Sometimes I Long To Be Landlocked (Part One)

[tequilideas]

Okay, so this domestic thing…

I’m gonna lay some honesty on y’all here: this took me a long time and came out way longer than expected, and I still think that NO ONE WANTS TO READ IT BUT ME. Seriously. What follows is completely self-indulgent. (But then again, this is the internet, so, pretty much everything is self-indulgent.) Regardless, I am a little bit fond of it, and if you don’t like cookies, cuddles, kitties and Christmas miracles, you really should not read the following.

OH, I really just apologize, guys. For real. I don’t know what came over me. I swear, I’m usually a really bitter person. Ask anyone.

(PS: Bobby Flay is a god. FACT.)
(PPS: I also really, sincerely apologize for Run Barbara Run. That maybe-novel-thing I keep talking about? Yeah, it might have something to do with them. They are my little babies and I want to put them in everything and I just. can’t. stop. Okay? Okay.)
(PPPS: Okay, last thing, for real this time. There are a lot of awesome songs mentioned or referred to in this fic so I made a mini playlist. It’s here if you want it.)

Title: Sometimes I Long To Be Landlocked
Author: tremblings
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Jon/Spencer
Word Count: 22,000 +
Disclaimer: This is a pack of dirty lies.
Summary: Panic breaks up and Spencer has an existential crisis that results in muffins.
“Wow,” Tom says, “Jon, I feel like you moved in with Martha Stewart, but, like, less scary.”
Spencer glares at him.
“Maybe a little bit scary,” Tom says.
Author’s Notes: This wound up being much longer and more involved than I ever expected it to be, but at its heart it is still just a goofy story about how Spencer Smith’s secret dream is to be the world’s greatest housewife and to marry Jon Walker. Thanks to your__design and ___leonine for being the most patient betas in the world. I owe you guys some cookies.


It was a mutual decision, really, when Panic broke up. They were all so tired and they didn’t have time and the music wasn’t coming like it used to and they all decided, all of them together, that the current tour was the last one.

Spencer felt good about it at first. He was kind of looking forward to it actually, like being in school again, when it starts to be spring and everyone starts longing for summer. He was just thinking of it as a break, a good fucking long break. He spent whole days sleeping, he played with his dogs, he got to see his mom and his sisters, he got to eat whatever he wanted and not just whatever they had left in the freezer on the bus. It was awesome.

It’s less awesome three weeks in when he starts to get bored. He’s cleaned up his entire apartment. He’s seen everyone he cared to see. He’s even bought a bunch of movies he’d meant to see and some he’d never heard of at all and he has watched them all. He’s watched everything he’d saved up on his Tivo. His fingers are constantly tapping out rhythms against his thighs, keeping in practice for shows he is never going to play. He’s slept so much it’s kind of lost its appeal, especially since he keeps dreaming about the band. Sometimes it’s weird, like they were never in a band and they all work at a coffee shop, or a doctor’s office, or sometimes they’re in high school or college. Most of the time it’s just flashes of things, memories that he doesn’t quite remember so vividly when he’s awake.

Whatever it is, it weirds him out a bit, so he spends a lot of time just zombie-ing through his apartment, not really awake and not really asleep. That’s why Spencer is just kind of standing in his kitchen, starring into the fridge, trying to decide if he’s actually hungry or just bored out of his mind, when Ryan calls.

It isn’t that Ryan never calls, it’s just that they’d decided to take a break and it’s been awhile since any of them has called one another to say more than ‘hi,’ so he’s kind of surprised when Ryan says, “Spence, this is the best decision we ever made, seriously.” He sounds way more animated than usual and Spencer realizes he’s not going to get any sort of commiseration from Ryan.

Spencer wedges the phone between his ear and his shoulder and pours himself a bowl of cereal, just to give himself something to do. He listens to Ryan ramble on about the job Pete swung him with FBR, scouting bands. He’s already found this group of kids he’s treating like his freaking babies, telling Spencer at length about the first time their lead singer, this chick who Ryan says is “the tiniest thing you’ve ever seen, but she can wail like Gerard fucking Way, it’s insane,” improvised this rising sixth and their little half-packed venue went nuts and he describes the looks on all their faces, wide eyes and disbelieving grins. Spencer doesn’t need the description; he remembers the feeling well enough on his own.

Still, Spencer would rather listen to Ryan talk about his pet band than answer the eventual question, “So, what have you been up to?”

“You know,” Spencer says, shrugging even though Ryan can’t see it. “Stuff. Relaxing.”

“Meaning…nothing?”

Spencer doesn’t say anything to that, just pokes at his now-soggy cereal. Most of the little crosshatched fibers of the squares have disintegrated and separated in the milk, coming apart and swirling around the bowl aimlessly, unidentifiable debris of what they had once been.

“You should come out to LA, Spence,” Ryan tells him. “Come work with me.”

“I’ll think about it,” Spencer says, but he already knows he won’t. For starters, he doesn’t like LA all that much. It’s all the fakeness of Vegas without the proprietary feeling of home. More importantly, he really doesn’t want to see Ryan all excited about doing something he wants to do, doing something that feels right. He’s jealous enough just listening to it. Spencer pokes his soggy cereal again and empathizes.

Spencer feels soggy right down to his soul.

* * *

Talking to Ryan makes Spencer feel even more claustrophobic than ever and a little bit self-conscious. He had been aware that he was sort of fucking around, wasting his time, but hearing that kind of tone in Ryan’s voice really made it unbearable. Spencer can’t deal with Ryan’s superiority or his sympathy. Besides, he’s willing to bet money (which, let’s be honest, he has plenty of) that Brendon isn’t doing much either. So he drives over to Brendon’s one afternoon, and it is kind of a horrible idea.

He lets himself into Brendon and Shane’s place with his key and immediately almost breaks his neck tripping over some boxes right in the doorway.

“Fucking Christ,” Spencer mutters.

“Are we being burgled?” Brendon asks, poking his head into the hall, munching on a Hot Pocket. “Oh, hey Spence. What’s up?”

“Are you booby-trapping this place? Seriously, Brendon, what the hell.”

“I just haven’t gotten around to those yet,” Brendon shrugs. “I’ve been doing kind of a lot of impulse buying lately.” Brendon stuffs the rest of his Hot Pocket in his mouth and beams.

Spencer feels a little better after that. These are not the George Foreman grills of a man who knows what he is doing with his life.

“So, did I know you were coming over?” Brendon asks, wiping off his hands on his jeans.

“Surprise,” Spencer says, shrugging.

“Oh, good, I thought I might just have forgotten,” Brendon says, navigating boxes to give Spencer one of his famously inappropriate hugs. “I’ve been super busy,” he adds, humping Spencer’s leg a little.

“You - really?” Spencer says, disappointed.

“Oh yeah,” Brendon says. “I’m building this thing in the den, come check it out.”

Spencer follows, half-expecting to discover Brendon has taken up building model airplanes or ships in bottles or something, not that he is apparently building his own personal Stop-n-Shop.

“You like?” Brendon asks.

“Brendon,” Spencer says, poking a box of Wheat Thins that make up the multi-tiered construction of cracker and cereal boxes, “you don’t even like these.”

“Yeah, but I needed the yellow, and they’re better than Triscuits, so, obviously…”

“Obviously,” Spencer repeats. “Just for fun though, want to explain this?”

“It’s my center, duh,” Brendon says, rolling his eyes. He opens a box of Fruit by the Foot, removing one carefully so as not to disrupt his structure. At Spencer’s lifted eyebrow he says, “What? I only need the boxes.”

“Your center?” Spencer says.

“Yup,” Brendon grins, dropping his defensive air and about a foot of cherry red candy to flit around the structure excitedly, pointing out details (“the pool’s gonna go here, gotta have one, and for over here I was thinking monkeys, then upstairs-”) and explaining his color coding system (“greens are lawns, yellow is living space, red is entertainment areas, and then everything else is color coded by species”).

“What exactly is this, Bren?” Spencer asks when he can finally get a word in. Brendon opens his mouth exasperatedly and Spencer says, “I know, it’s your center, but what exactly-”

“Okay, so, Shane and I were watching Zoolander awhile ago, right?”

“Brendon-” Spencer says and rolls his eyes.

“Shut up, it’s a totally underrated movie and this is related, I swear. So. We were watching Zoolander and I was, like, ‘Shane, people probably think I’m Derek Zoolander, you know? They probably think I’m retarded’ and Shane was like, ‘Derek’s actually a good guy, though, so that’s not really an insult’ and we got to talking about it and I realized that Zoolander actually had some pretty great ideas, you know? Like, obviously the name was kind of retarded, but the Center for Kids Who Can’t Read Good was actually a noble idea, you know? And then we started talking about it, kind of as a joke, and I thought of what my center would be. Spence, Spencer, I would make the Brendon Urie Center for Runaway Mormons who Want to Be Rockstars Slash Exotic Animal Farm!” He spreads out his hands, clearly waiting for Spencer’s wild applause.

Honestly, Spencer is a little impressed. True, it’s a little too specific and, yeah, the exotic animals are frankly a little much, but it’s very Brendon and all his better ideas tend to start out as too much anyway. Spencer knows Shane or Ryan will step in and rein him back. Spencer knows it will probably turn out to be really amazing.

Fuck.

* * *

On his way home, he calls Jon.

“Spencer Smith,” Jon says, and Spencer can hear his lazy, happy smile crackling over the line. “What’s up?”

“Please, please, please tell me you’re not doing anything with your life,” Spencer says. “Like, you’re not over there in Chicago donating flip flops to the homeless, are you? You’re not solving world hunger?”

“I’m… making pancakes?” Jon says.

“For starving orphans? For the elderly?”

“Nope, just me,” Jon says. “Um, should I be?”

“I don’t know,” Spencer says miserably. “What should any of us be doing, I want to die.”

“Wow, what?” Jon says, laughing. “What’s going on?”

“Existential crisis,” Spencer sighs. “Ryan’s changing the world of music one little emo band at a time and Brendon’s saving runaways and raising fucking, I don’t know, unicorns or something. And I watched every single season of American Idol.”

“Brendon’s raising unicorns?”

“It’s only a matter of time,” Spencer says grimly. “I thought we were taking a break.”

“It’s not a break, Spence, it’s over,” Jon says.

“I know that,” Spencer says and changes lanes.

“You know what, I have a lot of extra pancakes on my hands. You should come to Chicago, that’s what you should do.”

“I don’t know,” Spencer says, “I don’t want to, like, impose or anything.”

“No, I’m not really doing anything either. We could sit around and do nothing together, it’ll be awesome.”

Spencer is man enough to admit that this had maybe been his goal in calling. He wants some kind of support for his decision to do nothing with his life, at least for now. And he hasn’t seen Jon since the tour, he misses him. Spencer likes Chicago. So he says, “Yeah. Okay. If I fly in next week will there still be pancakes?”

“Oh man,” Jon says. “You’re in for a major treat. Next week is chocolate chip French toast.”

* * *

Spencer’s flight lands in Chicago a little late for French toast, but as Jon gives him a welcoming hug at baggage claim he says, “I hope you didn’t bring, like, four bags of shoes or something because my car is full of delicious Chicago pizza.”

“I really hope you didn’t invite me here just to get me fat,” Spencer laughs.

“It’s time to let go of your girlish figure, Spence,” Jon says seriously, grabbing one of Spencer’s two bags, thank you very much, and hefting it over his shoulder. “There’s no one left to impress.”

“My looks are all I have now,” Spencer says. “I’m unemployed.”

“You’re an unemployed millionaire, I think you’ll survive,” Jon answers wryly. “Also, I got your favorite. Sausage and pineapple, extra cheese.”

“I knew I came here for a reason,” Spencer says, and he eats three slices in the twenty minute drive from O’Hare to Jon’s apartment.

* * *

They spend the first night on Jon’s couch, drinking beers and eating pizza. When Jon pulls out a bag of weed and his CD collection, rolling a joint as he says, “you have to hear this one song, I’ve been playing it, like, nonstop for the last month, you have no idea” Spencer can almost shut his eyes and pretend they’re on the tour bus, on some dark interstate heading to another show. He feels calm for the first time in weeks. His fingers are clenched loosely around the neck of his beer; his laugh is relaxed and full when Jon jumps up on the couch and starts singing along.

“All the wine is all fooorr meee,” Jon croons, getting right up in Spencer’s face with it, smelling like beer and sweat and pot, a tour smell. It feels like something, something Spencer has been missing since the break-up.

When the song ends Jon collapses back onto the couch, head in Spencer’s lap, smiling his dopey smile up at him. Spencer bumps Jon’s forehead lightly with the bottom of his beer, leaving a slight ring of condensation. “Do you ever miss it?” he asks as the next track comes on, something slower and heavier. He wipes the circle of water off Jon’s forehead with the edge of his sleeve. “Touring, I mean? The band?”

“I dunno,” Jon says, hooking his knees over the far arm rest and stretching out. He steals Spencer’s beer and takes a swig. “I miss it, yeah, but I’m glad we ended it when we did. You know, on a high note. It wasn’t gonna last forever, so.” He shrugs, his shoulder bumping up against Spencer’s hip. “Some bands can tour forever, you know like the Stones and, like, fucking Cher or something, but we’re not them. It was fun and it never stopped being fun. So I guess I’m satisfied.”

That isn’t the answer Spencer wanted but he realizes he hadn’t really had one in mind to expect. “Oh,” is all he says.

“You really miss it, don’t you?” Jon says, blinking up at him.

“I guess so, I don’t know,” Spencer hedges. “I just don’t know what to do now. I know I’m not really doing anything, but I don’t know what I want to do, you know? Like, since we were twelve there was the band, that was all we wanted, and then we got it and - just, now what?” Spencer makes a limp, floppy motion with his hand, trying to convey his feelings of being completely adrift and out of touch, completely lost at sea or something. Ryan would have put it better. All Spencer can say is, “I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what I’m doing,” sounding kind of plaintive and tired.

“It’s not like you have to, I don’t know, cure cancer or set up a utopian colony on the moon, or whatever,” Jon says. “Just do what makes you happy. You have time to figure it out, you’re not that old.”

Spencer stares at him. “On the moon?” he says.

“I had dreams as a kid too, you know,” Jon grins. Spencer laughs. “You’ll figure it out,” he says, more confidently than Spencer feels.

“Sure,” he says. “And if not, there’s always the space utopia.”

“Hey, don’t mock my space utopia,” Jon says, poking distractedly up at Spencer, hitting him somewhere near the collar bone. “I had extensive blueprints, you know. I was dead serious.”

“You had blueprints? How old were you, six?” Spencer laughs.

“Eight,” Jon admits. “I was kind of a late bloomer. And they were less blueprints and more stick figures holding hands on a big circle. But the foundations were there!”

“You were kind of a retarded kid, weren’t you?”

“I’m kind of a retarded adult,” Jon says blithely. “Oh, hey, you know what’s on? Iron Chef America is on. It doesn’t have the hilarious voiceovers like the original Japanese one, but it does have Bobby Flay. He can grill, like, anything, it’s amazing.” Jon rolls to the floor and starts digging around for the remote, which he eventually finds in a half empty pizza box and they fall asleep watching Bobby Flay totally school some pastry chef in the chocolate challenge.

It was, Spencer admits later, pretty amazing.

* * *

The next morning Spencer wakes up to the halfway familiar smell of Jon’s favorite coffee and the muffled sound of Jon in the kitchen. Spencer wriggles his face out of the couch cushions, knowing he’ll have those stupid creases lining his cheek, and stretches out, taking a deep breath. He feels a dig of claws in his leg and realizes Dylan had been napping on him. “Muh,” he says by way of apology. He doesn’t think Dylan is particularly impressed by it. The cat stalks away, tail in the air, clearly in a huff.

In the kitchen there is a shuffle and thump. “Owfuck.”

Spencer sits up and peeks over the back of the couch.

Jon is rubbing his knee with one hand and gripping a spatula in the other, peering under his ridiculously small kitchen table. “Did you piss off my cat, Smith?”

“Maybe,” Spencer says and stretches his arms over his head. “How can you tell?”

“He only trips me up when he’s pissed,” Jon says. “Coffee?”

“Yesplease,” Spencer says, rolling off the couch embarrassingly quickly.

Jon hands him a Cubs mug with a chip in the handle. Spencer recognizes it as one of Jon’s favorites. “I was gonna make breakfast. What do you think, pancakes or eggs and toast?” Jon tocks his spatula back and forth, left for pancakes right for eggs.

Spencer feels his stomach do a queasy sidestep at the thought of syrup. “Um, toast. Just toast,” he adds, after another nausea-inducing image of eggs. He makes a face.

“You are weak, Spencer Smith,” Jon accuses, pointing his spatula with authority. “We’re going to have to train you up while you’re here. Seriously, this is like Truckstops and Statelines all over again.”

Spencer feels a little pang at that, remembering when he and Ryan and Brendon were all new to this and everything was huge and shiny and thrilling, the nights on the Academy’s bus, the first time the kids at the show sang the words right back and the four of them looked at each other and thought yes. All he says is, “You’re a terrible influence. I should fly home and hang out with strippers instead. Or Brendon.”

Jon bumps Spencer with his hip on his way to the refrigerator. “An empty threat,” he says, rooting around, pulling out eggs - not in a carton or anything, Spencer notes, just eggs that are apparently hidden around his fridge like it’s perpetually Easter in there - and cheese and Tabasco sauce. Spencer’s stomach roils again. “I know you’re gonna stick around and mooch off my coffee and my mad breakfast-making skills and piss off my cats.”

“That’s not gonna be a problem, is it?” Spencer asks, suddenly nervous. He really doesn’t know how long he can stay without wearing out his welcome.

“Are you kidding?” Jon asks, emerging from the fridge holding a carton of orange juice. “Now that I finally tricked you up here I’m keeping you. You’re going to have to escape out the windows in the dead of night on, like, a rope made of sheets. Seriously.”

“I’m gonna remind you said that next time I piss your cat off,” Spencer says, hiding his relief in his coffee cup. “On second thought,” he says, mouth dropping open in horror as Jon takes a huge, sloppy swallow directly from the carton of orange juice, “maybe I’ll escape after all. Jon Walker, were you always this gross?”

“What?” Jon says, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. He looks innocent but his eyes are crinkling up, just at the corners, always a sure sign he’s fucking around. He scratches his stomach for emphasis. “I just like to rinse my mouth with it then spit it back in.”

“Ew. Ew, ew, ew,” Spencer says. “I know you’re lying, but still, ew. I’m going to throw up on you if you keep this going. Fair warning.”

“I left some for you,” Jon says gleefully, brandishing the orange juice at Spencer. “Want some?”

Spencer laughs and dodges around the island, trying to put some distance between him and Jon’s saliva juice. “Stay away, I swear to god, I’ll dump this coffee in your crotch.”

A brief scuffle ensues, the resulting casualties of which include Spencer’s hip (bruised against the counter while evading Jon’s gross orange juice), Jon’s wrist (burned when Spencer’s coffee sloshed out of its mug in an over-enthusiastic evasion), and four pieces of toast (burned beyond the point of being edible while they were distracted). Still, Spencer didn’t have to drink any of Jon’s backwash, so he calls it a win.

They finally do have breakfast and Spencer manages not to barf all over the kitchen as Jon cheerfully shovels down about four scrambled eggs drenched in Tabasco. They spend the day sightseeing around Chicago, checking off more things on the mental list Jon composed years ago when Spencer first told him he’d never been to Navy Pier. The night ends with them passing out in front of Food Network again, but this time they have the strength to haul each other up blearily before they really fall asleep and Spencer even manages to brush his teeth before he collapses into the tiny twin bed in the guest room. His feet dangle off the end but he’s too tired to care and he doesn’t even dream about the band.

* * *

Things kind of settle down into a pattern after the first few days. They wake up, Jon makes breakfast, they go out and do something in Chicago, maybe see Tom or whoever happens to be in town, maybe go to a show, and then watch TV until they pass out. It’s nice, Spencer reflects as they watch The Colbert Report, to have this complete lack of pressure. Ryan and Brendon can save the world all they want, he’s perfectly content to live on Jon’s couch watching fake news shows. He feels a little bad sometimes about mooching, or whatever, but whenever he mentions heading back to Vegas Jon firmly tells him that he’s an idiot and that he’s staying and, one time, licks his own finger and sticks it reproachfully in Spencer’s ear.

Some days Jon goes out to photograph things, Empires rehearsal sessions or various shows. Sometimes Spencer goes with him but he tends to feel extraneous and in the way when he does, so more often than not he stays in and watches Food Network. He blames Jon for getting him addicted but he’s completely fascinated by Sandra Lee’s idea of “semi” homemade which seems to actually translate to “completely store bought.”

It’s while Jon is out photographing some outdoor concert that Spencer gets the disastrous idea to make muffins. He blames it all on Alton Brown and his stupid muffin special. It just seemed like a good idea at the time.

Somewhere between realizing that the eggs he’s using are a little less than fresh and discovering that he’s been reading the oven timer completely wrong Spencer decides that it was not such a good idea after all.

Jon comes home to find Spencer furiously waving a baking sheet around the kitchen area, trying to force some of the smoke out the windows, cursing under his breath at the stupid, burnt, misshapen muffins that do not seem to want to come out of the tin.

“Um,” Jon says, taking his camera from around his neck and putting it on the coffee table, very carefully, like he always handles his camera. “Should I be calling the fire department?”

“Fucking Alton and his fucking muffins,” Spencer mutters. “Fucking eggs and fucking oven and fucking box telling me lies because there is no way I messed up this badly on my own.”

When Jon stops laughing enough to help Spencer avert further disaster he says, “They don’t look that bad actually. It could have been worse.”

Spencer gives him a pained look. Jon shrugs and pries a muffin out of the tin. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Spencer says quickly. “No, really, you might die.” But it’s too late. Jon takes a bite out of a muffin. Spencer winces at the crunching sound. He’s pretty sure that isn’t supposed to happen.

“Mm,” Jon says. He’s making a really strange face that does not exactly inspire Spencer with confidence. “Blueberry.”

“They’re lemon poppy seed,” Spencer says mournfully.

Jon tactfully waits until Spencer turns away to spit out the muffin.

* * *

After the whole muffin incident, it becomes kind of a mission. Spencer is determined to bake. It’s not so much a hobby as it is a Challenge, and Spencer is adamant about that; a hobby sounds patronizing. Anyway, it keeps him occupied which is useful since Jon is spending more and more time photographing summer festivals. Spencer kind of has the feeling that Jon downplays what he’s doing when he talks to Spencer about it, that Jon isn’t nearly as directionless as he originally claimed; Spencer is beginning to suspect he was lured here under false pretenses.

Still, now that he’s here he might as well try something, right? Earn his keep or whatever. So he watches Food Network and he learns. He walks three blocks to a second-hand book store and buys a cookbook. Jon freaks out over this, first because he thinks it’s hilarious and second because whoever owned it before has written hints and optional extra ingredients in the margins. “It’s like Harry Potter, dude!” he says. “The Half-Blood Chef!” Spencer just rolls his eyes and finishes his lopsided quiche.

A week in, he makes a perfect batch a muffins from a box. (He doesn’t like to mention the six boxes he screwed up first, and he appreciates that Jon says nothing about how his garbage was all full of charred, dry little muffins.) After two weeks he makes them from scratch. At the end of the month, Spencer makes a three course dinner. (One course is technically jello, but Spencer throws some whipped cream on it and calls it dessert.) By August, he’s cooking for them regularly, though he lets Jon retain rights to breakfast (“Spence, what if I blow through my millions? I’ll have to go back to working at Starbucks! I need to keep my skills, like, honed. Also, there was that time you were too tired and put eggs in the coffee maker.” “It was one time, Jon! Christ!”) and every Thursday is take out night. Sometimes they go out on Saturdays and they always do brunch together on Sundays. Spencer wants to make a perfect omelet by Labor Day.

After brunch Spencer flips through his cookbook and picks a few recipes for the week and then they spend the afternoon at the grocery store. The first few trips were a little disastrous (“Spence, what are you doing?” “Squeezing fruit?” “Yeah, but, um, why?” “… I’m not entirely sure.”) but they get the hang of it. In fact, they’re pretty much down to a choreography after a few weeks. This in no way means their excursions are without complication.

“I got a coupon,” Jon says. He’s apparently really excited about it too, rocking on his heels and beaming. “Buy one get one free.”

“For what?” Spencer says, debating the merits of the granny smith apples versus the New Zealand galas. He’s thinking about making a pie for Wednesday night, when the guys from Empires come by after their show. He thinks pie is a good choice; everybody likes pie.

“Um, Fruit Roll-Ups?”

“We don’t need that,” Spencer says.

“No, we don’t, but Spence, two for the price of one!”

“That’s still the price of one, which is one more than we need.”

“I don’t follow,” Jon says, already distracted by kiwis. “Did you see my coupon? I clipped it out of a magazine and everything! Besides, we’re, like, totally rich. Spencer, we could buy one box of Fruit Roll-Ups for the price of twenty and we wouldn’t even notice.”

“So what’s the point of the coupon then?” Spencer debates peaches.

“It… Spencer! Two for one!” Jon waves his kiwis emphatically. Spencer remains unconvinced.

They continue the debate in the cereal aisle, where they also continue their weekly Silent Cereal War. Jon puts Crunch Berries in the cart. Spencer takes them out. Spencer puts in Cracklin Oat Bran. Jon takes it out.

They never even eat cereal.

“I’m just saying, we could get some of those crazy ones, like where you can put tattoos on your tongue? How is that not fun?” Jon puts Blueberry Morning in the cart. Spencer takes it out.

“We could get actual tattoos on our tongues if we wanted them. It still wouldn’t be fun.” Spencer puts in Cookie Crisps. Jon takes it out.

“Come on, Spence, that’s cheating. That’s not even cereal, those are cookies.”

“They’re in the cereal aisle,” Spencer points out, replacing the box with Honey Bunches of Oats.

“Now you’re skipping my turn,” Jon says, making up for it with three boxes of Fruity Pebbles. “You owe me. Let’s use my coupon.”

“Jon-” Spencer says, laughing through a sigh while he gathers up Fruity Pebbles boxes and puts them back on the shelf. His sincere lecture about the rules of Cereal War is interrupted by his cell going off.

“Never gonna give you up!” his ringtone says. “Never gonna let you down!”

Jon folds over their cart, laughing. Spencer frowns. “You asshole, you can’t RickRoll a man’s cellphone. Why are you such a cheater?”

“Wait til you see the dirty texts I sent Brendon,” Jon says, tossing Rice Krispies into the cart. “You gonna get that?” he asks, nodding towards Spencer’s pocket.

“Not if it’s Brendon,” Spencer says. “You’re taking that call. Also, you lose. Rice Krispies are on the list; I’m making this chicken thing with ‘em.” The call turns out to be from Ryan, which seems safe enough, so Spencer answers it. “Hey,” he says. “Did you know Jon Walker is a cheater and an asshole?”

“Yes,” Ryan says. “That’s why I’m coming to visit you guys.”

“Oh good,” Spencer says. “Hey, Jon, Ryan’s coming up.”

“Ryan,” Jon says, leaning in close and speaking loudly at Spencer’s cell. “Ryan Ross, do you want Fruit Roll-Ups when you visit?”

“Uh, no?”

“Owned,” Spencer mouths at Jon.

“But Brendon might. He needs more green for the, fucking, like, gazelle pasture, or something. I don’t know I wasn’t listening. It might have been Shetland ponies.”

Jon does a victory dance and disappears to find his Fruit Roll-Ups.

“Brendon’s coming too?” Spencer says, wheeling their cart after Jon. If left unattended, Jon will buy anything, which is why there are still six packs of Go-gurt slowly rotting in his refrigerator.

“Well, duh,” Ryan says. “Your birthday’s coming up.”

“Oh yeah,” Spencer says. “Weird, I hadn’t even thought about it.”

“So you’ve been busy? Are you helping Jon with his photography thing?” Ryan asks. He sounds pleased, which makes Spencer feel like he’s about sixteen years old again and Ryan is after him to get a summer job mowing lawns or something. It’s not a good feeling.

“What photography thing?” he asks. “The Empires stuff?”

“No, dude, the coffee table book thing. You know, Chicago scene candids or whatever? It sounded cool.”

Spencer frowns. “No, he didn’t say anything.”

“Huh,” Ryan says. “Well, he’s pretty excited about it. He just sent me a couple shots in an e-mail the other day. They look great.”

“I bet,” Spencer says.

“So anyway, Bren’s got this premiere thing for Shane’s latest documentary so he probably can’t stay for more than a few days, but I could maybe take off for a whole week, if I get some stuff done before I go. Jon’s still living in that stupid apartment, right? So there’s probably no room, so we went ahead and got hotel rooms already-” Spencer makes the appropriate noises and gets the important dates and numbers from Ryan, but he’s mostly not paying attention.

When he hangs up he has to practically wrestle three boxes of fishsticks from Jon in the frozen food aisle but he lets him get his stupid fucking Fruit Roll-Ups and doesn’t say anything while the cashier bags their purchases. They take the El back to Jon’s apartment and Spencer wants to say something then, but someone recognizes them and Jon is immediately busy being charming and polite and not at all secretive about weird things, like his photo project. He even gives the girls one of his boxes of Fruit Roll-Ups.

“Brendon will be disappointed,” Spencer says.

“Brendon never has to know there were two boxes,” Jon points out. “I saved him one. I even saved him the cool one with the tongue thingys.”

Spencer breathes heavily through his nose. It’s not a sigh, technically.

He stays quiet until they’re back at the apartment, putting away groceries and Jon finally says, “So what’s up with you?”

Spencer has secretly been planning his moment of confrontation since they walked out of the grocery store, but Jon making the first move throws him completely off his game, so instead of making accusations about being lured to Chicago under false pretenses he kind of droops and whines, “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about your photography thing.”

“The Chicago thing?” Jon says, shoving chicken cutlets into the fridge. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Ryan said you were excited about it. He said you e-mailed him pictures.” Spencer is aware he sounds jealous, childish even, but he’s perturbed by all this secret goal-having going on right under his nose. Just when things had been going so well.

“Yeah, well,” Jon says and then stops. “Look, Spence, I just didn’t want to freak you out, okay? I thought, like, I don’t know, if you didn’t have all this pressure to live up to Ryan or Brendon or whatever then you’d, you know, find your bliss, do your thing. It kind of worked, right?”

“No,” Spencer says. “No, it really didn’t. See, because now instead of being directionless in my own house, I’m being directionless in your tiny apartment.”

“I thought you liked my tiny apartment,” Jon says, looking genuinely wounded.

“It’s not the apartment, I’m just - Jon, I’m just going to become one of those really sad has-beens, you know? And they’ll do some special on VH1 in, like, ten years, and they’ll be all ‘where are they now’ and I’ll be the one who gained fifty pounds and then they’ll come after me for Celebrity Fit Club, you know? I’m gonna be that guy.”

Jon just laughs, which Spencer thinks is really uncalled for since Spencer hasn’t technically even forgiven him for the whole ‘secretly productive’ thing yet. “I can’t even believe your brain right now,” Jon says.

“Shut up,” Spencer says, and then realizes he’s actually kind of a freak and starts laughing too.

“You see, this is exactly why I didn’t say anything, it’s because you’re insane,” Jon says.

“I am,” Spencer agrees, “I really am insane, but I’m not, like, fragile or anything.”

Jon stops laughing and looks at him, considering. “Okay,” he says. “Next time I go out, you wanna come with?”

“Yeah,” Spencer says. “I do.”

“Okay,” Jon says. “Then we’ll do it.”

“Okay,” Spencer says. “Good.”

* * *

Spencer is backstage. He’s cracking his knuckles and stretching his arms, jumping up and down a bit on the balls of his feet to get loose. It’s been a while, but he knows he can still do this. The other guys are nowhere around and it isn’t until he hears the opening bars of one of their songs that he realizes they’re already on stage. It takes a full measure before he realizes he doesn’t know the song. But he can see them, it’s definitely his band. There are girls in the front row screaming Brendon’s name.

“Fuck,” he says and starts to go out into the lights but someone grabs his arm. “I don’t have time,” he tells Jon. “They started without me!”

“Don’t worry about it,” Jon says. “Come on, we have to go.”

“Wait a minute,” Spencer says. “What are you doing here? You’re not supposed to be here, you’re-” Spencer checks to be sure, but yes, there he is on the stage, splashed by random lights, grinning at Spencer, shrugging almost apologetically, and then raising his eyebrows, all ‘what are you doing, get out here.’ But Jon is also indisputably here, backstage, fingertips solid against Spencer’s elbow. “You’re not here,” Spencer tells him firmly. “I can see you - you’re-”

“Spence, I came to get you,” Jon says, looking amused. “We have to go.”

“I’m not ready,” Spencer tells him, rolling away and squeezing his eyes shut.

“No shit,” Jon says. “Look, you said you wanted to come. We’re gonna miss the light.”

Spencer opens his eyes. “Oh,” he says.

“Hi,” Jon says. He looks sleep-tossed and a little squinty-eyed, but he’s fully dressed and awake enough to be enjoying this. “I’ve been poking you, for, like, half an hour. You sleep like a rock, dude, did you know?”

“I guess,” Spencer says and stretches. “Did you-”

“Coffee,” Jon answers promptly, holding up Spencer’s mug. “And it’s even still warm. Come on, we’re leaving in fifteen.”

The clock informs Spencer that it is 7:30. In the morning. “I really regret this,” Spencer says.

“Hey, you asked,” Jon says, grinning, and ducks out of the room.

* * *

“What exactly are we looking for again?” Spencer asks. He can’t help that it comes out sounding kind of bitchy. It’s eight o-goddamn-clock and he’s cold. It’s technically still summer, but it’s early enough that the air has a slight bite to it and the dew on his feet feels like ice. He probably shouldn’t have just put on the first shoes he found, especially after realizing they were a pair of Jon’s flip-flops.

“Whatever catches your eye,” Jon says for probably the fifth time.

Spencer kind of wants to inform him that it’s way too early to be so philosophical. Usually Jon’s not much of a morning person either, but photography makes him giddy, apparently. He keeps dragging Spencer around the park to look at homeless people sleeping on benches. It would be kind of weird if it weren’t so sincere and well, a little bit adorable.

“Oh wait, I almost forgot,” Jon says and starts digging in his bag for something. Spencer is surprised when Jon hands him a camera. “It’s an early birthday present,” he says, beaming. Spencer is reminded of the time Dylan got out of the apartment, killed a pigeon and brought it back home with him.

“Um,” he says.

“It’s not that hard,” Jon says, “I’ll show you how to work it.” Spencer pays attention for as long as it takes to learn how to zoom in and out and actually take a picture, but beyond that it all sounds way too technical. He has no idea what aperture and shutter speed are all about but he just nods along. “Okay! So! Try it out!” Jon should find his calling teaching special kids; no one else could possibly be this excited about pushing buttons at eight in the morning.

Still, Spencer figures he owes Jon a favor or hundred, what with the crashing on his couch and setting of his smoke alarm on a weekly basis, so he gamely asks, “What should I take a picture of?”

“Um, how about my ruggedly handsome face?” Jon says.

Spencer takes a picture up his nose.

Jon crowds in to have a look. “I don’t think that’s my better side,” he says, mouth twitching in an amused frown.

“I don’t think you have one,” Spencer says, because, seriously, Jon kind of set him up for that.

They get down to business after that, Jon prowling around, crouching at weird angles and snapping fifty shots of things Spencer doesn’t even notice - tattered advertisements for shows, people waiting for the bus, a man who looks kind of like a fifty year old Pete Wentz smoking a cigar and reading the paper.

Spencer takes a picture of a duck. It probably lacks poetry.

After about an hour, Spencer says, “Jon, I broke the camera.”

“What, with your face?” Jon asks, jogging up behind him to have a look.

“Haha,” Spencer glares, “but no really, I broke it.”

“Lemme see,” Jon says and holds the camera up. He turns it around on them and grabs Spencer. “Myspace shot,” he says and throws up a stupid gang sign that almost puts out Spencer’s eye.

“You dork,” Spencer says. “I told you it’s broken.”

“Like you’d know,” Jon says and then, “Oh, you know what, I see what happened. You put it on the video setting, you retard.”

“Sorry I’m not all artsy and shit like you, Ansel Adams,” Spencer says, rolling his eyes. Still, he good-naturedly submits to Jon’s Myspace camwhore moment and another half an hour of photographing the park.

On their way back to the apartment (with several stops for Jon to take pictures of alleys and stoplights and who knows what else) they pick up some coffees at Starbucks and Jon finally says, “So are you still freaking out about Celebrity Fit Club?”

Spencer shoves him with his shoulder, hard enough to make him stumble a bit, but not hard enough to push him into oncoming traffic. “Shut up, it’s not about that. It’s an existential crisis, I told you.”

“Whatever, you knew what I was talking about.” He looks at Spencer with his eyebrows raised, waiting.

Spencer sighs. “I don’t know. It’s not as bad. I’m not, like, frantic about it or anything, I just still feel like I’m playing catch-up, you know?”

“So you’re a late-bloomer, big deal.” Spencer makes a face at him and Jon laughs. “I’m being serious. You shouldn’t rush it, Spence. You’re not even thirty yet.”

“Ew, don’t even talk about that.” Spencer can’t ever imagine himself being thirty. He can’t imagine himself with a real job either. After years of living like Peter Pan and the Lost Boys, he’s kind of forgotten how the real world works and that’s what’s freaking him out so much. He doesn’t know where he fits into all of this. It’s the kind of thing he can’t figure out how to tell anyone, least of all Jon, who has always fit everywhere, effortlessly. So he just shrugs and sips his coffee and keeps telling himself that it’ll work out, it’ll come to him.

And failing that, there’s pretty much no way Brendon will ever follow through with his ridiculous plan.

* * *

“Blueprints!” is the first thing Brendon says when they meet him and Ryan at the airport. He’s waving them around too, practically brandishing them at Spencer and Jon like they’re pirate swords. “I have blueprints! It’s really happening!”

Spencer kind of wants to go lie on the tarmac until a plane runs him over. He can’t believe Brendon is meeting with architects and donors and zoologists while he’s Tivo-ing episodes of Barefoot Contessa.

The guys all come over for dinner at Jon’s and Spencer makes risotto and Jon opens up, like, seven bottles of wine, and it almost feels like the old days until everyone starts talking about their new lives.

“You have to see these guys, seriously,” Ryan says, his eyes lighting up in a way that Spencer hasn’t seen since Ryan first started messing with dissonance and distortion. “They’re like the love child of Black Flag, Queen and Kings of Leon. They’re pretty young, though, so-”

“We were pretty young,” Spencer says, and then immediately feels like he’s eighty. Ryan gives him a look and Spencer can tell he wants to say ‘Let it go, Spence,’ and he knows that Ryan’s right, but. He just can’t yet. It was their band.

Sensing an awkward moment and trampling it with his usual lack of grace, Brendon says, “Know who else is young? The herd of ponies I just bought!”

“Jesus Christ, Brendon,” Ryan says, laughing and looking horrified all at once.

“No, no, it’s awesome. The kids are gonna, like, bond with them and it’ll be like their power animals!”

“Like in Fight Club?” Ryan says, sounding intrigued at last. Jon and Spencer both laugh, because, seriously, some things really don’t change. Spencer feels so relieved he could cry.

“Sure, whatever,” Brendon says, “But no punching at the Brendon Urie School for Gifted Youngsters!”

“You totally ripped that off from X-Men,” Jon points out.

“So? It’s a classy name. And if mutants are real and want to come be educated in the ways of being awesome…” Brendon holds out his hands in an expressive gesture and grins at them.

“He’s so close to having a good thing here,” Ryan says to Spencer with a pained expression. “But it’s like watching a kid trying to shove square pegs into round holes.”

“Whatever, Ross,” Brendon says. “You would never have gotten into my school anyway. Besides,” he adds in a more serious tone of voice, “the name isn’t definite yet. There’s a lot of stuff to do before that gets finalized, zoning and charters and stuff, I don’t want to bore you.” Suddenly he changes back into the old Brendon and says, “Until it’s done, I’m calling it Steve.”

“Why?” Jon says, laughing so hard he chokes on his wine.

“Why not?” Brendon replies. No one can quite bring themselves to argue that logic.

“So how about you, Spence?” Ryan finally asks and all eyes turn to Spencer, unfortunately, just as he is polishing off his fourth or fifth glass of wine.

“Um,” Spencer says and then Jon says, “Spencer made dinner, actually.”

Spencer kicks him under the table and Jon looks at him all, ‘What?’ and Spencer glares back like, ‘Shut up, it’s embarrassing’ and Jon makes a face at him that clearly says, ‘You’re embarrassing’ so Spencer flips him off, the meaning of which is pretty universal.

Ryan and Brendon watch all of this with slightly bemused expressions.

“So, what, you’re like, in culinary school?” Ryan asks.

“No,” Spencer says, going for the wine again. “It’s just, like, a hobby? Um, kind of a way to pass the time?” He can’t mention the Challenge, it would be too mortifying.

“He’s gotten really good,” Jon says, probably trying to be supportive. “It’s awesome. Tom said his apple pie is like-”

“So!” Spencer says loudly. “Ryan, when’s your band coming up here?” He glares at Jon, who is grinning into his wine glass like the complete asshole he is.

“They have a tour scheduled for November,” Ryan says still doing his squinty-eye look at Jon and Spencer, like he’s trying to figure something out. “I’ll send you tickets when they’re gonna be in town. If you’re still going to be here, I mean.”

“Of course he is,” Jon says. “Why wouldn’t he be?” He looks over at Spencer, eyes wide and crinkling just at the edges and though Spencer hasn’t thought about it yet, yeah, he probably will still be here.

Ryan looks like he’s taking mental notes so fast his head might explode. Spencer has a feeling this isn’t going to end well.

“Did you seriously make this?” Brendon says to Spencer, examining a forkful of risotto. “It’s like, I don’t know, like fifty flavors of awesome all in my mouth at once! Did you wear an apron?”

Spencer goes for the wine again.

* * *

Ryan gets a phone call and steps out onto the porch all executive and important (Spencer kind of wants to shove him off the edge) and Brendon disappears to go find the cats (“Don’t look at me like that, Jon Walker, I am a man of animal sciences now, I have learned things.” “It’ll be your skin they claw off, not mine. And that’s all I’m saying.”) so Spencer and Jon start doing dishes, just because it’s kind of a routine now.

Jon hates the sound dishwashers make, so there isn’t one in his apartment. Spencer hates the way his hands get all wrinkly, so Jon usually washes and Spencer dries.

“Why did you have to tell them about the cooking thing?” Spencer asks him. “It’s totally lame.”

“I don’t think it’s lame,” Jon shrugs. “I think it’s kind of awesome.”

“Isn’t it, I don’t know, kind of… mom-ish?” Spencer says, making a face. Jon snorts (so unattractive, Spencer thinks) and gives him a weird look. “You know,” Spencer says and changes the subject. “And you didn’t have to give Brendon those Fruit Roll-Ups right after dinner.”

Jon almost drops a dish. “Okay. That,” he says, through his laughter, “was totally mom-ish.”

“Shut up,” Spencer says. “I’m just saying, I made pie, I worked on that pie, and then you just let him eat that artificial processed crap and you know what he’s like if he has more than one dessert and - Jon! Shut up!” But now Spencer’s laughing too, because he really is kind of being a mom, but that was his sort of like his job on tour, always making sure everyone had their shit together and ate their vegetables. In a way it’s just like being back there. So he hits Jon with his towel and Jon flicks water from the sink at him and it kind of escalates from there until Ryan clears his throat behind them.

“Um,” he says. “Are you guys doing dishes?”

“Uh, yeah,” Spencer says.

“Okay,” Ryan says. “Just. Wow.”

“What?” Jon says. “We should just leave them all dirty and gross? Did you see the face Brendon made on his, with the tomatoes for eyes? It was freaky, we had to dispose of it.”

“No, but you could, I don’t know, get a maid maybe?”

“I like doing my own dishes,” Spencer says. “Other people dry them funny.” It has never occurred to him before this moment that that might be weird, but Ryan’s face leaves no room for doubt.

Luckily, Brendon interrupts, holding a bleeding arm. “Uh, you guys? Dylan wasn’t exactly open to my advances…” he starts to say and the rest of the story becomes painfully clear.

“Spencer, med kit?” Jon asks with an air of resignation.

“Left it by the stove,” Spencer says in a similar tone. (He does not mention that the reason it’s by the stove is because he burned the hell out of his fingers poking shortbread cookies, testing to see if they were done.)

Ryan’s eyes are huge and he’s not saying anything. Spencer kind of wants to ask him what his deal is, but he’s distracted trying to help Brendon bandage his stupid arm and keep him from going for the cats again.

“Brendon, when will you learn?” Jon says, overly-dramatic and familiar.

“I’m not the one who needs to learn, your dumb cats are,” Brendon says. “They need to learn to love me.”

“You’re definitely an acquired taste,” Spencer remarks dryly.

“The chef would know,” Ryan says, and when Spencer glances at him over his shoulder he looks wide-eyed and innocent and, infuriatingly, like he knows something Spencer doesn’t.

* * *

Spencer doesn’t really get a chance to talk to Ryan alone until the party. They have it at Pete’s place in the suburbs, mostly because Ryan takes one look around Jon’s apartment (which he bought before they were famous, and Spencer thinks it’s kind of awesome that Jon refuses to sell it), snorts disdainfully and says, “Uh, yeah, no.” The party itself is a much bigger deal than Spencer expected, or really wanted.

Most of the crowd is other bands, people they’ve toured with or played with before. Spencer’s sisters fly up too and it’s nice to see them. He feels like a jerk, but he hasn’t even realized he missed them really, since he’s been out here.

Pete hasn’t changed much at all. He still loves playing the host and when Spencer and the guys arrive he throws open the doors like he’s Willy Wonka opening up his chocolate factory and says, “Mi casa es whatever! I don’t speak Spanish!”

Spencer has to wade through a bunch of people he barely remembers to get to the bar and tries to be nice to everyone and brush off questions about what he’s working on and generally not be an asshole, but his heart isn’t really in it. Halfway through the night, Pete finds him and grabs him around the shoulders. He says, “Birthday boy! Twenty seven, huh? How does it feel to be almost-thirty?”

“I don’t know,” Spencer says, smiling sweetly, “how does it feel to be nearly forty?”

Pete looks wounded and says, “Dude, I am a father, I’m allowed to be almost-forty. I have accomplished things.” Spencer feels torn between throwing up and punching Pete in the face.

“Are you allowed to be balding in the back?” Jon asks, sliding up behind Spencer and grabbing a drink.

“What? Where?” Pete says, feeling around the back of his skull. “You lie, Walker. My hair is thick and manly.”

“Is manly really the word you would use?” Spencer asks, because, really, Pete dyes over the grays in his hair and everyone knows it. It’s not that he has many, he’d just rather not have any.

“I have to go,” Pete says, still trying to assess his hair situation.

Spencer lets out a breath. “Thanks,” he says, and smiles at Jon.

“Don’t worry about it,” Jon says. “I grew up with Pete. He doesn’t really mean to be an asshole.”

“I know,” Spencer says, “it’s not a big deal. I just don’t really want to deal with it right now, you know?”

“Yeah,” Jon says. He drinks half of his beer and then says, “Hey, you know what, there’s a marathon of I Love The New Millennium: Second Term on tonight. You’ve put in an appearance, we could go home and get drunk and watch it?”

“That,” Spencer says fervently, “is your best idea ever.”

“Duh, I don’t have bad ideas. Just let me go say bye to Tom really fast,” Jon says. “Meet you at the door in ten?”

Spencer nods and finishes his drink then goes to find Ryan and Brendon.

Ryan is talking to Patrick, trying to get producing tips. Spencer waits for a few minutes for a good moment to interrupt before he says, “Hey, Ryan, Jon and I were thinking we’d get out of here. Do you-”

“Okay, I can’t stand it anymore,” Ryan says and drags Spencer out of the main party without even saying goodbye to Patrick.

“Don’t forget what I told you about the levels!” Patrick earnestly calls after him.

“Dude, what’s going on with you?” Spencer says.

“Funny,” Ryan says, “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

“What?” Spencer says, crossing his arms and frowning.

“You! And Jon! You guys are so… married!”

Spencer laughs. “What? Come on, Ryan, seriously-”

“You could have at least told me you were dating,” Ryan says, looking genuinely hurt.

“Ryan, I am really, really not dating Jon,” Spencer says, starting to find this less amusing and more creepy.

“Do you think I’m an idiot?” Ryan asks. “It’s obvious.”

“Except in the way that it’s really, really, really not true!” Spencer says. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about!”

Ryan gives him that same probing, eagle-eye look he’s been giving him all week and says, “You’re really not dating him?”

“No!” Spencer says. “I mean, he’s - Jon!”

“So what’s going on then?”

“Um, nothing?” Spencer says. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about. We’re just living together for now, we’re just hanging out. We used to hang out all the time! You never freaked out about it before.”

“I don’t know,” Ryan says, suddenly backing off and looking a little awkward. “You just sounded so much better I thought something must have happened…”

“I’m just relaxing, that’s all,” Spencer says. “Seriously, I’m not going to date Jon, that’s insane.”

“Yeah,” Ryan says. “I don’t know what I was thinking.” He laughs a bit. “We must have seriously lost contact there for a bit, huh?”

“Well, you’ve been busy,” Spencer says graciously.

“Yeah, I guess it’s been a bit crazy. But you could come stay with me, you know,” Ryan says. “I mean Jon’s got stuff going on too.”

“Yeah, but it’s fine. Really,” Spencer adds, when Ryan looks like he wants to say something. “I’m having fun, I’m sorting things out. I’m… finding my bliss,” he says.

Ryan laughs. “Did Jon say that?”

“Yep,” Jon says, coming up with his and Spencer’s coats over his arm. “You can tell because it rings of truth and wisdom. Ready to go?”

“Yeah,” Spencer says. “Ryan, you and Brendon wanna come with?”

“Nah,” Ryan says. “We might catch up with you later. I still wanna talk to Patrick about maybe doing guest vocals or something on one of Run Barbara Run’s tracks and Brendon is talking to Gabe about snakes.” Ryan’s pained expression is enough to let Spencer know he doesn’t want to get anywhere near that conversation.

“Okay,” Spencer says. “We’ll see you tomorrow or something.”

“See you, Ryan,” Jon says.

Spencer notices that Ryan is still looking at him and kind of shaking his head like something is really hilarious.

“I think Ryan Ross is cracking under stress,” Spencer tells Jon.

“Are we talking like, cracking-under-stress like ‘back in the cabin working on Pretty. Odd.’ kind of cracking-under-stress or like ‘he’s really cranky and needs a nap’ kind of cracking-under-stress?” Jon asks.

“Oh god,” Spencer says. “I hope he just needs a nap. If he sets anything in the apartment on fire I don’t think the fire department will come again.”

“Yeah, they were pretty mad at you last time,” Jon says, wincing sympathetically.

“Because I did their job for them!” Spencer says. “I put out that fire fifteen minutes before they got there!”

“Maybe you should consider a career in firefighting then,” Jon suggests.

“Flame-retardant is not exactly a good look for me,” Spencer sniffs and Jon laughs.

They spend the night reminiscing about way-back-when-four-years-ago and drinking beer and Spencer feels comfortable, finally, not surrounded by dozens of still-successful former band members and superstars.

His last thought before falling asleep on Jon’s couch (Jon is already snoring somewhere on the floor with Clover practically on his head) is that it really is a shame that Jon is Jon. Otherwise, Spencer might actually be tempted to date him after all.

In the morning, he chalks it up to drinking and doesn’t think about it again.

* * *

Continue to Part Two