(no subject)
PART ONE
Day 13
"I think he's dead," Spencer says.
Jon gives him a sideways look. "What? No! He's, what the hell! He's blinking, Spence."
"He has a creepy little baby stare," Spencer says and slowly rocks from side to side. Liam's eyes keep following him. "Is that normal? Shouldn't he be making noises?"
Jon slumps to the ground in front of Liam's crib, fingers poked through the slats and wiggling on the mattress. "What kind of noises would you like him to make?"
"I don't know," Spencer snaps and stops moving. Liam regards him patiently, tiny, fat fists opening and closing. "Baby noises. They, like, coo. And gurgle."
"He's a baby, not a pigeon," Jon says and gently pokes Liam's bulging tummy under a pea-green onesie. Liam blinks twice in response. "He's fine. He's just... calm."
"I think he might be developmentally challenged," Spencer says.
"He's a Walker."
"My point exactly." He sidesteps Jon's kick to his ankle just in time.
Liam yawns, his whole face scrunching up into pink wrinkles. Spencer's heart does a funny thing. He's been kind of sold on the baby ever since Jon's brother first handed him over in the hospital; it only took one perfect miniature foot smacking him in the chin.
"There's a black spot on his gum," Spencer says, squinting. "Do you think it's scurvy?"
"I think it's a tooth," Jon says and smiles as Liam starts gnawing on his finger, liberal amounts of drool running from both corners of his little mouth.
"Should we take him to a doctor?"
"It's a tooth, Spence."
"I'm just saying," Spencer says defensively. "I don't want your nephew dying on our watch."
"Nobody's dying!" Jon says loudly, sounding exasperated. Liam frowns around his finger, and Jon makes soothing noises until his face smooths out again.
Spencer lowers himself to his knees on the nursery rug. There are lions and giraffes and all sorts of happy, anatomically incorrect animals frolicking on it. Jon's hand covers most of a hippo, fingertips rubbing back and forth across the fabric absently. Spencer wonders how someone this tactile ever managed to be single. "Scurvy's not just for sailors anymore, you know," he says, half into Jon's shoulder.
Jon laughs, turning his head until he can rest his forehead against Spencer's.
They sit in silence until Liam falls asleep.
Day 14
"Have a Merry Christmas, now," the sales lady says warmly.
Spencer really wishes he had a dagger handy on which to impale himself.
He takes his plastic bag of clothes and smiles tightly. It's possible that he's not at his best when Christmas shopping at the mall.
Jon, needless to say, really loves Christmas shopping at the mall. "I want to come back with my camera," he says when they step out of the stuffy store and into the marginally more bearable walkway. It's crammed with shoppers, teenagers wearing braces and middle-aged couples and little old ladies with their carts. One of them drives straight into Spencer's calves, on what he'd be ready to swear is malicious purpose. "Look at the decorations."
"Yeah, that's nice," Spencer says, trying to check whether the back of his leg is, in fact, oozing blood onto the gleaming linoleum floor. "Hey, I need you to beat up that grandma for me."
"Which one?" Jon asks interestedly while taking a preliminary picture with his cell phone. "I'll get on that in just a second."
Spencer straightens and sighs. "Nevermind. She's gone. Where are we meeting up?"
"The food court," Jon says, pocketing his phone. "I think we're getting close. Oh, hey, I just want to step in here real quick."
Bath & Body Works has, for reasons passing understanding, seen fit to tie a cluster of seasonal balloons by the entrance doors. There's a red-cheeked, slightly cross-eyed Santa especially that Spencer eyes with distrust. "Do you have to?" he asks. "We've been at this since ten."
"Yeah," Jon says pointedly, fondling a bottle of Sensual Amber, "because I've never spent three hours at Nordstrom holding shoe boxes."
It's a fair point, Spencer has to admit.
"I just," he says weakly, shaking his bags. The presents inside rattle against each other. "Jon, I hate this. I know you're all about the lights and the music and the scent of Christmas in the air or whatever, but seriously, it's too warm and too bright and the music sucks."
Jon crosses his arms. "You're trying not to enjoy this," he says, accusing.
"No," Spencer says and punches a helium-filled snowman that keeps drifting into the side of his face. "No, it comes pretty naturally."
Jon pouts but takes pity on him, and they manage to be in front of Pizza Hut a mere thirty-two minutes after they were supposed to.
"Dude," Brendon says instead of a greeting. "You are so late. Bad manners, guys." Their table is sort of squished up against the big silver waste containers on one side, but seeing the way the food court is teeming with people, it must have been quite an accomplishment to even hold it for more than five minutes. Ryan looks accordingly smug over his smoothie cup.
"Everything all right?" he asks, pushing out a chair for Spencer with his foot. "Sorry, we already ate. Brendon was about to start chewing on my arm."
"It's fine," Spencer says and drops down, rubbing his aching hands. The angry red lines that two hours of plastic straps have left on his palms might be permanent at this point. He feels slightly better with the promise of melted cheese in his immediate future.
"I want dessert," Brendon announces, tipping Ryan half out of his chair and onto the shiny tabletop, and starts to grope his ass with both hands. "Where did you put your wallet, Ross? Did you try to hide it again?"
Ryan keeps himself from face-planting into his tray with both hands, looking long-suffering. "I owe him," he tells Spencer with a sigh.
Jon laughs, still struggling to find space for his feet among the shopping bags surrounding him. "Owe him for what?" A bag that should be full of porcelain stuff for Jon's mom clangs against the leg of Spencer's chair. He winces.
"For making his life a better place," Brendon says, triumphantly waving the claimed wallet, and loudly kisses Ryan somewhere between his mouth and cheek. Spencer can see Ryan's ears turn pink from across the table.
"I really didn't need to see that," he says sweetly, and Brendon bats his lashes and asks,
"So how long did it take for you to unpack Jon's stuff, Spencer?"
The silence that follows is pretty impressively awkward.
Brendon's eyes grow three sizes. "Oh, wow," he says. "Oh wow, you still haven't? But what -"
Ryan smacks him in the side, hard, and Brendon shuts up. Out of the corner of his eye, Spencer can see Jon busying himself with the bags again, checking for damage. Spencer is devoting most of his attention to the sickly-looking mall plant over Brendon's head.
"We haven't gotten around to it," he says sharply, feeling his cheeks heat up.
Brendon, for once, doesn't push. "All right," he says, rising quickly, "I'll go spend your money at CinnaBon then!" He pokes Ryan in the shoulder, but Ryan is focused on Spencer with the same squinty-eyed intensity that Spencer has hated since middle school. He keeps his gaze locked on drooping, brown-streaked leaves.
"Hang on, I'll come with," Jon says abruptly. He has to grab the back of Spencer's chair for balance while weaving his way through the obstacle course of bags, and Spencer nearly flinches at the press of Jon's knuckles against his spine. He tries to cover it up by shifting and clearing his throat, but Ryan's eyes narrow even further.
As soon as Jon and Brendon are out of earshot, he shakes his head. "Spencer, look at me."
Spencer, reluctantly, does.
Ryan spreads his hands, still wearing his dumb fingerless gloves. Spencer can see the faint pink stain near his wrist, where Ryan cut his hand on a broken bottle their senior year of college. It never quite came out. A foot further up, Ryan's face is incredulous. "What the hell is going on? What are you doing?"
The most inconvenient thing about their friendship has always been that Spencer is hopeless at lying to Ryan. He used to suspect that Ryan had some sort of crazy powers of mind control, but it turned out, the first time Spencer lied to a girlfriend about why he missed her birthday party, that he was just a shitty liar in general. Ryan had laughed at him profusely while holding a bag of frozen peas to Spencer's face. This time around, it won't really be a problem.
"I have no idea," he says, feeling very tired all of a sudden, in a way that has nothing to do with how sore his feet are. "I really don't."
Ryan's face softens a little.
They're talking about how much snow to expect when Jon and Brendon get back, and the conversation goes from that to kitty litter to Dylan to the guinea pig named Batman that Brendon had as a kid. They don't talk about the other thing.
Day 15
"Maybe you'd like to try our special Eggnog Latte at this time of year?" the barista chirps.
"I'm allergic to eggnog," Spencer says. "I'll just have a regular coffee."
"Some Gingerbread Latte instead?"
"I'll just have a regular..."
"Oh, but we also have Peppermint Mocha -"
" - no, I -"
" - or maybe -"
"I want some regular fucking coffee!" Spencer yells, loud enough for the conversations around him to come to a screeching halt.
The manager is kind enough to escort him out.
Day 16
Spencer comes home and immediately trips over a stray reindeer.
"Whoa, watch it," Jon says, breathless, possibly because Spencer has an elbow jammed right in his stomach. "I want to put it outside, do you think it's stupid to put up another thing this far into the season?"
All Spencer hears is another thing. "I think it's stupid to put up another thing at all," he says sharply. "Where will you even... Jon, everything is full. I can't even walk anymore."
"Well, it won't be here," Jon points out. "It'll be on the landing. I know you didn't like the two Santas, so I put one of them away again, but now the other one looks so lonely out there. Didn't you notice when you got back?"
Spencer can feel a headache coming on. He's still twisted awkwardly, hands clutching the banister and feet near the door, Jon the only thing propping him up. "No," he says. "No, I didn't notice that you removed one of the seven thousand things you've cluttered my house with."
He struggles into a vertical position, shoes slipping on the hallway tiles, and ignores Jon's helping hand.
"Spence," Jon says. He sounds worried. Spencer yanks his scarf off his neck roughly. "Seriously, if the reindeers bother you that much, I can put them back in the box."
Spencer really wants to lie down somewhere cool and dark. "The reindeers don't bother me," he snaps. There's a weird sort of pressure building in his chest, spreading and reaching under his ribcage. "Put up your fucking reindeers. Put up a whole damn nativity scene on my front steps, I don't care."
He slams his coat onto the hook hard enough to rattle the closet doors.
It's quiet enough to hear the coffee machine dripping in the kitchen. Spencer's heart is pounding.
"Our front steps," Jon says.
Spencer closes his eyes. He can feel it when Jon comes closer, smell the soap he uses. It should be comforting, but it's not. Not really. "That's what I said."
"No," Jon says, very calmly. "No, Spence, it's not."
Spencer doesn't know what to say, and he doesn't want to talk. His head is really hurting now, a steady throb between his temples. "Can we just have dinner?" he asks tiredly.
Jon looks at him for a few, very long moments. Finally, he nods. "Take-out in the fridge," he says quietly, hands in his pockets. "Come on."
Day 17
Spencer is at the counter sorting mail when Jon gets back, clomping in through the back door and tracking icy mush inside.
"Watch the floors," Spencer says, not even looking up. He's been inexplicably pissed off all day, and by now he's managed to work himself into a nice, self-righteous state. He doesn't want to ruin it by looking at, say, Jon and his stupid face.
He can hear Jon obediently kick off his shoes and shuffle over on socked feet, and then there's a cold mouth and colder cheeks against Spencer's neck. "Hi," Jon whispers, "hi, did you have a good day at work?"
Spencer shivers and says, "Sure." Jon's arm is wrapped around his chest, right where the unnamed feeling is starting to rear its ugly, familiar head again. Apparently oblivious, Jon presses another chilly kiss to Spencer's temple and then moves away to put some water on the stove.
Spencer takes a deep breath, but the pressure in his chest is not going away. He stares down at the envelope in his hands while Jon clangs around the kitchen cabinets. It's from his mom, with a grinning Santa postage stamp, and all Spencer wants to do is rip it to tiny pieces and never have to look at that fucking face again.
Maybe he really does have a problem.
He starts when Jon is suddenly back, chin hooked over Spencer's shoulder. "Oh, hey, is that from your mom?" he says, but before Spencer can answer he starts humming - this year, to save me from tears Spencer remembers, and -
"Will you stop it!" Spencer explodes, fist snapping shut before he can help it.
There's a moment's pause before Jon reaches out and calmly frees the letter. Spencer's fingers refuse to unclench, and Jon has to tug and pull before he can turn it over between his hands, smooth out the paper. "What's wrong?" he asks gently and takes a few steps back to lean against the sink.
Spencer doesn't even know where to begin.
"Everything!" he hisses. "There's Christmas fucking everywhere and I can't even get away from it at home, because here you are, and you're so fucking cheerful all the time -"
"I'm usually cheerful," Jon points out. Spencer can tell he sort of wants to smile, and it's only annoying him more.
"You're quietly cheerful," Spencer snaps. "But now you're loudly cheerful, right here, and it's stressing me out!"
Jon stares at him.
"I stress you out by being happy here?" he asks finally, and he doesn't sound very amused at all anymore. "Seriously? Christ, Spencer."
Spencer digs the heels of both hands into his eyes until he can see lights swirling. "That's not what I meant," he says. "Look, that's not... I only mean, it's a little hard for me to deal with you..."
"Here?" Jon repeats harshly, and his voice is maybe louder than Spencer is used to, but that still doesn't explain why the accusation rings in his ears the way it does.
"No," he says, stung. "What the hell, that has nothing to do with it."
Jon's face is like a stormcloud. Someone who still has melting snowflakes stuck between his lashes should not even manage to look so genuinely angry, but he does. Spencer swallows hard.
"Oh, it doesn't, does it? This is not about what I'm doing to your house." Jon slaps the wrinkled envelope down on the counter hard enough to send a bunch of bills fluttering to the ground. "Or your bedroom, or your kitchen, or your fucking front steps. Why did you even ask me to move in with you?"
His own blood is roaring in Spencer's ears; he barely hears himself when he opens his mouth and spits, "I wasn't planning on it! But you were fucking well homeless, so I had to, and now you're driving me crazy!"
The tea kettle goes off with a shriek.
How very fucking fitting.
Spencer feels suddenly, enormously ill. "Jon," he says, takes a step forward and then another, "Jon, I didn't..."
He falls silent when he sees Jon's face. It's not angry anymore.
Jon turns around and switches off the stove, hands very careful on the dials. "I don't want to make any stupid decisions right now," he says quietly, back turned. "And it's pretty late, I don't want to call..."
"No, of course," Spencer says tightly. "No, please -"
My house is your house, he bites back just in time, and wow, wouldn't that have been the most fantastically inappropriate thing he could have said.
Jon nods. "Thank you," he says, and, "No, it's not a problem," Spencer answers, words moving carefully like they're stepping around broken glass.
Eventually, Spencer gets down on one knee and starts picking up the bills one by one. Telephone, water, electricity. His fingers are clumsy and he nearly cuts himself.
Spencer moves downstairs that night, onto his couch that's too stylish to be really comfortable. He can hear the bed creak through the ceiling every time Jon turns over. He turns over a lot.
Spencer hasn't slept a wink by the time his alarm goes off.
Day 18
"Claim it was temporary insanity or something," Ryan urges. "Tell him it wasn't what you meant."
Spencer stirs his coffee and can't look him in the eye. "But it was."
"Oh," Ryan says, and gets very quiet.
Spencer carefully places the dirty spoon on his napkin. "Yeah."
***
There's no big scene where Spencer comes home to a suitcase by the door and there are Significant Words, and then one of them cries and the strings swell on the soundtrack. There's just Jon, already wearing his coat, rising from the couch when Spencer comes in like that was his cue. Like he's in a waiting room in his doctor's office.
"I should," Jon says, and his hands clench on the backpack he's holding. "I should just go, Spence, I'm sorry."
Spencer nods and looks down at his snow-crusted shoes. "Your boxes are already gone," he says, not a question.
Jon makes a quiet sound of agreement. "Tom came with the car. We just loaded them right up, I mean, since they were still down here," and somehow the worst part is that he says it without a hint of anger or accusation at all.
Spencer nods again.
"Tom's new place is really strict about pets," Jon continues softly. "I couldn't take Dylan, I just left him upstairs. I'm sorry for the bother, as soon as I know where -"
Spencer finally looks up, shaking his head quickly. "It's fine, it's... I'll take good care of him."
Jon's face is stiff like a mask; it seems to crack a little around the edges when he smiles. "I know you will."
They look at each other over the back of the couch, helpless, until Jon blinks and moves forward. "Bye, Spence," he says, and his fingers twitch like he's going to touch Spencer or maybe try to shake his hand or something.
Spencer can't do anything except watch as Jon carefully moves past him and out the door, messing up the line of snowy footprints that Spencer just left.
Day 19
Spencer is halfway to the bus stop before he realizes he's wearing yesterday's pants and his tie inside-out. He doesn't want to turn around and fix it. He doesn't want to do anything but keep moving forward, blindly walk and not think about anything.
He goes straight past the stop, has to double back four blocks, misses his bus and is late to work. Maybe it's on his face, everything that happened, because Vicky only comes into his office once all morning, to bring him some water. Spencer can hear her talk to Travis outside the door. Their voices fade eventually.
He doesn't get any work done; he spends eight hours sitting at his desk and staring out the window. It starts to snow again sometime after three, flakes small and fuzzy and more grey than white as they bump into the glass without making a sound.
Day 20
Jon leaves him a voicemail in the middle of the afternoon. He talks calmly, good-naturedly about how he and Tom went out and took some more pictures by Navy Pier, and he hasn't found a new place yet but he's trying hard, and will Spencer say hi to Dylan from him? At the end, there are a few seconds of white noise like he wants to say something else, but all that eventually comes is the click when Jon hangs up the phone.
Spencer listens to the message three times on repeat. His chest hurts so much that he thinks, for a wildly irrational moment, he might be having a heart attack.
Day 21
On Sunday, Ryan comes over with a box of pizza and entirely too many DVDs.
"Ross to the rescue," he says and shoves Spencer back into the hallway. "I got us Moulin Rouge. Dude, move, it's freezing out."
Spencer is not particularly surprised that Ryan is alone. It doesn't take a genius to figure out why it's been Ryan answering his calls the last few days instead of Brendon, who's practically attached to the cordless. Spencer's pretty sure Brendon knows how to read caller ID.
He watches while Ryan sheds two of the five visible layers he's wearing, then shuffles off to make some coffee while Ryan crouches on the floor and tries to get Spencer's DVD player to work. "This thing is a piece of shit," Ryan says when Spencer gets back with two mugs, looking flushed and bright-eyed but triumphant. "I won, though. Is this Colombian roast?"
"I don't know," Spencer says, cradling his mug between his hands, "Jon bought it," and his mouth snaps shut so fast his teeth clack together painfully.
Ryan has the good grace to look down and away while Spencer gets his face back under control. "All right, let's get this going," he says, voice light, but he sits too close to Spencer on the couch, folded legs overlapping like they used to do back in high school.
It's dark out by the time they've worked through Ryan's stack. Spencer draws the curtains and does his best to ignore how cold and lonely the single Santa looks, perched in the bushes. Jon never put up the reindeer to keep him company.
When he turns around, Ryan is looking at him, calm and unreadable. "So," he says and tugs one rucked-up pant leg down over his ankle. "How are you?"
Spencer stares down at his toes in the fluffy carpet. "Shitty," he says. His voice is hoarse from how little he's used it today, yesterday, the day before.
Ryan looks unsurprised. And sad. "Come here," he says, and Spencer does, sits back down and closes his eyes against the blue glare of the empty TV screen. Ryan's bony knee presses into his thigh, but it's not unwelcome.
"I freaked out," Spencer says quietly. "I freaked out, Ryan, and I fucked it up so bad."
Ryan doesn't say anything, just takes his hand and lays his head on Spencer's shoulder.
Day 22
He calls Tom's apartment from the office when Vicky takes her lunch out with Travis again, with cold hands and his heart in his throat. Jon picks up. Spencer knows it's him, just from the small inhale before he says, "Hello?"
Spencer's eyes follow a plane that passes high overhead, black speck against the ice-blue sky. "It's me," he says, trying to sound calm and collected rather than about two seconds away from losing his shit.
There's a few moments of silence before Jon says, "Hey, Spence."
He doesn't sound too steady either. It's perversely reassuring. Spencer takes a deep breath and forces himself to stop clenching the fabric of his suit pants in his hand, before he ruins his favorite pair forever. "The Christmas party is tomorrow."
"Yes," Jon says calmly.
"And I was wondering if you still wanted to go." Spencer can hear the heating switch on somewhere in the walls with a dull clang.
Jon sounds slightly confused when he says, "You realize they're actually your colleagues, right?"
Spencer's mouth is too dry to offer so much as a perfunctory chuckle. "They like you better than me, though." He seriously hopes that's a fucking lie, though he really can't be sure. Last year, Frank's boyfriend barely said hello before dragging Jon off to talk about installation art by the crudites. "Patrick might get drunk and do karaoke again. You don't want to miss that."
He waits. And waits. Finally, Jon says, soft and staticky, "Yeah, all right."
Spencer nearly drops the phone. "Great," he says, willing his tongue not to trip over any letters. It worked. He hadn't really expected it to work. "Then I'll see you tomorrow?"
"Ok," Jon says, and Spencer thinks he can hear a smile. It makes him want to crawl through the line and kiss it.
"All right," he says, faint with relief. The airplane is gone from his line of sight now. He loosens his grip on the phone before he crushes it in some Hulk-like move that would probably send Ray into early retirement. "I'll see you there."
Day 23
Instead of employing his usual office party tactic of slipping in an hour late and slipping out an hour early, Spencer is at Luigi's a full thirty minutes before they're supposed to be, which has the added disadvantage of having to wait on a sidewalk in the drizzle while everything is being set up inside. He huddles under the little bit of marquee that's out in front, watching the fine mist of rain sweep along the street, and tries not to look as cold and nervous as he feels.
Frank arrives at a quarter to ten, cursing and hopping to avoid puddles. He brightens instantly when he sees Spencer. "Hey, man," he says, blowing furiously on his hands. He has what looks like a real live bunch of mistletoe pinned to his jacket, under a Rudolph with a blinking light for a nose. "You're early! What gives?"
"Just waiting for someone," Spencer says vaguely. "Nice reindeer."
Frank beams. "Thanks. Gerard picked it out. Oh, hey, speaking of." He leans close; Spencer actually has to bend down a little to catch what he's saying. "Can you keep Gerard company while I make sure everything's ready? He gets a little weird about -" Frank waves his hand in a roundabout way. "Being outside and stuff."
Spencer blinks. Frank looks up at him expectantly, tiny drops of water clinging to the wet ends of his hair. "Sure," Spencer says. "Uh, where is he?"
"Right here," Gerard says, right behind him. Spencer nearly jumps out of his skin.
"Jesus," he says, pressing one hand to his chest. "I mean, hi, Gerard."
Gerard looks pretty much the way Spencer remembers him, wearing a thoughtful expression and a short black coat that gapes open at the collar and, in absence of a scarf, exposes quite a bit of pale throat. He gives Spencer a hug that smells faintly, but not unpleasantly, like turpentine.
"I wish you wouldn't tell people that I get nervous about being outside," Gerard tells Frank over Spencer's shoulder. "It makes me sound like a basement-dwelling hermit."
"You are a basement-dwelling hermit," Frank says. "Or you were. Oh, Spencer doesn't even know yet!"
Spencer is released from Gerard's arms to find himself face to face with two matching, demented smiles. "We just moved in together," Gerard announces, sounding proud.
"Hey," Frank says. "I bet you have some good tips for us, right?"
Spencer's pretty sure that bursting into hysterical laughter might not be the polite response. "Don't buy Disney sheets," he finally says. Gerard nods earnestly.
"No Disney sheets," he repeats, and adds abruptly, "Do you smoke?"
This night is already shaping up to be rather more than Spencer thinks he can handle without cracking. "No," he says, and seeing as Gerard is already digging through his pockets, "but, I mean, you can. I don't mind."
"Frank quit smoking too," Gerard says mournfully, unearthing a crumpled pack of Lucky Strikes. "Now I have to smoke all alone."
Frank's eye-roll looks so heartfelt that Spencer feels like maybe he should give him Ryan's number. "You can smoke with Mrs. Malloy from upstairs," Frank says.
Gerard gives him a cranky look from under all the hair falling in his face. The style could maybe most charitably be described as "eccentric". "Mrs. Malloy smells like cabbage."
"Well, you smell like artist," Frank says. "Don't be such a snob."
***
The party starts at ten, and Jon isn't there. Pete climbs on a chair to give his End Of The Year speech at ten-seventeen, and Jon isn't there. Patrick firmly and physically puts an end to Pete's End Of The Year speech at ten-thirty-four, and then disappears, presumably to get really fucking drunk. Jon still isn't there.
Spencer spends most of his night just next to the buffet table, which has the double advantage of having a clear view of the front doors and being full of food. Jon doesn't come, and when Spencer checks his watch, it's eleven-thirty. He chooses to blame the sudden wave of nausea on too many cookies.
It's started to snow outside, fat, white flakes drifting lazily through the beam of light that the nearest streetlamp throws. The doors fall shut behind Spencer just as he can hear Pete yell, "Shut up! Patrick's gonna sing!"
The cold is like a slap in the face, and Spencer's whole body just wants to curl in on itself. He takes a couple of harsh breaths, thick white steam in the night air, and shakes out his arms, stamps his feet until he's sure that he won't freeze to the sidewalk, or, worse, cry.
It's all right, he tells himself. His life was fine before he had Jon Walker, and it'll be fine after.
He doesn't particularly believe himself.
Traffic should be slow at this time of night, but there's nothing, not even the occasional cab. The street is empty as far as Spencer can see, just the dark and the lights and the snow, grimy sludge in the road slowly being covered by a fresh, white layer. He's so cold he's shaking with it, solid ice from his feet up, and this is stupid and pointless and he's going to get pneumonia. He turns around to go back in, and there, right under the lamp with snowflakes glittering in his hair, is Jon.
Frozen or not, Spencer can feel the rush of blood from his head.
"Hey," Jon says sheepishly. His cheeks are very pink. "I'm so sorry, Spence, we got this huge group picture right before closing time and I got out of the studio late, and then they closed all the roads because of ice, and the buses weren't running and I couldn't get a cab, and I walked -"
"You walked?" Spencer asks, words clipped neatly by the chattering of his own teeth. "You mean, he- here? From work?"
Jon rubs his hands in their blue gloves together. Spencer knows how those feel, just a little scratchy against his skin, and he wants Jon to touch him so bad it's almost worse than the cold. "That's why I'm late," Jon says. "I'm so sorry, I left you like five messages."
Spencer's brain is still too busy with the fact that Jon is here. "You're here," he says, slow, almost like it's a little wonder (maybe it is).
Jon says hoarsely, "Yes, I am," and then he takes a step, and Spencer takes a step, and then he's wrapped up in Jon's ugly, warm old coat and smelling snow and Jon's skin, and he never, ever wants to move again.
"I missed you so much," Spencer mutters, hands sandwiched between his chest and Jon's, numb lips moving against his throat. "My bed's too big. Your toothpaste isn't open on the sink. Dylan won't even look at me sideways. And you're not there, and it sucks."
Jon's breath ruffles his hair, hot on the curve of Spencer's ear. "Tom doesn't yell at the TV the way you do," he whispers. "And he doesn't sleep on the couch with me and kicks me while he dreams."
Spencer's throat hurts, but in a good way, like he really wants to laugh. "Jon," he says and pushes his nose in that spot right below Jon's ear, makes him shiver, "will you move back in with me?"
Jon's arms tighten around him, and his voice is full of relief when he says, "Definitely not."
"Wait, what?" Spencer says, trying to pull back enough to look Jon in the face, but Jon locks his arms and holds him close. Spencer's stuck watching the side of his head while he talks.
"We sucked at living together," Jon says, his ear moving up and down with the words. "Seriously, we were terrible at it."
Spencer tries to kick at the ground, but just ends up burying his shoe in a little hump of snow. "We weren't that bad."
Jon laughs so hard he jostles Spencer too. "I moved out and left my cat behind," he says, kind of breathless. "We almost broke up, Spence!"
"Fine," Spencer says reluctantly. "Fair point. So we sucked at it."
Jon lifts one hand to wipe at his face. His coat falls open a little on Spencer's back, and Spencer gasps in protest. "Well," Jon says, quickly making sure he is covered again, "mostly you sucked at it. You know what I'm giving you for Christmas? The phone number of someone who does seminars on communication in relationships, because I swear, Spence, you suck at it so bad."
There's really not much room to argue there. Spencer swallows, still watching the snow fall over Jon's shoulder. "Yeah. I'm sorry."
"Apology accepted," Jon says quietly. He shifts until he can kiss Spencer's temple. "And I'm sorry too. For not getting it. And for the sheets, and the reindeers."
"And the angels," Spencer supplies, spreading his hands on Jon's chest until he can trace the curve of his collarbone with slowly thawing fingertips.
"I'm not apologizing for the angels," Jon says firmly. "The angels are awesome."
Spencer smiles. He feels so light, like he could kick off the ground and float right into the sky. "You're sure you don't want to come back?" he asks, pressing closer to Jon until he can't anymore.
"Positive," Jon says. His body curves into Spencer's like it was meant to be there. "And I couldn't even if I wanted to, I already found a new place and signed the thing."
"Ok," Spencer mutters. "But you're going to move some of your stuff back, right? A couple of sweaters? Your razor?"
"One t-shirt and my toothbrush," Jon says. "Deal or no deal."
Spencer sighs. "Deal."
He can hear the doors open behind him, a wave of sound spilling outside, and then Vicky's voice, very high-pitched: "Oh, you guys!"
"Sorry," Gerard says, "hey Jon, sorry, we'll come back and smoke later," and the noise dims again. Patrick's voice, soaring above all the others with, but the very next day you gave it away, is the last thing Spencer hears before they're back to mostly silence, just their breathing and the snow.
Jon leans in to hum in his ear, give it to someone special, and Spencer closes his eyes and tries to think of something sad before he melts into a puddle of goo right there.
Day 24
Spencer calls Ryan's house at a quarter after four. Brendon answers.
"Merry Christmas," he says. "Is it safe to come over yet? Are you done with the make-up sex? Because my mom sent us two tons of fruitcake and we're really, really not going to eat it all."
Spencer has never been so stupidly grateful to hear someone's voice in his entire life.
"We're not eating your damn fruitcake," he says, admiring his outfit - which currently consists of one sock with candy canes on it - in the hallway mirror. "But I guess you could come over anyway. There's eggnog. We saved you the ridiculous kitten mug you like."
"I might not kill you after all, Spencer Smith," Brendon says brightly and hangs up the phone.
They do end up eating Mrs. Urie's fruitcake, crowded around the kitchen counter. It's delicious.