Taking a fall
Spencer really wishes he was at least surprised when Gabe brings it up, but. Chicago. Jon Walker. The GabeandWilliam that said Jon Walker had hinted at when he’d told him about Brendon and Shane. Jon fucking Walker is the biggest gossip girl on the face of the earth and the worst part is how he manages to come off all manly while he giggles over other people’s secrets with the stoner buddy du jour.
The ‘ship’s on a break (meaning the shows happen in some unfortunate person’s living-room instead of up on stage) and Gabe invites himself for a visit. It’s not a good time, it really isn’t. Spencer will later wonder if Jon maybe asked Gabe to get his ass on a plane and come down to Vegas.
It’s not like they’re breaking up, neither the band nor the couples. It’s just… everyone’s exhausted, the tour’s done, the next album is at the back of their minds, they have time to catch their breaths and shit comes crashing down around them.
Okay, shit comes crashing down around Ryan and he isn’t gonna go down alone. Spencer hasn’t seen Ryan like this in years and it’d be fair to say he’s terrified, scared out of his mind and trying to figure out what the fuck to do with all of this.
Ryan’s held it together long enough to finish the tour, he’s held it together through his dad’s funeral, he’s been a fall-down mess inside but he’s held it together.
Now, they’re back in Vegas and Spencer wishes there was somebody out there to help them deal. Someone grown up and wise and… well. They get Gabe Saporta. Cause life likes to laugh at you when you’re down.
Spencer knows three things about Gabe: he’s freakishly tall, he gets off on domming William Beckett and he’s constantly chemically inebriated. What he learns about Gabe Saporta the minute the guy walks in the door is the following: Gabe Saporta doesn’t take bullshit. He takes one look around the room, hugs Jon fiercly and kisses him, lips, tongue, the works. Hands him a bag of weed and jerks his head in the general direction of Ryan and Brendon on the couch.
“We’ll be a couple of hours, so keep an eye on the kids”, he grins and sits down while Jon resigns himself to the baby-sitting duties. The fact that Jon’s got weed helps, they follow him like adoring puppies. Drugs are a beautiful thing, Spencer thinks, just before Gabe throws another baggy on the table and gives Shane a quizzical look.
“Dude, quit staring and get the bong out already. Also, coffee would be pretty sweet right now. I’m jet-lagged as fuck.” Spencer makes the coffee while Gabe packs and smokes and packs and smokes and then packs some more just in case. He gulps down half the contents of the cup of coffee and leans back.
“So. What the fuck’s up with Ryan?” Spencer splutters a bit of coffee over himself and Gabe raises an eyebrow. “Dude, the kid looks like he’s stumbled upon Gerard’s abandoned stash,” he drawls, hand reaching for the bong.
Point, Spencer concedes. He’d also really like to ram the bong down Gabe’s throat right about now, just like he’s wanted to strangle each and every journalist and everyone else asking questions. Cause Spencer doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t know how to get through to Ryan, to protect Ryan, to be Spencer.
He’s chewing on his lip and stares at the coffee table and eventually, it’s Shane who speaks. “He’s… not been well.” Gabe laughs out loud and shakes his head. “No shit. I could just log onto any fucking blog out there that has his name tagged and find more information. So maybe try talking?”
“He’s… he’s not been sleeping. And. Just…” Spencer looks up at Gabe and feels so fucking helpless, feels like getting down on his knees and fucking begging Gabe to do something, to bring Ryan back, to understand he’s tried. And tried.
“How’s the kink going?” Gabe Saporta really does not mince his words. Spencer adds that to the list and shrugs. It hasn’t, if he’s honest about it. At this point in the plot, he could probably cut Ryan into bite-sized strips and Ryan wouldn’t safe-word. He wants Spencer to hurt him, make him bleed, anything at all. Afterwards, he drifts off again immediately. Spencer couldn’t do half the shit Ryan thought he wanted, so.
What comes out is: “I wish we hadn’t come back here.” Shane passes the bong to him and he smokes while Gabe scratches his head, somehow managing to extract all the information he needs from that sentence.
“So he wants you to hurt him to… what? Feel like his ass-hole father’s still around? Cause he’s guilt-tripping himself? Cause it’s the only safe way to get out the emotional shit?” Spencer manages not to choke on the smoke, which is probably a win.
“Who the fuck died and made you Sigmund Freud, man?” he grinds out on exhale but Saporta is also one quick fucker when it comes to one-liners. “I’m Jewish, from Jersey and I boned Mikey Way, you really don’t even wanna know half the twisted shit I’ve seen.” Spencer doesn’t. Jesus, no, please, no. He reaches for the bong again absentmindedly.
“So how much of the tearful fangirl bullshit is true?” Spencer also really wants to avoid answering that question, but Gabe sizes it down immediately when he senses his reluctance. “Okay. I don’t need to know the details. Just… how much violent asshole are we talking, say a one to ten?” Spencer shouldn’t answer and he knows that. Ryan never talked, never even trusted him. Ryan had played pretend as soon as he’d managed to replace the bricks that had been knocked off his walls every single time, had shrugged it off and waved it away and changed the subject. Also, he’d pretty much lived at Spencer’s. Spencer wasn’t blind.
“About 7?” he hazards, not looking at Gabe as he remembers the bruises and black eyes and fucking broken bones. Gabe doesn’t ask what exactly 7 entails, but he nods.
“You ever beat him?” Shane tenses and Spencer knows he’s getting ready to throw himself between Spencer and Gabe in case there’s punches, but Spencer just shakes his head. “Fuck no.”
Gabe packs, but sets the bong down again after a moment. “Okay, you wanna know what I think?” Strange timing for that question, given that he’s apparently already appointed himself Spencer’s personal Doctor Phil, but whatever. “Go on.” Spencer’s pretty sure he doesn’t wanna hear what’s coming.
“In all honesty, man… do it. Push him where ever he needs to go. And pray you’re gonna be able to put him back together once you’ve broken him.”
Spencer wishes he could tell Gabe he was full of shit and run the other way, but. His voice is just this side of breaking when he admits: “I don’t know if I can,” cause that’s what it comes down to. He can’t see Ryan’s skin bruised, he can’t see Ryan bleed, he can’t fucking stand the idea of it.
Shane clears his throat and for a split second there, Spencer hopes he’ll come out with some other good reason why it’s a shit idea. “Spence, Gabe’s right. I wish he wasn’t, but.” He hesitates for a moment before continuing. “Brendon… actually, hang on. If you ever, either of you, talk about this to anyone, I’ll never even look at you again.” He waits until both of them have nodded, no more then that, cause they all know that’s a promise. Then, he continues: “When Brendon’s parents had just kicked him out, we had some pretty rough times. He moved in with me and we were just your average couple, no kink, no nothing. He was fucking miserable and I couldn’t do anything about it. We almost broke up.”
Spencer remembers, the first practices and gigs and everything. Brendon had tried so fucking hard to be liked, to fit in. To please.
Shane’s smiling at him, knows that he made the connection. “He needed to… he needed someone to tell him he was good. Someone to make him prove it. He wouldn’t take my word for it, I couldn’t get through to him just talking. So… that’s kinda how it went.”
Gabe giggles. “Are we the fucking saving people’s lives squad or what?” and all three of them crack up.
Spencer seriously wonders how this is his life, sitting there with their photographer and the random Decaydance dude discussing beating the shit out of their significant other’s as a coping strategy for childhood trauma. Also, he still has no idea what to do, not when it comes to the particulars.
“How do I even…?” he begins, not sure how he’s gonna put that. Gabe’s obviously been waiting for the question. “Use your imagination, dude. Bondage is pretty good to get the headspace right. Make sure you make him ask for what he needs. He needs to be really clear on that. You’re not doing it to get off, you’re not doing it cause you’ve been on the booze, you’re not doing it cause you don’t give a shit, you’re not doing it cause he looks too much like his mum, you’re doing it for him. Tell him that and get him to believe it before you do anything. Don’t gag him and tell him you wanna hear him. Make him scream it out.”
Spencer’s brain isn’t computing even half of it, but Gabe carries on. “Steer clear of domestic shit. No name calling, no belts, no fists. Avoid the back and shoulders, just go for his ass. Probably best to use a cane. Hurts like a motherfucker, but it’s the quickest to make someone lose it. Different kind of pain, apparently.”
Spencer doesn’t ask.
“Do yourself and his ass a favour and practice on a pillow or something to get your aim and strength right.”
Spencer can feel the expression on his face and he’s kinda glad Shane isn’t here to take pictures, the rabbit in the headlights look probably isn’t all that becoming.
“Make sure to not have the welts cross. That’s about it.”
Right. It’s quite enough for Spencer’s liking. “And then what?” he asks feebly. Gabe snickers. “Dude, last time I checked, this was Panic at the Disco. You know, cuddles, forehead kisses, watching cartoons with mugs of hot chocolate while you snuggled up each other’s laps? Don’t tell me it ain’t true or I will kill your brain with stories of just how hot Mikeyway looks in a dress.”
Shane collapses into an almost silent laughing fit while Spencer buries his head in his hands and groans, not grinning at all. Cause shit like that’s just not funny.
“Also, you want Jon in on sharing the love, trust me.”
Spencer stares and Shane stops laughing. “Jon’s straight.”
Gabe shrugs. “Jon’s Jon. He’s pretty gay for a guy who prefers pussy. He’s also the dude you want when it comes to piecing people back together and that’s all I’m gonna say about that.”
Spencer vaguely remembers The Tom Conrad Incident, the one with capital letters that bled all over blogs and stupid music magazine covers. He figures he doesn’t need to press the point, he doesn’t know the details, but the shit-flinging between Bill and Conrad had been pretty epic.
Gabe plants his feet on the coffee table and smirks at Shane. “On other news dude, how are things with you and the brat?” Shane grins. “We’re good, man. We’re. Yeah.” He looks like sunshine. He looks like a lyric about true love, the bastard. Spencer is so jealous he’d probably want to kill him if the guy wasn’t fifty levels of awesome.
Gabe’s ‘kick vibrates in his pocket and he picks up with “Hey mom”, laughing as Jon huffs on the other end of the line. “We’re kinda done with the emo over here, so if you guys wanna come back and hang out it’s all good.” It turns into a good night, all of them giggling like inane teenagers and stuffing their faces with pizza until they feel sick. Everyone curls in on each other and though there isn’t any hot chocolate in the picture, it’s a close call.
When Gabe leaves the next day, he hugs Spencer and Spencer will pretend the forehead kiss has never happened, but. It still feels kinda nice.
“Good luck, dude. Let me know how things are. Oh, and maybe get him the fuck out of Vegas.”
They book their stay at the cabin that same day and Spencer orders some shit online, for better or worse, Gabe Saporta got the ball rolling.