fic: Let the Future Come into Each Moment (2/4)

[saramir]

| Part One |

They're due for a show in New York City tomorrow, and Brendon and Ryan have been in the back lounge arguing through their songwriting process all evening.

Part of Spencer wants to intervene and tell them to just cool it for a while, put them on time-outs on opposite sides of the bus like the children they sound like right now, but frankly, he's too tired to do anything but go smoke up with Jon.

"At it again?" Jon passes Spencer the pipe and lighter when Spencer pulls away the curtain and begins to hoist himself up into the top bunk. Jon turns back to his iPhoto. He's facing the curtain at the foot of the mattress, cross-legged in his usual basketball shorts and white undershirt, and he's hunched over in the confined space, hair swishing against the ceiling when he turns his head.

"Yeah." Spencer squeezes up against the head of the bunk, knees bent and toes tucked under Jon's knee. He concentrates on the burn in his lungs, the sweet taste in his mouth, then exhales toward the ceiling. "I don't even know what's up with them lately. We've been working pretty well together on the past few albums, but now it's like-- Jesus, sometimes it sounds almost as bad as it was when we were teenagers."

Jon nods, making a "hmm" sort of noncommittal noise as he keeps his eyes on the photo screen in front of him, and Spencer knows they both suspect exactly what's going on; they just don't want to talk about it, put it out there between them all in spoken words that become real and need to be dealt with.

The fact is, Spencer knows that Ryan's been taking the negative criticism harder than any of them, and unfortunately Brendon tends to get the worst of Ryan's frustration; they're "partners in crime" as Jon lovingly refers to them on the days like this when Ryan and Brendon hole up together to write songs, completely forgetting about Jon and Spencer for hours on end. Sure, they still write music together as a band -- plus, usually Jon and Ryan have that habit of making up songs together instead of having actual conversations anyway -- but the past few years, Ryan and Brendon have begun disappearing together more and more often and coming back with new sounds and ideas and attitudes that they wouldn't have discovered with Jon and Spencer there.

"Maybe they'll argue themselves out of it if we leave 'em be tonight," Jon says, not taking his eyes away from the photos in front of him.

"Or they'll end up killing each other," Spencer snaps, flicking the lighter on again.

"Nah, they got over that years ago," Jon says easily, bouncing his knee against Spencer's feet.

Through the lounge door, Spencer hears Brendon shout something at Ryan about if he were a more violent person he would be strangling them both with a guitar string right now so neither of them would ever have to sing his stupid fucking lyrics about cacti and mirages.

"Hey, tell me what you think of these photos," Jon says, acting like he didn't hear anything.

"Yours?" Spencer scoots close beside Jon, bending his knees in front of him.

"Tom's." Jon holds up the screen so Spencer can see it better. "He asked me to pick out a few of my favorites."

Spencer watches as Jon clicks on a photo of two pairs of bare footprints crowding against each other in the snow. He drags the photo into a folder labeled "tomfest."

"The guys are doing another mixed-media show in a couple weeks," Jon explains, as he clicks on another photo. "Y'know, Tom's prints displayed on the walls, Ryan's videos projected on the curtain between the opening band's set and Empires' . . . "

Spencer "hmm"s and reaches a hand over to add the current photo to Jon's yes-folder. It's a close-up of a tree stump, the rings in high-contrast and the farther edge bristling with the frayed remains of bark; it's silhouetted against a dusky sky, the rise and fall of the bark like the skyline of an imaginary city.

"See, I knew you'd have good taste if I asked you to help out," Jon murmurs, tucking his elbow into the crease of Spencer's own elbow.

"What about this one?" Spencer says, clicking on another photo and trying to ignore the way his face heats up a little. "It looks . . . warm."

He feels, all of a sudden, really stupid, until Jon says, "I like it," and adds the photo to "tomfest." It's a shot that Tom had framed from behind: Max and Danielle are laughing on a park bench, with the sun setting pinks and oranges across Lake Michigan, all that water stretching far in front of them.

Jon opens another photo and laughs, short and surprised, at what appears. Spencer shifts a little closer, not taking his eyes away from the print: it's a black and white shot of Jon, lying on the living room couch in his Chicago duplex and facing away from the camera. He's only wearing a grey pair of sweatpants, and the wide stretch of his back is pale against the dark fabric of the couch, the shadows emphasizing the line of his spine, his shoulder blades, the broad curve of his shoulders hunched inward.

Caught up in the intricacies of Jon's stupid back muscles and the way his hair curls a little at the nape of his neck, Spencer takes a second to even notice the other subjects of the photo: Dylan the cat is perched on Jon's hip, one of his paws reaching toward Jon's elbow where it rests against his ribs. The cat looks curious, wondering why Jon won't play with him, as if he thinks his presence is enough to wake up Jon and get him to pay close attention. Clover is asleep, curled up inside the V of Jon's knees.

Tipping his temple against Jon's, Spencer tries not to remember last winter, when Dylan was dying of cancer: Jon had called him at odd hours to babble sad updates and random cat memories and listen to Spencer order him to not feel guilty about being on tour for so much of his cats' lives.

"This one's my favorite so far," Spencer murmurs, keeping his eyes on the photo.

After a moment, Jon says quietly, "I need to call my parents tomorrow and ask them how Clover's doing," and adds the photo to the "tomfest" folder.

He's just opened a close-up photo of somebody's hands gripping the railing of a bridge, the blur of cars passing below, when Brendon's face pops up between the slit in the bunk curtains. Spencer hadn't even noticed that the back lounge had grown quiet.

"Getting stoned without me? What is this band coming to, really?" Brendon complains with a grin that doesn't extend to his eyes. He makes grabby hands at the pipe and lighter that have lain forgotten beside Spencer for the past few minutes.

"Um, you guys have fun," Spencer says, inching forward.

"Hey, wh-- Spence," Jon says behind him, tugging on a shirt sleeve. "We're not done with Tom's photos."

Spencer pauses and turns his head to look at him, mouthing Ryan before tilting his head in the direction of Brendon, who's standing in the aisle, already intent on the inhale.

Jon's mouth forms an oh of understanding, and he lets go of Spencer's sleeve.

"Sooo, what are we doing up here, dude?" Brendon asks as he climbs up into Jon's bunk, once Spencer's slid out and started walking toward the back lounge.

He hasn't really smoked enough for the weed to affect him much beyond an ease beginning to settle in his bones, so when he enters the room, he's preparing himself to give Ryan a good talking-to about Things That Should Not Be Happening When Ryan and Brendon Write Music Together -- except then he actually sees Ryan: his long limbs, which haven't grown less awkward with age, are curled into a fetal position on the couch, with his head propped up on some pillows and a notebook open in front of him. His wrist is bent at an odd angle, scribbling away with a peacock blue pen, and his face is scrunched up to a degree of frustration that Spencer hasn't really seen for a long time.

Spencer deflates for a moment, then sets his shoulders and strides over to the couch.

"Hey, you're gonna get a weird cramp writing like that," Spencer says, picking up a book off the floor and using his hip to nudge Ryan's feet off the only open cushion so he can sit down.

Ryan kicks Spencer's ribs and twists around so that he's sitting up against the pillows, notebook in his lap and legs stretched across Spencer's thighs. "I don't want to talk," he says, tapping his pen against his wrist and glaring down at his own words.

"Talk about what?" Spencer says casually, opening the book he'd picked up and staring down at its pages. "I'm just here to read."

"Right." Tap-taptap-tap-taptap-tap. "Because you have such a deep interest in Appalachian wildflowers."

"Shut up," Spencer says, tone gruff, and thwacks Ryan's ankles with the book. "I'm not the idiot in this room."

"Oh, I think there's enough room for us both to be idiots," Ryan mutters.

Spencer glares down at a shiny photograph labeled "coral honeysuckle" and does not think about the pale slope of Jon's back or its warmth beneath Spencer's palm. He does not think about how smooth Jon's skin could be beneath his tongue; does not imagine kissing down each ridge of Jon's spine and curling his tongue beneath the tailbone, tasting a different kind of skin.

*

When they exit the Holland Tunnel, it's storming in Manhattan.

Thunder and lightning are fighting on top of all the usual cacophony and neon of the city, and the sky is pouring that weird, cold summer rain that reminds Spencer that autumn is almost here. After two hours in traffic, Jon and Spencer have pulled on hoodies and huddled together in Spencer's bottom bunk while Ryan and Brendon start improvising a blues song on an acoustic guitar across the aisle in Brendon's bunk. Brendon's slouched against the back wall, his feet dangling off the edge, while Ryan lies lengthwise, guitar in his own lap and legs kicked across Brendon's lap.

They're not actually talking or looking at each other, despite the point of contact and the musical tinkering. Frankly, Spencer's surprised the two of them are communicating at all right now, considering last night's yelling, but he's not going to question their current civility if he doesn't have to. Especially not today: it's Ryan's thirty-first birthday, and even though a while back the band made a unanimous decision to stop celebrating their birthdays after twenty-nine, Spencer figures the least they can all do is be decent to each other on their birthdays.

"I've got these stones in my soles," Ryan sings, sounding bored and wearing his sunglasses even in their cave-like bunk-space, "and, baby, they ain't gonna wash away."

"Got this stone in my soul," Brendon continues, growling a little on the next part, "oh, darlin', it just won't wash away."

"Oh honey, I've got these stoned soul blues," Jon joins in, slurring the S's, and Ryan breaks down a blues scale.

"Whoa-on this rainin' dreary day," Brendon finishes off.

"Stoned soul?" Spencer smirks, bumping Jon with his elbow, as Ryan keeps up the blues riff and Brendon's hands tap out a beat on his knees.

Jon turns to Spencer and smiles, tongue stuck out between his teeth and eyes crinkling around the edges. His shoulder is warm through their sleeves, so warm it's distracting in the chill. They're close enough to smell each other's breaths, which should be gross, especially since Jon's smells a little bit like old milk and bananas from breakfast, but Spencer wants, and Jon's affection and proximity are certainly not making him want any less.

"Knockin' my lyrical skills, Spence?" Jon jokes, bumping Spencer back with his own elbow. He pronounces skills like it starts with a lisp and ends with a 'Z' and Spencer will never stop finding that endearing.

Suddenly, Brendon's cracking up over something, and Spencer turns away from his Jon-shaped distraction to see Ryan pluck out a few more bluesy notes and glare at Brendon over the tops of his sunglasses.

Brendon just pokes his knee, and Ryan's lips twitch into a smile, but only for a second.

*

"Thanks for making it here through the storm, New York," Ryan says. "We are Moose Change."

"That we are," Jon adds, then glances over his shoulder to catch Spencer's eye so they can crack up together.

Brendon straightens up from fiddling with the pages at his piano and shakes the hair out of his eyes. He acts like he hasn't been paying attention. "Okay, Ross, what first?" he says with an air of forced nonchalance that Spencer recognizes immediately.

Fuck. Spencer knew it had been a bad idea to leave Brendon and Ryan by themselves while he and Jon shared a joint in the dressing room before the show. The two of them had probably tried writing together again and gotten into yet another of their recent blow-ups.

"Should we try one off our new album?" Ryan suggests uncertainly, turning to Spencer instead of Brendon.

Spencer just turns to exchange What the fuck? faces with Jon. None of them have had a tense moment on stage in years. No matter what was going on anywhere else, they'd become professional enough to not let it affect their shows. At least, that's what Spencer had thought.

"Oh yeah, let's," Brendon says, sarcastic, and Jon shoots him a glare. Brendon isn't looking. "Here's a song from The Past's Future Possibilities," he continues. "Ryan and I were thinking of renaming the record Fuck Off, Critics, but that doesn't have much of a ring to it, does it, Ry?"

Ryan acts like re-tuning his guitar is the most important thing in the world right now.

"Um, actually, let's go with an older song," Jon jumps in.

"Yeah," Spencer says. "A little bit of, oh, 'Lying' to loosen up?"

Let them act like angst-ridden teenagers, he thinks, but at least put it into the show in a productive way.

Ryan raises his head and looks over his shoulder.

Spencer presses his lips in a thin line and stares back at him, until Ryan nods.

Brendon steels his shoulders in his seat at the piano and stands up to return to his center stage mic. "Okay, everybody. Here's a song from our very first record," he says, and dives right into the opening line: Is it still me that makes you sweat . . .

Instead of singing playfully at Ryan and being as dramatic as possible with the song like he used to when they were teenagers, he stands more or less still, facing the crowd when he starts singing.

Jon and Spencer exchange another worried glance after the first time through the chorus, but by the time they get through the second verse, Brendon's loosening up and stalking dramatically toward Ryan as he sings, and Ryan's playing along, letting them release their tensions through music, even if only temporarily.

For the rest of the set, they don't mention the new album again. They don't play any of their new works-in-progress either, but for the last song of the night, somebody in the crowd shouts out, "'I Write Sins, Not Tragedies'!"

Brendon mutters, "Oh, fuck that shit," but Ryan stubbornly starts plucking the opening notes over and over.

"It's my birthday and we'll play what I want to," Ryan jokes, but it sounds just plain mean, and he refuses to stop playing the guitar part, so the rest of them are forced to join in.

Brendon glares at Ryan the entire time he sings; they haven't played that song on stage in at least four years.

*

That night, somewhere on a highway in Pennsylvania, Spencer finds his blue Championship Cubs t-shirt that Jon gave him two years ago when the Chicago Cubs had finally won the Series for the first time in one hundred and seven years.

Panic had been on tour and made the mistake of scheduling a show in Phoenix that night while the game was on, so Jon had to watch a recording of it afterward. While Brendon and Ryan passed out from what'd been their most draining tour to date, Spencer had stayed awake with Jon in the bus lounge, watching all three extra innings and the game-winning grand slam that made Jon pull Spencer up and do an absolutely ridiculous victory dance with him that ended in Jon grabbing Spencer's face between both hands and kissing the corner of his mouth, firm and quick, a little salty from honest-to-god tears.

"Baseball, Spence," Jon had said. "This is it." And because Spencer knows Jon, he knew then and knows now that what Jon really meant that night was: "This is what it's like to know we can be more."

The shirt is wrinkled into a ball at the bottom of one of his suitcases, but Spencer pulls it on anyway, catching a whiff of weed and laundry detergent as it passes over his head.

He can hear Brendon and Jon watching some movie loudly in the back lounge, because after the show Brendon looked like he needed to either punch someone or have a major unwinding fest, so Jon bought them a bunch of beer and candy, kept his arm around Brendon's shoulders, and steered them into the lounge with a bunch of their favorite movies.

Spencer had been left with an uncommunicative best friend who, at every attempt of discussing Things Wrong With The Band Right Now, grumbled something incoherent and folded in on himself. If Spencer thought he could push, he would, but sometimes Ryan wouldn't even talk to Spencer and that's just the way it was. So, Spencer had sat quietly with him in Ryan's bunk, watching old music videos on their iScreen until Ryan dozed off, purposely not resolving anything that's been going on between him and Brendon.

Now, Ryan's snoring in his bunk across the aisle while Spencer crawls into his own bunk. He's too exhausted to join Jon and Brendon in the back, so tries to get some rest instead.

This lasts for about ten minutes.

"Hometown show tomorrow, Spence!" Jon announces, poking his head through Spencer's curtain. He's holding a can of beer and wearing his old Cubs hat sideways and a pair of Brendon's gigantic purple sunglasses.

Spencer snorts at the sight of him and then tucks his face into his pillow away from the burst of light from the corridor.

"Hey, you're all prepared for Chicago in that Cubs shirt I gave you," Jon says fondly, then adds, "Dude, the print is already so worn down."

Suddenly, he's splaying his fingers across Spencer's soft belly to feel the shirt's fabric, the tip of his pinky curled slightly into the dip of Spencer's bellybutton.

Spencer's breath hitches at the touch. He keeps his face hidden in the fluff of his pillow as he swats his hand at Jon's arm to get him to leave.

Jon just swats right back. Spencer listens to the clatter of the sunglasses and the empty aluminum can as they drop to the floor, right before Jon climbs into the bunk. Spencer automatically wriggles farther back toward the wall to make room for him, even as he complains that Jon should leave because Spencer is trying to sleep, dammit.

"Hey, I sleep, too. Let's sleep together," Jon says, and Spencer just stares at him, waiting for Jon to realize what he just said. After a moment, Jon smirks and rolls his eyes, taking off his hat and dropping it askew on Spencer's head. "I meant let's go to sleep here. My bunk is boring."

"It's exactly the same as mine," Spencer says, knocking the hat onto the pillow above him, "just a little higher off the ground. And it smells different."

"Yeah, which is exactly why I like yours better," Jon mumbles, and Spencer can smell the beer and pretzels on his breath as he scoots forward to share Spencer's pillow. His hand has returned to its spot on Spencer's stomach, although it's shifted to a different angle: the hem of the shirt is riding up a little and the tip of Jon's middle finger is warm against Spencer's bare skin.

"What?" Spencer says, and feels his pulse begin to quicken.

"Yeah," Jon says, as if that makes any sense, and then drops his hand down to the mattress and changes the subject. "Hey, Pete texted me earlier. He and Ashlee are throwing a party after the show tomorrow, and Karl says we'll have enough time to drop by for a couple hours before we need to be back on the road."

"Oh, cool," Spencer says, waiting for his pulse to slow back to normal, and then actually registers what Jon just said. "Wait. It'd better not be a birthday party."

Not only had today been Ryan's birthday, but Spencer will turn thirty in only a few more days.

"Nah," Jon says. "I think they just like throwing parties and thought they'd schedule this one for when we're in town."

"Well, as long as there's no cake involved."

"Like you'd refuse cake," Jon teases and drapes one arm across Spencer's back, curling his other hand between the pillow and his own cheek.

"Oh, fine," Spencer says, beginning to grin, "you know me too well."

"Damn right," Jon mumbles, eyes drooping shut, and Spencer tentatively slides an arm around Jon, hand landing on the small of his back, while his other hand curls uselessly in the space between them.

Spencer closes his eyes and tries telling himself that this is no different than falling asleep with Ryan or Brendon. Unfortunately, he's been trying to tell himself that for years, and Spencer has never been a very convincing liar.

They fall asleep with Spencer's ankle hooked over Jon's, and their faces only a few inches apart, breaths soft and slow against each other's lips.

*

"It's 7:03, Chicago, and we are Very Beautiful Dragons." Ryan hums a bit of an old Irish dirge and begins to strum the opening chords of one of their older songs. It's one of, like, thirty that Ryan wrote about the decline and his sabotage of Keltie's and his relationship, years ago; it's the only ballad.

Spencer drum-kicks in all the right places but mostly keeps returning his attention to Jon, who's smiling serenely out over his hometown audience, wiggling his bare toes against the wood-paneled stage and lazily plucking away at his maroon bass.

Ryan is hunched over his own guitar, like he always does on this song, while Brendon sits cross-legged on the stage with his microphone, singing familiar stories about coyotes calling out in the canyon and scratching out messages in the rock-face, about tip-toeing circles around sediment and holding breaths beneath the soil.

Spencer carefully crescendos a cymbal roll, watching the blur of drumsticks and shimmering vibrations beneath the amber stage lights.

When he looks back up, Jon has turned his smile toward Spencer, his back sweating to the audience and eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. Still, Spencer knows that smile, knows that it's the sort to reach Jon's eyes, make the corners crinkle with barely-contained joy. Spencer has seen that smile hundreds of times, aimed at hundreds of people, including Spencer himself.

There is absolutely no reason why it should make Spencer blush, after all these years.

Still, if Spencer feels his face grow warmer as he turns his attention back to his kit, he can blame it on the lack of air conditioning in this damn club.

*

Spencer had almost forgotten how cool the nights can get near Lake Michigan. Even in summertime, sipping his third glass of wine, he's still wearing a hoodie, grey and holey. (Actually, it might be Jon's hoodie; the two of them have been mixing up their clothing for so long it's difficult to tell whose is whose anymore.)

"Trust me, I know it's disheartening," Patrick's telling him, "getting all that negative feedback from fans and critics. But, dude, I'm really looking forward to what comes next from you guys. I mean, this sort of backlash . . . I have a feeling it's going to fuel some really unique art, you know?"

Patrick looks and sounds so earnest that Spencer can't help but just nod awkwardly and take a long sip of his wine instead of venting any worries about the state of his band.

For the past hour or so, the two of them have been sitting on folding chairs in Pete's screened-in porch, drinking chardonnay and talking music, while about a half dozen little kids play on the other part of the porch.

Pete and Ashlee's party has turned out to consist of a bunch of old and young Chicago scene folks milling around a bonfire in their backyard.

("Ash and I do this every week in the summer," he'd insisted when Spencer had demanded to know if there was a birthday cake hidden anywhere. "It's got nothing to do with you and Ross becoming old men.")

When Panic had arrived, Patrick had already been sitting on the porch, keeping an eye on the kids there, and Spencer had felt like just kicking back and chatting with someone who wasn't part of his own band, so he'd joined him. Besides, he's not thrilled about all the mosquitoes that are surely lying in wait for him outside.

Currently, two kids who Spencer doesn't recognize are cheating at an old game of Battleship that must be at least as old as Ashlee, while Pete's five-year-old daughter Zoe and Joe's four-year-old son Matt are testing out how many clothespins they can fit on Joe's six-year-old son Jacob's curly head of hair; Spencer thinks they're up to at least thirty-seven by now.

"Anyway." Patrick coughs and readjusts his hat. He's wearing a brown fedora that says worlds BEST unkle on it in sparkly pink puff-paint; he'd told Spencer that Zoe decorated it for him a few weeks ago and it's become his favorite hat. (Spencer is now wearing a bracelet made out of uncooked macaroni noodles that Zoe colored green and purple with markers earlier in the night and presented to him with a blush, before she'd run away giggling something about "the beard man" to Matt and Jacob.) "How are you guys holding up on this tour? I hear Ryan's been messing with the crowd a little bit. Name changes, huh?"

Spencer cracks a smile and glances out the window, seeking out Ryan. Instead, he sees Jon and Tom. The two of them have barely left each other's sides since Tom arrived, huddled together beside the bonfire and laughing uproariously. Right now they're roasting long skewers of marshmallows with one hand and passing a bottle of Jack Daniel's with the other. Spencer's smile falters a bit as he turns back to Patrick. Before he can say anything, though, the backdoor creaks open.

"Uncle Patrick?" Pete's eight-year-old son is peeking through the doorway, holding the neck of an acoustic guitar in one hand. "I can't figure out how to play this Cars song. Can you teach me the chords?"

"Absolutely, kiddo." Patrick sets aside his empty glass and stands up to follow Bronx back into the house, but he pauses in the doorway and turns back around. "Hey, Spencer?"

"Yeah?"

Patrick's face is a little pink from the wine as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans, but he meets Spencer's gaze straight-on as he says, "I don't mean to pry or anything, really. I mean, your band, your business, but." He shrugs. "If you want a new producer or just an outside ear or something, you know where to find me, okay?"

Spencer's smile returns full force this time. "Sure thing, man. I'll definitely keep that in mind."

Patrick nods a little half-smile at him then quickly turns to go help out Bronx.

Spencer finishes off his glass of wine, watching with amusement as one of the kids carefully piles all of his little pegged battleships on top of each other at the start of a new game.

A moment later, Pete bursts into the porch, screen door slapping shut behind him.

"Okay, little dudes and ladies," he announces, arms spread, "it's way past bedtime!"

All of the kids respond with a discordant whine.

Pete rolls his eyes. "Come on, come on, toothbrushes in the downstairs bathroom, sleeping bags in the den. You know the drill." He pauses and winks at Spencer, then raises his voice a little. "I'll continue last week's vampire story if you're ready in ten minutes!"

"Yay!" one of the kids exclaims, and the kids playing Battleship immediately shove the game back into its box and rush into the house. Zoe and Matt are quick to follow, leaving Jacob standing alone in the middle of the room, dozens of clothespins dangling from his head.

Pete does a double-take, then bends over with laughter. "Aw, Jake, dude, how many this time?"

"Forty-three," he says proudly.

Pete exchanges grins with Spencer over Jacob's head, then gives the kid a high-five. "Awesome. Now let's go inside and I'll help you take them out."

"Okay, Uncle Peter," Jacob says and takes Pete's hand as they walk toward the back door.

Pete nods at Spencer as he passes. "By the way, Walker's been wondering where you are. You should get out there and consume obscene amounts of s'mores and alcohol with him."

"Oh, um," Spencer says to an empty porch as the back door shuts behind Pete. "Okay."

When he steps out of the porch, he finds a can of bug spray sitting on a shelf by the door and squeezes his eyes shut as he sprays himself thoroughly with it. Once he's covered in a mosquito-repellant cloud, he drops the can to the grass and starts to walk toward the bonfire. Coughing through the bug spray, the rest of the air is filled with the scent of burning wood and cigarettes, plus the trill of cicadas mingling with the few traffic noises in this suburb just outside of the city.

"There you are!" Jon has one arm draped around Tom's shoulders and secures his other around Spencer's as he takes a seat on their log-bench near the bonfire.

"I was only over there talking with Patrick," Spencer mumbles.

He's startled when Jon presses a too-wet kiss to his temple.

"You're my favorite," Jon says to him, and Spencer can smell the whiskey, can see the half-empty bottle nestled in the grass beside Jon's and Tom's bare toes, so it doesn't surprise him when Jon turns to Tom and kisses his temple as well, tells him, "and so are you." He squeezes both of them closer to him, and Spencer and Tom exchange fond eye-rolls over Jon's head.

"Hey, d'you know what Brendon and Ryan are up to?" Spencer asks them.

"You smell like summer camp" is Jon's not-answer.

Spencer elbow-jabs him. "Goddamn mosquitoes gotta die."

"You show 'em, Spence," Jon slurs a little more then usual, nodding his head into Spencer's neck. He rests his bearded cheek there and drops his arm from Spencer's shoulders, wrapping it around his waist instead. His hand is warm where it rests on Spencer's hip, and he slips his forefinger against the skin between Spencer's jeans and top, begins thumbing the hem of the t-shirt.

Spencer sits very still.

"Oh, I don't know about Brendon," Tom speaks up, and Spencer remembers he'd asked a question just a moment ago, "but Ryan and Sean are being book nerds over here." Tom picks up the Jack Daniel's bottle and tips it toward another log-bench that's angled around the bonfire on the other side of him.

Spencer turns his head to look, trying to ignore the rasp of Jon's beard against his skin: Ryan's hands are carefully illustrating something in the air as he clarifies some specific vampire mythology to Sean, who's nodding intently.

"Sean just read Dracula for the first time this week," Tom explains, obvious affection in his tone as he leans in closer to Spencer and Jon and adds in a stage-whisper, "and it's all he'll fucking talk about anymore."

Sean chucks a bag of marshmallows at Tom, who ducks and lets it hit Jon in the head instead. Spencer cracks up.

"Too cushiony, Van Vleet!" Jon tosses the bag back at Sean, but his aim is off and it simply lands in Ryan's lap.

Ryan rolls his eyes, opens the bag, and pops a marshmallow into his mouth.

"Dude," Spencer says to him, "you're not getting all inspired to make another attempt at a Dracula-inspired rock opera again, are you?"

Sean looks genuinely intrigued by this news, but Tom bursts out laughing and Jon chuckles into Spencer's shoulder. Spencer leans a little closer to make them both more comfortable.

"Hey," Ryan protests, chewing on another marshmallow, "that was years ago."

"So not an answer," Spencer points out.

Ryan quirks a smile and stares back at him.

"First wolves, then vampires . . . how was the next logical step plants?" Jon mumbles to Spencer, and Spencer hides his grin in the unwashed mess of hair at the top of Jon's head; it's getting a little long, beginning to curl at the ends.

"Wait, did you really try writing Dracula songs?" Spencer hears Sean say to Ryan. "Because I was thinking--"

"Sean's totally already written vampire lyrics," Tom tells Ryan, turning away from Jon and Spencer. "I found them in one of his notebooks this morning. . . ."

Jon sits up and snags a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from Tom's sweater pocket. His other hand that had been resting on Spencer's hip drags across Spencer's lower back, pausing over Spencer's hand where it's resting on the wooden surface between their thighs.

After a moment, he lifts his hand so he can light his cigarette.

The back of Spencer's hand tickles a little where he leaves it on the bench.

Jon stuffs his free hand into his own hoodie pocket and inhales, plucks the cigarette from his lips, exhales, and ashes onto the grass. He turns to offer Spencer a turn.

Spencer shrugs and takes a pull. "Hey," he says, passing it back to Jon, "so where's Brendon anyway? I think if we don't head back to the bus soon, Karl's gonna kick our asses."

Jon "hmm"s in agreement. "I saw Bden by the keg with some scene kids a while ago, but I don't--"

"Joe and Marie are the best couple in the universe," Brendon announces, appearing out of fucking nowhere in front of them. "They've been brewing their own beer and concocting all this other crazy shit, like, seriously, smell how strong this shit is." His hands are wrapped around a ceramic mug with a goose on it, and he shoves it between Jon and Spencer's faces. The smell makes Spencer's nose itch a little. "It's, like, everclear and cider or something and-- and--" He pulls back the mug, closes his eyes, and takes a sip. "Cinnamon! It is so rad, holy shit, this makes me want to, like, lock Joe and Marie in my basement -- well, if I had a basement -- and make them brew things for me all the time."

Jon's laughing into Spencer's shoulder again and Spencer's fighting down a grin, when somebody near the porch starts blasting some old '90s R&B, prompting Brendon to cut-off his booze-praise mid-sentence ("No, wait, I'm not joking, I'll get you guys some of their beer, it's like--") and exclaim, "Oh my god, I loved this song in middle school!" He starts dancing in that totally retarded way he always has -- focused on hip thrusts and arm flailing (some of his drink spilling onto grass and skin) -- and Spencer has never understood why people find it sexy at all.

Except, as some dude on the stereo sings -- about getting an erection while he's dancing too close to a chick? Seriously? -- Brendon spots Ryan on the bench kitty-corner to theirs, passes off his goose mug to Jon (who's laughing even harder now while Spencer can't help but join in), and dances over to him.

Ryan is smiling distractedly at Sean and Tom, who are making jabs at each other about which one of them has watched more episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and when Brendon shoves himself into Ryan's space, he doesn't even flinch. Brendon's flung an arm around Ryan's neck and is wiggling his hips to the dirty rhythm of the music, but Ryan just acknowledges his presence with a light hand on Brendon's waist and keeps his eyes on Sean and Tom.

It isn't until Brendon starts crawling into Ryan's lap that Ryan starts paying attention.

"What the-- Brendon?" He raises both eyebrows and tips backward a bit, startled.

"Ryan, Ryan, remember this song?" Still trying to dance, Brendon has bent a knee on one side of Ryan's thighs and is trying to slink his way into Ryan's lap. He tries to slide his other knee onto the bench, but off-balances as soon as he does.

"Whoa!" he says and wraps both arms around Ryan's neck, at the same time Ryan goes, "Hey, hey, don't fall into the fire," and clutches at the back of Brendon's thighs.

This is about the point at which Spencer figures he should probably look away, but with a quick glance at Jon, he realizes he's not the only one watching. So.

Ryan's fingers stand out against Brendon's jeans: long, slim pale lines tight against the worn, dark denim, right below the lower lines of Brendon's ass. Brendon giggles a little and sings a line of the song (Ooh, we're dancing real close), which makes Ryan grin and even laugh at first, but then Brendon starts moving again, at this new angle, and Ryan's face changes completely, laughter cutting off abruptly.

Brendon's straddling Ryan's thighs and circling his own hips in the air, not creating much friction, but without a doubt suggesting sex. He swivels his hips, one hand drunkenly trailing up and down the back of Ryan's neck and into his hair, while Ryan just stares up at him, eyes wide and dark in the firelight. Ryan's hair is sticking up in back, he's still clutching at Brendon's thighs, and he's biting his bottom lip to stop himself from--

Well, Spencer doesn't really want to think about that. He's not exactly sure where all the tension and frustration between those two is coming from these days, but it's sort of obvious how, exactly, they'd like to relieve it.

Especially when Brendon inches both of his knees forward, drops his weight all the way down into Ryan's lap, and just grinds there for a moment, watching Ryan's jaw fall slack and his eyes flutter closed. Brendon spreads his fingers flat against the plane of Ryan's chest, begins to slide his hand down, down further, his eyes never leaving Ryan's face, and--

The song ends.

Ryan blinks his eyes open and shoves Brendon back at arm's length, knuckles clenching around Brendon's shoulders to hold him away but not push him off into the fire.

"No," Ryan says, voice leaving no room for argument. "It's time to go."

"It's time to daaance!" Brendon insists, playfully drawing out the last word and sliding one hand around Ryan's lower back.

"Oh god, you did not just say that," Ryan says with a groan, rolling his eyes skyward, at the same time Jon bursts out laughing, his body nearly curled in half. The goose mug tumbles out of Jon's hands, spilling Brendon's booze into the grass at Jon and Spencer's feet.

Spencer shakes his head and watches as Brendon tries to shift closer again, but one of his knees slides off the bench and he wobbles a little. Ryan takes that as an out, twisting himself around Brendon until he's standing. With his hand still on Brendon's shoulders, he turns Brendon around and pushes him down onto the bench, where Brendon lands with a thump and a bout of giggles.

"Come back to the bus when you're capable of not drunkenly molesting me, asshat," Ryan scolds, but there's something thick in his voice, and Spencer is familiar with the tense, careful way he's holding himself.

Spencer nudges Jon, who's catching his breath beside him. "Go talk with Ryan?" he pleads, when Jon turns to him.

Without questioning, Jon squeezes Spencer's knee, stands up to give Tom and Sean a quick group hug, and then jogs after Ryan who's already hurrying away from Pete's backyard.

Spencer glances over at Tom and Sean, who are looking a little uncomfortable sitting in the middle of whatever is going down. He opens his mouth to explain, but realizes that he has no idea how. They've had their own shares of band drama, though; he figures they sort of understand.

Instead, he awkwardly tells Tom that his photography for the upcoming show rocks and adds to Sean, "Good luck with the Dracula music," which makes Tom and Sean both laugh and get back into a good-natured debate about concept albums, while Spencer stands up to deal with Brendon.

He's sitting on the bench where Ryan left him, staring down at his knees, one hand picking at some loose threads where the denim is almost completely worn through.

"Brendon," Spencer says, voice stern, but when Brendon looks up at him, he's got the damn puppy-dog eyes. Not the sort he fakes because he knows they'll get him what he wants, but the sort of lost, bewildered expression that he gets when he's let his guard down and is honestly hurt. Spencer sighs. "What the fuck, dude?" he says, his tone much kinder than his words.

"I don't--" Brendon looks down again. Picks at the threads a bit more. Looks back up. He seems pretty sober now; the heavier Brendon's drinking gets, the more mood swings he has, although Spencer knows that when he gets to his feet, he'll probably be a wavering mess. "Stupid of me to try anything."

Spencer grabs his hand that's picking at the jeans and tugs him up and into the circle of Spencer's arms. "Maybe," he says. "Either way, though, I don't think Ryan's cool with having your first time be a drunk public fuck in Pete's backyard."

Brendon puffs out a breath of self-deprecating laughter into the dip of Spencer's collarbone, his breath warm through the fabric of Spencer's (Jon's) hoodie. He fists his hand in Spencer's shirt, knuckles vibrating just barely against Spencer's stomach.

"C'mon." Spencer steps beside Brendon, slings an arm around his shoulders, and steers them back to the road.

Part Three