Spencer Smith and the Perils of the Junk Drawer
(Oh my god, this is completely self-indulgent. I don't even know anymore. /o\ /o\ /o\)
Spencer doesn't mean to find it, is the thing. He suspects Brendon's just forgot about its existence, but it's too little comfort too late when Spencer's just rummaging around in the junk drawer in Brendon's kitchen, trying to find a damn pen and a piece of paper to write down this week's pizza deals as the tinny telephone voice rattles them off, and there on the back of an open envelope, there it is, in Brendon's cramped handwriting.
In Case
- beg Pete for spot on D.dance or FBR (tours :((((( ask him)
- call Patrick, Eric, see if they want help with anything. SHANE TOO
- get rights to perform green gentleman (???) see about holy spaces & f.a.
- learn harmonica & organ
- buy a drum kit
- pete help w/lyrics??? no
- get 14 cats, name them all Mr Whiskers, wear tissue boxes on feet
Spencer stares at it, reads it about five times before his brain actually grasps what it is that he's reading, and he immediately shuts his phone. He reads it one more time, and then carefully folds the envelope and puts it into his back pocket. Then he goes into the living room where Brendon is still AutoTuning a recording of Bogart and Indie barking at the park. Spence leans against the doorframe and just looks for awhile, at Brendon hunched up in a ball in one corner of his own couch, biting his thumbnail absently.
Then Brendon looks up and grins and stretches his arms up over his head. "Pizza?"
Spencer smiles back a little. "How about Chinese?"
He doesn't mention it. He may take the envelope out of his pocket every now and then (it's gravitated from his jeans pocket to his inside coat pocket, he doesn't know why) and look at it, but Spencer...he can't quite bring himself to talk to Brendon about it.
Which sucks, because with Ryan and Jon off doing...whatever it is they do on a daily basis that requires them to be so incommunicado, Brendon is kind of Spencer's de facto best friend. He doesn't like adding to the weirdness, the limbo already hovering around the four of them.
Plus he can't stop thinking about Brendon actually writing the list. He finds himself wondering about it at really weird times, like he'll be at the grocery store getting shampoo and beer, waiting in the checkout line and suddenly there'll be this perfect mental image of Brendon hunched over in a van after a concert at night, squinting down at the back of this envelope, using a promotional pen from a radio station to make this list of what he'll do when his band kicks him out.
He can't stop thinking about Brendon thinking about them kicking him out. Was it - did Ryan and Brendon have a fight that Spencer missed? Was there like, some tipping point that made Brendon think oh, well, better have a back-up plan, were they all total dicks to him simultaneously one night? Was it something he, Spencer, did?
It eats at him. He's hanging out with Brendon constantly, lounging on his couch and eating his food (which Spencer has cooked, 90% of the time, so at least he doesn't have to feel guilty about that) and getting his ass kicked at a variety of video games and watching Brendon smile and joke and flail around like a spaz and there's still this low electric hum of what happened what did we do when did we do it when did he stop trusting us?
When did he stop trusting me?
Finally he can't take it anymore. Spencer waits til they're both on their own one morning, and he knows it's unfair to spring this on Brendon before noon but really he will seriously develop an ulcer if he waits one more minute. So Spencer sits down at the table one corner away from him and waits for Brendon to finish his Cheerios before he takes the (well-worn) envelope out of his pocket, unfolds it carefully, and slides it across the top of the table towards Brendon.
Brendon makes an interested noise and cranes his neck to peer at it. He squints (he doesn't have on his glasses). And then Spencer watches the blood drain out of his face, watches Brendon go white.
"When?" Spencer croaks, having to swallow to try to get his voice to work properly. He can't stand the look Brendon gives him at that, terrified and a few seconds later sort of resigned.
"Shit," Brendon mutters, pushing his bowl away, snatching the envelope up and squeezing it in his hand, hiding it under the table. "Shit." He's fidgeting with the envelope underneath the table, Spencer can hear the crinkle of paper, and he can see Brendon getting all twitchy and anxious. "Look, Spence, I - "
"No, hey." Spencer can't help it, he has to scoot his chair closer to Brendon's side of the table, reach to put his hand on Brendon's arm. "Hey."
"I'm not stupid," Brendon says, the words obviously just bubbling over before he can stop them, given the way he scowls down at the table after they're out. "I'm - you don't want my words or my voice or anything anymore and that's cool, I get it, I just. Look, don't think you're fooling anyone, okay? I haven't heard from them in like two weeks and we. We haven't practiced at all since you've been here. I mean don't get me wrong, it's been. Thanks, for." He huffs, and folds his arms, and Spencer can still see the ends of the envelope sticking out of the top of his fist. "I mean, I'm sure you need to get back to them and get going, right?"
Spencer's mouth is so dry, he can't even talk right away, he has lick his lips. "Bren - "
But Brendon shakes his head, exhaling loudly. "Yeah, no, just. I knew it was - I'm not surprised, okay? I mean. I'm still. Shit, this sucks," he says, kicking the table leg. His eyes are a little red, Spencer thinks. "Fucking Brent version two. No, okay. Okay, just. You can tell - tell them it's fine." Brendon ducks his head a little further, and props one elbow on the table to rub the heel of his hand hard into his right eye.
Spencer only remembers Brendon doing that once, but really clearly - when they were kids and still in Vegas and Brendon was in that shitty apartment. He'd come over to hang out after practice because Ryan had been a douche all night, and he and Brendon had just...watched tv and eaten microwave popcorn and talked about shit they would do when they were famous, and then Spencer had had to go home because he had a curfew, and he had parents who'd worry if he wasn't home by curfew, and he'd turned around in the doorway while he was shuffling his coat on and Brendon had been doing the same thing.
"Brendon," he finally manages. And then he has an idea - Spencer stands and goes over to the damn junk drawer and pushes a couple of things aside and it's like that Sharpie's been there just waiting for him. He grabs it and comes back to the table, to where Brendon hasn't moved except to curl in on himself a little bit more. "Hey," he says, curling his hand slowly around Brendon's shoulder as he reaches the other one up to pry the envelope away from him. "Come on."
Brendon sucks in a breath, but lets go after a second or two, and Spencer scoots his chair closer to Brendon's, so that their knees are touching, as he sort of ostentatiously smooths the crumpled paper out onto the tabletop. He uncaps the Sharpie with his teeth (his other hand is still rubbing Brendon's shoulder a little), and painstakingly marks out buy a drum kit, the point of the Sharpie squeaking on the paper a little as it goes. "There," he says, pushing it closer to the edge of the table, where Brendon will be able to see it, "I fixed it." He can feel Brendon lift his head a little, enough to look at the changes Spencer's made to his list. "I guess you could still buy one if you really wanted to," Spencer concedes after a minute of awkward silence, "but. I mean, we could just use mine."
There's another awkward minute before Brendon shivers and makes a noise Spencer knows he should never, ever, ever tell anyone about ever, and Spencer finds himself being hugged half to death. He closes his eyes and holds on just as tight, and doesn't complain when Brendon crawls onto his lap and presses fervent, whispered thank you thank you thank yous into his neck.
He throws the envelope away the next day.
Spencer doesn't mean to find it, is the thing. He suspects Brendon's just forgot about its existence, but it's too little comfort too late when Spencer's just rummaging around in the junk drawer in Brendon's kitchen, trying to find a damn pen and a piece of paper to write down this week's pizza deals as the tinny telephone voice rattles them off, and there on the back of an open envelope, there it is, in Brendon's cramped handwriting.
In Case
- beg Pete for spot on D.dance or FBR (tours :((((( ask him)
- call Patrick, Eric, see if they want help with anything. SHANE TOO
- get rights to perform green gentleman (???) see about holy spaces & f.a.
- learn harmonica & organ
- buy a drum kit
- pete help w/lyrics??? no
- get 14 cats, name them all Mr Whiskers, wear tissue boxes on feet
Spencer stares at it, reads it about five times before his brain actually grasps what it is that he's reading, and he immediately shuts his phone. He reads it one more time, and then carefully folds the envelope and puts it into his back pocket. Then he goes into the living room where Brendon is still AutoTuning a recording of Bogart and Indie barking at the park. Spence leans against the doorframe and just looks for awhile, at Brendon hunched up in a ball in one corner of his own couch, biting his thumbnail absently.
Then Brendon looks up and grins and stretches his arms up over his head. "Pizza?"
Spencer smiles back a little. "How about Chinese?"
He doesn't mention it. He may take the envelope out of his pocket every now and then (it's gravitated from his jeans pocket to his inside coat pocket, he doesn't know why) and look at it, but Spencer...he can't quite bring himself to talk to Brendon about it.
Which sucks, because with Ryan and Jon off doing...whatever it is they do on a daily basis that requires them to be so incommunicado, Brendon is kind of Spencer's de facto best friend. He doesn't like adding to the weirdness, the limbo already hovering around the four of them.
Plus he can't stop thinking about Brendon actually writing the list. He finds himself wondering about it at really weird times, like he'll be at the grocery store getting shampoo and beer, waiting in the checkout line and suddenly there'll be this perfect mental image of Brendon hunched over in a van after a concert at night, squinting down at the back of this envelope, using a promotional pen from a radio station to make this list of what he'll do when his band kicks him out.
He can't stop thinking about Brendon thinking about them kicking him out. Was it - did Ryan and Brendon have a fight that Spencer missed? Was there like, some tipping point that made Brendon think oh, well, better have a back-up plan, were they all total dicks to him simultaneously one night? Was it something he, Spencer, did?
It eats at him. He's hanging out with Brendon constantly, lounging on his couch and eating his food (which Spencer has cooked, 90% of the time, so at least he doesn't have to feel guilty about that) and getting his ass kicked at a variety of video games and watching Brendon smile and joke and flail around like a spaz and there's still this low electric hum of what happened what did we do when did we do it when did he stop trusting us?
When did he stop trusting me?
Finally he can't take it anymore. Spencer waits til they're both on their own one morning, and he knows it's unfair to spring this on Brendon before noon but really he will seriously develop an ulcer if he waits one more minute. So Spencer sits down at the table one corner away from him and waits for Brendon to finish his Cheerios before he takes the (well-worn) envelope out of his pocket, unfolds it carefully, and slides it across the top of the table towards Brendon.
Brendon makes an interested noise and cranes his neck to peer at it. He squints (he doesn't have on his glasses). And then Spencer watches the blood drain out of his face, watches Brendon go white.
"When?" Spencer croaks, having to swallow to try to get his voice to work properly. He can't stand the look Brendon gives him at that, terrified and a few seconds later sort of resigned.
"Shit," Brendon mutters, pushing his bowl away, snatching the envelope up and squeezing it in his hand, hiding it under the table. "Shit." He's fidgeting with the envelope underneath the table, Spencer can hear the crinkle of paper, and he can see Brendon getting all twitchy and anxious. "Look, Spence, I - "
"No, hey." Spencer can't help it, he has to scoot his chair closer to Brendon's side of the table, reach to put his hand on Brendon's arm. "Hey."
"I'm not stupid," Brendon says, the words obviously just bubbling over before he can stop them, given the way he scowls down at the table after they're out. "I'm - you don't want my words or my voice or anything anymore and that's cool, I get it, I just. Look, don't think you're fooling anyone, okay? I haven't heard from them in like two weeks and we. We haven't practiced at all since you've been here. I mean don't get me wrong, it's been. Thanks, for." He huffs, and folds his arms, and Spencer can still see the ends of the envelope sticking out of the top of his fist. "I mean, I'm sure you need to get back to them and get going, right?"
Spencer's mouth is so dry, he can't even talk right away, he has lick his lips. "Bren - "
But Brendon shakes his head, exhaling loudly. "Yeah, no, just. I knew it was - I'm not surprised, okay? I mean. I'm still. Shit, this sucks," he says, kicking the table leg. His eyes are a little red, Spencer thinks. "Fucking Brent version two. No, okay. Okay, just. You can tell - tell them it's fine." Brendon ducks his head a little further, and props one elbow on the table to rub the heel of his hand hard into his right eye.
Spencer only remembers Brendon doing that once, but really clearly - when they were kids and still in Vegas and Brendon was in that shitty apartment. He'd come over to hang out after practice because Ryan had been a douche all night, and he and Brendon had just...watched tv and eaten microwave popcorn and talked about shit they would do when they were famous, and then Spencer had had to go home because he had a curfew, and he had parents who'd worry if he wasn't home by curfew, and he'd turned around in the doorway while he was shuffling his coat on and Brendon had been doing the same thing.
"Brendon," he finally manages. And then he has an idea - Spencer stands and goes over to the damn junk drawer and pushes a couple of things aside and it's like that Sharpie's been there just waiting for him. He grabs it and comes back to the table, to where Brendon hasn't moved except to curl in on himself a little bit more. "Hey," he says, curling his hand slowly around Brendon's shoulder as he reaches the other one up to pry the envelope away from him. "Come on."
Brendon sucks in a breath, but lets go after a second or two, and Spencer scoots his chair closer to Brendon's, so that their knees are touching, as he sort of ostentatiously smooths the crumpled paper out onto the tabletop. He uncaps the Sharpie with his teeth (his other hand is still rubbing Brendon's shoulder a little), and painstakingly marks out buy a drum kit, the point of the Sharpie squeaking on the paper a little as it goes. "There," he says, pushing it closer to the edge of the table, where Brendon will be able to see it, "I fixed it." He can feel Brendon lift his head a little, enough to look at the changes Spencer's made to his list. "I guess you could still buy one if you really wanted to," Spencer concedes after a minute of awkward silence, "but. I mean, we could just use mine."
There's another awkward minute before Brendon shivers and makes a noise Spencer knows he should never, ever, ever tell anyone about ever, and Spencer finds himself being hugged half to death. He closes his eyes and holds on just as tight, and doesn't complain when Brendon crawls onto his lap and presses fervent, whispered thank you thank you thank yous into his neck.
He throws the envelope away the next day.