the pool when he sees Spencer, silhouetted in the light from the living room, watching through the sliding door. Spencer starts when he realizes Brendon's seen him, but Brendon just grins and jerks his chin in invitation, and Spencer hesitates, but pulls open the door and tiptoes down the stairs.

"Sorry, I heard you get up. Couldn't sleep either?" Spencer says uncomfortably. He perches on the edge of the pool and dangles his feet.

"Too much," Brendon says, letting go with one hand and gesturing to his own head. He wonders how well the water's concealing him. Probably not at all. He drops down and doggy-paddles over to Spencer.

"I, uh- don't want to disturb you," Spencer mutters, looking everywhere else but Brendon and his nakedness. Brendon should poke his pale calf and tease him mercilessly about being a blushing virgin flower. Instead he just wants to cover himself up.

"You should come in," Brendon says instead. "I'll turn around, even." He turns around and hears Spencer hesitate for a moment before stripping off his boxers and shirt. For all that Brendon tries, he can't suppress the little thrill that skips through the base of his stomach. He can feel the ripples as Spencer steps into the pool and Brendon knows all too well how he does it, dipping in one toe and then one foot, slow step after slow step no matter how warm the water is. He doesn't, absolutely does not, consider how Spencer's motherfucking naked.

"I'm decent," Spencer says dryly, and it's a whisper, but it carries in the dead silence. Brendon turns around and is faced with Spencer's back.

Jesus.

He's stretching, hands linked over his head, muscles bunching and shifting under moonlit skin, hips cocked. Brendon can't breathe. It's too much, too much pale freckled skin, too many images flashing across his mind of what Spencer's back would look like if he was fucking Brendon, pressing him hard into a wall, shoulders tense, neck arched like it is right now, fuck.

Brendon steps backward, hits the sloping part of the floor where shallow meets deep, and slips spectacularly, spluttering to the surface again to see Spencer staring at him bemusedly.

"Shut up," Brendon says preemptively. Spencer grins, the mischievous one that makes his eyes sparkle, and breaststrokes closer. Brendon circles around him cautiously, really not eager in any way for Spencer to notice what's going on with his dick right now. But is he really to blame? 'Cause seriously, Spencer, blue eyes and skin, and it's three in the fucking morning and they're naked, and Brendon can feel all too acutely where the ripples from Spencer's movement are washing over his own over-sensitized skin. He fixes his gaze carefully on a spot of peeling paint on the porch.

"Bren, get out of your head," Spencer says softly. Brendon starts.

"Sorry," he whispers, and smiles back at Spencer. They're both just treading water, moving ever so slightly so it's like they're circling each other, and Brendon can see Spencer's mouth glistening with water. He gulps. When the fuck did this happen.

"I know," Spencer says, and Brendon's heart stops. "It feels kinda...shaky, doesn't it? Unreal. I'm worried too."

Right. That.

"Yeah," Brendon stutters, and that's the distraction he needs to get his dick to behave. He manages to get Spencer-worry out of his head long enough for all the rest of the worries to come rushing back. Awesome.

He takes a deep breath and looks up at the sky. The stars are out in full force (well, for LA) and there's not a cloud in sight. He's wondering if he'll be able to sleep now when a splash lands directly in his face.

"You fucker," Brendon laughs breathlessly when he surfaces again. Spencer rolls his eyes and points at the house, then mimes "shhh." Brendon laughs again, quieter this time, and dashes an arm through the water to send it at Spencer.

"Oh, it's on," Spencer stage-whispers, and then Brendon's fleeing to the shallow end as Spencer launches his attack, choking on his laughter so he doesn't rouse Ryan or the dogs.

Spencer's almost on top of him when Brendon turns around to fight, having come up against the side of the pool. He manages a half a breath before the chuckle dies on his lips and the last of Spencer's armful of water runs off his face. Spencer's maybe half a foot away, too fucking close, so that Brendon can smell the lingering traces of his cologne even over the chlorine.

It's quiet enough that he can hear every breath Spencer takes, from the heaving ones as he chokes back laughter to the stuttered realization of how close they are. His heart jumps. His skin feels too hot.

One second Brendon thinks he might lean in, and the next he's stepping back, smiling easily like nothing ever happened.

"Too chicken?" Spencer teases lightly. "Nah, you're right, we're being too loud."

Brendon was thinking nothing of the sort (oh, god, the things they could do that would be so much louder), but he'll take the out.

Spencer settles on the steps, deep enough that he's up to his waist in water, and rests his chin in his hands. Brendon sits next to him, careful not to get too close.

"Nice night," he comments. Shit, how boring can he get, seriously. Spencer just smiles.

It's quiet, except for the soft lap of water at the sides of the pool. Brendon can feel the tension inside him unwinding, dripping slowly away and evaporating into the warm spring air.

"I meant what I said earlier," Spencer says softly. He places a hand right next to Brendon's on the concrete step and Brendon watches the water distort their images. "I'm here. We're gonna be okay."

Brendon stares as he inches his hand closer, pinky finger brushing over Spencer's, their skin cool under the water. He can feel it like an electric shock. He takes a deep breath and intertwines their fingers, looking up at the same time Spencer does, so that their eyes meet with a jolt Brendon can feel sizzling through his limbs.

He doesn't know who leans in first, only that Spencer's eyes are getting bigger and he's drowning in them, with only a fleeting thought of it can't be this easy before their lips meet.

But apparently, it is that easy. It's soft, gentle, sweet. It feels so right that Brendon can't believe they've never done this before, lips wet as they slide together like interlocking puzzle pieces,
water-cooled skin the perfect contrast to Spencer's tongue as it darts out, hot and searching, to flicker at Brendon's lower lip, hands still locked together between them on the rough step. Spencer's mouth on his is all he can feel.

Brendon has to pull away for air and Spencer's eyes are right there, blueblueblue and so close they're blurry, and Brendon just wants. He mouths at one of the freckles on Spencer's neck, moves down to nip at his collarbone, and then Spencer's hands are clutching at Brendon's back and he's fucking panting, low and harsh, tangling a hand in Brendon's hair to pull him up and crash their mouths together again. His hands are all over Brendon's back, tugging and stroking, leaving a slow burn wherever they've touched, until one palm grazes over the curve of Brendon's ass and he arches shamelessly into the touch. Spencer groans, ragged, and pulls Brendon closer, so Brendon swings a leg over and straddles him, and the stupid concrete of the steps is killing his knees but Spencer's choked whisper, "Fuck, Bren-" is so, so worth it.

He's heard Spencer jerk off (it's unavoidable on the bus, really) but it's nothing like this, the waves slapping gently against their skin as Brendon grinds down, his own moan joining Spencer's litany of whispered curses and rough breathing. Spencer's hands are cupped over Brendon's ass, reverent almost, and he leans forward to tongue at Brendon's nipple, and Brendon wants more, fuck, whimpers and arches forward, so close already with Spencer's mouth fiery on his skin and wicked red, tonguing a path up Brendon's neck, biting ruthlessly into the curve of his shoulder and pressing a soft kiss into the same spot, and-

Bogart barks.

Spencer's frozen in an instant, chest still heaving, and Brendon grinds down once more almost involuntarily, body unwilling to accept that they just got interrupted. Spencer's eyes are every deer-in-headlights cliché. Bogart barks again and Brendon knows it's only a matter of time before Hobo wakes up too.

"Bren, we can't- not now-" Spencer whispers desperately, and he's pushing Brendon away, scrambling backwards. He's still hard, jesus, flushed and gorgeous, Brendon still wants, but he has no choice but to follow, avert his eyes as Spencer hops into his boxers and holds his shirt over his crotch. Brendon's skin, blazing and buzzing a second before, feels bare, bereft.

"Night," Spencer whispers, and he's darting up the stairs and inside before Brendon can respond. The dogs are quiet within a moment. Brendon's still standing and staring and shaking. He braces himself against the side of the porch and looks down, almost as an afterthought, wraps a hand around his cock and pulls maybe twice before he's coming without a sound.

"Shit," he whispers. He walks carefully up the stairs, pulls on his sweatpants. He can see the trail of wet footprints where Spencer came inside, but there's no sign of him. The dogs are fighting happily over a bone.

Not now, Spencer said. So maybe?

He collapses into bed, runs a finger absently over still-swollen lips, and falls asleep in seconds.

Part 3