Into the Woods 6b

[manipulant]

"Now, do practice your needlepoint, and I expect you to have finished your sums by the time I return," Sister Dyer says, giving Brendon a smarmy-looking smile that makes every part of his skin cringe. She reaches up to pat his cheek, and he resists the eight-year-old-boy impulse to rub it away furiously. "You can't spend all your time on music."

"Wanna bet?" Brendon mutters mutinously, giving her a sickly smile when she hops onto the windowsill and turns back around, regarding him. "Have fun in town," he says, trying not to glare up at her - she'd got him up extra early that morning, and made him remake the bed half a dozen times, and had made him eat three hard-boiled eggs. Brendon fucking hates hard-boiled eggs.

He folds his arms and watches her disappear down the side of the tower, and then waits for the minute or so it takes her to get all the way down. He can barely feel it when she lets go of the braid, but then, she probably weighs ninety pounds soaking wet. His mom used to say Sister Dyer gave up food when she found out she could live off of judging people.

He sighs, and immediately goes over to the dresser, peering into the tiny mirror above it, wincing at his bedhead and at the boxy nightgown Sister Dyer bullied him into, the night before. He grumbles and turns to the dresser, flinging open the drawers and rummaging around until he finds an old threadbare nightshirt that'll have to do, and a pair of linen bloomers that look like they'd come past his knee. He considers them for a second, and then uses his teeth to start a hole in one leg, just above the lace. He manages to rip off the lace from one leg, and then the other, and he's just shimmied into the bloomers (they almost look like breeches now, thank fuck) when he feels a tug on his hair, coming from outside.

"Rapunzel, Rapunzel," comes Spencer's voice, "gonna climb your not-so-golden stair now, you're all right with that, right?"

Brendon can't help the smile that's broken out on his face, or the way it's spreading. He darts for the window and waves down, then ducks back when he notices another guy. "Um," he says, nervous. "Just you?"

There's a small pause. "Yeah, just me," Spence assures him. "Don't freak out, it's Shane." Brendon blinks, and hurries back to the window. "My, uh, manservant Shane," Spencer adds hastily, giving Brendon a significant look. "He's gonna help us, okay?"

"Okay," Brendon says, his voice kind of small. He glances over at Shane, who beams up at him from under a huge, ridiculous hat, and waves enthusiastically. It makes Brendon want to cry, but he waves back and gives him a watery smile, and then Spencer's grabbed onto the braid and is hauling himself up, and Brendon barely has time to try to smooth his hair out of its current twists and peaks before Spencer's up on the windowsill and then over, standing in Brendon's room.

"Hey," Spence says, breathless, his chest heaving a little. He gives Brendon a brilliant smile, and produces a knife from a sheath inside his belt. "Still want that haircut?"

Brendon gapes at him for a second, and then shivers and lurches towards him, grabbing for Spencer and curling both arms tight around him before Spence can even resist. "God, just. Hi," he says, feeling his chest starting to get tight, "hi, are you still mad? Is that really Shane? Is he okay, here, was he nice to you? Is Regan here too? No, seriously, are you still mad at me, because - "

"Bren," Spencer interrupts, reaching his empty hand up to pat Brendon's back lightly. "Whoa, hey. You okay?"

Brendon just stares up at him for a second, and then looks over at the braid hanging out of the window, and then down at his frilly nightshirt, and then at his bare room.

"Okay, stupid question," Spencer admits, wrapping his other arm around Brendon too, holding the knife carefully away from him. "I wasn't mad at you, what the fuck," he continues, dipping his head, til Brendon can feel Spence's breath against his shoulder. "And yeah, Shane's nice, and I think he has a Regan. He wanted to come because apparently he and Rapunzel were childhood friends, how about that," he says, pulling back enough to give Brendon a wry grin.

Brendon rolls his eyes, and smiles too. "Yeah, how about that," he says, before he takes half a step back and looks behind him, grabbing for the knife Spencer's holding. "Gimme. Wigs for Kids needs a serious donation, as soon as possible."

Spencer quickly twists the knife away, out of Brendon's grasp, bringing it back around and holding it behind his own back. "Um, yeah, I'm thinking no," he says, giving Brendon a sharp look. "This is the sharpest knife they had in the castle. I'm not giving it to you so you can accidentally decapitate yourself."

"Aw," Brendon says, batting his eyelashes, telling himself fiercely not to blush. "You love me."

Spencer snorts, and turns Brendon around, so his back is facing Spencer's front. "Don't flatter yourself. I've got bills to pay, and they rely on you not being dead and being able to sing."

"Yeah, but you love me too," Brendon says confidently, even though approximately four seconds later he wants to die of shame, when Spencer completely fails to respond.

"Don't move," Spencer mutters a moment later, and then he's tying a length of ribbon tight around the hair just at the nape of Brendon's neck. Brendon can feel it when the hair starts to come off, a lessening of weight, of pressure at the back of his head.

"It's not going to fall out of the window, is it?" Brendon asks, almost too nervous to breathe.

"Nah, still tethered to the pulley," Spencer assures him, but he does pause in cutting to reach down and put a length of the braid into Brendon's hands. "There, you can hang on."

"Thanks," Brendon breathes, and he can't figure out why he's relieved at that. He decides not to worry about it, and closes his eyes as Spencer goes back to cutting the hair away from his head, swift, short strokes of the knife.

And then - not even five minutes after he started - Spencer steps away. "Done," he says, sounding sort of surprised. Brendon blinks his eyes open, and turns around, staring down at the unattached braid in his hands.

"Huh," he says. He drops the braid, and reaches both hands up to feel where Spencer cut it away - his hair is still starting to fall around his ears, which is a weird feeling, he'd almost forgot about it. He can feel where the hair is shortest, at the back of his neck, and the way it quickly fans outward. He darts over to the little mirror on the dresser, and cringes. "Fuck, I look like Prince Valiant," he groans, trying to push his hair behind his ears.

"Thank you so much, Spence," Spencer says dryly, turning to give Brendon an amused look. "Oh, you're welcome, Brendon, I'm happy to help."

"Thanks, Spence," Brendon says dutifully, ducking his head as he comes back over to give Spencer's arm a pat.

"You're welcome," Spencer says politely, and then he reaches down to pick up the braid and heads closer to the window, using the knife to pin the braid to the floor. "Won't come unraveled when we're getting down," he explains, seeing Brendon's confused look.

"Oh." Brendon grins a little. "Look at you, being smart."

"It's what I do," Spencer sighs, with a gesture. "Anyway, get your shit. This place gives me the creeps."

Brendon nods and scurries towards the bed, ducking underneath it to retrieve the guitar and an empty knapsack. He puts the guitar gently on the bed and then heads over to the dresser, tossing clothes out of the way as he tries to find something that might be vaguely appropriate once they get out of the fucking tower.

Then he has a thought. "Wait, shit. You're not going to make me wear dresses, are you?"

Spencer snorts. "Fuck that. Anybody gives you a hard time, you're with the prince. I'll fuck their shit up."

"Best prince ever," Brendon beams at him, before turning his attention back to the clothes, namely, a simple shift he's holding up. He scrutinizes it for a second, and it doesn't have any lace, so he stuffs it in his bag. "You want to go check the wardrobe?"

Spencer obediently slouches over to the wardrobe and throws it open, searching through the clothes with a careful eye, pinching his lips up. It's the same expression Spencer shops with, and Brendon has to take a minute to force himself not to start laughing giddily at finally getting out, getting to be back with Spence again. He turns back around, and starts on the last drawer.

"Hey, Bren, y - oh, fuck," Spencer starts, and then quickly interrupts himself, his voice quieting. Brendon blinks, and pauses in his search, and turns around.

His stomach quickly plummets - there, standing on the windowsill and holding a sword to Spencer's throat, is Sister Dyer.

"I knew it," she hisses, stopping just long enough to shoot Brendon a filthy look. "You talked in your sleep last night, and I knew. Prince Spencer, I presume?" she says, turning her attention back to Spence.

Spence presses his lips together tightly, and tilts his chin. "Yes."

"Come to kidnap my charge?" she snarls. Spencer raises an eyebrow, and glances over at Brendon thoughtfully.

"Doesn't look like she's putting up much of a fight," he points out evenly. Sister Dyer lets out a weird, low growl of rage, and hops down from the windowsill, circling Spencer like snake. Spencer stays stock-still, and Brendon squeezes his fists to stop them from shaking as he looks around the room for something, anything he can use to -

The knife. It's still being used to pin the braid to the floor, but the braid is still twisted around in the pulley, so he could technically...

Brendon starts inching towards the braid.

" - not a crime to grant freedom to someone you kidnapped years ago, actually," Spencer's arguing, sneering down at Sister Dyer, who's almost hopping with rage. She still has the sword pointed at him, though not as high anymore, seeing as the sword is almost as big as she is. "Now that I think about it," Spencer says, tilting his head and giving her an infuriating smirk, "you're under arrest."

She shrieks with rage and tries to hit him with the side of the sword, but Spencer quickly brings one vambraced arm, protecting himself from the blow. Brendon darts forward quickly, tugging the knife free and sliding it up his sleeve, holding the cool handle in his palm.

"She was really mean to me, your highness," he pipes up, giving Spencer an encouraging grin when Spence looks up and meets his eyes. "Barely ever fed me and made me sing all the time and kept me up in here for years."

Sister Dyer whirls around, forgetting about her rage at Spencer as she turns her eyes on Brendon. God, they're almost glittering with hate; if looks could kill, Brendon knows he would just be a pile of ash on the ground. Sister Dyer's look doesn't just kill, it cremates. "How dare you," she whispers, venom dripping from every word. "Take my kindness and throw it in my face, how dare you!" she says, her voice crescendoing into a shriek by the last three words. She raises her arm to run Brendon through with the sword, and Brendon doesn't even have time to react, he just glances up at Spencer with shock in his eyes.

But then Spence - oh, fuck - Spencer grabs Sister Dyer's arm and holds it back, not letting her go through with the lunge. She pivots on one foot, twisting around, her skinny little bird-body running on nothing but eight decades of generalized anger, and instead of trying to whap Spencer with the sword again, she just pushes, lunging against him with all her might.

There's this weird three-second pause where Spencer stumbles, and then almost regains his balance. Almost. And then Sister Dyer shrieks and pushes him again, and this time it's Spence who looks at Brendon. Their eyes meet for a second, and it's weird - Brendon doesn't see any fear in Spencer's eyes, he just looks sort of surprised. He's just been pushed out of a window by a woman who's fifty years his senior.

Brendon is four feet away, and Spencer's already out the window by the time he makes it to the ledge, hanging over and shrieking Spence's name in a voice that doesn't sound like his.

It's.

Spencer's landed in the brambles, his body twined through the thorns and branches and already starting to ribbon through with red, Brendon can see, he can see Spencer's blood and he's still screaming Spencer's name but Spence isn't moving and after Brendon has stopped yelling so much he still isn't moving and Brendon's watching his clothes go all red too and he realizes, he realizes.

Sister Dyer is laughing.

He turns to her, blinking the haze (oh, those might be tears) out of his eyes as he watches her frail form shake with laughter, til tears are forming at the corners of her eyes.

"You idiot, did you really think he'd manage it?" she says, gasping for breath, before doubling over in another paroxysm of laughter. "And now! He's cut your hair off, no one's going to want you, and you've killed him! They'll probably hang you!"

Brendon blinks at her, sort of afraid of the small, hot ball of hate he feels forming deep in his chest, near his heart. He glances back down at the brambles and hears rustling, and he thinks he might see moving shadows, a glimpse of royal colors. Then, finally, he sees Shane's face flitting among the thorns, small flashes of his sleeves as he carefully tugs Spencer down and away from the worst of the branches.

Shane glances up, and freezes when he sees Brendon watching. And then he holds a finger to his lips, and goes back to tugging Spencer free. Brendon glances quickly away, before Sister Dyer looks down as well.

"...Please," he manages to say, even though his hands are actually shaking with the desire to just. Wrap themselves around her throat. "Please, ma'am, he. He was a prince, he said he would make me a princess."

Sister Dyer sneers at him. "Oh, don't think I'm going to fall for that."

"It's true," Brendon says, sucking in a couple of deep breaths, trying to keep himself calm. At least until Shane manages to get Spencer away, he has to keep calm til then. "He said the royal tailors would make me a new outfit every day, and that he had one hundred guitars, and a new piano, and - "

"What nonsense," Sister Dyer scoffs, tossing her head, folding her arms up tight. "Nobody in this whole kingdom has a piano, I'd know if they did."

Brendon hangs his head. "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I believed him. Please don't tell anyone, please." He swallows down his hate, and looks up at her, letting only fear and guilt show in his eyes, though inwardly he's as a ravening wolf. Please, he mouths, pitiful.

Sister Dyer tilts her head. "Do you promise never to try anything so stupid, ever again?"

"Oh, I promise," he says immediately, taking a step forward, all eagerness. "I'll be perfect, I promise."

"Somehow I doubt that," she sneers, rolling her eyes. Then she goes over to the bed, where Brendon put the guitar case when he was packing, when he thought he was getting out. Brendon has a moment of dizziness where he thinks about Spencer standing here with him not ten minutes ago, happy and full of plans, and then he snaps back to the present and finds himself shaking.

Sister Dyer is holding the guitar case by its handle, and holding it out to Brendon expectantly. "You will play until I say stop," she orders, waiting until Brendon moves woodenly over to take the case before she heads for her rocking chair.

Brendon sits down on the floor, and picks the guitar up out of the case, and starts to play.

It's actually probably the best way anyone could have thought of, to keep him sane, Brendon reflects later. Instead of freaking out about Spencer as he otherwise would have, Brendon was immediately given an occupation and a goal. He had to make sure Shane got Spencer back to the castle without Sister Dyer noticing, and he had to make sure Sister Dyer believed Brendon was going to stay with her so she wouldn't plan any more revenge. So, he plays the guitar. He plays through every single Beatles song he can remember, and then the Beach Boys, and then Tenacious D (he just doesn't sing the lyrics), and then, after five hours, when the sun is growing faint past the trees and the hills and Sister Dyer's eyelids are growing heavy, Brendon shifts over to all the lullabies and Primary church songs he can remember his mother singing to him, when he was little.

He sings along, with those, and feels a certain hateful sweetness in his heart as he watches Sister Dyer nod off, lulled into sleep by his song.

He sings two more songs, just to make sure. She doesn't stir, and after the second one ends, Brendon realizes she's snoring slightly.

He cautiously puts the guitar back in its case and latches it, and stands. After another couple of breathless seconds, Brendon crosses the room, til he's standing in front of her, watching her breathing in and out, rocking slightly.

He still wants to. His hands still itch for it. Every time Brendon's eyes close, he sees the slices of Spencer's blood tracking across pale skin, reducing him to planes of black thorns and red blood and white flesh til he didn't look like Spencer anymore. She did that.

He could probably get away with it, if he managed to find Spencer fast enough (if Spence was still...around) and they got through the rest of the story quick enough, no one would even have to find out.

Brendon stares down at her for a long time, watching Sister Dyer's eyelids flicker, watching her mouth fall open as she breathes.

Eventually, though, he regains his perspective and takes a deep, silent breath and moves away, back to the bed, back to the knapsack still lying there. It's full enough, he has a few things. He moves over to the table and grabs what little bread and cheese there is left and stuffs them inside the bag as well, and then he picks up Spencer's knife and tucks it carefully in, between the clothes and the food.

He hauls the knapsack across his back and then fiddles with the strap of the guitar case, tossing it over his other shoulder and tightening it til he can move around the room with relative ease.

And then, he heads to the window, just as the sun is letting off its brightest rays of red and orange and pink over the sky. He perches on the windowsill for a second and then twists, grabbing his braid in both hands and setting his feet on the stone of the tower below him.

He swings his weight, and then he's off, flying off of the windowsill and whirling around until he almost crashes into the side of the tower, before he manages to find his feet.

Brendon glances down and bites his lip, and then starts to descend.

It takes him a good five minutes, because not only is he new to this, he's also off-balance from the luggage and he's trying to stay silent in case Sister Dyer wakes up.

Finally, though, he looks down and realizes he's only about five feet off the ground. Brendon clenches his teeth, and takes a sharp breath, and then pushes away from the tower and lets go of the braid, landing on his feet on the ground. He almost topples over, but barely manages to hold onto his balance.

For a few seconds, he just laughs silently, beaming up at the braid, at the tower and the faint light coming from the window.

And then his laughter dies away, and Brendon's eyebrows furrow as he grabs for the end of the braid and starts to pull, with everything in him, until he's almost lying back on the ground.

(Up in the tower, the pulley system everyone relied on begins to give up its end of the braid.)

Brendon has to take a couple of breaks, and eventually shucks off his shirt to use as cushioning for his hands (though he's a little worried they're already going to be blistered in the morning), and then, after fifteen minutes of work, Brendon falls over backward as the pulley gives up its last inch of braid and the whole mass of hair comes tumbling to the ground with a loud THUMP. Brendon can't help it, he starts giggling as he manages to right himself, and he quickly tugs his shirt back on and takes up the knapsack and the guitar again, and heads in the direction he saw Shane and Spencer leave.

He makes it to the forest before he hears, far behind him, the sound of shrieks echoing through the trees.

***

Two days later, Brendon finds himself washed up into the streets of Spencer's little kingdom, unkempt and hungry and tired and absolutely exhilarated. He finds out from a passerby that Spencer isn't dead, just hurt and in a long sleep from his "hunting accident," and Brendon nearly gets his ass handed to him when he hugs the man who tells him and almost starts a barfight.

As it is, he has his guitar and his little bag of clothes and Spencer's knife, and he suspects he'll have to lift another couple of apples from a street vendor's cart at some point today, but the important thing is, Spencer is alive and Brendon is free and Spencer is somewhere close.

Brendon beams down at his guitar and launches into Folkin' Around, singing as happily as he knows how. Two pretty girls pass by and drop a couple of coins in front of him, giggling a little as Brendon winks at them, and Brendon thinks fuck yeah.

After a week and a half of slumming, though, the novelty wears off.

Brendon just feels gross, and dirty, and itchy, and he knows he smells. He's starving and he sleeps on a rooftop above a bakery because there aren't many other homeless people who think to climb up there, and Brendon's already almost had his guitar stolen half a dozen times (plus, the baker's daughter - who kind of reminds him of Greta - took pity on him and gave him a couple of rolls once, in the early morning, when she'd just started work. He compensated by singing to her through the window. From the grins he got, he's pretty sure she thought it was a fair trade).

After a week of scrimping, he finally manages to scrape together enough coins from singing to exchange for a room for the night, and the room even has a tub and a promise of semi-hot water. Brendon nearly passes out from happiness when he sees one of the inn's employees filling it up with gently steaming water, and he doesn't even mind the whitish lump of soap he's supposed to make do with, it is soap and it is water and he is going to be clean.

He doesn't leave the tiny tub until his teeth have started chattering, and even then he only does because the soap is gone and the water has actually gone grey with filth. Brendon skritches his pruny fingers through his wet hair and stands up, letting himself drip dry (there aren't any towels) for a few seconds before he wanders over to his pallet and rifles through his knapsack. He's still wet from the tub, skin still sticky-moist as he finds his last change of clean clothes and starts to change into them. When he's done, he lies back on the limp pillow, not minding his wet hair or the possibility of fleas, and closes his eyes. He swallows against his dry throat, trying to wet it, and lets his mind wander.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, he'll get up extra-early and go to his bakery where the Greta girl works, and he'll have food for the first time in three days and offer to help her in the store. And then...Spencer will come in, because he'll have heard rumors about a wildly talented busker who performs in front of Greta's Bakery, and he'll just know, and Brendon will have flour in his hair and will be baking things industriously when Spencer the Prince shows up and asks for him.

And then there'll be a joyful reunion and Spencer will take Brendon up to the castle and there'll be food there, maybe vegetables (god, it's been weeks since Brendon's seen anything edible that even approaches the color green), and then Spencer will take Brendon to the royal quarters so that Brendon can sleep, except Brendon magically won't be tired, for the first time in a week. And Spencer will give him that one little smile he has, and he'll get sort of...flustered, so it'll be Brendon who has to take the two steps forward and just -

Brendon sighs and bites his own lip, scowling at himself as he pulls his hands away from where it was drifting underneath the hem of his pants.

It turns out that the hardest part of roughing it in a fairy tale town isn't the lack of indoor plumbing (but seriously, gross) or the ever-present possibility of a knifing or malnutrition. It's fucking missing Spencer Smith.

Brendon groans and rolls over onto his stomach, squeezing his eyes shut tight as he tries to turn his brain off and just let himself sleep. He's been daydreaming, fucking...fantasizing about Spencer and the myriad of ways they'll run across each other again, all these ridiculous meet-cutes and adventure stories that make him out to be either Bridget Jones or James Bond, and it's screwing with Brendon's mind.

Daydreaming about what could be, though, is still better than the alternative. For the first few days out of the tower, Brendon could barely move, barely pick himself up off the forest floor and keep putting one foot in front of the other, for missing Spencer so badly. Of course, he hadn't been sure Spencer was still alive at that point, which hadn't helped matters, but...

Even after he'd found out Spence was still around, it hadn't got much better. Brendon went to sleep fighting back tears one night, the first night he spent on top of the bakery, actually, because from the rooftop he had a pretty clear view of the castle and he could suddenly remember the way Spencer just looked surprised when he'd fallen out of the tower. And he could remember how Spencer looked huddled under his cloak, arguing with Frank, and how Spencer looked all curled up beside him in the first story, sleepy and loose-limbed and young-looking.

Which, of course, devolved into every single image of Spence that Brendon had committed to memory since he was seventeen, and there were a lot, and most of them involved Spencer's smile.

So...yeah, the daydreams are still more productive. Brendon's allowing himself three a day, just as incentive to actually get up and go out and get somewhere safe every night, and not only because if he doesn't, he's a little worried he'll just fade into the background and disappear. Thinking about Spencer, planning on Spencer, is something he's never allowed himself to do before. In any context - there are reasons Spencer's got a reputation as the sole owner of any business acumen behind their little music operation, and Brendon suspects a large part of it is because he still has a hard time letting himself believe Spence is sticking around, with him.

So, fantasizing about a fucking ridiculous Meg-Ryan-and-Tom-Hanks setup involving himself and Spence and a cheerfully precocious child, or a bookstore, or whatever, is quite a step forward for him.

Even if now it's starting to lead into dangerous jerking-off territory. Brendon can't explain why, but he can't let himself get that into it - it feels like cheating, somehow.

(Not cheating like adultery, which...technically, it is, he supposes. Brendon's had a week and a half to experience a huge range of emotions regarding this thing he has for Spence, and the way it's only getting worse with time. It's a fucking terminal case, apparently, and actually looking that fact in the face and owning up to it doesn't make him feel like any less of a shit where Sarah is concerned.

He's a complete asshole. Seriously, god, what the hell? Who has a perfectly awesome girlfriend and then fucking destroys it all for just the possibility of an ill-advised gay love connection with his best fucking friend that all started in his head when he was a teenager? This is some Ryan Ross-level relationship bullshit, and Brendon is ashamed.)

Whatever. Brendon resigns himself to a lifetime of having lots of feelings, and rolls over onto his side on his probably flea-infested pallet, and tries not to touch himself while thinking of his bandmate. This is totally the life he signed on for. Awesome.

The next day, Brendon groans as soon as he wakes up - sunlight is streaming through the slats of the walls and the tiny sliver of window. Obviously it's too late to make good on his plans to go and grab an early-morning breakfast, so that's another six hours of hunger, at least. He's starting to feel kind of...weird, light-headed a little bit, so he thinks he might just lie in bed a little while longer.

He wakes up again when the innkeeper shakes his shoulder roughly and informs Brendon that getting-out time was a good three hours ago. Brendon mumbles an apology and rummages for a few more coins as he grabs his things and shoves them back into his knapsack. His guitar is still safe, tucked under the other side of the pallet, and Brendon barely remembers to grab it before the innkeeper shows him the door. Brendon blinks and yawns, his head buzzing, and sluggishly throws the guitar and the pack over his shoulders as he lets himself be washed up into the beat of the streets.

After a few hours of roaming (seriously, with the exception of the outdoor plumbing, some parts of Spencer's little kingdom are so fucking pretty), Brendon finds himself deposited near the castle walls, gazing up at the huge white expanse in awe. Thirty feet down the way, a couple of soldiers are watching him suspiciously, so Brendon gives them his best nonthreatening smile and reaches for his guitar case, holding it up questioningly.

The soldiers glance at each other, and then back at the stranger with the terrible girl clothes. "You any good?" one of them offers, finally.

"The best," Brendon calls back, smiling when they all guffaw.

"Yeah, all right," one of them yells, cupping a hand to his mouth. "Give us a song about soldiering, and if you're any good, we'll see."

Brendon bows his thanks, getting into his role, and quickly settles down on the ground in front of the wall, leaning back against it as he takes the guitar out and strings it carefully while he thinks of a song that won't get his ass kicked and might give him an opportunity to make some money and get some food. He could do 21 Guns, if it wasn't so fucking depressing, or Viva La Gloria, or something not Green Day-related, or...

Brendon can't help breaking into giggles (he's delirious, okay) as a terrible, awful, HILARIOUS idea hits him. He'll probably get his head stomped in, but whatever, he can't just let the idea go.

For a minute, he's really pissed off at Spencer for missing this. And then he launches into the song, starting the intro slow and sad, almost dirge-like, as he croons Tonight it's very clear, as we're both lying here. Down the way, the soldiers stop and just watch him, gaping.

The next four and a half minutes are, quite possibly, some of the longest and greatest minutes of Brendon's life. Seriously, he cannot believe Spencer isn't here to see this, he fucking belted the first chorus, and if he's not mistaken, a couple of the soldiers are singing along with him once he gets to the last chorus, and they all warble I am a man who will fight for your honor; I'll be the hero you're dreaming of together.

This is his greatest moment, right here. Brendon is totally fucking sure of it. He lets the last chords die away on the guitar and glances over at the band of soldiers, who are all gazing at him in awe. One of them is subtly wiping his eyes.

"Yeah, all right," one of them finally says, gruffly, and they all exchange super-manly nods, and then Brendon can't help laughing to himself, quietly, as he starts the intro for Respect.

The hours pass pretty quickly, actually. One of the soldiers teaches Brendon a seriously filthy tavern song, and another one gets him a pork bun. Brendon smiles his thanks and carefully picks off as much of the bread as he can eat, leaving only a snowball-looking bullet of dough-covered pig, which he carefully sets on the corner of his case, until he manages to subtly give it away to one of the hungry-looking kids who keeps watching him.

The bread doesn't do much to help with the dizziness, though. It's starting to make his head really ache, and the constant singing and music isn't helping, and the sun's beating down on his head pretty fiercely now that afternoon's set in. Brendon sighs and shakes himself, trying to wake up, and launches into the Rainbow Connection, leaning his head back against the wall.

"All right?" one of the soldiers yells. Brendon nods and closes his eyes for a second, swallowing against the sudden taste of bile in his throat - apparently, nodding is now out of the question. He sucks in a couple deep breaths of air, and goes through the motions, picking out the first few measures of Canon in D before he slumps down, his hand falling off the strings. God, he feels weird, his head is buzzing like a swarm of bees, and he feels like he's going to puke but seriously, what the fuck could he even puke up?

After a handful of seconds (he just needs to stay quiet and still for a couple of minutes, he'll be okay), there are hands, large and warm on Brendon's shoulders, and Brendon swallows again as he tries to recoil away from the added heat. His face feels like it's on fire. "Boy," a voice murmurs, close to him. "Come on, get y'up, we'll get you home."

Brendon takes a quick breath. "Fat chance," he mutters, frowning a little, still not quite up to opening his eyes. "I'll be okay."

"Where you staying?"

"Tonight? Dunno," Brendon mumbles truthfully. He opens his eyes and gives the man a wry smile. "Probably here." He tries to blink his eyes open and fails, closing them again, slumping his head down until his cheek is resting against the poor guy's hand. "Is Spence awake yet? Wasn't that big a fall off the tower, but. Guess he lost a lot of blood," he muses, not really registering when the guy sucks in a breath, and draws his hand back as if Brendon's burned him.

"Oi!" he hears someone shouting, and Brendon can hear a lot of footsteps coming over and a few people asking how he knew about a tower before their voices go all tinned and distorted and Brendon happily lets the darkness swallow him up.

He blinks one eyes halfway open and glances around, confused by white walls and gilt mirrors. There's a glass of water on the table a foot away from him that Brendon would absolutely kill for, but he can't seem to move very well.

...yeah, it's her. She had Spencer's knife in her bag... he can hear someone saying, outside in the hallway. Brendon has just enough time to register Shane before he feels himself going back under.

When he wakes up again, Spencer's sitting in the chair beside his bed.

Brendon immediately tries to sit up, and almost immediately registers a headache that could kill a horse. "Fuck," he grumps, and then he grabs for the glass of water that was teasing him a couple of hours ago and downs it. Then he just fucking beams at Spence, who's starting to smile down at the bedclothes as well.

"Hey," he breathes, once he's finished gulping down his water, almost choking on it. He forces the headache to a backburner, he has more important things to deal with right now. "Hey, Spence, hey."

"Hey," Spencer murmurs, inching one hand across the bedcovers, his fingers spidering along until Brendon laughs and grabs for them, twining them with his own. "Fuck, where have you been?" he demands, frowning down at the blanket, near their fingers.

"Down in town," Brendon admits, squeezing his fingers, resisting the impulse to just. Grab for him, and not let go. "I didn't know where to go."

"Well, here, obviously," Spencer says, sounding kind of hurt. "What the fuck, Brendon."

"Dude, I kind of thought you were dead," Brendon tells him kindly, hoping Spence doesn't notice the all-over shiver his body gives, at that.

Spencer's frown deepens, and he traces his other fingers lightly over the edge of Brendon's bed, the blanket there. He turns his head towards the door, and for the first time, Brendon can see a faint spiderwebbing of scratches all along Spencer's neck, the occasional puncture wound that's almost entirely healed over. Some of the lines are still red and angry-looking. Brendon wonders if they'd ever fade.

"God, Spence," he murmurs, reaching out to touch his fingertips to the lines carefully. He's sort of startled at how hard Spencer flinches at that, but he holds still afterwards, and lets Brendon trace over the lines gently. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Spencer says, too lightly to actually be believed. "Are you?"

"Yeah, just didn't eat for a couple of days," Brendon says, gesturing flippantly. "I'll be fine. ...Kind of have a motherfucker of a headache, though. I'm not going to lie."

"Oh." Spencer's eyebrows quirk a little. "Well, look. Go back to sleep, and I'll go find whatever they use for painkillers, okay?"

Brendon frowns, but he lies back against the pillow obediently, staring at Spencer, intent. Spence is still staring down at his own hand, fidgeting, basically being a picture of avoidance. "Spencer."

"Hmm?" he mutters, still keeping his head trained down.

"Spencer Smith."

Spencer sighs, and pushes his hair out of his face irritably, scowling. "What, Brendon."

Brendon sits up a little, and ducks his head down, trying to actually see him. "Look at me."

Spencer stills. He takes in a long breath and then expels it, and stands up abruptly, twisting his fingers over the edge of his chair as he turns towards the windows, taking a couple of steps that way before he appears to lose his nerve and just folds his arms across his chest. "Seriously, just go back to sleep, okay? You're supposed to be resting, they'll yell at me."

"I will when you fucking look at me," Brendon snaps, reaching behind him to grab a pillow to hurl in Spence's direction. It bounces against his hip and lands on the ground, and Spencer jumps slightly, startled, and turns on instinct to look for what hit him. Brendon blinks, and tilts his head, trying to figure out what just - there was something weird with Spencer's eyes. "Spence?" he says again, confused.

Spence lifts his head up, scowling, and Brendon sucks in a quiet breath - at the collection of scratches and scars on his face, and at the way his eyes are kind of...blank. "Yep, sorry, can't," Spence says shortly. "So just go to sleep anyway, okay?"

Brendon gapes at him. "What." Seriously, Spencer's eyes have never looked like that. A knot of anxiety is starting to expand low in his stomach, he swallows against it. "Spence, you. What."

"Dude, I fell into a huge fucking patch of ten-feet-tall brambles. Surprise, some of them scratched places that shouldn't be scratched," Spencer says, his voice going sort of brittle and hard. "So, y'know, could you just. Pretend not to watch while I try to figure out where in the room I am? I lost count of my steps."

Brendon stares at him for a second, and then lets out a shuddery breath, squeezing his eyes shut against a sudden barrage of images of Spencer lying quiet in the brambles, his blood slipping over his skin like rain. "Oh god," he squeaks. "Look, let's go back and kill her, okay? You're the prince, you could totally get away with it."

Spencer snorts and shakes his head a little, and glances - well, almost in Brendon's direction. His eyes are more clouded, murkier than normal, Brendon realizes. He's starting to figure out how expressive Spencer's eyes are only in their absence, and the differences are beginning to make him feel queasy with guilt.

The headache Brendon was trying to ignore is quickly reasserting itself, and he just stares at Spencer for a few long seconds, watching him hold himself stiff and unsure. It's completely unnatural and really unnerving, Spencer's correct posture, the white-knuckled grip he has on the back of his chair. "Fuck," Brendon breathes, clenching his jaw down on an urge to just bury his face in his hands and wail.

Instead, he gets up and crosses over to the window, making sure to make a fair amount of noise, so he doesn't freak Spence the fuck out. He reaches to touch Spencer's sleeve lightly, and ducks his head at the flinch Spencer gives, and then crowds into his space, wrapping both arms around him tight.

"It's okay," Spencer assures him, giving an all-over shiver and sliding his arms around Brendon's shoulders loosely.

Brendon shudders into his collarbones and shakes his head. "You're not," he protests, "you can't see."

"Beethoven couldn't see," Spencer points out. "Or hear."

"Beethoven was an overachiever," Brendon huffs. "I want to help."

"No," Spencer says immediately. There's a brief, intensely awkward silence between the two of them, until finally Spencer deflates a little. "Am I turned in the direction of the door?" he asks, voice sort of small as he draws his arms away.

"Yeah," Brendon says, equally cowed as he reluctantly pulls away. "Maybe like, ten steps?"

Spencer nods and starts walking in a careful, straight line, shuffling his feet a little as he goes. He manages to navigate the doorway with startling agility, considering he could see it just two weeks ago, and Brendon's sort of impressed, despite wanting to run after him and hug him some more. He curls up on his bed and eventually, someone actually comes to give him some medicinal stuff that tastes like shit, but makes his headache fade. Spence.

Eventually, he falls asleep again - apparently Spencer hadn't been lying about him needing to rest.

Six hours later, Brendon's wandering the corridors of the castle, trailing his fingertips along the edge of the wainscoting as he gives small, shy smiles to passersby and pretty much just tries to make himself as inconspicuous as possible.

After wandering around for a good forty-five minutes, though, he gives up and asks a servant where he can find Prince Spencer. Apparently, orders among the house staff are circulated fairly quickly, because the girl doesn't even give Brendon a second look - she just smiles and curtsies, and leads him on his way.

It's not a long walk. Brendon glances up at the portraits lining the hallway to Spencer's rooms, and finds - to his delight - that there's already one of Spence, just before they get to his rooms. Portrait Spencer is smirking down at him, hand on one cocked hip, and the whole thing is so incredibly lifelike that Brendon can't help chuckling a little.

The servant girl flashes him a cautionary look, and Brendon shuts up, arranging his face into a more serious expression as he follows her into the prince's chambers. She leads him into the sitting room and leaves him there, saying his highness had decided to retire early that evening, but had given orders to let Brendon in whenever she wanted.

The girl gives Brendon an assessing look, then shrugs a shoulder and leaves him to it, smirking a little as she closes the door. Brendon rolls his eyes and marches through the sitting room, opening up three pairs of huge doors before he finds what he's looking for - the entrance to Spencer's bedroom.

At the other end of the massive room, Spencer's curled up on top of a bed twice the size of any they've seen back home. Brendon watches him for a couple of seconds, before steeling himself and heading toward the bed.

Up close, Brendon can see the intricate stitches on Spencer's eyelids, the bruising that still hasn't faded. His forehead is still a mess, but the scratches on his cheeks and chin have appeared to heal pretty well. And of course, Brendon's seen the ones on his neck, and now on his hands too.

Brendon can't help it, his heart hurts a little as he looks Spence over, taking in every mark on him. "Spence?" he murmurs, quiet, hovering near to Spencer's ears. "Hey. You awake?"

A moment of quiet, and then Spencer stirs, frowning and flopping onto his side grumpily. "Am now," he grumbles, reaching up to rub at his eyes reflexively, just stopping himself before his fingers make contact. Brendon winces as Spencer scowls, and brings his hand back down. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah," Brendon assures him, gazing at him for a couple of seconds before his mind is set. "Move over, c'mon," he orders, poking at Spence until he squawks and complies, shifting over on the huge mattress so that Brendon can lie down in the exact spot Spencer had been occupying.

"Needy," Spencer huffs, though Brendon can tell he's trying not to smile. He pokes and bullies Spencer until they're twined up to his liking, and then Brendon settles down, brushing Spencer's hair out of his face.

"What about you?" Brendon thinks to ask, a few minutes later. "Everything okay? Seriously."

Spencer shuts his mouth against the sarcastic answer he was going to give, and tilts his head, actually thinking about his response. "Yeah," he says finally, nodding a little as he says it. "It's - well, it's not great, but seriously. I can't complain. It's only going to last til this one's over." He shrugs a shoulder, and then presses his lips together tight, his eyebrows knitting together. "Fucking...people are tough, man. I can barely handle this shit and I remember what all of these rooms look like. It's sort of...I don't know, humbling?"

Brendon blinks, sort of shocked by Spencer's answer. "Wow, look at you. Growing as a person." He smirks a little and hugs Spencer's head, wriggling when Spencer squawks and starts poking him everywhere. "This summer camp was such a good idea!" Brendon continues, pleased at the way Spencer's actually smiling. "It really builds character."

"Got your character right here," Spencer says, darting his arm out, catching Brendon on the shoulder and sliding up. Brendon's breath freezes in his throat, and he holds carefully still as Spencer's hand travels lightly up his neck, brushing against the shell of his ear before his fingers twist and he viciously pulls a piece of Brendon's hair.

They tussle for a few more minutes, until both of them are panting a little, pleased grins flitting over their mouths. Brendon watches Spencer with no small amount of satisfaction, pleased at the lack of self-consciousness in his spine and in where he lets his eyes land. He can't help himself, Brendon lunges forward, wrapping both arms around Spence in a tight hug. "Missed you," he admits, tilting his head so his nose is pressed up against Spencer's chest and he doesn't have any alternative but to just breathe him in.

Spence stills, and after a few confused seconds, wraps both arms around him, too. "You too," he murmurs. "I was worried."

"You, worried?" Brendon drawls, poking his shoulder til Spencer huffs and grabs for his hand, drawing it back down around himself. Brendon shivers a little at that, and sinks down against him a little more.

"Stranger than fiction, seriously," Spencer nods, solemn. There's a long pause, then, where they both try to hide how they're both smiling a little, and then Spencer shuffles down, twisting them around til he's got his cheek pressed to Brendon's shoulder. "Okay?" he asks.

"Yeah," Brendon says, sort of surprised, though he doesn't say anything further. Slowly, he moves his hand up into Spencer's hair and strokes through it, moving them gently until Spencer gives a little sigh and sinks against him. "Going to go to sleep?" Brendon murmurs.

"Probably," Spence admits. "Haven't been sleeping too well."

Brendon tsks, but otherwise doesn't respond - he just keeps sifting his fingers through Spence's hair, until he feels Spencer's breathing start to even and deepen, feels the last of the tension leave his arms.

He cranes his head, as much as he can so that he can just look at Spencer again. He looks better already - less anxious, a little happier. Even so, though, there are still the spiderwebs of scratches and then purple-blue bruises and puckered stitches in Spencer's eyes. Brendon lets himself stare for a while, brushing his thumb over them when he gets his courage up.

He spares a thought for the past week, for how lonely and freaked-out he was on his own, somewhere he didn't know. At least he hadn't been on his own, somewhere he didn't know, and in the fucking dark. Brendon bites his lip, and tries not to shiver as he sends a cosmic text message to all the gods again, thanking them for the fact of Spencer Smith and his particular fucked-up brand of stoicism.

Spencer exhales and mutters something about shampoo grumpily into Brendon's chest, making Brendon's shoulders shake with silent laughter, before he gets himself under control. He grins, and pushes Spencer's hair off his forehead again, and then - well, he just.

It can't really hurt anything, and Spencer won't let Brendon help him when he's actually conscious, so really, it's Spencer's fault. Brendon has to take his opportunities when they present themselves, so he doesn't really feel guilty for ducking down and examining Spence's eyes again, before he just barely presses his lips to the paper-thin skin covering them, first the left, and then the right.

There, he's done. Brendon bites his bottom lip and shifts on the bed a little, and then closes his eyes, almost contented.

"Mmph," Spencer grumbles, squeezing his arm around Brendon's middle, fidgeting enough that Brendon opens his eyes to see what's going on, for a second.

"Okay?" he yawns, stretching a little, before slumping in against Spence comfortably, so that they're almost level again.

"Mhm," Spence hums, his eyelids fluttering a little, halfway opening before they close again. Brendon gives him a fond, probably silly grin, and is almost about to hug him tighter when Spencer's eyes open again, all the way this time, pointed right at Brendon.

Brendon winces and pulls back a little, a little freaked out before he notices that Spencer's eyes are sort of...focused, intense on him. They hadn't been that way, before.

"Um." He pauses, and laughs a little. "Spence?" he asks, kind of nervous, unable to pull his eyes away from Spencer's.

"Hey," Spencer breathes, breaking into a huge grin. "Hey, you," he manages, reaching up to Brendon's shoulder and looking down, tracking his hand as it moves. "Fuck, you've lost weight," Spence hisses, sucking in a breath, giving Brendon a reproachful look. "What the hell, you should be eating more."

Brendon's still fucking shocked. He gapes a couple seconds more, and then starts giggling, having to press a hand to his mouth to try to stay quiet and not alarm anyone. "Oh my god," he says, beaming. "Seriously?"

"Yep," Spencer says, beaming back. "Wow, you look like shit."

"So do you, fucker, you look like you tried to make out with Pinhead," Brendon shoots back, looking sort of horrified at himself as he realizes what he's just said. Spencer just laughs, though, exhilarated and beaming straight at him.

Brendon beams back, and reaches up to cup his face cheerfully, squeezing his cheeks, teasing. "Oh my god," he says again, his face hurting from smiling so much. "Hi."

"Hi," Spencer says back, his smile beginning to shift down into something more comfortable, something kind of softer. Brendon finds himself sucking in a small breath and echoing Spencer's expression, gazing at him quietly.

He notices, after a little bit, that Spencer's eyes keep sliding down to his mouth. Brendon's breath hitches, and he can't help grinning again, biting his lip to keep it from getting away from him. "Hi," he breathes again, his fingers stroking through the downy hair behind Spencer's ears.

"...Yeah, hi," Spencer mutters, glancing back up to give Brendon a sort of startled look before he - oh, oh god, oh fuck - he starts to crane up. Brendon stops breathing, he stops moving, he's pretty sure his heart stops beating.

Brendon's so focused on Spence that he doesn't notice when the edges of his world start to go white. Spencer moves up closer and Brendon closes his eyes and waits for a touch, the kiss that never comes - it takes a few seconds, but when he opens his eyes to yell what the hell at Spencer and sees himself surrounded by white white white, the penny finally drops.

"Motherfucker," he snarls, just before he pops out of existence.

Seven A