part 2
They still have to sign a few things for the marriage certificate, but after that, they’re free. They all manage to get onto the elevators and then out of the Daley Center, and as soon as they’re outside on the sidewalk again, Brendon gets hit with a contagious fit of giggles. It spreads to Spencer pretty quickly, until even Ryan is grinning at them, fond and exasperated.
“Oh my god,” Brendon gasps, clutching at Spencer’s lapels. “Oh my god, Spence. We’re fucking married.”
“Right?” Spencer beams, holding him up by his elbows, keeping him close. “Holy shit. I’m a husband.”
They beam at each other for a little bit, until Ryan declares that his stomach is eating his other internal organs, and pushes them back towards the Clark station. Ryan even lets Spencer and Brendon have two seats together when they get the Red Line, and elects to sit on both their laps down to the Fullerton stop.
They’re meeting Jon and Tom and Van Vleet at Spencer’s cafe (Tom Conrad had worked at Spencer’s Starbucks for a grand total of eight days - he’d been pretty good at it, until he didn’t show up for an opening shift. Turned out he’d gotten completely wasted with his band the night before and woken up at noon the next day, in the boathouse at Humboldt Park, stark naked except for a poncho. He’s kind of a legend). They’re only ten minutes late getting there, so they know that they’re in for at least a half hour wait before Jon shambles in to give them an accurate ETA re: Tom and VV. They’ve never once made it to lunch before 3 in the afternoon.
Ryan elbows the door open and waits for a couple of undergrads to file out. He steals their table out from under the noses of a group of tourists, and Brendon heads over to deposit his coat and scarf and gloves on the chairs so nobody tries to grab them. Spencer just heads straight for the counter.
“Smithy! Baby! Light of my miserable fucking life!” Saporta crows, from over near the oven. “Thanks for the shift, bro. Pet store fucking cut my hours. Again.”
“They’re gonna keep doing that until you stop stealing the feeder mice,” Spencer tells him, giving him a tight little smile. He’s a nice enough guy and all, but fuck, Saporta is weird.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gabe tells him loftily. “You here for tips?”
“Nah, got ‘em yesterday. Waiting on Tomrad and Sean to get here.”
“Oh, fuck, good luck with that. I saw Tom down at Continental at, like, three last night, doing shots with Luciani.”
“Great,” Spencer sighs. “Fucking great. Can I get a drink?”
“Yeah, boo. What d’you want?”
Spencer opens his mouth to reply, but Brendon pops up behind him. “Quad grande white mocha,” he says quickly, grinning for Spencer when he turns around, aghast. “With extra whip.”
Gabe makes a whipping sound. “Got it, sweetcheeks.”
“Not quad,” Spencer amends quickly. “Regular shots.” Brendon huffs, and worms his hand underneath Spencer’s coat, pinching his side.
“I’ll give you half a shot more,” Gabe stage-whispers to Brendon, winking at him. Brendon laughs nervously, and kind of ducks behind Spencer again (Saporta makes a point of hitting on Brendon every time he sees him). “Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of seeing my favorite apple-bot - “
“Gabe,” Nate barks, appearing at the back room doors suddenly. “You fucking forgot to turn off the sinks again.”
“Oh, fuck,” Gabe says, wincing.
“Yep. So you get to clean up the mini Lake Michigan back there,” he snaps, pushing his hands up through his hair til it stands up crazily, stomping over towards the registers. “I’ll take over bar, just - just go.”
Gabe nods and slinks off, giving Spencer a ridiculous, exaggerated pout as he shuffles by. Nate rubs his forehead, and groans when Gabe gets to the back and yells, excitedly, “HOLY FUCK, it’s like a fucking FOAM PARTY back here! Smith, you gotta come see it!” Spencer winces, and wanders over to the handoff plane for his drink.
“I am going to murder that man. Straight up homicide,” Nate mutters, before glancing up and actually looking at Spencer for the first time. His eyes narrow. “The fuck?”
“You offered to get my shift covered,” Spencer reminds him hastily. “That was all you.”
“Thanks,” Brendon pipes up, from behind him. He slides out from Spencer’s shadow, and waves a little at Nate, who visibly softens. And then seems to remember his and Spencer’s conversation from yesterday morning, because his eyes start to fucking shine.
“So,” Nate says, his mouth twitching at he looks back and forth at them. “Having a good day off, Spence?”
“Um, yeah,” Spencer says, and fuck, he can feel his face getting so red. “Y’know. Just hanging out, taking it easy. Went downtown for a little bit.”
On the other side of the counter, Nate makes a really weird squeaky choking noise.
“The Daley Center’s pretty interesting,” Brendon adds, beaming at Spencer when he turns to grin. “Parts of it.”
Nate flaps his hands at them, and opens his mouth to say something - which is, of course, when the door opens and a regular comes in (doppio-macchiato-in-a-tall-cup-with-foam-up-to-the-top-hey-hey-why-are-you-charging-me-for-a-latte-this-is-bullshit-also-I-wanted-soy). Nate’s chest expands with the sudden influx of rage, and he points a finger at the man, narrowing his eyes accusingly. “No, Absolutely not. Out.”
The guy stops, and gives him a deer in the headlights kind of look. “What?”
“We’re closed.”
“But there are a bunch of other people in here,” the guy points out, looking bewilderedly at Spencer. Spencer gives him a cool look back; this is the same asshole who called Spencer a “fucking emo fag” and threatened to get him fired during his first week.
“They’re working. It’s an art installation,” Nate snaps, shooing him and glaring until the dude (who has at least a foot on Ruess) gives up and heads back out the door. He turns back to Spencer and Brendon, and smiles. “So! Daley Center.”
“We got married,” Spencer says simply, beginning to laugh at the happy little jig Nate does, turning the steaming wand off and on for percussion. “It was awesome.”
“It was ridiculous and the least romantic thing that’s ever happened,” Ryan calls, from where he’s still managing to hold down a six-person table armed only with a couple of coats, a scarf, and a Times crossword. “Spencer had one line and almost forgot it.”
Nate snickers and pushes Brendon’s drink over towards them; Brendon snatches it up and gives Spencer a smirk as he heads off to sit down at the table. “Congratulations?” he says, raising his eyebrows at Spencer, who shrugs back.
“Yeah, it’s pretty cool. I’m going to come in tomorrow with the paperwork for the insurance stuff. Is Patrick gonna be around?”
“Opening, I think? But I’m pretty sure if you just call Benefits they can get it taken care of,” Nate says, shrugging as well. “I dunno. I can’t remember how Jack and Andrew handled all of it. Want me to ask?”
“It’s cool,” Spencer says, reaching over the counter divide to grab a cup and press it to the water spigot. “I can call. I’m making a fucking list of all the shit I’m going to get Brendon to tell the doctors when we go. It’s going to be awesome.”
“So is his last name Smith now, or is your last name Urie?” Nate muses, scratching a hand through his hair. “You’re not doing any hyphenated bullshit, are you?”
“Huh?” Spencer blinks at him, caught totally off-guard. “Oh, um. I dunno. I guess we’re just keeping our own names.” He takes a sip of his water.
“That’s good. I thought Andy and Jack were going to call it off, with the fights they got into.”
“Yeah, pretty much want to avoid any of that.”
“Brendon Smith. Spencer Urie. Brendon Smith-Urie,” Nate whispers to himself, frowning a little in concentration. He scrubs the espresso wand, mouthing over words, the potential combinations thereof.
“I’ll just leave you to it,” Spencer tells him, backing up towards the table, watching Nate get thoroughly lost in his own head.
Jon shows up forty five minutes later with a bouquet of flowers that he presents with a flourish to Spencer, a tiny grocery store sheet cake with CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR TAX CREDITS written on it in wobbly icing letters, and his DSLR, which he immediately whips out, taking pictures of “the most amazing wedding reception ever, kids.” He and Nate both squawk when he asks to see the rings and Brendon and Spencer both give him blank looks. Ryan chokes on his laughter, and on a piece of the free scones Nate insists on passing out. (“We’re starting new wedding rituals! Fuck tradition! Wedding scones are where it’s at! Also they’re a couple of days old and we can’t sell them.”)
When Van Vleet and Tomrad finally show up (at two-motherfucking-forty-five. Spencer called it; Ryan and Brendon both owe him five bucks), it takes a good fifteen minutes to explain the cake and the flowers, because Tom is hungover as fuck and Van Vleet refuses to take off his earmuffs since they’re just going back out into the cold in a couple of minutes anyway. Eventually, though, they manage. They get the Red Line (Jon has to handle Tom’s CTA pass, and basically shove him through a turnstile when it flashes the green light) up to Belmont, and then they hop around in the cold for a few minutes, waiting on the 77 bus.
Twenty minutes later, they’re at Kuma’s, shucking off coats and hats and scarves, piling into a booth. Tom’s woken up a little, enough to give Spencer and Brendon hell while shoved onto the booth bench with them. “Which one of you wore the dress?” he smirks, unwrapping a straw and shoving it into his iced tea.
“Fuck off, Conrad,” Brendon says genially, looking over the menu.
“They both did,” Ryan says, from the other side of the table. “They took turns.” Tom turns to give Spencer an expectant look, and Spencer sighs and punches him in the arm. Van Vleet heads over to the bar to talk to some guy tending the bar that he hasn’t seen in a while. Tom orders for him. Brendon orders a burger “the size of my head.” Ryan, who’s had his lips pursed up in careful inspection of the menu since they sat down, looks up and says, determined, that he’ll have the Slayer.
This is the only part of their shenanigans that has gotten anything like a rise from the waitstaff. The burly guy taking their order double-takes, and raises both eyebrows at him. “That’s a lot of burger,” he says, noncommittally.
Ryan stares back. “I got a hollow leg,” he says back, completely flat. Jon dissolves into giggles beside him, after the waiter leaves. Tom snorts, and gives Ryan an appreciative grin, and Spencer stretches his arm across the back of the bench, tapping his fingertips against Brendon’s shoulder idly.
They eat. Ryan’s burger is roughly the size of a hubcap, on a mountain made of fries, and Ryan gazes down at it, challenging, for a few minutes before he snaps a napkin into his lap and goes to town. It’s actually pretty fucking impressive - the guy who took their orders comes by about fifteen minutes in to check on their progress, and then he starts coming by more often, just to check out the skinny motherfucker dominating the fuck out of their baddest burger.
It’s basically like any other day, except for how they have a marriage certificate folded up and carefully slotted into the back pocket of Spencer’s messenger bag, and except for how now he and Brendon have a weird need to keep some form of contact - even while they’re eating, Brendon has an ankle hooked around Spencer’s, and Spencer’s arm is resting more on Brendon’s shoulders than on the back of the bench.
It’s not bad, Spencer’s quick to clarify to himself. It’s just different.
Jon takes a million more pictures of all of them, concentrating heavily on Brendon and Spencer, determined to get a “wedding picture” of them where Brendon isn’t making a stupid face. After a while, Tom gently takes the camera away from him, and starts unobtrusively snapping photos, pausing to smile wistfully at a few of them. He takes one of Ryan’s decimated burger, and of Brendon’s hands as he gestures while he talks, and a fucking embarrassing one of Spencer having to help Brendon button up his coat, since Brendon’s holding onto the bench and the table when they’re leaving, to prop himself up.
Eventually, Tom and Sean and Jon have to leave for band practice and for work. So Ryan and Spencer and Brendon look around on Belmont for a little bit, before they realize there’s fuckall there to see.
They wind up getting the 52 back home, because Spencer has a couple of books he really should be reading, and Brendon’s limp is starting to get pretty noticeable, and Ryan’s starting to complain about his aching skeleton. Ryan flumps onto the couch when they get home, and Spencer doesn’t immediately let Brendon down from his piggyback ride; he holds onto his legs a little tighter and makes sure to deposit him onto their one good chair.
He heads into the bathroom for ibuprofen for Brendon and half a bottle of Tums for Ryan, coming back into the living room and doling out Brendon’s pills. He sets the Tums on the table beside Ryan’s head, and goes to get Brendon some water. He is a good fucking husband.
“These taste like chalk,” Ryan calls after him, after a handful of seconds. “Chalk and oranges, what the fuck.”
“Ooh, I want one,” Brendon says, reaching over to where Ryan’s sprawled on the couch. “Hey.” He grabs for Ryan’s socks. “Hey.”
“Get your own,” Ryan says, kicking idly. “These are my chalk oranges. I earned them. You saw the size of that burger.”
“Ryan, give Brendon a fucking Tums, god,” Spencer grumbles as he comes back in the room. He presses the glass of water into Brendon’s hand, and flops down onto the beanbag chair in front of the TV. He kicks it on, his toe expertly hitting the Power button (they haven’t had a remote control since two weeks into the semester, after Ryan and Brendon had an epic slapfight over whether or not to watch the Simpsons or Through the Wormhole with Morgan Freeman), and the screen kicks into life halfway through an episode of Project Runway.
“Aw, god,” Brendon groans, collecting his Tums from Ryan and crunching on it. “Do we have to?”
“Shut up, I haven’t seen how this one ends,” Ryan says, instantly enthralled.
“Tim Gunn owns everything, Nina Garcia is a bitch with bad opinions, and they send home whoever didn’t phone it in with a drape gown. There, you’re caught up,” Spencer drawls, letting his head fall back with a thunk against the back of the chair.
“When did you get so cynical?” Ryan sighs up at the ceiling. Spencer doesn’t deign to answer him; he just closes his eyes and feels his limbs go heavy - he’s been running on adrenalin, caffeine, and matrimony for most of the day. He’s pretty sure he hears Brendon and Ryan bickering over his head, but for the next couple of hours, Spencer can’t summon even the tiniest of fucks to give about whatever they’re arguing over. Instead, he falls asleep.
When he wakes up, he’s covered with a blanket and he’s alone in the darkened living room. He lifts his head, and groans at how fucking sore his neck is, fuck beanbag chairs, and strains to hear anything else in the apartment with him.
Music, coming from the back near the bedrooms. It sounds like fucking She & Him, so he immediately suspects Ryan and his terrible taste in everything. And there’s the sound of water running in the kitchen. He rubs his eyes and exhales, and then grunts as he scrabbles for traction, the bean bag chair threatening not to give him up.
He pads into the kitchen, and sure enough, Brendon is puttering around, boiling a pot of pasta and cutting up a handful of mushrooms to throw into his jar of tomato sauce. “What time is it?” Spencer asks, voice raspy with sleep.
“About seven,” Brendon replies easily, shrugging a shoulder as he dumps the mushrooms into a pan. They start to sizzle. “You want some spaghetti?”
“Nah, leftover burger,” Spencer says, gesturing towards the fridge. “Unless you’re going to do the peppers and onions and sausage thing in the sauce.” Spencer’s usually the first one to say that Brendon in a kitchen is like a really apologetic bull in a china shop, but fuck, that pasta sauce is like crack.
“I was thinking about it,” Brendon says, the corners of his lips curling up. Spencer fistpumps.
“Best husband ever,” he crows, before opening the fridge to grab a Coke. He gets another one for Brendon, and pops it open, setting it beside him on the counter. “Want help?”
“Hnh. Get the pepper and sausage out of the fridge?” Brendon suggests, quickly slicing up half of an onion and throwing it in with the mushrooms. Spencer dives back into the fridge and produces Brendon’s ingredients, setting them down on the counter, giving his shoulder a squeeze after.
He grabs a cutting board and takes care of the pepper while Brendon messes with the stuff in the pan, selecting canisters from their meager spice supply and throwing pinches of things in with the vegetables. Spencer pushes his hair out of his eyes and dumps the pepper chunks into the pan, hip-checking Brendon lightly as he moves over toward the sink. Brendon doesn’t respond; he just moves over, his shoulders hitching up a little, as he wipes his face with his sleeve. “B?” Spencer murmurs, suddenly worried.
Brendon turns to face him, and gives him a sheepish little smile. “Onion,” he says, gesturing to his red eyes. Spencer bites his lip, and doesn’t really believe him. He comes over to the stove too, watching Brendon stir the contents of the pan idly, take sips of his Coke. After a few minutes, Brendon tips in the jar of tomato sauce, and puts the setting on the stove back down to simmer.
“Smells good,” Spencer says, reaching his hand up to cup Brendon’s elbow lightly. Brendon exhales, and nods.
“Thanks.”
Spencer waits.
After another minute or two, Brendon gives a funny little shake of his shoulders, and leans back against Spencer a tiny bit, still staring down at the pan. “When Kara got married,” he says, his voice sort of far-away sounding, “everybody came back into town. The whole house was crammed so full, but it was - it was good. Everybody was happy, that whole four days.” He pauses, and Spencer can see his shoulders tightening up. “God, they had the worst fucking reception, it looked like a middle school dance.”
Spencer swallows, and feels kind of like he’s drowning. “...We went to Kuma’s,” he offers, his voice way too wavery. “Sean got us those drinks for free.”
There’s a small pause, and then Brendon snorts. “Kuma’s is nothing like a middle school dance,” he agrees, stirring the contents of the pan again.
“Damn straight,” Spencer nods, feeling more stable. He shuffles over a little, though, and slides an arm around Brendon’s back, hugging him in for a bit. “And Jon took our picture. And Ryan ate an entire cow.”
Brendon snickers again, and his shoulders shake a little from laughter. “Clearly, our wedding is the superior wedding,” he murmurs, turning to give Spencer a smile that manages to last almost an entire second before Brendon’s eyes go red and his chin gets wobbly and he ducks his head, fast. “Shit.”
“B,” Spencer breathes, swallowing against a reflexive tightening in his own throat as he tugs Brendon into an actual hug, squeezing him tight. “Hey.”
“Fuck,” Brendon says, choking on the word a little. “Look, just - shit, I’ll be fine in a second. Hang on.”
“You’re fine,” Spencer assures him, rubbing across his back. “It’s totally fine.”
“Just another fucking thing I can’t tell them, another fucking thing they don’t wanna know about me,” Brendon mutters. “And my dad fucking - fucking gave a toast at Kara’s prom wedding and I can’t - oh shit.” He tucks his face against Spencer’s shoulder and shakes.
Spencer worries at his lip and reaches down to shut the stove off, then tucks Brendon in tight against him, one hand cupping up at the back of his neck. “He probably wouldn’t have the vocabulary to give a Kuma’s-appropriate toast,” he points out gently, trying to make Brendon laugh a little. “And I don’t think they sell O’Douls.”
Brendon huffs, and fists his hands in the back of Spencer’s shirt. “Probably not. Fucker. He’d be too scared to even come in, and you’re fucking - god, Spence, you’ve been taking better care of me than they have since - and they probably wouldn’t even come, if I said - “
“Hey,” Spencer interrupts, pulling back just enough to look down at him. Brendon’s eyes are red, and wet, and his mouth is equal parts angry and sad. “Look, it’s their loss. Those are the best burgers in the city. Right?”
Brendon nods, and wipes his eyes on the shoulder of his t-shirt. “Yeah,” he mutters.
“Damn straight. They don’t stop being the best fucking burgers just because your parents don’t like where they have to go to get them.” Damn, Spencer is good.
Brendon sighs, and then thinks about it for a second, and snorts, resting his head on Spencer’s shoulder. “Fucking - what the hell, Smith, using literary allusions at me. Who do you think you are? Ryan?”
“I can hear you,” Ryan calls, from the smaller bedroom. Spencer and Brendon smirk at each other, and then there’s a loud crash from the room, and they both startle, taking a couple of steps towards the hallway.
“Are you dead?”
“No,” Ryan yells, sounding deeply annoyed. “Fucking tipped over the vinyl. Fuck.”
Brendon hisses in a breath in sympathy, but alarm bells have immediately started ringing in Spencer’s brain. “Ryan,” he says calmly, “why is your vinyl in my bedroom? It’s not the end of the month yet.”
Ryan pokes his head out the door, and glares. His hair is standing up almost vertically in some places. “I’m not fucking sleeping on the couch! You guys just got married today. You can share the big room.” And then he pulls his head back into the room and groans something about all of the records having been alphabetized.
Spencer’s frozen for the next couple of seconds, trying to process this. Then he notices, at the worst possible moment, that he’s still basically cuddling Brendon from his freakout a few minutes ago. His hand is still in Brendon’s hair. “Oh, um.”
Brendon stares back up at him, looking equally nonplussed. Then, he breaks into a genuine grin. “Dibs on being the big spoon, and if you snore, I’ll kick you,” he tells Spencer matter-of-factly, squeezing his arms around Spencer’s middle for a second before gently detaching and turning the stove back on.
Spencer blinks at him, feeling the fuzziness of an epic freakout at the edges of his mind, but then Brendon reaches out and tugs Spencer forward, holding a spoon out at him and demanding that he taste the sauce and tell him, really tell him how it is.
The bigger of the two bedrooms has the full-size bed, and Spencer’s practice pad, and a wardrobe that houses underwear and socks and t-shirts. They each got to put up one big poster on the walls - Ryan’s contribution is the Beatles’ Abbey Road poster, with the crosswalk; Brendon’s is a poster of a Janis Joplin show; and Spencer’s is a huge poster of Animal behind a drum set. Other than the big huge tapestry-style down comforter on the bed, the room is pretty spartan.
That makes it more difficult for Spencer to find any sort of distraction, while he and Brendon are half-assedly puttering around, getting ready for bed. In the little room, Ryan’s already passed out on top of a pile of vinyl on the mattress (Spencer dragged a couple of blankets over him). Spencer can hear the sound of water running in the bathroom, and then the sound of Brendon brushing his teeth. He quickly shucks off his jeans and hoodie and rummages around in the wardrobe for a pair of pyjama pants, pulling them on before he drifts over to brush his teeth as well.
Brendon gives him an alarming, toothpaste-foamy smile, and spits in the sink, handing Spencer his toothbrush and the tube of toothpaste over, before he takes out his contacts and applies astringent and shuffles off towards their bedroom.
Spencer watches him go, curious, as he brushes his teeth. When he’s done, he washes his face and, since Ryan’s already unconscious and therefore not around to give him shit for it, he moisturizes and spends way too long inspecting his face for upcoming zits. He even debates flossing, but he figures that’s pretty much overkill and what the fuck, it’s not some even-more-deadly strain of ebola in his bedroom, it’s Brendon. So he grabs a glass of water from the kitchen and heads to bed, himself.
The only light in the room is coming from the lamp on the bedside table, and Brendon’s already a curled-up lump on the far side of the bed. Spencer feels a weird rush of affection, for Brendon remembering how he likes to be closest to the one little window in the room, and he tries to be super quiet as he shuffles around, toeing off his socks and throwing them in the clothes hamper.
He stumbles a little as he turns off the lamp, and stubs his toe on the side of the bed, and sucks in a breath. He can hear Brendon roll over. “Spence? Y’okay?”
“Yeah, just stubbed my toe,” Spencer says, his voice tight with pain and irritation. “Fucking ow, man.”
“Good job,” Brendon says, his voice cracking on a yawn, and he fidgets, apparently trying to give Spencer more of the comforter as he slides between the sheets. “D’you have enough of the blankets?” he asks, his words slow and kind of slurred with tiredness.
“Mhm,” Spencer nods, closing his eyes in relief as his head hits his pillow. Then he opens them again. “How’s your ankle? Do you need some Advil?”
“M’good,” Brendon sighs, wriggling a little closer to him, pressing in until Spencer can feel Brendon’s arm and shoulder against him. “Thanks. ...Did you do your reading?”
“Huh?” Spencer has to think for a second, before he remembers talking about the required holiday reading he hasn’t even started yet. “Nah. I can do some of it tomorrow on my breaks,” he mumbles, and it’s weird, hearing his own voice go thick and low as his eyelids get heavier. “M’gonna call the benefits people tomorrow during lunch and find out when we can get your leg checked out. Sound good?” he tells Brendon, who sighs audibily, and drops his head against Spencer’s shoulder, nodding a little.
It’s...fucking comfortable, actually. He and Brendon have always slotted together pretty easily, but Spencer was really planning on more awkwardness than this. He supposes it’s a good thing that they’re both so worn out already, but having Brendon there beside him in that new context isn’t weird or oppressively hot (temperature-wise only). Brendon smells like toothpaste and shampoo, and he’s pressed all up against Spencer’s side, and he’s got an arm thrown around Spencer’s middle.
Spence sighs and stretches, and carefully threads an arm under Brendon’s pillow, redistributing their weight a little. Brendon rolls into it, and Spencer can feel his breath, damp and warm, against the collar of his own t-shirt. “Thought you said you were going to be big spoon,” he yawns, stretching his legs one more time.
“Tomorrow,” Brendon promises, his fingers flexing against Spencer’s side. “All the big spooning. Biggest spoon ever.”
“‘Kay,” Spencer sighs, reaching down to make sure they’re both covered up, up to their shoulders. “Night, B,” he says, cuddling him in a little tighter, kissing the top of his hair.
“Mmh, night, Spence,” Brendon replies, wriggling happily for a few seconds, before the two of them settle into sleep.
The next morning when Spencer wakes up, he finds that the two of them curled around each other, their hands linked on Brendon's stomach. Spencer has to get up at ass o'clock because he has a morning shift, and it's even more difficult than usual to drag himself out of the cocoon of blankets and warmth when Brendon's snuffling irritably at being jostled. Spencer rubs a tired hand through his hair as he stands and gets his bearings, and watches Brendon roll over into what had been his spot, before he stretches his hands up towards the ceiling and shambles off to the shower.
He barely remembers to bring his books with him, on the bus. When he gets to his Starbucks, he's actually about ten minutes early, but the line is already out the door, so he tugs on his apron and clocks in early and downs the couple of espresso shots Nate feeds him, and wordlessly inserts himself onto hot bar, pumping syrup and pouring shots and knocking shoulders with him comfortably.
He shouts out drinks, and tosses breakfast sandwiches to his regulars, and commiserates with Patrick about the tragic scarf choices of various customers, and is Brendon's husband. He sneaks half a cigarette with Mikeyway in the alley while they're supposed to be taking out the trash, and is Brendon's husband. He uses the spoons from the steaming pitchers to pound out a beat on the steel countertops of the hot bar while Gabe “freestyles,” and cries from laughter, and is Brendon’s husband.
When he gets his first ten-minute break, he hides in the back with the less-boring book choice he brought, and checks his phone.
hey hubby Frank says to tell you congrats and Dallon says we should have a smug marrieds club and I said maybe. Hope works okay ill be home late got TWO LESSONS!!!! today
Spencer can't stop the grin that threatens to crack his face, and he quickly thumbs back fuck no re “hubby” tell frank thx tell dallon conditional yes, condition: eggs and bacon at mtgs. 2 lessons fuck yes! be careful dont hurt yr ankle see you 2night.
hubs ball n chain old man better half you choose
better half. r there spaghetti leftovers?
sooooo surprised & yes there are okay have to go look busy
good luck from yr better half
And then Spencer's break is over and he hasn't done any reading.
During his lunch break, Spencer goes ahead and adds Brendon to his health insurance, finds out that basically Brendon’s good to go as far as doctors’ visits are concerned as soon as the very next day. Spencer does a little dance in the back room, and immediately starts composing a list on a flattened cup, of all the shit he’s going to make Brendon check up on:
Brendon is an idiot who falls into duck ponds
a list, by Spencer J. Smith
1. doc for checkup
- cough in the winter
- fucking ankle
- knee weirdness from the car incident
- allergies?
2. dentist
3. eye doctor
- new glasses?
The girl at the Benefits Contact Center is weirdly excited when he adds Brendon onto his plan, and asks him a couple of questions about how long he and his husband have known each other, and what it was like, the city hall marriage. She coos at his answers, and the whole thing is pretty weird, but then she tells him he’s set to go and congratulates him, so he shrugs it off.
The afternoon lull hits pretty much as soon as he gets back on the floor, so Spencer does actually get some of his reading done. He gets stuck with cleaning the table legs and bottoms and taking out the trash, again, but Mikeyway does the dusting for him.
And then his shift is over. He packs up his books and gets the Red Line, because seriously fuck the Fullerton bus, and finds himself listening to Simon & Garfunkel, because his ipod’s shuffle is motherfucking prescient sometimes.
He’s humming along with “Cecilia” when he ducks into Tecalitlan, and almost finishes out the “best of” album he’s been listening to, by the time his bag of tacos and torta is ready to go. As he heads down the last bit of Chicago, he sucks in a couple of deep breaths of stinging cold air, and rummages in his bag for his lip balm.
He’s still looking when he shoves the door to Permanent Records open with his hip; finally he shoves a pair of socks (seriously? socks?) out of the way and closes his hand around the tube and brandishes it triumphantly at the guy behind the counter. Today, it happens to be Frank.
“Keys?” Frank asks, barely looking up from his book.
“Chapstick,” Spencer tells him, slicking it on and sticking it in a coat pocket, for safekeeping. “Hey.”
“Hey. Loverboy’s in the back with a kid, but he should be done soon,” Frank tells him, finally tearing himself away from the book and shoving a guitar pick in to save his place. He looks up at Spencer, and gives him a wide, cheesy grin. “Look at you, being a cute newlywed,” he says, making grabby hands at Spencer’s bag of food.
“It has animals in it,” Spencer warns him, though he does deposit the bag onto the counter. Frank pouts, but then does a search for chips and crows when he finds them, snagging a few and shoving them into his mouth. “Also shut up.”
Frank looks injured and put-upon, and crunches on a chip. “God, twenty-four hours of married life and you’re already an asshole. Brendon sure is a lucky guy.”
Spencer’s brought up short at that, mostly because of the sharp sting that accompanies Frank’s jab, because what if he is an asshole? What if he turns out to be a really shitty husband and has to, like, swear himself to a life of solitude after all of this is done? He makes a face and unwinds his scarf from around his head, and shucks his backpack off, leaning over to throw it behind the counter. He’s unbuttoned his coat, and is just starting to look over the new merch, when he hears Brendon’s voice coming in from the back.
“ - practicing, and it’ll - don’t look at me like that, I know it’s a bitch - um, I mean it’s hard,” Brendon stumbles, “but do you want to be a rock star or do you want to be an accountant?” He puts his hands on his hips. Spencer hides his smile behind his hand and watches.
The kid following behind him huffs, but shoulders her bass and looks determined. “Rock star.”
“Damn right you do,” Brendon agrees, giving her a disarmingly sweet smile. “You’re doing good. Keep it up.”
She smiles back, and salutes, and heads towards the door, waving bye to Frank as she goes. Brendon watches her, still grinning a little, and then shakes his head and glances over towards the counter. Spencer’s a little gratified by the way Brendon startles and then beams at him, and hop-skips over happily. “Hey!”
“Hey yourself,” Spencer says, rescuing the bag of food from where Frank is still pawing at it, and pushing it over to Brendon. “You haven’t eaten all day, have you?”
“I had some juice,” Brendon retorts, already going through the bag, digging out a taco and shoving half of it into his face at one time, groaning pornographically. Spencer rolls his eyes, and refrains from looking over at Frank, who’s watching the two of them and looking way too amused. “Oh my god. Spence.”
“I didn’t bring you a drink,” Spencer warns him. Brendon waves his hand expansively, and takes another bite of taco. Spencer carefully extracts his own torta from the bag and starts unwrapping it, looking around nervously at the handful of other patrons, certain he’s going to get Brendon fucking fired for this.
“I have a drink in the back, it’s cool,” Brendon assures him. “And stop looking like we’re going to get arrested, I told you, nobody cares.”
“It’s true,” Frank pipes up. “Nobody cares. Unless this is going to turn into a thing in which case I will only not care if you bring me chips and salsa every day, too.”
“This husband is my husband,” Brendon tells him loftily, taking a step closer to Spencer, holding his taco protectively to his chest. “Get your own.”
Frank snorts, and is prevented from replying by a pair of guys in skinny jeans and flannel and ironic glasses presenting equally ironic vinyl choices at the register. Brendon finishes his taco, and Spencer picks at his torta, biting back a grin as one of the guys starts talking about how now all they need is a turntable. Frank looks murderous, all of a sudden. It’s pretty great.
“I need a smoke,” Frank growls, as soon as the guys have left. “Will you watch the register?”
“Yeah, sure,” Brendon says, waving him away, smirking a little as Frank storms off. He grabs another taco, and hops up onto the counter and slides behind it, gesturing for Spencer to join him. Spencer looks around again, for someone who looks like they might want to tell on him, and then shrugs a shoulder and joins Brendon behind the counter. He takes a bite of his torta, and chews thoughtfully.
“How was your lesson?” he asks, after he swallows.
“Pretty good,” Brendon says, fiddling with the receipt books and printer paper on the shelves underneath the register. “How was the land of coffee?”
“Coffee-tastic,” Spencer drawls, looking at the floor around him and then dropping down onto it, folding his legs up underneath him and reaching for his bag. He pulls his book out, and flaps it between them. “Three chapters done.”
“You’re so smart,” Brendon says dutifully, swiping somebody’s card as they pay for a CD, darting a glance down at him and grinning. “Smart and tall.”
“You know it,” Spencer says, leaning back against the wall and opening the book back to his stopping place. “Is it okay if I hang here until you get off? We can walk back. I think Ryan said he was getting back from the library at around nine.”
Brendon pauses, and looks down at him, his smile going weird and soft. “You brought me tacos and want to walk me home.”
Spencer’s cheeks go hot in the space of about three seconds, because yeah, he realizes suddenly, that is exactly what he wants to do. “Shut up,” he mutters, ducking his head to look at his book. The hand in his hair a few heartbeats later makes him want to close his eyes.
“Walk me home, Spence?”
He sighs, and tries to concentrate on the words in front of him. “Yeah, okay.”
Spencer hangs out behind the counter there, sitting on the floor, reading his book. He texts Ryan a few times. Jon tags him in a bunch of Facebook photos in an album called “Metal Reception,” but there’s nothing incriminating him or Brendon as the intended targets of any receptions, so he figures he’s safe from his mom’s wrath (he can’t believe his mom is on Facebook). He makes notes in the margins of his book, and waits for Brendon to be done with his second lesson of the day, and a little after dinner time, he helps Brendon pack up his stuff and button his second glove and they head out the door, waving goodbye to Frank.
It’s a mile and a half home from the store, give or take, but Spencer isn’t about to risk walking the entire thing, not with the blasting wind and Brendon’s ankle still being fucked up. He badgers Brendon onto the 66 and, when B can’t find his pass, Spencer sighs and feeds quarters into the machine.
They can’t find seats, of course, so Brendon curls up against Spencer and slides an arm across his middle, keeping him anchored as he holds onto the back of a bench. Spencer produces his ipod and offers Brendon one of the earbuds, and hits shuffle. Brendon bites his lip to hold back giggles as the Beastie Boys scream about getting no sleep til Brooklyn, and then Spencer tries not to let heat seep into his cheeks as the next song switches on and Liz Phair starts singing about wanting to be someone’s blowjob queen. Brendon, who is a dick, starts humming along with the high part. Spencer can feel Brendon’s chest vibrating with the notes, against his.
They get off at Sacramento and start shuffling towards home, still connected by the earbuds, Brendon’s hip banging into Spencer’s until B reaches down and grabs for his hand. Spencer glances around quickly, looking for anyone on the streets who might give them a hard time. The sparse scattering of people outside only seem interested in hurrying along, trying to get out of the wind as fast as possible, so he figures he’s worrying for nothing. Again. He squeezes Brendon’s hand, and unlocks the door for them when they get home, and huffs when Brendon just shimmies out of his coat and leaves it in a heap in the little foyer. Brendon turns to give him a smirk, and goes to fall face-first onto the couch.
They make dinner, and then Ryan comes home, and Ryan and Brendon argue about the issue of AP that just came out. Spencer finishes his book while absentmindedly munching on mac and cheese, and then Brendon quizzes him on the content. Ryan does a load of laundry and bitches about his vinyl, until Brendon caves and goes to help him put it all away.
Ryan passes out first, wiped out by a long day of rolling his eyes at people in the library. Spencer washes the dishes while Brendon takes a shower, and then he very carefully rewraps Brendon’s ankle, wincing at how the bruises haven’t faded much. Brendon reassures him that it hardly hurts at all anymore, but Spencer knows better than to believe him; after all, Brendon was totally convinced that his studio apartment in Vegas wasn’t a death trap built on a foundation of lies.
They go to bed. They both whine for the first couple of minutes about how it is so fucking cold, and Brendon eventually reaches for Spencer, cuddling up close and sticking his freezing-cold nose against Spencer’s neck and snickering at the yelp Spencer gives.
“I want a divorce,” Spencer grumbles, totally cancelling out his words by continuing to rub Brendon’s back idly.
“Think of the children,” Brendon mutters sleepily. “Think of poor Ryan.”
“That’s okay, I won’t contest custody,” Spencer yawns, smirking a little and squirming as Brendon pinches his side.
“Where’d the magic go, Smith. Where.”
“You don’t bring me flowers anymore,” Spencer sighs, sinking in against him. Brendon’s soft laughter is the last thing he hears before he drops off.
Two days later, Brendon stops by Spencer’s Starbucks with a grocery store bouquet of carnations. The cafe is packed, but that doesn’t stop Gabe from squawking as soon as he sees the flowers and calling a halt to everyfuckingthing happening in the store, until he finds an appropriate glass and fills it with water and sticks the bouquet on top of Spencer’s espresso machine. “Okay, go,” he tells, waving his hands at Spencer and Gerard and the customers, who are still staring dumbfounded at him, and after a few seconds, the steady hum of conversations and orders returns.
Spencer can’t stop giggling. He gets Brendon a drink (Gerard coos at the ridiculously over-the-top caramel heart he drizzles on top of the foam, but Spencer knows Brendon will appreciate it for what it is) and Brendon hangs out in the lobby until Patrick sends him on a break. They both pile into the only available chair, one of the plush highback orange ones, halfway on each other’s laps as Brendon tells Spencer about Julie, the kid with the bass, and how she’s basically a genius. From the way Gerard keeps looking over at them, he’s pretty sure they’re being memorized for use in some project later on, but he can’t bring himself to care, not when Brendon’s flapping his hands around and beaming at him.
“She’s just so fucking determined, Spence, it’s awesome,” Brendon gushes, taking another sip of his drink and handing it over to him so he can gesture more emphatically. “Though if she keeps it up she’s gonna be better than me in like three months and then I’ll have to hand her off to Rubano,” he sighs. “And then I’ll have to kill him in his sleep.”
“I’m not visiting you in jail,” Spencer tells him quickly. “No murdering.”
“You would too visit me,” Brendon says, tilting his chin. “Don’t front.”
Spencer raises an eyebrow at that pathetic attempt at slang, and Brendon bites his lip and looks sheepish. “...I might,” he concedes, finally. “Just to laugh at you. From behind plate glass.”
“We’d probably get conjugal visits,” Brendon points out, giggling a little as Spencer goes red and starts to dig his knuckles in between Brendon’s ribs. “Ow! Hey!” They both ignore Gerard’s shrill little awwwwww behind the counter, and Brendon finally pins Spencer’s hand, laughing in his face.
“I am going to dump this lovingly handcrafted beverage in your lap,” Spencer tells him calmly.
“You’ll have to tell the doctors about how you burned my dick,” Brendon points out, just as calm. Spencer huffs and takes a sip of the drink as he tries to think of a retort.
There’s a pause while Brendon just grins victoriously.
“...Now kiss!” Gerard hisses, his eyes widening in the next second, shocked at himself. Spencer chokes a little, his chest tight with trying to contain the hysterical laughter that wants to bubble out of him, especially when he hears Gabe’s echoing “Do it!” a few seconds later, from farther down the counter.
He risks a glance at Brendon, to see how he’s taking the sexual harassment, and feels the laughter in his chest dissipate - Brendon’s just grinning at him, a little crookedly. And then B arches an eyebrow, the smile curling into something not entirely safe.
“What, really?” Spencer hears himself asking, before Brendon nods and ducks down near him, tucking himself closer into Spencer’s side as he cups Spence’s chin and pulls him into a kiss, warm and sweet and tasting a little like caramel.
A couple of seconds go by, and Spencer’s aware that he’s clutching the arm of the chair, his other hand still pinned in Brendon’s. He has a hazy thought that he should really be participating more in this somehow, but then Brendon opens his mouth, just a little, and his brain goes fucking blank. Spencer shivers, and Brendon exhales, makes this little approving noise, and then they’re both pulling away, sort of reluctantly, their foreheads still almost touching as they can’t quite reach each other’s eyes.
Spencer takes a couple of deep breaths, and unconsciously licks his lips, and when he finally manages to look up, Brendon’s staring at him, looking a little gobsmacked. Beyond Brendon, Gerard is fucking beaming at them, pressing a hand to his chest (it’s got a wet rag in it and is getting his apron soaked), and Gabe is...looking a bit wistful, for just a second, before the lost look in his eyes disappears. He quickly turns and holds out his hand to Nate, who’s just come in for his shift and is looking ready to kill. Nate quickly slaps a twenty in Gabe’s hand. “Go do dishes, Saporta,” he snarls. “And if you overflow the sinks again, they’ll never find your body.”
“Baby, the things you say,” Gabe croons at him, blowing kisses to Spencer and Brendon as he ducks into the back.
Spencer feels Brendon take a deep, lung-rattling breath and exhale it slowly, and it’s an automatic response, to rub his back through it. “Okay?” he asks, feeling kind of stupid.
“Yeah,” Brendon nods, twisting to stretch his legs. “Your break’s almost over, isn’t it?” he asks, sounding kind of regretful.
“It was about five minutes ago,” Spencer tells him, truthful. He bites his lip. “Thank you for the flowers.”
“Welcome,” Brendon sighs, struggling against the chair for a bit before managing to stand. He stretches, and then reaches down to give Spencer a hand up as well. They stand there, looking awkward at each other for a moment.
“Back to work, Spence,” Nate calls from the registers, and Spencer nods and runs his fingers through his hair. Brendon smiles and shoos him back towards the counter and pulls on his coat. Spencer kind of wants to fix Brendon’s hair, it got sort of fucked up and static-y from the chair.
He goes back to the bar and tries to concentrate on setting up the line of drinks that have accumulated (Gerard, bless his heart, isn’t the fastest at making drinks). He hears Brendon yell “Thanks, guys!” as he heads towards the door, and he hears Nate shout back “I don’t want to hear it, Urie, if this had happened back at Thanksgiving, Gabe would’ve been paying me!” and jesus, he is just never going to stop blushing.
Gerard knocks his shoulder and beams at him some more. “I put your flowers in the back, they were getting all wilty from the steam,” he whispers, as he pumps mocha into a cup.
“Thanks,” Spencer whispers back, and he pours some two percent into a pitcher and starts to steam it, and tries not to be conspicuous about how he watches Brendon go down the sidewalk until he disappears around the corner.
Continue
“Oh my god,” Brendon gasps, clutching at Spencer’s lapels. “Oh my god, Spence. We’re fucking married.”
“Right?” Spencer beams, holding him up by his elbows, keeping him close. “Holy shit. I’m a husband.”
They beam at each other for a little bit, until Ryan declares that his stomach is eating his other internal organs, and pushes them back towards the Clark station. Ryan even lets Spencer and Brendon have two seats together when they get the Red Line, and elects to sit on both their laps down to the Fullerton stop.
They’re meeting Jon and Tom and Van Vleet at Spencer’s cafe (Tom Conrad had worked at Spencer’s Starbucks for a grand total of eight days - he’d been pretty good at it, until he didn’t show up for an opening shift. Turned out he’d gotten completely wasted with his band the night before and woken up at noon the next day, in the boathouse at Humboldt Park, stark naked except for a poncho. He’s kind of a legend). They’re only ten minutes late getting there, so they know that they’re in for at least a half hour wait before Jon shambles in to give them an accurate ETA re: Tom and VV. They’ve never once made it to lunch before 3 in the afternoon.
Ryan elbows the door open and waits for a couple of undergrads to file out. He steals their table out from under the noses of a group of tourists, and Brendon heads over to deposit his coat and scarf and gloves on the chairs so nobody tries to grab them. Spencer just heads straight for the counter.
“Smithy! Baby! Light of my miserable fucking life!” Saporta crows, from over near the oven. “Thanks for the shift, bro. Pet store fucking cut my hours. Again.”
“They’re gonna keep doing that until you stop stealing the feeder mice,” Spencer tells him, giving him a tight little smile. He’s a nice enough guy and all, but fuck, Saporta is weird.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gabe tells him loftily. “You here for tips?”
“Nah, got ‘em yesterday. Waiting on Tomrad and Sean to get here.”
“Oh, fuck, good luck with that. I saw Tom down at Continental at, like, three last night, doing shots with Luciani.”
“Great,” Spencer sighs. “Fucking great. Can I get a drink?”
“Yeah, boo. What d’you want?”
Spencer opens his mouth to reply, but Brendon pops up behind him. “Quad grande white mocha,” he says quickly, grinning for Spencer when he turns around, aghast. “With extra whip.”
Gabe makes a whipping sound. “Got it, sweetcheeks.”
“Not quad,” Spencer amends quickly. “Regular shots.” Brendon huffs, and worms his hand underneath Spencer’s coat, pinching his side.
“I’ll give you half a shot more,” Gabe stage-whispers to Brendon, winking at him. Brendon laughs nervously, and kind of ducks behind Spencer again (Saporta makes a point of hitting on Brendon every time he sees him). “Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of seeing my favorite apple-bot - “
“Gabe,” Nate barks, appearing at the back room doors suddenly. “You fucking forgot to turn off the sinks again.”
“Oh, fuck,” Gabe says, wincing.
“Yep. So you get to clean up the mini Lake Michigan back there,” he snaps, pushing his hands up through his hair til it stands up crazily, stomping over towards the registers. “I’ll take over bar, just - just go.”
Gabe nods and slinks off, giving Spencer a ridiculous, exaggerated pout as he shuffles by. Nate rubs his forehead, and groans when Gabe gets to the back and yells, excitedly, “HOLY FUCK, it’s like a fucking FOAM PARTY back here! Smith, you gotta come see it!” Spencer winces, and wanders over to the handoff plane for his drink.
“I am going to murder that man. Straight up homicide,” Nate mutters, before glancing up and actually looking at Spencer for the first time. His eyes narrow. “The fuck?”
“You offered to get my shift covered,” Spencer reminds him hastily. “That was all you.”
“Thanks,” Brendon pipes up, from behind him. He slides out from Spencer’s shadow, and waves a little at Nate, who visibly softens. And then seems to remember his and Spencer’s conversation from yesterday morning, because his eyes start to fucking shine.
“So,” Nate says, his mouth twitching at he looks back and forth at them. “Having a good day off, Spence?”
“Um, yeah,” Spencer says, and fuck, he can feel his face getting so red. “Y’know. Just hanging out, taking it easy. Went downtown for a little bit.”
On the other side of the counter, Nate makes a really weird squeaky choking noise.
“The Daley Center’s pretty interesting,” Brendon adds, beaming at Spencer when he turns to grin. “Parts of it.”
Nate flaps his hands at them, and opens his mouth to say something - which is, of course, when the door opens and a regular comes in (doppio-macchiato-in-a-tall-cup-with-foam-up-to-the-top-hey-hey-why-are-you-charging-me-for-a-latte-this-is-bullshit-also-I-wanted-soy). Nate’s chest expands with the sudden influx of rage, and he points a finger at the man, narrowing his eyes accusingly. “No, Absolutely not. Out.”
The guy stops, and gives him a deer in the headlights kind of look. “What?”
“We’re closed.”
“But there are a bunch of other people in here,” the guy points out, looking bewilderedly at Spencer. Spencer gives him a cool look back; this is the same asshole who called Spencer a “fucking emo fag” and threatened to get him fired during his first week.
“They’re working. It’s an art installation,” Nate snaps, shooing him and glaring until the dude (who has at least a foot on Ruess) gives up and heads back out the door. He turns back to Spencer and Brendon, and smiles. “So! Daley Center.”
“We got married,” Spencer says simply, beginning to laugh at the happy little jig Nate does, turning the steaming wand off and on for percussion. “It was awesome.”
“It was ridiculous and the least romantic thing that’s ever happened,” Ryan calls, from where he’s still managing to hold down a six-person table armed only with a couple of coats, a scarf, and a Times crossword. “Spencer had one line and almost forgot it.”
Nate snickers and pushes Brendon’s drink over towards them; Brendon snatches it up and gives Spencer a smirk as he heads off to sit down at the table. “Congratulations?” he says, raising his eyebrows at Spencer, who shrugs back.
“Yeah, it’s pretty cool. I’m going to come in tomorrow with the paperwork for the insurance stuff. Is Patrick gonna be around?”
“Opening, I think? But I’m pretty sure if you just call Benefits they can get it taken care of,” Nate says, shrugging as well. “I dunno. I can’t remember how Jack and Andrew handled all of it. Want me to ask?”
“It’s cool,” Spencer says, reaching over the counter divide to grab a cup and press it to the water spigot. “I can call. I’m making a fucking list of all the shit I’m going to get Brendon to tell the doctors when we go. It’s going to be awesome.”
“So is his last name Smith now, or is your last name Urie?” Nate muses, scratching a hand through his hair. “You’re not doing any hyphenated bullshit, are you?”
“Huh?” Spencer blinks at him, caught totally off-guard. “Oh, um. I dunno. I guess we’re just keeping our own names.” He takes a sip of his water.
“That’s good. I thought Andy and Jack were going to call it off, with the fights they got into.”
“Yeah, pretty much want to avoid any of that.”
“Brendon Smith. Spencer Urie. Brendon Smith-Urie,” Nate whispers to himself, frowning a little in concentration. He scrubs the espresso wand, mouthing over words, the potential combinations thereof.
“I’ll just leave you to it,” Spencer tells him, backing up towards the table, watching Nate get thoroughly lost in his own head.
Jon shows up forty five minutes later with a bouquet of flowers that he presents with a flourish to Spencer, a tiny grocery store sheet cake with CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR TAX CREDITS written on it in wobbly icing letters, and his DSLR, which he immediately whips out, taking pictures of “the most amazing wedding reception ever, kids.” He and Nate both squawk when he asks to see the rings and Brendon and Spencer both give him blank looks. Ryan chokes on his laughter, and on a piece of the free scones Nate insists on passing out. (“We’re starting new wedding rituals! Fuck tradition! Wedding scones are where it’s at! Also they’re a couple of days old and we can’t sell them.”)
When Van Vleet and Tomrad finally show up (at two-motherfucking-forty-five. Spencer called it; Ryan and Brendon both owe him five bucks), it takes a good fifteen minutes to explain the cake and the flowers, because Tom is hungover as fuck and Van Vleet refuses to take off his earmuffs since they’re just going back out into the cold in a couple of minutes anyway. Eventually, though, they manage. They get the Red Line (Jon has to handle Tom’s CTA pass, and basically shove him through a turnstile when it flashes the green light) up to Belmont, and then they hop around in the cold for a few minutes, waiting on the 77 bus.
Twenty minutes later, they’re at Kuma’s, shucking off coats and hats and scarves, piling into a booth. Tom’s woken up a little, enough to give Spencer and Brendon hell while shoved onto the booth bench with them. “Which one of you wore the dress?” he smirks, unwrapping a straw and shoving it into his iced tea.
“Fuck off, Conrad,” Brendon says genially, looking over the menu.
“They both did,” Ryan says, from the other side of the table. “They took turns.” Tom turns to give Spencer an expectant look, and Spencer sighs and punches him in the arm. Van Vleet heads over to the bar to talk to some guy tending the bar that he hasn’t seen in a while. Tom orders for him. Brendon orders a burger “the size of my head.” Ryan, who’s had his lips pursed up in careful inspection of the menu since they sat down, looks up and says, determined, that he’ll have the Slayer.
This is the only part of their shenanigans that has gotten anything like a rise from the waitstaff. The burly guy taking their order double-takes, and raises both eyebrows at him. “That’s a lot of burger,” he says, noncommittally.
Ryan stares back. “I got a hollow leg,” he says back, completely flat. Jon dissolves into giggles beside him, after the waiter leaves. Tom snorts, and gives Ryan an appreciative grin, and Spencer stretches his arm across the back of the bench, tapping his fingertips against Brendon’s shoulder idly.
They eat. Ryan’s burger is roughly the size of a hubcap, on a mountain made of fries, and Ryan gazes down at it, challenging, for a few minutes before he snaps a napkin into his lap and goes to town. It’s actually pretty fucking impressive - the guy who took their orders comes by about fifteen minutes in to check on their progress, and then he starts coming by more often, just to check out the skinny motherfucker dominating the fuck out of their baddest burger.
It’s basically like any other day, except for how they have a marriage certificate folded up and carefully slotted into the back pocket of Spencer’s messenger bag, and except for how now he and Brendon have a weird need to keep some form of contact - even while they’re eating, Brendon has an ankle hooked around Spencer’s, and Spencer’s arm is resting more on Brendon’s shoulders than on the back of the bench.
It’s not bad, Spencer’s quick to clarify to himself. It’s just different.
Jon takes a million more pictures of all of them, concentrating heavily on Brendon and Spencer, determined to get a “wedding picture” of them where Brendon isn’t making a stupid face. After a while, Tom gently takes the camera away from him, and starts unobtrusively snapping photos, pausing to smile wistfully at a few of them. He takes one of Ryan’s decimated burger, and of Brendon’s hands as he gestures while he talks, and a fucking embarrassing one of Spencer having to help Brendon button up his coat, since Brendon’s holding onto the bench and the table when they’re leaving, to prop himself up.
Eventually, Tom and Sean and Jon have to leave for band practice and for work. So Ryan and Spencer and Brendon look around on Belmont for a little bit, before they realize there’s fuckall there to see.
They wind up getting the 52 back home, because Spencer has a couple of books he really should be reading, and Brendon’s limp is starting to get pretty noticeable, and Ryan’s starting to complain about his aching skeleton. Ryan flumps onto the couch when they get home, and Spencer doesn’t immediately let Brendon down from his piggyback ride; he holds onto his legs a little tighter and makes sure to deposit him onto their one good chair.
He heads into the bathroom for ibuprofen for Brendon and half a bottle of Tums for Ryan, coming back into the living room and doling out Brendon’s pills. He sets the Tums on the table beside Ryan’s head, and goes to get Brendon some water. He is a good fucking husband.
“These taste like chalk,” Ryan calls after him, after a handful of seconds. “Chalk and oranges, what the fuck.”
“Ooh, I want one,” Brendon says, reaching over to where Ryan’s sprawled on the couch. “Hey.” He grabs for Ryan’s socks. “Hey.”
“Get your own,” Ryan says, kicking idly. “These are my chalk oranges. I earned them. You saw the size of that burger.”
“Ryan, give Brendon a fucking Tums, god,” Spencer grumbles as he comes back in the room. He presses the glass of water into Brendon’s hand, and flops down onto the beanbag chair in front of the TV. He kicks it on, his toe expertly hitting the Power button (they haven’t had a remote control since two weeks into the semester, after Ryan and Brendon had an epic slapfight over whether or not to watch the Simpsons or Through the Wormhole with Morgan Freeman), and the screen kicks into life halfway through an episode of Project Runway.
“Aw, god,” Brendon groans, collecting his Tums from Ryan and crunching on it. “Do we have to?”
“Shut up, I haven’t seen how this one ends,” Ryan says, instantly enthralled.
“Tim Gunn owns everything, Nina Garcia is a bitch with bad opinions, and they send home whoever didn’t phone it in with a drape gown. There, you’re caught up,” Spencer drawls, letting his head fall back with a thunk against the back of the chair.
“When did you get so cynical?” Ryan sighs up at the ceiling. Spencer doesn’t deign to answer him; he just closes his eyes and feels his limbs go heavy - he’s been running on adrenalin, caffeine, and matrimony for most of the day. He’s pretty sure he hears Brendon and Ryan bickering over his head, but for the next couple of hours, Spencer can’t summon even the tiniest of fucks to give about whatever they’re arguing over. Instead, he falls asleep.
When he wakes up, he’s covered with a blanket and he’s alone in the darkened living room. He lifts his head, and groans at how fucking sore his neck is, fuck beanbag chairs, and strains to hear anything else in the apartment with him.
Music, coming from the back near the bedrooms. It sounds like fucking She & Him, so he immediately suspects Ryan and his terrible taste in everything. And there’s the sound of water running in the kitchen. He rubs his eyes and exhales, and then grunts as he scrabbles for traction, the bean bag chair threatening not to give him up.
He pads into the kitchen, and sure enough, Brendon is puttering around, boiling a pot of pasta and cutting up a handful of mushrooms to throw into his jar of tomato sauce. “What time is it?” Spencer asks, voice raspy with sleep.
“About seven,” Brendon replies easily, shrugging a shoulder as he dumps the mushrooms into a pan. They start to sizzle. “You want some spaghetti?”
“Nah, leftover burger,” Spencer says, gesturing towards the fridge. “Unless you’re going to do the peppers and onions and sausage thing in the sauce.” Spencer’s usually the first one to say that Brendon in a kitchen is like a really apologetic bull in a china shop, but fuck, that pasta sauce is like crack.
“I was thinking about it,” Brendon says, the corners of his lips curling up. Spencer fistpumps.
“Best husband ever,” he crows, before opening the fridge to grab a Coke. He gets another one for Brendon, and pops it open, setting it beside him on the counter. “Want help?”
“Hnh. Get the pepper and sausage out of the fridge?” Brendon suggests, quickly slicing up half of an onion and throwing it in with the mushrooms. Spencer dives back into the fridge and produces Brendon’s ingredients, setting them down on the counter, giving his shoulder a squeeze after.
He grabs a cutting board and takes care of the pepper while Brendon messes with the stuff in the pan, selecting canisters from their meager spice supply and throwing pinches of things in with the vegetables. Spencer pushes his hair out of his eyes and dumps the pepper chunks into the pan, hip-checking Brendon lightly as he moves over toward the sink. Brendon doesn’t respond; he just moves over, his shoulders hitching up a little, as he wipes his face with his sleeve. “B?” Spencer murmurs, suddenly worried.
Brendon turns to face him, and gives him a sheepish little smile. “Onion,” he says, gesturing to his red eyes. Spencer bites his lip, and doesn’t really believe him. He comes over to the stove too, watching Brendon stir the contents of the pan idly, take sips of his Coke. After a few minutes, Brendon tips in the jar of tomato sauce, and puts the setting on the stove back down to simmer.
“Smells good,” Spencer says, reaching his hand up to cup Brendon’s elbow lightly. Brendon exhales, and nods.
“Thanks.”
Spencer waits.
After another minute or two, Brendon gives a funny little shake of his shoulders, and leans back against Spencer a tiny bit, still staring down at the pan. “When Kara got married,” he says, his voice sort of far-away sounding, “everybody came back into town. The whole house was crammed so full, but it was - it was good. Everybody was happy, that whole four days.” He pauses, and Spencer can see his shoulders tightening up. “God, they had the worst fucking reception, it looked like a middle school dance.”
Spencer swallows, and feels kind of like he’s drowning. “...We went to Kuma’s,” he offers, his voice way too wavery. “Sean got us those drinks for free.”
There’s a small pause, and then Brendon snorts. “Kuma’s is nothing like a middle school dance,” he agrees, stirring the contents of the pan again.
“Damn straight,” Spencer nods, feeling more stable. He shuffles over a little, though, and slides an arm around Brendon’s back, hugging him in for a bit. “And Jon took our picture. And Ryan ate an entire cow.”
Brendon snickers again, and his shoulders shake a little from laughter. “Clearly, our wedding is the superior wedding,” he murmurs, turning to give Spencer a smile that manages to last almost an entire second before Brendon’s eyes go red and his chin gets wobbly and he ducks his head, fast. “Shit.”
“B,” Spencer breathes, swallowing against a reflexive tightening in his own throat as he tugs Brendon into an actual hug, squeezing him tight. “Hey.”
“Fuck,” Brendon says, choking on the word a little. “Look, just - shit, I’ll be fine in a second. Hang on.”
“You’re fine,” Spencer assures him, rubbing across his back. “It’s totally fine.”
“Just another fucking thing I can’t tell them, another fucking thing they don’t wanna know about me,” Brendon mutters. “And my dad fucking - fucking gave a toast at Kara’s prom wedding and I can’t - oh shit.” He tucks his face against Spencer’s shoulder and shakes.
Spencer worries at his lip and reaches down to shut the stove off, then tucks Brendon in tight against him, one hand cupping up at the back of his neck. “He probably wouldn’t have the vocabulary to give a Kuma’s-appropriate toast,” he points out gently, trying to make Brendon laugh a little. “And I don’t think they sell O’Douls.”
Brendon huffs, and fists his hands in the back of Spencer’s shirt. “Probably not. Fucker. He’d be too scared to even come in, and you’re fucking - god, Spence, you’ve been taking better care of me than they have since - and they probably wouldn’t even come, if I said - “
“Hey,” Spencer interrupts, pulling back just enough to look down at him. Brendon’s eyes are red, and wet, and his mouth is equal parts angry and sad. “Look, it’s their loss. Those are the best burgers in the city. Right?”
Brendon nods, and wipes his eyes on the shoulder of his t-shirt. “Yeah,” he mutters.
“Damn straight. They don’t stop being the best fucking burgers just because your parents don’t like where they have to go to get them.” Damn, Spencer is good.
Brendon sighs, and then thinks about it for a second, and snorts, resting his head on Spencer’s shoulder. “Fucking - what the hell, Smith, using literary allusions at me. Who do you think you are? Ryan?”
“I can hear you,” Ryan calls, from the smaller bedroom. Spencer and Brendon smirk at each other, and then there’s a loud crash from the room, and they both startle, taking a couple of steps towards the hallway.
“Are you dead?”
“No,” Ryan yells, sounding deeply annoyed. “Fucking tipped over the vinyl. Fuck.”
Brendon hisses in a breath in sympathy, but alarm bells have immediately started ringing in Spencer’s brain. “Ryan,” he says calmly, “why is your vinyl in my bedroom? It’s not the end of the month yet.”
Ryan pokes his head out the door, and glares. His hair is standing up almost vertically in some places. “I’m not fucking sleeping on the couch! You guys just got married today. You can share the big room.” And then he pulls his head back into the room and groans something about all of the records having been alphabetized.
Spencer’s frozen for the next couple of seconds, trying to process this. Then he notices, at the worst possible moment, that he’s still basically cuddling Brendon from his freakout a few minutes ago. His hand is still in Brendon’s hair. “Oh, um.”
Brendon stares back up at him, looking equally nonplussed. Then, he breaks into a genuine grin. “Dibs on being the big spoon, and if you snore, I’ll kick you,” he tells Spencer matter-of-factly, squeezing his arms around Spencer’s middle for a second before gently detaching and turning the stove back on.
Spencer blinks at him, feeling the fuzziness of an epic freakout at the edges of his mind, but then Brendon reaches out and tugs Spencer forward, holding a spoon out at him and demanding that he taste the sauce and tell him, really tell him how it is.
The bigger of the two bedrooms has the full-size bed, and Spencer’s practice pad, and a wardrobe that houses underwear and socks and t-shirts. They each got to put up one big poster on the walls - Ryan’s contribution is the Beatles’ Abbey Road poster, with the crosswalk; Brendon’s is a poster of a Janis Joplin show; and Spencer’s is a huge poster of Animal behind a drum set. Other than the big huge tapestry-style down comforter on the bed, the room is pretty spartan.
That makes it more difficult for Spencer to find any sort of distraction, while he and Brendon are half-assedly puttering around, getting ready for bed. In the little room, Ryan’s already passed out on top of a pile of vinyl on the mattress (Spencer dragged a couple of blankets over him). Spencer can hear the sound of water running in the bathroom, and then the sound of Brendon brushing his teeth. He quickly shucks off his jeans and hoodie and rummages around in the wardrobe for a pair of pyjama pants, pulling them on before he drifts over to brush his teeth as well.
Brendon gives him an alarming, toothpaste-foamy smile, and spits in the sink, handing Spencer his toothbrush and the tube of toothpaste over, before he takes out his contacts and applies astringent and shuffles off towards their bedroom.
Spencer watches him go, curious, as he brushes his teeth. When he’s done, he washes his face and, since Ryan’s already unconscious and therefore not around to give him shit for it, he moisturizes and spends way too long inspecting his face for upcoming zits. He even debates flossing, but he figures that’s pretty much overkill and what the fuck, it’s not some even-more-deadly strain of ebola in his bedroom, it’s Brendon. So he grabs a glass of water from the kitchen and heads to bed, himself.
The only light in the room is coming from the lamp on the bedside table, and Brendon’s already a curled-up lump on the far side of the bed. Spencer feels a weird rush of affection, for Brendon remembering how he likes to be closest to the one little window in the room, and he tries to be super quiet as he shuffles around, toeing off his socks and throwing them in the clothes hamper.
He stumbles a little as he turns off the lamp, and stubs his toe on the side of the bed, and sucks in a breath. He can hear Brendon roll over. “Spence? Y’okay?”
“Yeah, just stubbed my toe,” Spencer says, his voice tight with pain and irritation. “Fucking ow, man.”
“Good job,” Brendon says, his voice cracking on a yawn, and he fidgets, apparently trying to give Spencer more of the comforter as he slides between the sheets. “D’you have enough of the blankets?” he asks, his words slow and kind of slurred with tiredness.
“Mhm,” Spencer nods, closing his eyes in relief as his head hits his pillow. Then he opens them again. “How’s your ankle? Do you need some Advil?”
“M’good,” Brendon sighs, wriggling a little closer to him, pressing in until Spencer can feel Brendon’s arm and shoulder against him. “Thanks. ...Did you do your reading?”
“Huh?” Spencer has to think for a second, before he remembers talking about the required holiday reading he hasn’t even started yet. “Nah. I can do some of it tomorrow on my breaks,” he mumbles, and it’s weird, hearing his own voice go thick and low as his eyelids get heavier. “M’gonna call the benefits people tomorrow during lunch and find out when we can get your leg checked out. Sound good?” he tells Brendon, who sighs audibily, and drops his head against Spencer’s shoulder, nodding a little.
It’s...fucking comfortable, actually. He and Brendon have always slotted together pretty easily, but Spencer was really planning on more awkwardness than this. He supposes it’s a good thing that they’re both so worn out already, but having Brendon there beside him in that new context isn’t weird or oppressively hot (temperature-wise only). Brendon smells like toothpaste and shampoo, and he’s pressed all up against Spencer’s side, and he’s got an arm thrown around Spencer’s middle.
Spence sighs and stretches, and carefully threads an arm under Brendon’s pillow, redistributing their weight a little. Brendon rolls into it, and Spencer can feel his breath, damp and warm, against the collar of his own t-shirt. “Thought you said you were going to be big spoon,” he yawns, stretching his legs one more time.
“Tomorrow,” Brendon promises, his fingers flexing against Spencer’s side. “All the big spooning. Biggest spoon ever.”
“‘Kay,” Spencer sighs, reaching down to make sure they’re both covered up, up to their shoulders. “Night, B,” he says, cuddling him in a little tighter, kissing the top of his hair.
“Mmh, night, Spence,” Brendon replies, wriggling happily for a few seconds, before the two of them settle into sleep.
The next morning when Spencer wakes up, he finds that the two of them curled around each other, their hands linked on Brendon's stomach. Spencer has to get up at ass o'clock because he has a morning shift, and it's even more difficult than usual to drag himself out of the cocoon of blankets and warmth when Brendon's snuffling irritably at being jostled. Spencer rubs a tired hand through his hair as he stands and gets his bearings, and watches Brendon roll over into what had been his spot, before he stretches his hands up towards the ceiling and shambles off to the shower.
He barely remembers to bring his books with him, on the bus. When he gets to his Starbucks, he's actually about ten minutes early, but the line is already out the door, so he tugs on his apron and clocks in early and downs the couple of espresso shots Nate feeds him, and wordlessly inserts himself onto hot bar, pumping syrup and pouring shots and knocking shoulders with him comfortably.
He shouts out drinks, and tosses breakfast sandwiches to his regulars, and commiserates with Patrick about the tragic scarf choices of various customers, and is Brendon's husband. He sneaks half a cigarette with Mikeyway in the alley while they're supposed to be taking out the trash, and is Brendon's husband. He uses the spoons from the steaming pitchers to pound out a beat on the steel countertops of the hot bar while Gabe “freestyles,” and cries from laughter, and is Brendon’s husband.
When he gets his first ten-minute break, he hides in the back with the less-boring book choice he brought, and checks his phone.
hey hubby Frank says to tell you congrats and Dallon says we should have a smug marrieds club and I said maybe. Hope works okay ill be home late got TWO LESSONS!!!! today
Spencer can't stop the grin that threatens to crack his face, and he quickly thumbs back fuck no re “hubby” tell frank thx tell dallon conditional yes, condition: eggs and bacon at mtgs. 2 lessons fuck yes! be careful dont hurt yr ankle see you 2night.
hubs ball n chain old man better half you choose
better half. r there spaghetti leftovers?
sooooo surprised & yes there are okay have to go look busy
good luck from yr better half
And then Spencer's break is over and he hasn't done any reading.
During his lunch break, Spencer goes ahead and adds Brendon to his health insurance, finds out that basically Brendon’s good to go as far as doctors’ visits are concerned as soon as the very next day. Spencer does a little dance in the back room, and immediately starts composing a list on a flattened cup, of all the shit he’s going to make Brendon check up on:
Brendon is an idiot who falls into duck ponds
a list, by Spencer J. Smith
1. doc for checkup
- cough in the winter
- fucking ankle
- knee weirdness from the car incident
- allergies?
2. dentist
3. eye doctor
- new glasses?
The girl at the Benefits Contact Center is weirdly excited when he adds Brendon onto his plan, and asks him a couple of questions about how long he and his husband have known each other, and what it was like, the city hall marriage. She coos at his answers, and the whole thing is pretty weird, but then she tells him he’s set to go and congratulates him, so he shrugs it off.
The afternoon lull hits pretty much as soon as he gets back on the floor, so Spencer does actually get some of his reading done. He gets stuck with cleaning the table legs and bottoms and taking out the trash, again, but Mikeyway does the dusting for him.
And then his shift is over. He packs up his books and gets the Red Line, because seriously fuck the Fullerton bus, and finds himself listening to Simon & Garfunkel, because his ipod’s shuffle is motherfucking prescient sometimes.
He’s humming along with “Cecilia” when he ducks into Tecalitlan, and almost finishes out the “best of” album he’s been listening to, by the time his bag of tacos and torta is ready to go. As he heads down the last bit of Chicago, he sucks in a couple of deep breaths of stinging cold air, and rummages in his bag for his lip balm.
He’s still looking when he shoves the door to Permanent Records open with his hip; finally he shoves a pair of socks (seriously? socks?) out of the way and closes his hand around the tube and brandishes it triumphantly at the guy behind the counter. Today, it happens to be Frank.
“Keys?” Frank asks, barely looking up from his book.
“Chapstick,” Spencer tells him, slicking it on and sticking it in a coat pocket, for safekeeping. “Hey.”
“Hey. Loverboy’s in the back with a kid, but he should be done soon,” Frank tells him, finally tearing himself away from the book and shoving a guitar pick in to save his place. He looks up at Spencer, and gives him a wide, cheesy grin. “Look at you, being a cute newlywed,” he says, making grabby hands at Spencer’s bag of food.
“It has animals in it,” Spencer warns him, though he does deposit the bag onto the counter. Frank pouts, but then does a search for chips and crows when he finds them, snagging a few and shoving them into his mouth. “Also shut up.”
Frank looks injured and put-upon, and crunches on a chip. “God, twenty-four hours of married life and you’re already an asshole. Brendon sure is a lucky guy.”
Spencer’s brought up short at that, mostly because of the sharp sting that accompanies Frank’s jab, because what if he is an asshole? What if he turns out to be a really shitty husband and has to, like, swear himself to a life of solitude after all of this is done? He makes a face and unwinds his scarf from around his head, and shucks his backpack off, leaning over to throw it behind the counter. He’s unbuttoned his coat, and is just starting to look over the new merch, when he hears Brendon’s voice coming in from the back.
“ - practicing, and it’ll - don’t look at me like that, I know it’s a bitch - um, I mean it’s hard,” Brendon stumbles, “but do you want to be a rock star or do you want to be an accountant?” He puts his hands on his hips. Spencer hides his smile behind his hand and watches.
The kid following behind him huffs, but shoulders her bass and looks determined. “Rock star.”
“Damn right you do,” Brendon agrees, giving her a disarmingly sweet smile. “You’re doing good. Keep it up.”
She smiles back, and salutes, and heads towards the door, waving bye to Frank as she goes. Brendon watches her, still grinning a little, and then shakes his head and glances over towards the counter. Spencer’s a little gratified by the way Brendon startles and then beams at him, and hop-skips over happily. “Hey!”
“Hey yourself,” Spencer says, rescuing the bag of food from where Frank is still pawing at it, and pushing it over to Brendon. “You haven’t eaten all day, have you?”
“I had some juice,” Brendon retorts, already going through the bag, digging out a taco and shoving half of it into his face at one time, groaning pornographically. Spencer rolls his eyes, and refrains from looking over at Frank, who’s watching the two of them and looking way too amused. “Oh my god. Spence.”
“I didn’t bring you a drink,” Spencer warns him. Brendon waves his hand expansively, and takes another bite of taco. Spencer carefully extracts his own torta from the bag and starts unwrapping it, looking around nervously at the handful of other patrons, certain he’s going to get Brendon fucking fired for this.
“I have a drink in the back, it’s cool,” Brendon assures him. “And stop looking like we’re going to get arrested, I told you, nobody cares.”
“It’s true,” Frank pipes up. “Nobody cares. Unless this is going to turn into a thing in which case I will only not care if you bring me chips and salsa every day, too.”
“This husband is my husband,” Brendon tells him loftily, taking a step closer to Spencer, holding his taco protectively to his chest. “Get your own.”
Frank snorts, and is prevented from replying by a pair of guys in skinny jeans and flannel and ironic glasses presenting equally ironic vinyl choices at the register. Brendon finishes his taco, and Spencer picks at his torta, biting back a grin as one of the guys starts talking about how now all they need is a turntable. Frank looks murderous, all of a sudden. It’s pretty great.
“I need a smoke,” Frank growls, as soon as the guys have left. “Will you watch the register?”
“Yeah, sure,” Brendon says, waving him away, smirking a little as Frank storms off. He grabs another taco, and hops up onto the counter and slides behind it, gesturing for Spencer to join him. Spencer looks around again, for someone who looks like they might want to tell on him, and then shrugs a shoulder and joins Brendon behind the counter. He takes a bite of his torta, and chews thoughtfully.
“How was your lesson?” he asks, after he swallows.
“Pretty good,” Brendon says, fiddling with the receipt books and printer paper on the shelves underneath the register. “How was the land of coffee?”
“Coffee-tastic,” Spencer drawls, looking at the floor around him and then dropping down onto it, folding his legs up underneath him and reaching for his bag. He pulls his book out, and flaps it between them. “Three chapters done.”
“You’re so smart,” Brendon says dutifully, swiping somebody’s card as they pay for a CD, darting a glance down at him and grinning. “Smart and tall.”
“You know it,” Spencer says, leaning back against the wall and opening the book back to his stopping place. “Is it okay if I hang here until you get off? We can walk back. I think Ryan said he was getting back from the library at around nine.”
Brendon pauses, and looks down at him, his smile going weird and soft. “You brought me tacos and want to walk me home.”
Spencer’s cheeks go hot in the space of about three seconds, because yeah, he realizes suddenly, that is exactly what he wants to do. “Shut up,” he mutters, ducking his head to look at his book. The hand in his hair a few heartbeats later makes him want to close his eyes.
“Walk me home, Spence?”
He sighs, and tries to concentrate on the words in front of him. “Yeah, okay.”
Spencer hangs out behind the counter there, sitting on the floor, reading his book. He texts Ryan a few times. Jon tags him in a bunch of Facebook photos in an album called “Metal Reception,” but there’s nothing incriminating him or Brendon as the intended targets of any receptions, so he figures he’s safe from his mom’s wrath (he can’t believe his mom is on Facebook). He makes notes in the margins of his book, and waits for Brendon to be done with his second lesson of the day, and a little after dinner time, he helps Brendon pack up his stuff and button his second glove and they head out the door, waving goodbye to Frank.
It’s a mile and a half home from the store, give or take, but Spencer isn’t about to risk walking the entire thing, not with the blasting wind and Brendon’s ankle still being fucked up. He badgers Brendon onto the 66 and, when B can’t find his pass, Spencer sighs and feeds quarters into the machine.
They can’t find seats, of course, so Brendon curls up against Spencer and slides an arm across his middle, keeping him anchored as he holds onto the back of a bench. Spencer produces his ipod and offers Brendon one of the earbuds, and hits shuffle. Brendon bites his lip to hold back giggles as the Beastie Boys scream about getting no sleep til Brooklyn, and then Spencer tries not to let heat seep into his cheeks as the next song switches on and Liz Phair starts singing about wanting to be someone’s blowjob queen. Brendon, who is a dick, starts humming along with the high part. Spencer can feel Brendon’s chest vibrating with the notes, against his.
They get off at Sacramento and start shuffling towards home, still connected by the earbuds, Brendon’s hip banging into Spencer’s until B reaches down and grabs for his hand. Spencer glances around quickly, looking for anyone on the streets who might give them a hard time. The sparse scattering of people outside only seem interested in hurrying along, trying to get out of the wind as fast as possible, so he figures he’s worrying for nothing. Again. He squeezes Brendon’s hand, and unlocks the door for them when they get home, and huffs when Brendon just shimmies out of his coat and leaves it in a heap in the little foyer. Brendon turns to give him a smirk, and goes to fall face-first onto the couch.
They make dinner, and then Ryan comes home, and Ryan and Brendon argue about the issue of AP that just came out. Spencer finishes his book while absentmindedly munching on mac and cheese, and then Brendon quizzes him on the content. Ryan does a load of laundry and bitches about his vinyl, until Brendon caves and goes to help him put it all away.
Ryan passes out first, wiped out by a long day of rolling his eyes at people in the library. Spencer washes the dishes while Brendon takes a shower, and then he very carefully rewraps Brendon’s ankle, wincing at how the bruises haven’t faded much. Brendon reassures him that it hardly hurts at all anymore, but Spencer knows better than to believe him; after all, Brendon was totally convinced that his studio apartment in Vegas wasn’t a death trap built on a foundation of lies.
They go to bed. They both whine for the first couple of minutes about how it is so fucking cold, and Brendon eventually reaches for Spencer, cuddling up close and sticking his freezing-cold nose against Spencer’s neck and snickering at the yelp Spencer gives.
“I want a divorce,” Spencer grumbles, totally cancelling out his words by continuing to rub Brendon’s back idly.
“Think of the children,” Brendon mutters sleepily. “Think of poor Ryan.”
“That’s okay, I won’t contest custody,” Spencer yawns, smirking a little and squirming as Brendon pinches his side.
“Where’d the magic go, Smith. Where.”
“You don’t bring me flowers anymore,” Spencer sighs, sinking in against him. Brendon’s soft laughter is the last thing he hears before he drops off.
Two days later, Brendon stops by Spencer’s Starbucks with a grocery store bouquet of carnations. The cafe is packed, but that doesn’t stop Gabe from squawking as soon as he sees the flowers and calling a halt to everyfuckingthing happening in the store, until he finds an appropriate glass and fills it with water and sticks the bouquet on top of Spencer’s espresso machine. “Okay, go,” he tells, waving his hands at Spencer and Gerard and the customers, who are still staring dumbfounded at him, and after a few seconds, the steady hum of conversations and orders returns.
Spencer can’t stop giggling. He gets Brendon a drink (Gerard coos at the ridiculously over-the-top caramel heart he drizzles on top of the foam, but Spencer knows Brendon will appreciate it for what it is) and Brendon hangs out in the lobby until Patrick sends him on a break. They both pile into the only available chair, one of the plush highback orange ones, halfway on each other’s laps as Brendon tells Spencer about Julie, the kid with the bass, and how she’s basically a genius. From the way Gerard keeps looking over at them, he’s pretty sure they’re being memorized for use in some project later on, but he can’t bring himself to care, not when Brendon’s flapping his hands around and beaming at him.
“She’s just so fucking determined, Spence, it’s awesome,” Brendon gushes, taking another sip of his drink and handing it over to him so he can gesture more emphatically. “Though if she keeps it up she’s gonna be better than me in like three months and then I’ll have to hand her off to Rubano,” he sighs. “And then I’ll have to kill him in his sleep.”
“I’m not visiting you in jail,” Spencer tells him quickly. “No murdering.”
“You would too visit me,” Brendon says, tilting his chin. “Don’t front.”
Spencer raises an eyebrow at that pathetic attempt at slang, and Brendon bites his lip and looks sheepish. “...I might,” he concedes, finally. “Just to laugh at you. From behind plate glass.”
“We’d probably get conjugal visits,” Brendon points out, giggling a little as Spencer goes red and starts to dig his knuckles in between Brendon’s ribs. “Ow! Hey!” They both ignore Gerard’s shrill little awwwwww behind the counter, and Brendon finally pins Spencer’s hand, laughing in his face.
“I am going to dump this lovingly handcrafted beverage in your lap,” Spencer tells him calmly.
“You’ll have to tell the doctors about how you burned my dick,” Brendon points out, just as calm. Spencer huffs and takes a sip of the drink as he tries to think of a retort.
There’s a pause while Brendon just grins victoriously.
“...Now kiss!” Gerard hisses, his eyes widening in the next second, shocked at himself. Spencer chokes a little, his chest tight with trying to contain the hysterical laughter that wants to bubble out of him, especially when he hears Gabe’s echoing “Do it!” a few seconds later, from farther down the counter.
He risks a glance at Brendon, to see how he’s taking the sexual harassment, and feels the laughter in his chest dissipate - Brendon’s just grinning at him, a little crookedly. And then B arches an eyebrow, the smile curling into something not entirely safe.
“What, really?” Spencer hears himself asking, before Brendon nods and ducks down near him, tucking himself closer into Spencer’s side as he cups Spence’s chin and pulls him into a kiss, warm and sweet and tasting a little like caramel.
A couple of seconds go by, and Spencer’s aware that he’s clutching the arm of the chair, his other hand still pinned in Brendon’s. He has a hazy thought that he should really be participating more in this somehow, but then Brendon opens his mouth, just a little, and his brain goes fucking blank. Spencer shivers, and Brendon exhales, makes this little approving noise, and then they’re both pulling away, sort of reluctantly, their foreheads still almost touching as they can’t quite reach each other’s eyes.
Spencer takes a couple of deep breaths, and unconsciously licks his lips, and when he finally manages to look up, Brendon’s staring at him, looking a little gobsmacked. Beyond Brendon, Gerard is fucking beaming at them, pressing a hand to his chest (it’s got a wet rag in it and is getting his apron soaked), and Gabe is...looking a bit wistful, for just a second, before the lost look in his eyes disappears. He quickly turns and holds out his hand to Nate, who’s just come in for his shift and is looking ready to kill. Nate quickly slaps a twenty in Gabe’s hand. “Go do dishes, Saporta,” he snarls. “And if you overflow the sinks again, they’ll never find your body.”
“Baby, the things you say,” Gabe croons at him, blowing kisses to Spencer and Brendon as he ducks into the back.
Spencer feels Brendon take a deep, lung-rattling breath and exhale it slowly, and it’s an automatic response, to rub his back through it. “Okay?” he asks, feeling kind of stupid.
“Yeah,” Brendon nods, twisting to stretch his legs. “Your break’s almost over, isn’t it?” he asks, sounding kind of regretful.
“It was about five minutes ago,” Spencer tells him, truthful. He bites his lip. “Thank you for the flowers.”
“Welcome,” Brendon sighs, struggling against the chair for a bit before managing to stand. He stretches, and then reaches down to give Spencer a hand up as well. They stand there, looking awkward at each other for a moment.
“Back to work, Spence,” Nate calls from the registers, and Spencer nods and runs his fingers through his hair. Brendon smiles and shoos him back towards the counter and pulls on his coat. Spencer kind of wants to fix Brendon’s hair, it got sort of fucked up and static-y from the chair.
He goes back to the bar and tries to concentrate on setting up the line of drinks that have accumulated (Gerard, bless his heart, isn’t the fastest at making drinks). He hears Brendon yell “Thanks, guys!” as he heads towards the door, and he hears Nate shout back “I don’t want to hear it, Urie, if this had happened back at Thanksgiving, Gabe would’ve been paying me!” and jesus, he is just never going to stop blushing.
Gerard knocks his shoulder and beams at him some more. “I put your flowers in the back, they were getting all wilty from the steam,” he whispers, as he pumps mocha into a cup.
“Thanks,” Spencer whispers back, and he pours some two percent into a pitcher and starts to steam it, and tries not to be conspicuous about how he watches Brendon go down the sidewalk until he disappears around the corner.
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