Multibandom fic: Featuring Murray, Starring Rootbeer, And Z Is Totally Short For Zombie
Title: Featuring Murray, Starring Rootbeer, And Z Is Totally Short For Zombie
Pairing: Brendon/Spencer
Rating: PG
Word count: 5,000+
Summary: There’s very little that Brendon loves more than his old pony, Murray
A/N: This is from the part of my brain that still listens to New Edition and rereads old copies of The Saddle Club. I’m sorry. It really didn’t deserve to be beta’d, so please point out any blatant errors :) I like to think this is the most unlikely AU ever.
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Featuring Murray, Starring Rootbeer, And Z Is Totally Short For Zombie
There’s very little that Brendon loves more than his old pony, Murray. Murray’s overweight, asthmatic, graying at the muzzle, and Brendon loves him, loves him totally, even though he can’t ride him anymore. He rides Rootbeer, a pretty chestnut, one of the stable horses, and maybe if he let his parent’s sell Murray they could afford a proper riding horse of his very own, but there’s nothing on earth that could convince Brendon to give up his Murray, nothing at all.
But Brendon, when pressed, will admit that he loves Spencer Smith more. Or, okay, maybe just as much, because if Spencer ever told him - which he never would, but for an example - if Spencer ever told him to get rid of Murray, Brendon doesn’t think he’d be able to choose Spencer over his pony, not unless there were some fucking awesome extenuating circumstances.
Of course, since Spencer Smith barely knows Brendon’s alive, well. None of that really matters.
*
Brendon doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, but Murray’s stall is directly opposite Spencer’s bay, Flash, and it’s true that Brendon knows Spencer and Ryan have class that afternoon, but he’d hung around after his own ride just to see him, not to, like, stalk him or anything.
“You need to just ask him,” Ryan says, and Spencer arches an eyebrow, crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back against Flash’s dutch door. Flash pokes his head out, big dark nose snorting into Spencer’s hair, lipping the shoulder of his jacket.
“No,” Spencer says. Clear and precise, like he really means it. He shifts, juts his hips out.
Brendon presses a hand over his mouth to keep from making a noise. He’s eyeing them through the side slat in Murray’s stall, and he’s sure they’d see him if they bothered to look, but Spencer just reaches up, rubs Flash’s muzzle absently.
Ryan says, “I’m taking Keltie. It’s fine if you just want to tag along, Spence, but.”
Spencer gets his bitch face on - god, Brendon’s such a sucker for Spencer’s bitch face - and says, “Seriously, no. You guys are fucking sickening.”
“Then ask him.” Ryan taps his foot, and Brendon can’t see his expression, but he’s pretty sure Ryan’s rolling his eyes or something.
“I don’t think so, Ryan,” Spencer says, like it’s final, and Brendon’s dying, he wants to know who so bad, and he has to bite the skin of his palm to keep from blurting that out.
They don’t say, though, and Spencer shoos Ryan away and says, “Meet you out there,” as Ryan turns down towards the back section of the barn, where all the stable-owned horses are housed.
Spencer says, “You can come out now,” and Brendon makes a little squeaky sound, because damn.
“I wasn’t-”
“Yeah, whatever.” Spencer slides open Flash’s door and disappears inside.
Brendon bounces into the corridor, swipes some straw out of his hair. “No, really, I’m sorry,” he says, leaning up against the stall and peeking over, hands curled into the wood.
Spencer shrugs. “Hand me that bridle?”
Brendon unhooks the leather bridle off the wall, rubs his thumb over the smudged brass plate with Flash’s name on it and steps inside.
Flash is one of the most handsome geldings Brendon’s ever seen. Spencer’s parents bought him for him when he first started lessons six months ago, and Brendon’s been riding forever and he knows that Flash isn’t the sort of horse you want to learn anything on. He’s high-strung, unforgiving, with a soft mouth and a wild leap - he takes foot high jumps like they’re five foot fences, always has and probably always will - and Spencer’s had more than his fair share of tumbles off his back, but he’s stuck with it and Brendon appreciates Spencer’s dedication, and also the way Flash kind of adores him. Flash likes Brendon, too - Brendon sneaks him sugar cubes - but he pretty much tolerates everyone else. And he really, really hates Bill. Brendon thinks this is a sign.
Brendon jingles the bridle against his leg as Spencer tacks up Flash, blanket, pad, saddle, girth, long fingers quick and sure on the worn leather. Flash inhales, a stubborn quirk, and Spencer pokes his stomach lightly until Flash gives up with a snort, shifts his weight, and Spencer tugs the girth tight.
“Are you-?”
Spencer tosses him a look over his shoulder. “What?”
Brendon is never at a loss for words. Brendon can babble on about anything, Jon will so testify to that, but Spencer makes him clam up, makes his neck flush. He shakes his head, wordlessly holds out Flash’s bridle.
Spencer quirks an eyebrow, but his forehead smoothes out quickly, mouth spreading into this huge smile, and god. God, Spencer has the best smile in the whole entire fucking world, and Brendon is, like, so in love with him it’s crazy.
Brendon sucks in a breath and takes a hasty step backwards, knocking his elbow into the wooden door. He says, “I’ll just, um, leave this here,” hooking the bridle over the handle in a jumble of straps that Gerard would kick his ass over, and takes off down the hall.
*
Brendon pulls Rootbeer up next to Jon and Princess. “Here?” They’re about a quarter mile into the woods, around the bend before the river.
“This’ll be Gabe’s group,” Jon says, swinging down off Prinny’s back. He takes an orange flag out of his back pocket and ties it around one of the tree branches, then checks the area off his map.
The haunted hayride is a huge deal at Monroeville Farms, three weekends in October, culminating in Frank’s birthday bash on the thirty-first. Jon’s always the headless horseman - although he rides Z or Munch, since his own Princess is a light appaloosa - and Brendon always takes the little kids, the ones too young or too scared to go through the big hayride, gathers them around the fire, tells them stories. It’s pretty awesome.
“Jon, Jon, hey, Jon,” Brendon says, leaning forward and draping himself over Rootbeer’s neck as Jon walks out the perimeter.
“Yep?” Jon flashes him a smile, and Brendon grins back, he can’t help it, even though he’s miserable, totally, because he loves Spencer Smith more than all the fishes in the sea, and he can’t talk around him, he’s like this total mute.
“Does Spencer have a group yet?” he asks, and Jon’s grin turns sly, because Jon knows him. Knows him so well.
“I don’t know, Brendon,” Jon says, draws out slow, like he’s making fun of him, except Jon isn’t mean like that, and his eyes just say he’s amused. “I think Pete’s been talking about snapping him and Ryan up for his vampire bit.”
“He’s got Patrick,” Brendon whines - he’s totally great at whining, practices it, even, to get the pitch just high enough to be adorable instead of annoying - “and Joe and Andy, and I bet Dirty shows up again. He totally doesn’t need Ryan and Spencer, too.”
Jon cocks his head. “You want Spence to help you out with the kids?”
“Maybe.” Brendon widens his eyes. “Maybe I do, Jon Walker.”
“Okay.” Jon laughs, swings back up into Prinny’s saddle. “Let’s see how many of these we can get done before dark.”
*
Pete calls Ryan his little cowpoke. And then he turns to Patrick and hugs his head and says, “Don’t worry, pumpkin, you’ll always be my favorite,” and Patrick snorts into his armpit.
Pete and Patrick are awesome, but they don’t need anyone else for their vampire bit, they don’t.
The thing is, though, Ryan and Spencer totally do everything together, and Brendon’s pretty sure Ryan hates kids.
There’s only two beginners riding classes at Monroeville. One for teens and adults over seventeen, and then one for the littler dudes, the Hushies, and Gerard made a total exception for Ryan and Spencer, since Ryan won’t be seventeen until next August, apparently, and Spencer’s maybe a whole year behind him, except, yeah, they do everything together. Rumor has it that Ryan made both Bobby and Greta cry his first day, and Greta’s everyone’s darling, so.
So now Ryan and Spencer are in Instructor Bob’s class - the Shorties, for the Short Bus, because Instructor Bob says the older you get, the slower you are about learning scary stuff like jumping and cantering - with Bill and the Butcher and Mike and Zack, and all the Shorties are totally up-for-grabs the first year. Gabe’s already snatched Bill - and Gabe always does something different, and Brendon doesn’t know what he’s up to this year but from all the fake blood he’s been hoarding, he figures it’ll be pretty gross - and Nick and Ty convinced Mike to help with the sound system, and last Brendon heard Travis and Vicky were fighting over the Butcher.
Brendon’s point, though - he totally has a point - is that Brendon spends all his time with the little kids, telling campfire stories and handing out marshmallows, and he can’t ask Spencer to help without asking Ryan, and Brendon doesn’t really want Ryan around his young charges, especially next to an open flame.
Of course, seriously, like Brendon can open his mouth coherently around Spencer, right? So maybe it’s a moot point.
*
Frank’s got his I AM HALLOWEEN t-shirt on and it isn’t even October yet.
He’s sitting on the fence, watching Brendon’s class, and Brendon tries for a three foot jump disguised as a bush that Rootbeer does not like; he balks and veers off to the right no matter how Brendon approaches.
Ashlee sails over it easily on Starshine, prancing afterwards, and Ash lets her stretch into a canter around the ring, once, twice, until the mare snorts and bobs her head and slows into a jaunty trot. Ash waggles her eyebrows at Brendon when they’re down to a walk, and Brendon sticks his tongue out. Show off.
After class, Frank drops to the ground, brushes off his jeans and falls into step next to Brendon.
“Here’s what I think,” Frank says, and Frank’s part owner of the place, so Brendon tries really hard to care about what Frank thinks, even though it’s three-thirty, which means Spencer should be showing up right about now, and Brendon has stuff to do for Murray anyway.
Brendon bobs his head. “Okay.”
“Right.” Frank slings an arm around Brendon’s shoulders as they clatter into the stables. “I think you should have Zack help out with the kids.”
Brendon nods again. Brendon likes Zack, because he’s big and cuddly and scares off Instructor Bob whenever Instructor Bob gets it in his head that Brendon’s the one who’s been paying all the Hushies - in candy - to hang all over him and call him Instructor Bob - and Brendon totally isn’t; he suspects Pete, even though Brendon’s the one who first started calling him Instructor Bob, except it’s not like it’s a bad name, right? - although ‘scares’ is a pretty strong verb here, since Instructor Bob doesn’t actually scare very easily. But Zack sort of stands in front of Brendon and crosses his arms and sometimes he’ll, like, carry him to safety - which is so awesome, by the way - and so Brendon really, really likes Zack.
And it isn’t like he was going to actually gather up the nerve to ask Spencer.
*
Spencer is only fifteen, and Brendon’s barely older than him, but Spencer always makes him feel younger. Brendon doesn’t understand how a fifteen-year-old boy can have tilty hips like that, can have that smile, those round cheeks. He wears tiny pink tees and has all this softness, all these smooth edges, and Brendon wonders what it’d be like to hug him. To pull him close, wrap his arms around his waist, fingers pressing into the dimples above his ass.
He sighs, cups his chin in his hands, elbows on top of the fence. Spencer’s having a silent argument with Flash, heels steadily digging into his belly, and Flash is just jerking his head up, pulling the reins out of Spencer’s fingers.
There’s a curl of smoke, and Brendon glances over to see Gerard grinning at him, face ghost-white behind the fall of his lank, dark hair. His one hand is cupped inward, half-heartedly hiding his cigarette. There’s no smoking at the stable - duh - but Gerard and Frank are both crazy nicotine addicts, so everyone knows they do it anyway.
Brendon thinks maybe Gerard’s gonna comment on his pathetic and obvious crush on Spencer, but Gerard’s in a quiet mood, just joins him at the fence. He takes a surreptitious drag off his cigarette.
“Want to help me get Frank this year?” Gerard finally asks, and Brendon turns wide eyes on him, because Brendon has never before been asked to help get Frank, not ever in the five years he’s been riding at Monroeville. That’s, like, a highly coveted job that usually falls to Pete and Gabe, because Pete and Gabe are prank masterminds. Last year they’d even gotten a girlish scream out of Frank.
Gerard just arches an eyebrow, lips still stretched up in a smile.
“Yes,” Brendon says, very, very seriously, because this is an honor, it surely is. “Yes, Gerard, I do.”
*
Opening weekend for the hayride is always insane - although it honestly doesn’t get much better as the month goes on, but it’s maybe not as crazy, or maybe everyone just falls into routines and that makes it a little easier.
The line to get on board is hours long, and they sell hot chocolate and some older kids bring flasks or beers hidden in paper bags, and Instructor Bob inevitably has to school a few punks’ asses. They have to keep it safe, because the woods are full of “actors” and there’s all sorts of liability issues that Gerard grumbles about every year, and afterwards, after October’s over, he always says that he’s never doing it again, this is it, which is so clearly a lie, since it’s Frank’s very favorite thing ever.
Frank likes to get involved, likes to try out parts in everyone’s groups, but on opening nights he just stalks the woods with Jon on his quarter horse, Pansy, and then after the first few hours or so he collapses into Brendon’s group of sleepy children with a mug of hot chocolate and some cookies.
And then he always asks for the doll story, the one that gives Brendon shivers just to tell, the creepy china doll with the dead eyes that stalks its way up the stairs, and Gerard always hides in the bushes and does the voices and it’s awesome, and all the kids scream when he jumps out at the end, pale face illuminated by a flashlight.
Zack, it turns out, is a pretty cool addition around the fire. The kids snuggle up to him and he makes sure they don’t burn their fingertips on hot marshmallowly goo. Brendon flashes him a thumbs-up, because they totally make a great team.
Towards the end of the night, when all that’s left are a few groups of raucous teens, everyone follows the last hayride back to the barn, exhausted and giddy.
Brendon’s practically asleep against Zack’s shoulder, and then he feels soft warmth on his other side, too, and he figures it’s Jon.
“Mmmm, sandwich,” Brendon murmurs, and there’s a laugh close to his ear. A low laugh that does not sound at all like Jon’s.
He blinks open his eyes and shifts his head, and maybe if he wasn’t so comfy he’d stiffen up or something, because there’s Spencer. Spencer’s got white all over his face, eyes rimmed with black and half an axe sticking out of his head. Brendon has no idea what he’s supposed to be, so he figures he’s been out with Travis’s group. Travis usually goes with a hodgepodge of the undead.
“Hi, Spencer Smith,” Brendon says.
Spencer grins. His teeth are black. “Hey,” he says softly, “you look worn out.”
“Past my bedtime,” Brendon says, and it is past his bedtime, but he didn’t actually have to say that, right, because he’s nearly sixteen and he can totally stay out past eleven if he wants to. God, he sounds like a giant dork.
He goes with it, though, because Spencer’s still smiling, and so Brendon tips his head back and flutters his lashes up at Zack and says, “Carry me?”
Zack snorts. “Your legs stop working?” he asks, but he’s already moving, getting to his feet.
“Carry me home, Zack, I’m so tired.” Brendon has awesome puppy-eyes. They don’t work as well in dim lighting, but Zack clearly has no immunity against them at all.
“You owe me, Urie,” he says, and Brendon shouts, “Piggy back!” and then Jon’s there, rolling his eyes and directing Zack to his car.
*
Brendon’s a champion pumpkin carver. Okay, well. He’s not really allowed to handle knives anymore, not since that incident three years ago, when he’d had to get fifteen stitches on the side of his hand, but he makes the best faces. Besides Jon, maybe. And Gerard.
Second weekend in October there’s Pumpkin Carving Sunday, and Frank pushes Brendon in the middle of the back and says, “Help Spencer,” and Brendon only hesitates because Ryan is one scary-intense dude. And now he’s armed.
“Um.” He bites his lip, fiddles with the hem of his shirt.
“Go on,” Frank urges, and Brendon more or less has to do what he says, because if he doesn’t he’s sure Frank’ll get loud and obnoxious and embarrassing, which Brendon normally doesn’t mind, but. Spencer.
Ryan glances up when he walks over. He’s got this huge neckerchief tied on that sort of makes him look impossibly tiny, but that doesn’t take away from the fact that he’s got a huge carving knife palmed in his hand, the slimy guts of the poor pumpkin clutched in the other.
Spencer swipes the back of a grimy hand against his forehead and grins at him, though, and Brendon relaxes a little.
“Need any help?” Brendon asks.
“No,” Ryan says flatly, just as Spencer shrugs, “Sure.”
Ryan tosses Spencer a pissy look, but doesn’t say anything else.
Ryan is the gateway to Spencer’s pants, Brendon thinks, but he doesn’t exactly know how to endear himself to him. Brendon’s sort of a jittery spaz, and Ryan has very little patience for him. He folds himself up, kneeling on the damp ground, hands on his thighs. “Ryan Ross,” he says, because the alliteration is awesome, like Spencer Smith and Jon Jacob and Brendon Boyd. “Ryan Ross,” he says, “you’re pretty as a picture.”
Flattery, Brendon has found, is maybe not the way to everyone’s heart, but it makes the journey there a little less bumpy.
Ryan narrows his eyes, but he doesn’t seem any more likely to lunge forward with that pointy knife.
Spencer isn’t actually laughing, but Brendon thinks he might be, on the inside. He nods. He’s holding the top of the pumpkin. He says, “He’s right, Ry, you are,” and Brendon has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from giggling.
He leans towards Spencer, leans into his warm, soft side and whispers, “Spencer, Spencer, you totally are, too.”
*
Brendon doesn’t bother to try and hide anymore when he’s in Murray’s stall and Ryan and Spencer stop to talk in front of Flash’s. Ryan gives him looks, but that doesn’t stop him from saying, “Seriously, Spencer, he flirts with you.”
Brendon doesn’t like the sound of that, but he presses his lips together and runs the curry brush over Murray’s belly, firm like he likes it. Murray stomps a hoof, shifts in the straw.
“He doesn’t. He doesn’t, he’s nice to everyone, Ryan, look, I’m not. He’s not interested, okay? It’s not a big deal,” Spencer says, and Brendon is studiously not watching them, so he can only judge Spencer’s mood from his tone, and he’s not exactly pissed. He sounds upset, and Brendon’s stomach sinks, because he bets Spencer really likes this guy, this uninterested guy, and Brendon kind of wants to hunt him down and kill him, because who wouldn’t like Spencer?
“He’s not that nice,” Ryan says, and Spencer just counters with, “We’re going to be late. Instructor Bob’ll make us run laps,” and Brendon snorts, because that’s what Instructor Bob does. He’s a harsh taskmaster.
Ryan huffs, and Brendon hears his bootfalls fade down the corridor, but he doesn’t hear Flash’s stall door slide. He glances up, curious, and catches Spencer’s gaze.
“Hi,” Brendon says, and Spencer’s cheeks flush a little, and he shakes his hair out of his face.
“Brendon, um,” he says.
Brendon steps towards him, head-cocked. “Yeah?”
Spencer opens his mouth, closes it, then sighs. “You’ll see Jon later, right?” he asks.
“Well, yeah, I-” Brendon stops, eyes widening, because of course, god, Jon’s, like, a magnet for pretty things, right? He swallows, says again, “Yeah.”
Spencer nods. “Okay, can you just tell him I’ll be a little late tomorrow?”
“Sure,” Brendon says. His fingers are white-knuckled around the curry, and he hopes that’s the only outward sign of his heart breaking.
*
“I officially call this meeting to order,” Pete says, thumping the official calling-this-meeting-to-order femur bone on Gerard’s desk. Brendon hopes it isn’t human, but you never know with Gerard and Frank. They’ve got some weird shit for Halloween.
Gabe breaks out a thick spiral-bound notebook, licks a finger and flips through the first few pages. “I think we should go with the spiders this year.”
“We’d never pull it off,” Tyson says. He’s standing by the door, arms crossed.
Gerard says, “I don’t like spiders,” and Pete claps him on the back.
“Nobody does,” Pete says, “and if they do, they never like thousands of them,” and Gabe narrates as he writes, “Thousands of spiders,” and Brendon gets a chill. He’s with Gerard on that one.
“It won’t get Frank, though,” Brendon puts in, because he can, he’s totally part of the team now. “You only get him when you, like, surprise him. He’s not gonna be scared of bugs.”
Gerard nods. “Right. Brendon’s right.”
“He’ll expect that, though,” Pete complains.
“He’ll expect everything.” Gabe looks speculative. “What he won’t expect,” he goes on, tapping his pen on the notebook, “is nothing.”
“But-”
“I like it,” Pete says, grinning.
Tyson says, “It’s kind of perfect,” and Brendon can’t believe this. His one big chance to help get Frank, and they’re doing nothing? It totally isn’t fair. And kind of dumb.
“It’s kind of dumb,” Patrick says. Patrick, Brendon decides, is his favorite person ever.
Patrick picks at the material of his jeans, widening a hole over his knee. “What we’re going to need to do,” he says slowly, “is broaden our scope a little.”
*
Brendon and Jon are lollygagging. Or what Ray calls lollygagging, shouting down the line at them to get a move on, but if Ray hadn’t wanted Brendon and Jon to meander along behind them all, then he shouldn’t have put them in the back.
Rootbeer hates being last, and keeps trying to nudge past Princess, and Jon keeps pulling her sideways, blocking Rootbeer on the narrow path, and Brendon can totally control Rootbeer, he can, but it’s more fun this way. They’re laughing, and Brendon steers Rootbeer off into the brush a little, and Jon practically turns Princess all the way around, and by the time the path widens so they can ride side-by-side, the group’s already out of sight.
Brendon sighs. Trail rides in the fall are the best things ever, when the leaves are turning, when they’re bright orange and red and waxy yellow. The air is all crisp and fresh with a nice chill, and there’s a little smoky tinge on the breeze from the nightly bonfires.
“Hey, hey, what’s got you so glum?” Jon asks, and Brendon sighs again.
He asks, “Are you going with anyone to Frank’s birthday party?” and Jon knows Brendon is, like, totally in love with Spencer, and Jon’s awesome, so it’s kind of unfair to Jon, waiting on pins-and-needles for his answer, his head filled with possibilities: “Spencer asked me, so,” or, “You won’t mind if I take Spencer, right?” or, “I think Spencer might say yes if I asked him.” Brendon can’t help it, though.
Jon arches an eyebrow at him. “Kinda thought I’d be taking you, dude. Unless you finally got up the nerve to talk to Spencer.”
“No,” Brendon grumbles, but on the inside he’s dancing, and fuck it. Fuck whatever Spencer thinks, because Jon’s not gonna be that guy, that guy who screws over a friend, and Brendon is charming and attractive - seriously, he’s got this ass, Gabe tells him almost daily - and Brendon’s just going to totally go for it. Spencer just better watch out.
*
The final weekend of the haunted hayride, Saturday night, Brendon leaves the last few sleepy kids to Zack and sneaks off with Jon. They double up on Z, Gerard’s dark chestnut, and Brendon wraps his arms around Jon’s waist, the thick black headless horseman cloak sort of ridiculously stifling.
There’s still three wagons out, and Brendon uses his scary, evil laugh on them - that Jon says isn’t all that scary, but that’s a total lie, Brendon’s awesomely scary if he wants to be - and then they end up all the way out by Travis’s undead graveyard and the tattered, rotting remains of Mikey, Tom, the Butcher, Ryan and Spence.
Brendon says, “I’m gonna walk, k?” squeezing Jon’s sides, and then he slips down off Z’s back. He tugs his hoodie up, tucks his hands in the front pocket.
Spencer looks even more ghoulish than he did that first night - or maybe he’s just tired. They’re all noticeably tired, but it’s a happy exhaustion. Even Ryan’s smiling, and, okay, to be fair, Ryan’s usually smiling nowadays, particularly when he’s gushing stupidly about his stupid girlfriend - Brendon is so suspicious of that, though, because Ryan flirts with Bill almost constantly, and he gets disturbingly giggly whenever he’s within five feet of Pete Wentz - just not when he’s trying to get rid of Brendon or arguing with Spencer over boys. There might be other moments, too, but that’s just what Brendon’s witnessed.
“Hey,” Spencer says. He rubs his palm over his cheek, smearing the dark makeup into a bigger mess around his eyes. He’s in head-to-toe black, tight black, illuminated by the single floodlight Nick had switched on for them - cleanup’s always a bitch - and his thighs, Jesus.
Brendon swallows hard. His fingers twitch and he bobs his head and says, “Hi, hey,” because he’s smooth. Oh so smooth.
“Oh my god,” Ryan says. He covers his eyes with a palm, then rubs it over the rest of his face. “Oh my god, seriously, you two are so retarded.”
“Um-”
“No, really, I’m.” Ryan shakes his head. “I’m helping Travis with the headstones, bye.”
“Um.” Brendon bites his lip, watches Ryan saunter off into the darkness, and he’s a little confused.
However, Brendon is not slow. Brendon has been left alone with Spencer. Ryan has left him alone with Spencer.
When he turns back to Spencer, Spencer is looking at him with huge eyes - or, okay, they might just seem huge, because they seriously went to town with the makeup, and the whites of his eyes are kind of glowing - and Brendon grins, because, hey, Ryan just left him alone. With Spencer.
“Brendon,” Spencer says, and his voice is totally normal, not inviting or anything, and Brendon’s nerves come flooding back.
He shoves his hands deep down in his hoodie pocket, rocks back on his heels. “Hey, yeah, we should probably help with-”
There is maybe three point five seconds where Brendon does absolutely nothing. He stands there, frozen, with Spencer’s hands on his shoulders and Spencer’s mouth covering his, and the angle is a little awkward, since Spencer’s a little taller than him and, oh yeah, Brendon’s never actually kissed anyone before.
And then he’s curling his fingers into the front of Spencer’s shirt and going up on his tiptoes and pressing his mouth back and open and it’s. God, he can’t even describe it, but he kind of wants to marry Spencer and live forever on his lips.
Spencer grins against him, he can feel it, and then there’s a hoot loud in his ear, and Brendon’s being ripped away, hefted onto a shoulder, and Spencer’s still grinning, laughing a little, lighting up his whole pretty, ghoulish face.
“Spencer Smith,” Brendon yells, fingers clutching the back of Travis’s shirt as he’s being towed into the darkness, where there’s most definitely Tom and Jesse waiting with their totally uncool affinity for pantsing him and zerberting his belly. “Help me, Spencer Smith, you’re my only hope!”
*
They’re hiding in the tack room - wedged down behind a bench, just in case, and Spencer has a warm hand curled over the nape of Brendon’s neck; it’s pretty awesome - with Zack, Jon, Ryan, and Keltie, who, to be honest, is probably the only one who bothered to really perfect the routine.
Brendon’s beginning to think seeing Spencer without the zombie makeup’ll be weird, once Halloween is over and done with. They’re all dressed like the undead now, though, and despite his super-awesome girlfriend’s presence, Ryan has his lips pursed.
“I still think this is the most insane thing I’ve ever even heard of,” Ryan says. Ryan’s just pissy that he kept messing up in practice, Brendon’s sure.
“No, no, it’s genius,” Brendon says, and not just because he’s a contributing team player this time, but because it is. “Frank’ll love it.”
They hear a three-tone whistle over the loudspeaker, Ray’s signal that Frank’s car’s finally pulled in, and Brendon can picture it. The bonfire blazing, floodlights hooked up over the entire upper field, and no one there. Just an eerie silence.
And then the sound-system crackles a little as the record starts - Patrick insisted on the authenticity of vinyl - the familiar coffin-creaking their cue to get their asses outside.
Brendon’s wrapped up like a mummy, and he’s been practicing a dead-foot dragging walk. He really hopes he won’t get tangled in his strips of cloth when they start the synchronized dancing.
Pairing: Brendon/Spencer
Rating: PG
Word count: 5,000+
Summary: There’s very little that Brendon loves more than his old pony, Murray
A/N: This is from the part of my brain that still listens to New Edition and rereads old copies of The Saddle Club. I’m sorry. It really didn’t deserve to be beta’d, so please point out any blatant errors :) I like to think this is the most unlikely AU ever.
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Featuring Murray, Starring Rootbeer, And Z Is Totally Short For Zombie
There’s very little that Brendon loves more than his old pony, Murray. Murray’s overweight, asthmatic, graying at the muzzle, and Brendon loves him, loves him totally, even though he can’t ride him anymore. He rides Rootbeer, a pretty chestnut, one of the stable horses, and maybe if he let his parent’s sell Murray they could afford a proper riding horse of his very own, but there’s nothing on earth that could convince Brendon to give up his Murray, nothing at all.
But Brendon, when pressed, will admit that he loves Spencer Smith more. Or, okay, maybe just as much, because if Spencer ever told him - which he never would, but for an example - if Spencer ever told him to get rid of Murray, Brendon doesn’t think he’d be able to choose Spencer over his pony, not unless there were some fucking awesome extenuating circumstances.
Of course, since Spencer Smith barely knows Brendon’s alive, well. None of that really matters.
*
Brendon doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, but Murray’s stall is directly opposite Spencer’s bay, Flash, and it’s true that Brendon knows Spencer and Ryan have class that afternoon, but he’d hung around after his own ride just to see him, not to, like, stalk him or anything.
“You need to just ask him,” Ryan says, and Spencer arches an eyebrow, crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back against Flash’s dutch door. Flash pokes his head out, big dark nose snorting into Spencer’s hair, lipping the shoulder of his jacket.
“No,” Spencer says. Clear and precise, like he really means it. He shifts, juts his hips out.
Brendon presses a hand over his mouth to keep from making a noise. He’s eyeing them through the side slat in Murray’s stall, and he’s sure they’d see him if they bothered to look, but Spencer just reaches up, rubs Flash’s muzzle absently.
Ryan says, “I’m taking Keltie. It’s fine if you just want to tag along, Spence, but.”
Spencer gets his bitch face on - god, Brendon’s such a sucker for Spencer’s bitch face - and says, “Seriously, no. You guys are fucking sickening.”
“Then ask him.” Ryan taps his foot, and Brendon can’t see his expression, but he’s pretty sure Ryan’s rolling his eyes or something.
“I don’t think so, Ryan,” Spencer says, like it’s final, and Brendon’s dying, he wants to know who so bad, and he has to bite the skin of his palm to keep from blurting that out.
They don’t say, though, and Spencer shoos Ryan away and says, “Meet you out there,” as Ryan turns down towards the back section of the barn, where all the stable-owned horses are housed.
Spencer says, “You can come out now,” and Brendon makes a little squeaky sound, because damn.
“I wasn’t-”
“Yeah, whatever.” Spencer slides open Flash’s door and disappears inside.
Brendon bounces into the corridor, swipes some straw out of his hair. “No, really, I’m sorry,” he says, leaning up against the stall and peeking over, hands curled into the wood.
Spencer shrugs. “Hand me that bridle?”
Brendon unhooks the leather bridle off the wall, rubs his thumb over the smudged brass plate with Flash’s name on it and steps inside.
Flash is one of the most handsome geldings Brendon’s ever seen. Spencer’s parents bought him for him when he first started lessons six months ago, and Brendon’s been riding forever and he knows that Flash isn’t the sort of horse you want to learn anything on. He’s high-strung, unforgiving, with a soft mouth and a wild leap - he takes foot high jumps like they’re five foot fences, always has and probably always will - and Spencer’s had more than his fair share of tumbles off his back, but he’s stuck with it and Brendon appreciates Spencer’s dedication, and also the way Flash kind of adores him. Flash likes Brendon, too - Brendon sneaks him sugar cubes - but he pretty much tolerates everyone else. And he really, really hates Bill. Brendon thinks this is a sign.
Brendon jingles the bridle against his leg as Spencer tacks up Flash, blanket, pad, saddle, girth, long fingers quick and sure on the worn leather. Flash inhales, a stubborn quirk, and Spencer pokes his stomach lightly until Flash gives up with a snort, shifts his weight, and Spencer tugs the girth tight.
“Are you-?”
Spencer tosses him a look over his shoulder. “What?”
Brendon is never at a loss for words. Brendon can babble on about anything, Jon will so testify to that, but Spencer makes him clam up, makes his neck flush. He shakes his head, wordlessly holds out Flash’s bridle.
Spencer quirks an eyebrow, but his forehead smoothes out quickly, mouth spreading into this huge smile, and god. God, Spencer has the best smile in the whole entire fucking world, and Brendon is, like, so in love with him it’s crazy.
Brendon sucks in a breath and takes a hasty step backwards, knocking his elbow into the wooden door. He says, “I’ll just, um, leave this here,” hooking the bridle over the handle in a jumble of straps that Gerard would kick his ass over, and takes off down the hall.
*
Brendon pulls Rootbeer up next to Jon and Princess. “Here?” They’re about a quarter mile into the woods, around the bend before the river.
“This’ll be Gabe’s group,” Jon says, swinging down off Prinny’s back. He takes an orange flag out of his back pocket and ties it around one of the tree branches, then checks the area off his map.
The haunted hayride is a huge deal at Monroeville Farms, three weekends in October, culminating in Frank’s birthday bash on the thirty-first. Jon’s always the headless horseman - although he rides Z or Munch, since his own Princess is a light appaloosa - and Brendon always takes the little kids, the ones too young or too scared to go through the big hayride, gathers them around the fire, tells them stories. It’s pretty awesome.
“Jon, Jon, hey, Jon,” Brendon says, leaning forward and draping himself over Rootbeer’s neck as Jon walks out the perimeter.
“Yep?” Jon flashes him a smile, and Brendon grins back, he can’t help it, even though he’s miserable, totally, because he loves Spencer Smith more than all the fishes in the sea, and he can’t talk around him, he’s like this total mute.
“Does Spencer have a group yet?” he asks, and Jon’s grin turns sly, because Jon knows him. Knows him so well.
“I don’t know, Brendon,” Jon says, draws out slow, like he’s making fun of him, except Jon isn’t mean like that, and his eyes just say he’s amused. “I think Pete’s been talking about snapping him and Ryan up for his vampire bit.”
“He’s got Patrick,” Brendon whines - he’s totally great at whining, practices it, even, to get the pitch just high enough to be adorable instead of annoying - “and Joe and Andy, and I bet Dirty shows up again. He totally doesn’t need Ryan and Spencer, too.”
Jon cocks his head. “You want Spence to help you out with the kids?”
“Maybe.” Brendon widens his eyes. “Maybe I do, Jon Walker.”
“Okay.” Jon laughs, swings back up into Prinny’s saddle. “Let’s see how many of these we can get done before dark.”
*
Pete calls Ryan his little cowpoke. And then he turns to Patrick and hugs his head and says, “Don’t worry, pumpkin, you’ll always be my favorite,” and Patrick snorts into his armpit.
Pete and Patrick are awesome, but they don’t need anyone else for their vampire bit, they don’t.
The thing is, though, Ryan and Spencer totally do everything together, and Brendon’s pretty sure Ryan hates kids.
There’s only two beginners riding classes at Monroeville. One for teens and adults over seventeen, and then one for the littler dudes, the Hushies, and Gerard made a total exception for Ryan and Spencer, since Ryan won’t be seventeen until next August, apparently, and Spencer’s maybe a whole year behind him, except, yeah, they do everything together. Rumor has it that Ryan made both Bobby and Greta cry his first day, and Greta’s everyone’s darling, so.
So now Ryan and Spencer are in Instructor Bob’s class - the Shorties, for the Short Bus, because Instructor Bob says the older you get, the slower you are about learning scary stuff like jumping and cantering - with Bill and the Butcher and Mike and Zack, and all the Shorties are totally up-for-grabs the first year. Gabe’s already snatched Bill - and Gabe always does something different, and Brendon doesn’t know what he’s up to this year but from all the fake blood he’s been hoarding, he figures it’ll be pretty gross - and Nick and Ty convinced Mike to help with the sound system, and last Brendon heard Travis and Vicky were fighting over the Butcher.
Brendon’s point, though - he totally has a point - is that Brendon spends all his time with the little kids, telling campfire stories and handing out marshmallows, and he can’t ask Spencer to help without asking Ryan, and Brendon doesn’t really want Ryan around his young charges, especially next to an open flame.
Of course, seriously, like Brendon can open his mouth coherently around Spencer, right? So maybe it’s a moot point.
*
Frank’s got his I AM HALLOWEEN t-shirt on and it isn’t even October yet.
He’s sitting on the fence, watching Brendon’s class, and Brendon tries for a three foot jump disguised as a bush that Rootbeer does not like; he balks and veers off to the right no matter how Brendon approaches.
Ashlee sails over it easily on Starshine, prancing afterwards, and Ash lets her stretch into a canter around the ring, once, twice, until the mare snorts and bobs her head and slows into a jaunty trot. Ash waggles her eyebrows at Brendon when they’re down to a walk, and Brendon sticks his tongue out. Show off.
After class, Frank drops to the ground, brushes off his jeans and falls into step next to Brendon.
“Here’s what I think,” Frank says, and Frank’s part owner of the place, so Brendon tries really hard to care about what Frank thinks, even though it’s three-thirty, which means Spencer should be showing up right about now, and Brendon has stuff to do for Murray anyway.
Brendon bobs his head. “Okay.”
“Right.” Frank slings an arm around Brendon’s shoulders as they clatter into the stables. “I think you should have Zack help out with the kids.”
Brendon nods again. Brendon likes Zack, because he’s big and cuddly and scares off Instructor Bob whenever Instructor Bob gets it in his head that Brendon’s the one who’s been paying all the Hushies - in candy - to hang all over him and call him Instructor Bob - and Brendon totally isn’t; he suspects Pete, even though Brendon’s the one who first started calling him Instructor Bob, except it’s not like it’s a bad name, right? - although ‘scares’ is a pretty strong verb here, since Instructor Bob doesn’t actually scare very easily. But Zack sort of stands in front of Brendon and crosses his arms and sometimes he’ll, like, carry him to safety - which is so awesome, by the way - and so Brendon really, really likes Zack.
And it isn’t like he was going to actually gather up the nerve to ask Spencer.
*
Spencer is only fifteen, and Brendon’s barely older than him, but Spencer always makes him feel younger. Brendon doesn’t understand how a fifteen-year-old boy can have tilty hips like that, can have that smile, those round cheeks. He wears tiny pink tees and has all this softness, all these smooth edges, and Brendon wonders what it’d be like to hug him. To pull him close, wrap his arms around his waist, fingers pressing into the dimples above his ass.
He sighs, cups his chin in his hands, elbows on top of the fence. Spencer’s having a silent argument with Flash, heels steadily digging into his belly, and Flash is just jerking his head up, pulling the reins out of Spencer’s fingers.
There’s a curl of smoke, and Brendon glances over to see Gerard grinning at him, face ghost-white behind the fall of his lank, dark hair. His one hand is cupped inward, half-heartedly hiding his cigarette. There’s no smoking at the stable - duh - but Gerard and Frank are both crazy nicotine addicts, so everyone knows they do it anyway.
Brendon thinks maybe Gerard’s gonna comment on his pathetic and obvious crush on Spencer, but Gerard’s in a quiet mood, just joins him at the fence. He takes a surreptitious drag off his cigarette.
“Want to help me get Frank this year?” Gerard finally asks, and Brendon turns wide eyes on him, because Brendon has never before been asked to help get Frank, not ever in the five years he’s been riding at Monroeville. That’s, like, a highly coveted job that usually falls to Pete and Gabe, because Pete and Gabe are prank masterminds. Last year they’d even gotten a girlish scream out of Frank.
Gerard just arches an eyebrow, lips still stretched up in a smile.
“Yes,” Brendon says, very, very seriously, because this is an honor, it surely is. “Yes, Gerard, I do.”
*
Opening weekend for the hayride is always insane - although it honestly doesn’t get much better as the month goes on, but it’s maybe not as crazy, or maybe everyone just falls into routines and that makes it a little easier.
The line to get on board is hours long, and they sell hot chocolate and some older kids bring flasks or beers hidden in paper bags, and Instructor Bob inevitably has to school a few punks’ asses. They have to keep it safe, because the woods are full of “actors” and there’s all sorts of liability issues that Gerard grumbles about every year, and afterwards, after October’s over, he always says that he’s never doing it again, this is it, which is so clearly a lie, since it’s Frank’s very favorite thing ever.
Frank likes to get involved, likes to try out parts in everyone’s groups, but on opening nights he just stalks the woods with Jon on his quarter horse, Pansy, and then after the first few hours or so he collapses into Brendon’s group of sleepy children with a mug of hot chocolate and some cookies.
And then he always asks for the doll story, the one that gives Brendon shivers just to tell, the creepy china doll with the dead eyes that stalks its way up the stairs, and Gerard always hides in the bushes and does the voices and it’s awesome, and all the kids scream when he jumps out at the end, pale face illuminated by a flashlight.
Zack, it turns out, is a pretty cool addition around the fire. The kids snuggle up to him and he makes sure they don’t burn their fingertips on hot marshmallowly goo. Brendon flashes him a thumbs-up, because they totally make a great team.
Towards the end of the night, when all that’s left are a few groups of raucous teens, everyone follows the last hayride back to the barn, exhausted and giddy.
Brendon’s practically asleep against Zack’s shoulder, and then he feels soft warmth on his other side, too, and he figures it’s Jon.
“Mmmm, sandwich,” Brendon murmurs, and there’s a laugh close to his ear. A low laugh that does not sound at all like Jon’s.
He blinks open his eyes and shifts his head, and maybe if he wasn’t so comfy he’d stiffen up or something, because there’s Spencer. Spencer’s got white all over his face, eyes rimmed with black and half an axe sticking out of his head. Brendon has no idea what he’s supposed to be, so he figures he’s been out with Travis’s group. Travis usually goes with a hodgepodge of the undead.
“Hi, Spencer Smith,” Brendon says.
Spencer grins. His teeth are black. “Hey,” he says softly, “you look worn out.”
“Past my bedtime,” Brendon says, and it is past his bedtime, but he didn’t actually have to say that, right, because he’s nearly sixteen and he can totally stay out past eleven if he wants to. God, he sounds like a giant dork.
He goes with it, though, because Spencer’s still smiling, and so Brendon tips his head back and flutters his lashes up at Zack and says, “Carry me?”
Zack snorts. “Your legs stop working?” he asks, but he’s already moving, getting to his feet.
“Carry me home, Zack, I’m so tired.” Brendon has awesome puppy-eyes. They don’t work as well in dim lighting, but Zack clearly has no immunity against them at all.
“You owe me, Urie,” he says, and Brendon shouts, “Piggy back!” and then Jon’s there, rolling his eyes and directing Zack to his car.
*
Brendon’s a champion pumpkin carver. Okay, well. He’s not really allowed to handle knives anymore, not since that incident three years ago, when he’d had to get fifteen stitches on the side of his hand, but he makes the best faces. Besides Jon, maybe. And Gerard.
Second weekend in October there’s Pumpkin Carving Sunday, and Frank pushes Brendon in the middle of the back and says, “Help Spencer,” and Brendon only hesitates because Ryan is one scary-intense dude. And now he’s armed.
“Um.” He bites his lip, fiddles with the hem of his shirt.
“Go on,” Frank urges, and Brendon more or less has to do what he says, because if he doesn’t he’s sure Frank’ll get loud and obnoxious and embarrassing, which Brendon normally doesn’t mind, but. Spencer.
Ryan glances up when he walks over. He’s got this huge neckerchief tied on that sort of makes him look impossibly tiny, but that doesn’t take away from the fact that he’s got a huge carving knife palmed in his hand, the slimy guts of the poor pumpkin clutched in the other.
Spencer swipes the back of a grimy hand against his forehead and grins at him, though, and Brendon relaxes a little.
“Need any help?” Brendon asks.
“No,” Ryan says flatly, just as Spencer shrugs, “Sure.”
Ryan tosses Spencer a pissy look, but doesn’t say anything else.
Ryan is the gateway to Spencer’s pants, Brendon thinks, but he doesn’t exactly know how to endear himself to him. Brendon’s sort of a jittery spaz, and Ryan has very little patience for him. He folds himself up, kneeling on the damp ground, hands on his thighs. “Ryan Ross,” he says, because the alliteration is awesome, like Spencer Smith and Jon Jacob and Brendon Boyd. “Ryan Ross,” he says, “you’re pretty as a picture.”
Flattery, Brendon has found, is maybe not the way to everyone’s heart, but it makes the journey there a little less bumpy.
Ryan narrows his eyes, but he doesn’t seem any more likely to lunge forward with that pointy knife.
Spencer isn’t actually laughing, but Brendon thinks he might be, on the inside. He nods. He’s holding the top of the pumpkin. He says, “He’s right, Ry, you are,” and Brendon has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from giggling.
He leans towards Spencer, leans into his warm, soft side and whispers, “Spencer, Spencer, you totally are, too.”
*
Brendon doesn’t bother to try and hide anymore when he’s in Murray’s stall and Ryan and Spencer stop to talk in front of Flash’s. Ryan gives him looks, but that doesn’t stop him from saying, “Seriously, Spencer, he flirts with you.”
Brendon doesn’t like the sound of that, but he presses his lips together and runs the curry brush over Murray’s belly, firm like he likes it. Murray stomps a hoof, shifts in the straw.
“He doesn’t. He doesn’t, he’s nice to everyone, Ryan, look, I’m not. He’s not interested, okay? It’s not a big deal,” Spencer says, and Brendon is studiously not watching them, so he can only judge Spencer’s mood from his tone, and he’s not exactly pissed. He sounds upset, and Brendon’s stomach sinks, because he bets Spencer really likes this guy, this uninterested guy, and Brendon kind of wants to hunt him down and kill him, because who wouldn’t like Spencer?
“He’s not that nice,” Ryan says, and Spencer just counters with, “We’re going to be late. Instructor Bob’ll make us run laps,” and Brendon snorts, because that’s what Instructor Bob does. He’s a harsh taskmaster.
Ryan huffs, and Brendon hears his bootfalls fade down the corridor, but he doesn’t hear Flash’s stall door slide. He glances up, curious, and catches Spencer’s gaze.
“Hi,” Brendon says, and Spencer’s cheeks flush a little, and he shakes his hair out of his face.
“Brendon, um,” he says.
Brendon steps towards him, head-cocked. “Yeah?”
Spencer opens his mouth, closes it, then sighs. “You’ll see Jon later, right?” he asks.
“Well, yeah, I-” Brendon stops, eyes widening, because of course, god, Jon’s, like, a magnet for pretty things, right? He swallows, says again, “Yeah.”
Spencer nods. “Okay, can you just tell him I’ll be a little late tomorrow?”
“Sure,” Brendon says. His fingers are white-knuckled around the curry, and he hopes that’s the only outward sign of his heart breaking.
*
“I officially call this meeting to order,” Pete says, thumping the official calling-this-meeting-to-order femur bone on Gerard’s desk. Brendon hopes it isn’t human, but you never know with Gerard and Frank. They’ve got some weird shit for Halloween.
Gabe breaks out a thick spiral-bound notebook, licks a finger and flips through the first few pages. “I think we should go with the spiders this year.”
“We’d never pull it off,” Tyson says. He’s standing by the door, arms crossed.
Gerard says, “I don’t like spiders,” and Pete claps him on the back.
“Nobody does,” Pete says, “and if they do, they never like thousands of them,” and Gabe narrates as he writes, “Thousands of spiders,” and Brendon gets a chill. He’s with Gerard on that one.
“It won’t get Frank, though,” Brendon puts in, because he can, he’s totally part of the team now. “You only get him when you, like, surprise him. He’s not gonna be scared of bugs.”
Gerard nods. “Right. Brendon’s right.”
“He’ll expect that, though,” Pete complains.
“He’ll expect everything.” Gabe looks speculative. “What he won’t expect,” he goes on, tapping his pen on the notebook, “is nothing.”
“But-”
“I like it,” Pete says, grinning.
Tyson says, “It’s kind of perfect,” and Brendon can’t believe this. His one big chance to help get Frank, and they’re doing nothing? It totally isn’t fair. And kind of dumb.
“It’s kind of dumb,” Patrick says. Patrick, Brendon decides, is his favorite person ever.
Patrick picks at the material of his jeans, widening a hole over his knee. “What we’re going to need to do,” he says slowly, “is broaden our scope a little.”
*
Brendon and Jon are lollygagging. Or what Ray calls lollygagging, shouting down the line at them to get a move on, but if Ray hadn’t wanted Brendon and Jon to meander along behind them all, then he shouldn’t have put them in the back.
Rootbeer hates being last, and keeps trying to nudge past Princess, and Jon keeps pulling her sideways, blocking Rootbeer on the narrow path, and Brendon can totally control Rootbeer, he can, but it’s more fun this way. They’re laughing, and Brendon steers Rootbeer off into the brush a little, and Jon practically turns Princess all the way around, and by the time the path widens so they can ride side-by-side, the group’s already out of sight.
Brendon sighs. Trail rides in the fall are the best things ever, when the leaves are turning, when they’re bright orange and red and waxy yellow. The air is all crisp and fresh with a nice chill, and there’s a little smoky tinge on the breeze from the nightly bonfires.
“Hey, hey, what’s got you so glum?” Jon asks, and Brendon sighs again.
He asks, “Are you going with anyone to Frank’s birthday party?” and Jon knows Brendon is, like, totally in love with Spencer, and Jon’s awesome, so it’s kind of unfair to Jon, waiting on pins-and-needles for his answer, his head filled with possibilities: “Spencer asked me, so,” or, “You won’t mind if I take Spencer, right?” or, “I think Spencer might say yes if I asked him.” Brendon can’t help it, though.
Jon arches an eyebrow at him. “Kinda thought I’d be taking you, dude. Unless you finally got up the nerve to talk to Spencer.”
“No,” Brendon grumbles, but on the inside he’s dancing, and fuck it. Fuck whatever Spencer thinks, because Jon’s not gonna be that guy, that guy who screws over a friend, and Brendon is charming and attractive - seriously, he’s got this ass, Gabe tells him almost daily - and Brendon’s just going to totally go for it. Spencer just better watch out.
*
The final weekend of the haunted hayride, Saturday night, Brendon leaves the last few sleepy kids to Zack and sneaks off with Jon. They double up on Z, Gerard’s dark chestnut, and Brendon wraps his arms around Jon’s waist, the thick black headless horseman cloak sort of ridiculously stifling.
There’s still three wagons out, and Brendon uses his scary, evil laugh on them - that Jon says isn’t all that scary, but that’s a total lie, Brendon’s awesomely scary if he wants to be - and then they end up all the way out by Travis’s undead graveyard and the tattered, rotting remains of Mikey, Tom, the Butcher, Ryan and Spence.
Brendon says, “I’m gonna walk, k?” squeezing Jon’s sides, and then he slips down off Z’s back. He tugs his hoodie up, tucks his hands in the front pocket.
Spencer looks even more ghoulish than he did that first night - or maybe he’s just tired. They’re all noticeably tired, but it’s a happy exhaustion. Even Ryan’s smiling, and, okay, to be fair, Ryan’s usually smiling nowadays, particularly when he’s gushing stupidly about his stupid girlfriend - Brendon is so suspicious of that, though, because Ryan flirts with Bill almost constantly, and he gets disturbingly giggly whenever he’s within five feet of Pete Wentz - just not when he’s trying to get rid of Brendon or arguing with Spencer over boys. There might be other moments, too, but that’s just what Brendon’s witnessed.
“Hey,” Spencer says. He rubs his palm over his cheek, smearing the dark makeup into a bigger mess around his eyes. He’s in head-to-toe black, tight black, illuminated by the single floodlight Nick had switched on for them - cleanup’s always a bitch - and his thighs, Jesus.
Brendon swallows hard. His fingers twitch and he bobs his head and says, “Hi, hey,” because he’s smooth. Oh so smooth.
“Oh my god,” Ryan says. He covers his eyes with a palm, then rubs it over the rest of his face. “Oh my god, seriously, you two are so retarded.”
“Um-”
“No, really, I’m.” Ryan shakes his head. “I’m helping Travis with the headstones, bye.”
“Um.” Brendon bites his lip, watches Ryan saunter off into the darkness, and he’s a little confused.
However, Brendon is not slow. Brendon has been left alone with Spencer. Ryan has left him alone with Spencer.
When he turns back to Spencer, Spencer is looking at him with huge eyes - or, okay, they might just seem huge, because they seriously went to town with the makeup, and the whites of his eyes are kind of glowing - and Brendon grins, because, hey, Ryan just left him alone. With Spencer.
“Brendon,” Spencer says, and his voice is totally normal, not inviting or anything, and Brendon’s nerves come flooding back.
He shoves his hands deep down in his hoodie pocket, rocks back on his heels. “Hey, yeah, we should probably help with-”
There is maybe three point five seconds where Brendon does absolutely nothing. He stands there, frozen, with Spencer’s hands on his shoulders and Spencer’s mouth covering his, and the angle is a little awkward, since Spencer’s a little taller than him and, oh yeah, Brendon’s never actually kissed anyone before.
And then he’s curling his fingers into the front of Spencer’s shirt and going up on his tiptoes and pressing his mouth back and open and it’s. God, he can’t even describe it, but he kind of wants to marry Spencer and live forever on his lips.
Spencer grins against him, he can feel it, and then there’s a hoot loud in his ear, and Brendon’s being ripped away, hefted onto a shoulder, and Spencer’s still grinning, laughing a little, lighting up his whole pretty, ghoulish face.
“Spencer Smith,” Brendon yells, fingers clutching the back of Travis’s shirt as he’s being towed into the darkness, where there’s most definitely Tom and Jesse waiting with their totally uncool affinity for pantsing him and zerberting his belly. “Help me, Spencer Smith, you’re my only hope!”
*
They’re hiding in the tack room - wedged down behind a bench, just in case, and Spencer has a warm hand curled over the nape of Brendon’s neck; it’s pretty awesome - with Zack, Jon, Ryan, and Keltie, who, to be honest, is probably the only one who bothered to really perfect the routine.
Brendon’s beginning to think seeing Spencer without the zombie makeup’ll be weird, once Halloween is over and done with. They’re all dressed like the undead now, though, and despite his super-awesome girlfriend’s presence, Ryan has his lips pursed.
“I still think this is the most insane thing I’ve ever even heard of,” Ryan says. Ryan’s just pissy that he kept messing up in practice, Brendon’s sure.
“No, no, it’s genius,” Brendon says, and not just because he’s a contributing team player this time, but because it is. “Frank’ll love it.”
They hear a three-tone whistle over the loudspeaker, Ray’s signal that Frank’s car’s finally pulled in, and Brendon can picture it. The bonfire blazing, floodlights hooked up over the entire upper field, and no one there. Just an eerie silence.
And then the sound-system crackles a little as the record starts - Patrick insisted on the authenticity of vinyl - the familiar coffin-creaking their cue to get their asses outside.
Brendon’s wrapped up like a mummy, and he’s been practicing a dead-foot dragging walk. He really hopes he won’t get tangled in his strips of cloth when they start the synchronized dancing.