(no subject)
and i say it's all right (part II)
panic! at the disco; brendon/spencer
we_are_cities july 31 07 & aug 18 07
pg-13; 11,179 words. for maddy.
( part I)
They get to the beach at sunset. The sky is all oranges and pinks and yellows bleeding into each other and Spencer doesn't bother finding his flip-flops on the floor, just climbs out and heads barefoot down the sand toward the water.
"Spence, wait up!" Brendon calls after him, locking the car up and following quickly, pausing partway to pull his own shoes and socks off. Spencer stops at the edge of the water, almost exactly like Brendon a few night before, where the waves wash up enough to just barely touch his toes. He hooks his thumbs in his pockets, sighs, and looks out across the water.
Brendon sidles up beside him, shoes hanging from one hand, and looks from Spencer to the ocean and back to Spencer. The smile Spencer's mouth had been hinting at earlier is gone, now, his lips curved just barely downward, face placid. Brendon wonders what he's thinking, but can't get past the freckles brushed over his cheeks.
"Did it work for you?" Spencer asks, abruptly, but he doesn't look away from the water.
"What?" says Brendon, brow furrowing when he frowns. Spencer doesn't make sense, sometimes, but usually he at least doesn't make sense in context; usually Brendon has something to work with, even though he's pretty sure he'll never actually understand Spencer.
Spencer waves a hand vaguely, at the sand and the ocean and life in general. "Whatever you were doing-- last time. When you were thinking, or whatever, did it help?"
"Oh, uh." Brendon shrugs. "I guess so? I didn't really think about it." Spencer snorts. Brendon just shrugs again, because he's not sure what else to do.
"Okay, well," Spencer says, and strides forward into the waves, the water immediately soaking dark up the legs of his jeans. He hadn't rolled them up, but it doesn't matter, because he wades out much further that Brendon had: up to his waist, pausing for a minute, then out a few more feet so his elbows are resting on the rolling surface of the water.
"Spence, it's getting dark," Brendon calls out to him, partly because he's heard that swimming at sunset is more dangerous--feeding time for the sharks, or something--but mostly because it makes him distictly uncomfortable to watch Spencer out there, like he should swim out and pull him back, or like this whole world is Spencer's own private room and Brendon's walked in without knocking.
The sun sinks down under the water, and Spencer doesn't move, so neither does Brendon, watching carefully for answers. The sky has gone gray, spreading dark and fading blues; Brendon tries again, quieter, because he knows how things are louder in the dark.
"Spence? Spencer," he says, taking a few steps into the water. It's just as cold as he remembers.
"Shut up, I'm coming," says Spencer. He bobs in the water and in one quick motion ducks under the surface, disappearing for a heart-stopping moment before re-emerging, striking out for shore.
Spencer is soaked, clothes clingy, hair plastered over his forehead. He wraps his arms around himself, shivering, and walks past Brendon back up to the car where he tries the door, finds it locked, and leans waiting impatiently for Brendon to shuffle around for his keys.
"Hand me my bag?" Spencer asks around chattering teeth. Brendon does, and Spencer rummages in it for a towel and dry clothes. He kind of manuevers around the door to change, but there's not really anyone around but Brendon by now, and it's not like they haven't shared countless dressing rooms anyway. Brendon hops up to sit on the hood of the car while he waits, humming Counting Crows to himself and watching night fall.
"Hey," Spencer says finally, his bunched-up towel thumping lightly against the back of Brendon's head. "Starving. IHOP."
Spencer's hair dries in funny angles, pushed up off his forehead and tucked behind his ears. Brendon has to keep resisting the urge to reach over the table and wiggle his fingers through it, muss it around into some semblance of normalcy, with 'normal' here defined as a Spencer who doesn't walk into the ocean with his clothes on and leave Brendon staring on the beach. Spencer doesn't seem concerned, though, picking steadily through his ham-and-cheese omelette, the set of his jaw firm in a way that makes Brendon think there's something he wants to say but isn't.
Brendon licks his fork clean of syrup. "Spence," he says. Spencer blinks up at him, mouth full. "We're in fucking San Diego," Brendon says.
Spencer shrugs, swallows. "Yeah, we are," he says, easy and balanced.
"Spencer." Brendon frowns at Spencer across the table and lets his fork sink through three pancakes at once.
"What," says Spencer. He pauses half a second, just long enough to pretend he gave Brendon enough time to answer. "You should let me drive home."
"You--" Brendon starts, stops, and resists the urge to roll his eyes. Sometimes, it is really obvious why Ryan and Spencer have been best friends for so long. They're both blunt, introverted, and obnoxiously, stubbornly enigmatic. It's unfair, Brendon thinks, that he always gets pegged as the type to try a person's patience, when he has known those two for so many years. He rubs a bite a pancake around on his plate, sopping up syrup. "You want to drive back tonight?"
"It's not that late," Spencer says, using his fork to delicately peel back layers of his omelette, the corners of his mouth tugging down in concentration. He glances up again, briefly. "Are you tired?"
Brendon shrugs. "I just thought, I don't know, I didn't know how long you wanted to stay?"
"Hm," Spencer says. He twists a long string of melted cheese around his fork. "I want to drive."
Brendon slides the keys across the table. "Just don't hurt my baby," he says, grinning. Spencer rolls his eyes.
Spencer looks tense behind the wheel: not high-strung or nervous, but like he's driving away from something instead back somewhere familiar. Brendon curls up on the passenger seat and watches him lazily through half-closed eyes, stomach full and thoughts sleepy.
"You know how to get home from here?" Brendon asks, half muffled in the crook of his elbow.
"I'll find it," Spencer says, glancing over with a shrug.
Brendon gives him a smile. "Mmkay," he says, and falls asleep to suburbs and exit signs and Spencer's face lit up by streetlights.
The insistent buzz of his Sidekick against his thigh is what wakes Brendon up, the sharp contrast to the vibration of the road under the car jarring him from sleep to grope blearily, blink half-asleep at the caller ID. It says: RYRO ;9
Brendon hits ignore.
"Who was that?" Spencer asks, glancing over, his hands still wrapped around the wheel in the same way they were when Brendon dozed off. He meets Spencer's eyes briefly, raises his eyebrows and shrugs, wondering how long he's been asleep.
"Hm," says Spencer, shifts a little, and digs his own buzzing Sidekick out of his pocket to answer. "Hey."
Brendon takes a slow, deep breath, resting his head against the seat and watching Spencer. Spencer cradles his phone on his shoulder so he doesn't have to drive one-handed, listens carefully. He frowns a little bit, forehead crinkling between his eyebrows, and glances over at Brendon again.
"Ryan says to please answer your goddamn phone every once and a while," he says; Brendon sighs and closes his eyes, as if that will stop this conversation from happening. "No, he's right here," Spencer says, words clipped. "We're in his car. I don't know, I think somewhere around Salinas. Yeah, sure, here--"
Spencer reaches over without preamble and wedges the phone next to Brendon's ear. Brendon opens his eyes again in time to catch the no-nonsense look Spencer gives him before turning his eyes back to the road. He sighs and says weakly, "Hello?"
"What the hell," Ryan says, flat and angry. "You don't wreck your car and then start ignoring me without at least telling me you're still alive first, what the fuck are you thinking?"
"Sorry," mumbles Brendon. His voice is still sleepy and scratchy. "Didn't Spence tell you I'm alive?"
If Ryan was here, Brendon would be able to see him huff, shoulders tensing, nostrils flaring just a little, mouth going tight. "That's a little different than actually talking to you yourself," he says. "Seriously, Brendon."
"Sorry," Brendon says again. He sounds petulant, he knows, but he can't think of anything else to say right now.
Thousands of miles away, Ryan sighs. "Brendon, if you--"
But Brendon holds the phone away, out toward Spencer, gives him a look that he hopes translates as please don't make me do this, please take my side for once in your life. Spencer rolls his eyes a little, but takes the phone.
"Ryan--? Yeah, sorry, he's driving and we hit a twisty spot. Hey, can I call you back later? I think we're going to actually try to figure out where we are now." Spencer frowns. Nods. "Okay, yeah. Later." Hangs up and glares at Brendon. "You are so fucked up."
"Where the hell are we?" Brendon thinks he's entitled to ignore that comment, since Spencer is the one who's been driving them into the middle of nowhere while Brendon slept.
Spencer shrugs. "Like I told Ryan. Somewhere near Salinas, I think."
Brendon leans his head back on the seat, facing the window this time, and watches the signs whip by. Interstate 5. Bakersfield. Fresno. And, yeah, Salinas.
"Why?" he asks eventually, glancing back over his shoulder. Spencer's eyes are narrowed at the road, knuckles white around the steering wheel. Brendon wonders if he's angry about the Ryan thing, or if it's something else that Brendon's missed.
Spencer bites his lip and sighs--not audibly, but Brendon can see the minute slump of his shoulders, the way they give under the weight of too much life and not enough years to fit it in. "Shouldn't you know," he says, quietly, then clears his throat. "For differenct reasons, maybe, but it's the same feeling. You should understand."
"I am going to pretend for now that you just actually made sense and that totally explains why we're in central Cali instead of Las Vegas," Brendon says, folding his arms over his chest.
"I like central Cali," says Spencer. "It has San Francisco. And Yosemite."
"I like Vegas," Brendon says. "It has my house."
"You didn't like Vegas a few days ago." Spencer glances over quickly, like he's not sure he should have said that but can't bring himself to break the habit of saying what he wants to.
"That's-- different." Brendon bites his tongue.
"It's not," Spencer says. He closes his eyes for a moment, then yawns. Brendon looks out the window; the sun is rising, splotches of gold and silver spreading up into the dark sky.
"Spence." Brendon frowns, squints at the road signs. "Let's find somewhere to stop, you know, sleep."
"Mm," Spencer says, and Brendon's not sure if that's good or bad, but Spencer takes the next exit with a decent lodging sign, his hands relaxing on the wheel. Brendon thinks maybe he was just waiting for someone else to suggest it first.
Brendon figures, just because you're rich and famous doesn't mean you always have to stay in ridiculous suites. Sometimes just a Days Inn off the highway is fine, as long as there's a continental breakfast and a Starbucks nearby. This one has both, so Brendon pays for a room while Spencer shuffles sleepily around with his bag slung over his shoulder. It's something like six in the morning.
Spencer kicks off his flip-flops and claims the bed closest to the door, curling up on top of the comforter and drifting off without a word. Brendon stands between the beds and shifts from foot to foot for about a minute before sitting carefully on the edge of Spencer's bed, leaning elbows on knees, staring down at the carpet between his feet. The room smells of cheap cleaning chemicals, so it's almost like they didn't even leave the car.
By his math, Brendon slept probably at least six hours in the car--maybe more. He's tired, but not very sleepy, and the idea of starchy hotel sheets is doing nothing for him; he wanders aimlessly around the room for an hour, sitting down then standing up, peeking into drawers in hopes of hidden treasures. All he finds, though, is the standard-issue Bible in the nightstand, and he closes the drawer again without touching it.
Asleep, the tension that's been lining Spencer's face since the beach fades away. Brendon wonders if it's weird, studying your sleeping bandmate, but he's got nothing else to do; Spencer's mouth is curved down in a soft frown, his shoulders rising and falling gently with his breathing.
Spencer makes a soft, sleepy noise and rolls over. Brendon watches him for a minute to make sure he's actually asleep, then gets up to delicately tug and pull at the blankets until they're untrapped from under Spencer and pull them up over him, tucking them around his shoulders. Spencer shifts again, hands curling posessively into the comforter. Brendon smiles a little bit, and lays down next to him, on top of the covers.
He manages a few hours of off-and-on dozing, nothing very restful, before he rolls back to his feet, scribbles a quick note for Spencer just in case, and pockets a card key. There's a CVS and a gas station stuck together across the street, so he fills up the car and grabs some necessities: toothbrush, razor, the works, a mocha frappuccino and two scones from the Starbucks on the corner. He's back in the room, shaving in the bathroom when Spencer wakes up, shuffling in sleepy-eyed to let his head fall on Brendon's shoulder.
"Coffee," he says around a yawn. "Time is it?"
"Like noon-ish?" Brendon guesses, tilting his chin away from Spencer so he doesn't get shaving cream in his hair. Spencer still smells like the beach, sand and saltwater. Brendon shaves a long stripe down his face and rinses the razor off in the sink.
Spencer yawns again and stretches. "Ugh, I need a shower."
Even after his shower Spencer is still bleary, blinking tiredly, pushing irritated fingers through his wet hair to get it somewhere near decent. Brendon hands over his comb and a scone and suggests a trip to Starbucks, if Spencer wants, he'll buy. Spencer would never argue with this.
So now they're sitting next to each other, sunk into big purple armchairs in the corner of the cafe. Brendon has his second frappuccino of the day, eating the whipped cream off the top with his straw, and Spencer is sipping his something-something latte that Brendon can never remember how to order. He knows it's got four shots of espresso in it, though, and it makes Spencer a morning person--even if their morning, right now, is two in the afternoon.
"Mmm," Spencer says, eyes closed in momentary coffee-induced bliss.
Brendon licks whipped cream from his straw, studying him intently. Earlier he'd got a text from Zack asking if he kidnapped Spencer again, and a few from Jon, just checking in. He told them both that he and Spencer were on a soul-seeking journey up the Pacific coast; Jon said that sounded excellent and Zack said to please not kill each other. Ryan hasn't called back. Brendon isn't sure how he feels about that.
"Hey," says Spencer, reaching over to stick half his butter croissant under Brendon's nose.
Brendon grins and bites into the bread. "Fankoo."
Spencer shrugs. "You bought it." He goes back to sipping his latte, his brows drawn slightly together in thought. Brendon has an urge to reach over and smooth the crease out with his fingertips; instead, he wraps both hands around his frappuccino, the drink ice-cold against his palms.
"So," he says eventually, because it's mid-afternoon and Spencer's had time to wake up now, or because he's antsy and his mind's been working twice as hard as his body lately, all questions and no answers, and maybe making plans will map out how they got here in the first place, "we have the room through tonight, if you wanna stay up here another night.
Spencer looks over at him, like he's surprised by the suggestion. "Yeah," he says slowly, but then, "no. Let's-- I don't know." He frowns.
"You have no idea where you're going," Brendon says, not accusatory, just observing.
Spencer sets his latte down. "What, you do?" Brendon can't tell if he wants a challenge or an answer, so he looks down at his frappuccino and shrugs.
"Well, then," Spencer says, "let's keep going."
"I told Jon we're on a soul-seeking journey up the Pacific coast," Brendon says when they're just skirting around the edges of San Francisco. He's letting Spencer drive again, and has his seat reclined, feet up on the dashboard. Spencer seems less tense behind the wheel, today, better-rested, more content to just follow the road instead of race against time.
Spencer doesn't look over at him, but shrugs a little. "I guess that's accurate."
Brendon tilts his head, grinning a little. "What are you looking for, Spencer Smith?"
"Somewhere to dump your body where no one will find it," Spencer says, deliberate and nonchalant.
"You know," Brendon says, "it might help to talk about it."
"Don't be hypocritical," Spencer says shortly, mouth twisting into something between a frown and a grimace. His eyes narrow a little, defensive, his fingers tightening on the steering wheel.
Brendon, usually, tries not to provoke Spencer when he's moody. He's learned over the years that it's probably not worth it to deal with the resulting glares and grudge unless he's really starved for entertainment. But right now, they're a day's drive from home with no warning or explaination, in Brendon's new-old car with no soundtrack except each other, and Brendon is bad with quiet.
"I'm just trying to help," he says. "Spence. You know, this is my car."
"Then don't let me drive next time," Spencer says through gritted teeth, checking his blind spot before jerking over into the next lane.
"Spencer." Brendon would reach over and put a hand on his shoulder, take his hand, or something, but he doesn't need another car crash. "You know, if you could just tell me what's wrong, maybe--"
"Listen, okay, I don't try to console you through your angst over Ryan, so let me deal alone, too, okay?" Spencer snaps, his eyes darting from Brendon to the roadsigns and back to the highway.
"Fuck you," Brendon snaps right back. "I'm trying to help, here, I'm trying to be your goddamn friend, I'm letting you drive my new fucking car halfway up the coast--"
"At least I don't crash it into telephone poles," Spencer interrupts, hitting the gas to cut across two lanes and onto an exit ramp.
"Have you even thought for a second that maybe I would like to fucking talk about it?" Brendon's voice cracks a little at the end with the realization that, despite all the long hours in the car trying to figure out Spencer Smith, there is still a weight in the pit of his stomach that is almost too heavy to carry.
Spencer doesn't answer right away. He swings the car back into civilization, takes a few deft turns and skids into a shopping center parking lot. He takes a quick look around--Macy's, JC Penney, Starbucks--then turns to Brendon, intense and intent.
"Okay," he says. "Talk."
Brendon stares. "I--" he starts, sputtering. He has no idea where to start. "You-- I, I just."
Spencer gives him a withering look. "I see. You can go home now, if you really want to," he says, and in a swift movement is out of the car and slamming the door behind him.
Brendon scrambles out to call after him. "Where the hell are you going?"
Spencer shrugs and waves without turning around.
The next two hours of Brendon's life go like this:
Spencer disappears into the mall and Brendon kicks one of his tires hard in frustration, curses loudly and makes sure his foot is not broken.
Brendon tries twice to call Spencer, then leaves him a text message that says im gonna leave u here, dickface and gives up.
Brendon gets a venti-sized caramel frappuccino and sits in one of the squashy chairs in Starbucks fuming, sulking, and finally thinking.
Brendon finishes his frappuccino and calls Ryan.
"Jon says you and Spence are on a soul-seeking journey up the Pacific Coast," Ryan says. "How are you still alive?"
Brendon clears his throat a little, uncomfortable. "Uh, I might've just lost Spencer in a mall in San Francisco."
"How the fuck do you lose Spencer?" Ryan asks, but he sounds more exasperated and amused than actually annoyed, so Brendon figures he picked a good time to call.
"He just wandered off," Brendon says, because it's true. "I just wanted to tell you that I'm not still in love with you."
"I know that," says Ryan. "You should probably find him."
"Well, I didn't, and I'll try, but he's an elusive motherfucker." Brendon slurps at the remains of his frappuccino. "I just never thought I'd love anyone as much as I loved you, and that was pretty depressing, but, you know what, I totally can. And will."
"I'm very happy for you," Ryan says. "Please find my best friend now."
Brendon wanders the mall aimlessly for a while, eyes peeled for Spencer and a little on-edge for paparazzi, since he's very aware of how worn down and strung out he looks after a few days in the car. But, he's got his hoodie pulled up and his sunglasses on, and even though he's tired he feels a little bit invincible.
There's no sign of Spencer, but there is an awesome sale at Journeys, and Brendon gets himself a bright yellow t-shirt that says "Vegetables Are People Too" with a sad menagerie of celery stalks and carrots on the front. Then he calls Jon.
"I cannot believe you lost Spencer," is how Jon answers the phone, sounding suspiciously like he's holding back laughter.
"Look, okay, he wandered off on his own, and he was being a dick, so," Brendon says, looping his Journeys bag around his wrist and rolling his eyes as if Jon can see it.
"Yeah, well, that's kind of Spencer's default mood," Jon says. "Don't leave him there, okay?"
"Well, yeah, but I have to find him first." Brendon thinks that Jon doesn't need to know that he actually spent an hour strongly considering driving off without Spencer. That had been before his frappuccino-aided revelation, though; now, he's just determined and a little worried. Jon ticks off a few places to look that Brendon hasn't thought of and by the time it's getting dark outside, Brendon feels like he's searched the whole shopping center twice over.
Spencer, it turns out, is sitting on the trunk of the Camry, feet perched on the bumper and chin propped up on elbows. Brendon can tell it's him from across the parking lot, from the soft, sad slump of his shoulders and his silhouette against the sunset. "Spencer!" he calls out once he's close enough. "Seriously, what the hell?"
Spencer lifts his head to blink at him, unsurprised. "I forgot for a minute where we parked," he says; Brendon is taken aback by the rawness of his voice. "I thought you'd actually left me here."
"I wouldn't do that." Brendon would be offended by the thought if Spencer didn't look three seconds away from falling apart.
"Yeah," says Spencer, unconvincingly. He takes a slow, shuddery breath and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes.
"Hey," says Brendon, "hey," and reaches out to wrap arms around him; Spencer slides easily off the car to crumple against him, clutching at Brendon's shoulders and pressing his face into Brendon's neck. Brendon can feel Spencer's eyelashes against his skin when he tries to blink back tears.
"Hey," he says again, sinking fingers into Spencer's hair, other arm tight around his waist. Spencer's hair is warm against his cheek, and for a second Brendon almost feels like they're teenagers again, lost between statelines where tomorrow is just yesterday in a different place. "Spence."
"What," Spencer says, his voice cracking on the word.
"Let's go to the beach," Brendon whispers.
The beach they find outside of San Francisco isn't like their picturesque surf beach from further south. It's all high cliffs and jagged rocks, crashing waves and breathtaking drops, and it's a little bit terrifying, Brendon thinks, but Spencer's got tight hold of his hand and strides purposefully out to the very edge.
"I like this one better than the other one," he decides, raising his voice over the sound of the waves. Brendon nods, tightening his grip on Spencer's hand and toeing the edge of the cliff, nudging a rock over the edge and watching it tumble into the darkness, into the water below.
Spencer says, "I asked Haley to marry me."
Brendon jerks his head up to stare. "What, when?"
"Two months ago," Spencer says, shrugging. "The same day she broke up with me. She said, I have to talk to you, and I said, no, me first." He lets out a long, slow breath. "How emo does it make you to like a place for its suicide potential, even if you'd never actually jump?"
"Better than crashing your car into a telephone pole," Brendon says softly, dropping his eyes from Spencer to watch the white crests of waves crashing against the cliff base.
Spencer cracks a smile. "Nah, the car thing is way more dramatic rockstar."
Brendon says, "I told Ryan I'm not in love with him anymore."
"But--" Spencer turns to look at him.
"I'm not," Brendon says, firm and simple, like it's the easiest conclusion he's ever reached. After everything, now, it kind of seems like it should have been.
Spencer is quiet for a long time. "That's good," he says eventually, quietly.
Brendon shifts over to drape arms around Spencer's shoulders, pull him closer and press his nose into Spencer's hair. He grins, suddenly, and tucks the expression behind Spencer's ear, whispering. "I decided I'm going to fall in love again, and it's going to be even more beautiful. It's going to be fucking epic."
There's a gust of wind, sharp and salty, curling around them like the waves on the rocks. Spencer shivers, turns his head and closes his eyes against Brendon's cheek. "And probably a trainwreck," he says, wry. "You're a disaster, Urie."
Brendon grins wider, squeezing Spencer to him. "Would change everything for happy ever after, caught in the in between of beautiful disaster," he sings, nudging Spencer's head with his nose.
Spencer opens his eyes; it's dark and Brendon can't really tell, but he thinks Spencer might be smiling just a little bit. "But she just needs someone to take her home," he finishes, more of a murmur than a song.
Brendon is driving; they haven't discussed it, but he figures it's an unspoken decision that they're heading back to Vegas, now; they've done all they can here. Spencer, curled up in the passenger seat, rolls his window halfway down so they still have the wind for a soundtrack. It blows Spencer's hair in a million crazy directions and makes Brendon kind of grin to himself, tapping out the rhythm of the Beatles in his head on the steering wheel.
"What is it with that song lately?" Spencer asks, his fingers instinctively drumming along against his thigh.
Brendon shrugs. "Blame Jon. Asked a girl what she wanted to be--"
"No, no, don't," Spencer tries not to grin, hitting Brendon on the shoulder. He's been watching Brendon more than the scenery, this drive, his eyes fickle between soft and calculating. Brendon pretends he hasn't noticed, because then Spencer would stop. He gives Spencer a big smile and Spencer rolls his eyes, digging his Sidekick from his pocket to check compulsively. "Zack says he's proud of you for being alive, and I better be in one piece or he will make grr-faces at you."
"Zack is biased and a heathen," Brendon says, pulling a face he hopes conveys the deep wound to his soul.
Spencer looks smug. "Yes, he is."
Brendon pouts, then sobers, runs a hand through his hair and looks over at Spencer. "Are you still in love with her?"
Spencer blinks, the only indication of his surprise at the question. He shakes his head, glancing off toward the road.
"Were you, then?" Brendon asks, after a moment.
Spencer shifts around in his seat to prop his feet up on the dashboard, squashing his toes against the inside of the windshield. "I like to think I was. It's hard to remember what being in love is like when you're not."
"There's a big difference," Brendon says, "between loving and being in love."
"That sounds like something Ryan would say," Spencer says, picking at a hole in the knee of his jeans that Brendon doesn't remember being there when they first left.
He shrugs. "It is something Ryan said."
Spencer smiles a little, to himself, but Brendon sneaks a peak anyway.
Brendon's house is still too empty.
Even after all of that, the soul-seeking and the epiphanies and revelations, it is still too quiet and too big. He has been home two days and both of those have been spent with the television up loud on the Home Shopping Network so he can hear it while he's out in his backyard, poking through the mess of flowers and vegetables he plants but is never around to tend. It's hot out; no ocean breeze can reach as far as Nevada. Brendon itches to take his car out again, drive forever with the windows down, but he's afraid he'll end up searching for something he really can't find, this time.
The afternoon of the third day, when Brendon's standing between a tomato plant and bed of petunias and listening to a disembodied voice try to sell him a set of panda-inspired salt and pepper shakers, Spencer calls.
"Stalkerazzi pictures from the beach on the internet," he says in a tone of deadpan that Brendon thinks might actually be amused. "Apparently, we've eloped."
"Awesome," Brendon says, finding himself grinning suddenly. "I love getting married when I don't know about it."
The pictures are from San Diego, not San Francisco, and Brendon is somehow disappointed but this, but they're just grainy shots, anyway, Spencer and Brendon standing by the water, Brendon sitting on the hood of the Camry while Spencer changes, obscured by the car door. There are a lot of comments about true love and rebounds and broken hearts. None of them are right.
"Hey, Spence?" he says, turning his monitor off and leaning his head against the wall and cradling the phone on his shoulder.
"No, I don't want to drive your car," Spencer says.
Brendon laughs. "But baby, I love yooou," he croons. Spencer snorts. "No," Brendon says, "I was just gonna ask if you'd wanna come over? There is a gaping hole in my life without you by my side."
Spencer is quiet for an extra beat, but, "Okay, sure."
He is over in half an hour wearing his jeans with the hole in the knee and the three hundred-dollar sneakers. Brendon scoops him into a hug and he makes a half-hearted noise of protest, but winds his arms tight around Brendon's neck anyway. His body is warm and familiar against Brendon's and Brendon grins into Spencer's hair, singing in a low voice, "Asked a girl what she wanted to be and she said, baby, can't you see--"
Spencer actually laughs, bopping a fist lightly on Brendon's head. "Oh god, shut the hell up." But he doesn't let go, so Brendon doesn't either.
"Fine," he says, pressing his nose next to Spencer's ear. "You pick a song."
"Hmmm," Spencer hums, the sound vibrating low against Brendon's skin, right down to his heart. He doesn't sing, but he closes his eyes and whispers, "Please, please, please, let me, let me, let me."
"Get what I want this time," Brendon finishes softly.
"Mmhmm," says Spencer.
Brendon tilts his head, carefully, just in case, so that when he murmurs the words are right next to the corner of Spencer's mouth. "Epic," he says. "Fucking epic, Spencer Smith."
"Trainwreck," Spencer murmurs back, his lips curling up into a grin. Then his hands are in Brendon's hair, and Spencer kisses him right on the mouth like it's the easiest conclusion he's ever come to.
(end)
panic! at the disco; brendon/spencer
we_are_cities july 31 07 & aug 18 07
pg-13; 11,179 words. for maddy.
( part I)
They get to the beach at sunset. The sky is all oranges and pinks and yellows bleeding into each other and Spencer doesn't bother finding his flip-flops on the floor, just climbs out and heads barefoot down the sand toward the water.
"Spence, wait up!" Brendon calls after him, locking the car up and following quickly, pausing partway to pull his own shoes and socks off. Spencer stops at the edge of the water, almost exactly like Brendon a few night before, where the waves wash up enough to just barely touch his toes. He hooks his thumbs in his pockets, sighs, and looks out across the water.
Brendon sidles up beside him, shoes hanging from one hand, and looks from Spencer to the ocean and back to Spencer. The smile Spencer's mouth had been hinting at earlier is gone, now, his lips curved just barely downward, face placid. Brendon wonders what he's thinking, but can't get past the freckles brushed over his cheeks.
"Did it work for you?" Spencer asks, abruptly, but he doesn't look away from the water.
"What?" says Brendon, brow furrowing when he frowns. Spencer doesn't make sense, sometimes, but usually he at least doesn't make sense in context; usually Brendon has something to work with, even though he's pretty sure he'll never actually understand Spencer.
Spencer waves a hand vaguely, at the sand and the ocean and life in general. "Whatever you were doing-- last time. When you were thinking, or whatever, did it help?"
"Oh, uh." Brendon shrugs. "I guess so? I didn't really think about it." Spencer snorts. Brendon just shrugs again, because he's not sure what else to do.
"Okay, well," Spencer says, and strides forward into the waves, the water immediately soaking dark up the legs of his jeans. He hadn't rolled them up, but it doesn't matter, because he wades out much further that Brendon had: up to his waist, pausing for a minute, then out a few more feet so his elbows are resting on the rolling surface of the water.
"Spence, it's getting dark," Brendon calls out to him, partly because he's heard that swimming at sunset is more dangerous--feeding time for the sharks, or something--but mostly because it makes him distictly uncomfortable to watch Spencer out there, like he should swim out and pull him back, or like this whole world is Spencer's own private room and Brendon's walked in without knocking.
The sun sinks down under the water, and Spencer doesn't move, so neither does Brendon, watching carefully for answers. The sky has gone gray, spreading dark and fading blues; Brendon tries again, quieter, because he knows how things are louder in the dark.
"Spence? Spencer," he says, taking a few steps into the water. It's just as cold as he remembers.
"Shut up, I'm coming," says Spencer. He bobs in the water and in one quick motion ducks under the surface, disappearing for a heart-stopping moment before re-emerging, striking out for shore.
Spencer is soaked, clothes clingy, hair plastered over his forehead. He wraps his arms around himself, shivering, and walks past Brendon back up to the car where he tries the door, finds it locked, and leans waiting impatiently for Brendon to shuffle around for his keys.
"Hand me my bag?" Spencer asks around chattering teeth. Brendon does, and Spencer rummages in it for a towel and dry clothes. He kind of manuevers around the door to change, but there's not really anyone around but Brendon by now, and it's not like they haven't shared countless dressing rooms anyway. Brendon hops up to sit on the hood of the car while he waits, humming Counting Crows to himself and watching night fall.
"Hey," Spencer says finally, his bunched-up towel thumping lightly against the back of Brendon's head. "Starving. IHOP."
Spencer's hair dries in funny angles, pushed up off his forehead and tucked behind his ears. Brendon has to keep resisting the urge to reach over the table and wiggle his fingers through it, muss it around into some semblance of normalcy, with 'normal' here defined as a Spencer who doesn't walk into the ocean with his clothes on and leave Brendon staring on the beach. Spencer doesn't seem concerned, though, picking steadily through his ham-and-cheese omelette, the set of his jaw firm in a way that makes Brendon think there's something he wants to say but isn't.
Brendon licks his fork clean of syrup. "Spence," he says. Spencer blinks up at him, mouth full. "We're in fucking San Diego," Brendon says.
Spencer shrugs, swallows. "Yeah, we are," he says, easy and balanced.
"Spencer." Brendon frowns at Spencer across the table and lets his fork sink through three pancakes at once.
"What," says Spencer. He pauses half a second, just long enough to pretend he gave Brendon enough time to answer. "You should let me drive home."
"You--" Brendon starts, stops, and resists the urge to roll his eyes. Sometimes, it is really obvious why Ryan and Spencer have been best friends for so long. They're both blunt, introverted, and obnoxiously, stubbornly enigmatic. It's unfair, Brendon thinks, that he always gets pegged as the type to try a person's patience, when he has known those two for so many years. He rubs a bite a pancake around on his plate, sopping up syrup. "You want to drive back tonight?"
"It's not that late," Spencer says, using his fork to delicately peel back layers of his omelette, the corners of his mouth tugging down in concentration. He glances up again, briefly. "Are you tired?"
Brendon shrugs. "I just thought, I don't know, I didn't know how long you wanted to stay?"
"Hm," Spencer says. He twists a long string of melted cheese around his fork. "I want to drive."
Brendon slides the keys across the table. "Just don't hurt my baby," he says, grinning. Spencer rolls his eyes.
Spencer looks tense behind the wheel: not high-strung or nervous, but like he's driving away from something instead back somewhere familiar. Brendon curls up on the passenger seat and watches him lazily through half-closed eyes, stomach full and thoughts sleepy.
"You know how to get home from here?" Brendon asks, half muffled in the crook of his elbow.
"I'll find it," Spencer says, glancing over with a shrug.
Brendon gives him a smile. "Mmkay," he says, and falls asleep to suburbs and exit signs and Spencer's face lit up by streetlights.
The insistent buzz of his Sidekick against his thigh is what wakes Brendon up, the sharp contrast to the vibration of the road under the car jarring him from sleep to grope blearily, blink half-asleep at the caller ID. It says: RYRO ;9
Brendon hits ignore.
"Who was that?" Spencer asks, glancing over, his hands still wrapped around the wheel in the same way they were when Brendon dozed off. He meets Spencer's eyes briefly, raises his eyebrows and shrugs, wondering how long he's been asleep.
"Hm," says Spencer, shifts a little, and digs his own buzzing Sidekick out of his pocket to answer. "Hey."
Brendon takes a slow, deep breath, resting his head against the seat and watching Spencer. Spencer cradles his phone on his shoulder so he doesn't have to drive one-handed, listens carefully. He frowns a little bit, forehead crinkling between his eyebrows, and glances over at Brendon again.
"Ryan says to please answer your goddamn phone every once and a while," he says; Brendon sighs and closes his eyes, as if that will stop this conversation from happening. "No, he's right here," Spencer says, words clipped. "We're in his car. I don't know, I think somewhere around Salinas. Yeah, sure, here--"
Spencer reaches over without preamble and wedges the phone next to Brendon's ear. Brendon opens his eyes again in time to catch the no-nonsense look Spencer gives him before turning his eyes back to the road. He sighs and says weakly, "Hello?"
"What the hell," Ryan says, flat and angry. "You don't wreck your car and then start ignoring me without at least telling me you're still alive first, what the fuck are you thinking?"
"Sorry," mumbles Brendon. His voice is still sleepy and scratchy. "Didn't Spence tell you I'm alive?"
If Ryan was here, Brendon would be able to see him huff, shoulders tensing, nostrils flaring just a little, mouth going tight. "That's a little different than actually talking to you yourself," he says. "Seriously, Brendon."
"Sorry," Brendon says again. He sounds petulant, he knows, but he can't think of anything else to say right now.
Thousands of miles away, Ryan sighs. "Brendon, if you--"
But Brendon holds the phone away, out toward Spencer, gives him a look that he hopes translates as please don't make me do this, please take my side for once in your life. Spencer rolls his eyes a little, but takes the phone.
"Ryan--? Yeah, sorry, he's driving and we hit a twisty spot. Hey, can I call you back later? I think we're going to actually try to figure out where we are now." Spencer frowns. Nods. "Okay, yeah. Later." Hangs up and glares at Brendon. "You are so fucked up."
"Where the hell are we?" Brendon thinks he's entitled to ignore that comment, since Spencer is the one who's been driving them into the middle of nowhere while Brendon slept.
Spencer shrugs. "Like I told Ryan. Somewhere near Salinas, I think."
Brendon leans his head back on the seat, facing the window this time, and watches the signs whip by. Interstate 5. Bakersfield. Fresno. And, yeah, Salinas.
"Why?" he asks eventually, glancing back over his shoulder. Spencer's eyes are narrowed at the road, knuckles white around the steering wheel. Brendon wonders if he's angry about the Ryan thing, or if it's something else that Brendon's missed.
Spencer bites his lip and sighs--not audibly, but Brendon can see the minute slump of his shoulders, the way they give under the weight of too much life and not enough years to fit it in. "Shouldn't you know," he says, quietly, then clears his throat. "For differenct reasons, maybe, but it's the same feeling. You should understand."
"I am going to pretend for now that you just actually made sense and that totally explains why we're in central Cali instead of Las Vegas," Brendon says, folding his arms over his chest.
"I like central Cali," says Spencer. "It has San Francisco. And Yosemite."
"I like Vegas," Brendon says. "It has my house."
"You didn't like Vegas a few days ago." Spencer glances over quickly, like he's not sure he should have said that but can't bring himself to break the habit of saying what he wants to.
"That's-- different." Brendon bites his tongue.
"It's not," Spencer says. He closes his eyes for a moment, then yawns. Brendon looks out the window; the sun is rising, splotches of gold and silver spreading up into the dark sky.
"Spence." Brendon frowns, squints at the road signs. "Let's find somewhere to stop, you know, sleep."
"Mm," Spencer says, and Brendon's not sure if that's good or bad, but Spencer takes the next exit with a decent lodging sign, his hands relaxing on the wheel. Brendon thinks maybe he was just waiting for someone else to suggest it first.
Brendon figures, just because you're rich and famous doesn't mean you always have to stay in ridiculous suites. Sometimes just a Days Inn off the highway is fine, as long as there's a continental breakfast and a Starbucks nearby. This one has both, so Brendon pays for a room while Spencer shuffles sleepily around with his bag slung over his shoulder. It's something like six in the morning.
Spencer kicks off his flip-flops and claims the bed closest to the door, curling up on top of the comforter and drifting off without a word. Brendon stands between the beds and shifts from foot to foot for about a minute before sitting carefully on the edge of Spencer's bed, leaning elbows on knees, staring down at the carpet between his feet. The room smells of cheap cleaning chemicals, so it's almost like they didn't even leave the car.
By his math, Brendon slept probably at least six hours in the car--maybe more. He's tired, but not very sleepy, and the idea of starchy hotel sheets is doing nothing for him; he wanders aimlessly around the room for an hour, sitting down then standing up, peeking into drawers in hopes of hidden treasures. All he finds, though, is the standard-issue Bible in the nightstand, and he closes the drawer again without touching it.
Asleep, the tension that's been lining Spencer's face since the beach fades away. Brendon wonders if it's weird, studying your sleeping bandmate, but he's got nothing else to do; Spencer's mouth is curved down in a soft frown, his shoulders rising and falling gently with his breathing.
Spencer makes a soft, sleepy noise and rolls over. Brendon watches him for a minute to make sure he's actually asleep, then gets up to delicately tug and pull at the blankets until they're untrapped from under Spencer and pull them up over him, tucking them around his shoulders. Spencer shifts again, hands curling posessively into the comforter. Brendon smiles a little bit, and lays down next to him, on top of the covers.
He manages a few hours of off-and-on dozing, nothing very restful, before he rolls back to his feet, scribbles a quick note for Spencer just in case, and pockets a card key. There's a CVS and a gas station stuck together across the street, so he fills up the car and grabs some necessities: toothbrush, razor, the works, a mocha frappuccino and two scones from the Starbucks on the corner. He's back in the room, shaving in the bathroom when Spencer wakes up, shuffling in sleepy-eyed to let his head fall on Brendon's shoulder.
"Coffee," he says around a yawn. "Time is it?"
"Like noon-ish?" Brendon guesses, tilting his chin away from Spencer so he doesn't get shaving cream in his hair. Spencer still smells like the beach, sand and saltwater. Brendon shaves a long stripe down his face and rinses the razor off in the sink.
Spencer yawns again and stretches. "Ugh, I need a shower."
Even after his shower Spencer is still bleary, blinking tiredly, pushing irritated fingers through his wet hair to get it somewhere near decent. Brendon hands over his comb and a scone and suggests a trip to Starbucks, if Spencer wants, he'll buy. Spencer would never argue with this.
So now they're sitting next to each other, sunk into big purple armchairs in the corner of the cafe. Brendon has his second frappuccino of the day, eating the whipped cream off the top with his straw, and Spencer is sipping his something-something latte that Brendon can never remember how to order. He knows it's got four shots of espresso in it, though, and it makes Spencer a morning person--even if their morning, right now, is two in the afternoon.
"Mmm," Spencer says, eyes closed in momentary coffee-induced bliss.
Brendon licks whipped cream from his straw, studying him intently. Earlier he'd got a text from Zack asking if he kidnapped Spencer again, and a few from Jon, just checking in. He told them both that he and Spencer were on a soul-seeking journey up the Pacific coast; Jon said that sounded excellent and Zack said to please not kill each other. Ryan hasn't called back. Brendon isn't sure how he feels about that.
"Hey," says Spencer, reaching over to stick half his butter croissant under Brendon's nose.
Brendon grins and bites into the bread. "Fankoo."
Spencer shrugs. "You bought it." He goes back to sipping his latte, his brows drawn slightly together in thought. Brendon has an urge to reach over and smooth the crease out with his fingertips; instead, he wraps both hands around his frappuccino, the drink ice-cold against his palms.
"So," he says eventually, because it's mid-afternoon and Spencer's had time to wake up now, or because he's antsy and his mind's been working twice as hard as his body lately, all questions and no answers, and maybe making plans will map out how they got here in the first place, "we have the room through tonight, if you wanna stay up here another night.
Spencer looks over at him, like he's surprised by the suggestion. "Yeah," he says slowly, but then, "no. Let's-- I don't know." He frowns.
"You have no idea where you're going," Brendon says, not accusatory, just observing.
Spencer sets his latte down. "What, you do?" Brendon can't tell if he wants a challenge or an answer, so he looks down at his frappuccino and shrugs.
"Well, then," Spencer says, "let's keep going."
"I told Jon we're on a soul-seeking journey up the Pacific coast," Brendon says when they're just skirting around the edges of San Francisco. He's letting Spencer drive again, and has his seat reclined, feet up on the dashboard. Spencer seems less tense behind the wheel, today, better-rested, more content to just follow the road instead of race against time.
Spencer doesn't look over at him, but shrugs a little. "I guess that's accurate."
Brendon tilts his head, grinning a little. "What are you looking for, Spencer Smith?"
"Somewhere to dump your body where no one will find it," Spencer says, deliberate and nonchalant.
"You know," Brendon says, "it might help to talk about it."
"Don't be hypocritical," Spencer says shortly, mouth twisting into something between a frown and a grimace. His eyes narrow a little, defensive, his fingers tightening on the steering wheel.
Brendon, usually, tries not to provoke Spencer when he's moody. He's learned over the years that it's probably not worth it to deal with the resulting glares and grudge unless he's really starved for entertainment. But right now, they're a day's drive from home with no warning or explaination, in Brendon's new-old car with no soundtrack except each other, and Brendon is bad with quiet.
"I'm just trying to help," he says. "Spence. You know, this is my car."
"Then don't let me drive next time," Spencer says through gritted teeth, checking his blind spot before jerking over into the next lane.
"Spencer." Brendon would reach over and put a hand on his shoulder, take his hand, or something, but he doesn't need another car crash. "You know, if you could just tell me what's wrong, maybe--"
"Listen, okay, I don't try to console you through your angst over Ryan, so let me deal alone, too, okay?" Spencer snaps, his eyes darting from Brendon to the roadsigns and back to the highway.
"Fuck you," Brendon snaps right back. "I'm trying to help, here, I'm trying to be your goddamn friend, I'm letting you drive my new fucking car halfway up the coast--"
"At least I don't crash it into telephone poles," Spencer interrupts, hitting the gas to cut across two lanes and onto an exit ramp.
"Have you even thought for a second that maybe I would like to fucking talk about it?" Brendon's voice cracks a little at the end with the realization that, despite all the long hours in the car trying to figure out Spencer Smith, there is still a weight in the pit of his stomach that is almost too heavy to carry.
Spencer doesn't answer right away. He swings the car back into civilization, takes a few deft turns and skids into a shopping center parking lot. He takes a quick look around--Macy's, JC Penney, Starbucks--then turns to Brendon, intense and intent.
"Okay," he says. "Talk."
Brendon stares. "I--" he starts, sputtering. He has no idea where to start. "You-- I, I just."
Spencer gives him a withering look. "I see. You can go home now, if you really want to," he says, and in a swift movement is out of the car and slamming the door behind him.
Brendon scrambles out to call after him. "Where the hell are you going?"
Spencer shrugs and waves without turning around.
The next two hours of Brendon's life go like this:
Spencer disappears into the mall and Brendon kicks one of his tires hard in frustration, curses loudly and makes sure his foot is not broken.
Brendon tries twice to call Spencer, then leaves him a text message that says im gonna leave u here, dickface and gives up.
Brendon gets a venti-sized caramel frappuccino and sits in one of the squashy chairs in Starbucks fuming, sulking, and finally thinking.
Brendon finishes his frappuccino and calls Ryan.
"Jon says you and Spence are on a soul-seeking journey up the Pacific Coast," Ryan says. "How are you still alive?"
Brendon clears his throat a little, uncomfortable. "Uh, I might've just lost Spencer in a mall in San Francisco."
"How the fuck do you lose Spencer?" Ryan asks, but he sounds more exasperated and amused than actually annoyed, so Brendon figures he picked a good time to call.
"He just wandered off," Brendon says, because it's true. "I just wanted to tell you that I'm not still in love with you."
"I know that," says Ryan. "You should probably find him."
"Well, I didn't, and I'll try, but he's an elusive motherfucker." Brendon slurps at the remains of his frappuccino. "I just never thought I'd love anyone as much as I loved you, and that was pretty depressing, but, you know what, I totally can. And will."
"I'm very happy for you," Ryan says. "Please find my best friend now."
Brendon wanders the mall aimlessly for a while, eyes peeled for Spencer and a little on-edge for paparazzi, since he's very aware of how worn down and strung out he looks after a few days in the car. But, he's got his hoodie pulled up and his sunglasses on, and even though he's tired he feels a little bit invincible.
There's no sign of Spencer, but there is an awesome sale at Journeys, and Brendon gets himself a bright yellow t-shirt that says "Vegetables Are People Too" with a sad menagerie of celery stalks and carrots on the front. Then he calls Jon.
"I cannot believe you lost Spencer," is how Jon answers the phone, sounding suspiciously like he's holding back laughter.
"Look, okay, he wandered off on his own, and he was being a dick, so," Brendon says, looping his Journeys bag around his wrist and rolling his eyes as if Jon can see it.
"Yeah, well, that's kind of Spencer's default mood," Jon says. "Don't leave him there, okay?"
"Well, yeah, but I have to find him first." Brendon thinks that Jon doesn't need to know that he actually spent an hour strongly considering driving off without Spencer. That had been before his frappuccino-aided revelation, though; now, he's just determined and a little worried. Jon ticks off a few places to look that Brendon hasn't thought of and by the time it's getting dark outside, Brendon feels like he's searched the whole shopping center twice over.
Spencer, it turns out, is sitting on the trunk of the Camry, feet perched on the bumper and chin propped up on elbows. Brendon can tell it's him from across the parking lot, from the soft, sad slump of his shoulders and his silhouette against the sunset. "Spencer!" he calls out once he's close enough. "Seriously, what the hell?"
Spencer lifts his head to blink at him, unsurprised. "I forgot for a minute where we parked," he says; Brendon is taken aback by the rawness of his voice. "I thought you'd actually left me here."
"I wouldn't do that." Brendon would be offended by the thought if Spencer didn't look three seconds away from falling apart.
"Yeah," says Spencer, unconvincingly. He takes a slow, shuddery breath and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes.
"Hey," says Brendon, "hey," and reaches out to wrap arms around him; Spencer slides easily off the car to crumple against him, clutching at Brendon's shoulders and pressing his face into Brendon's neck. Brendon can feel Spencer's eyelashes against his skin when he tries to blink back tears.
"Hey," he says again, sinking fingers into Spencer's hair, other arm tight around his waist. Spencer's hair is warm against his cheek, and for a second Brendon almost feels like they're teenagers again, lost between statelines where tomorrow is just yesterday in a different place. "Spence."
"What," Spencer says, his voice cracking on the word.
"Let's go to the beach," Brendon whispers.
The beach they find outside of San Francisco isn't like their picturesque surf beach from further south. It's all high cliffs and jagged rocks, crashing waves and breathtaking drops, and it's a little bit terrifying, Brendon thinks, but Spencer's got tight hold of his hand and strides purposefully out to the very edge.
"I like this one better than the other one," he decides, raising his voice over the sound of the waves. Brendon nods, tightening his grip on Spencer's hand and toeing the edge of the cliff, nudging a rock over the edge and watching it tumble into the darkness, into the water below.
Spencer says, "I asked Haley to marry me."
Brendon jerks his head up to stare. "What, when?"
"Two months ago," Spencer says, shrugging. "The same day she broke up with me. She said, I have to talk to you, and I said, no, me first." He lets out a long, slow breath. "How emo does it make you to like a place for its suicide potential, even if you'd never actually jump?"
"Better than crashing your car into a telephone pole," Brendon says softly, dropping his eyes from Spencer to watch the white crests of waves crashing against the cliff base.
Spencer cracks a smile. "Nah, the car thing is way more dramatic rockstar."
Brendon says, "I told Ryan I'm not in love with him anymore."
"But--" Spencer turns to look at him.
"I'm not," Brendon says, firm and simple, like it's the easiest conclusion he's ever reached. After everything, now, it kind of seems like it should have been.
Spencer is quiet for a long time. "That's good," he says eventually, quietly.
Brendon shifts over to drape arms around Spencer's shoulders, pull him closer and press his nose into Spencer's hair. He grins, suddenly, and tucks the expression behind Spencer's ear, whispering. "I decided I'm going to fall in love again, and it's going to be even more beautiful. It's going to be fucking epic."
There's a gust of wind, sharp and salty, curling around them like the waves on the rocks. Spencer shivers, turns his head and closes his eyes against Brendon's cheek. "And probably a trainwreck," he says, wry. "You're a disaster, Urie."
Brendon grins wider, squeezing Spencer to him. "Would change everything for happy ever after, caught in the in between of beautiful disaster," he sings, nudging Spencer's head with his nose.
Spencer opens his eyes; it's dark and Brendon can't really tell, but he thinks Spencer might be smiling just a little bit. "But she just needs someone to take her home," he finishes, more of a murmur than a song.
Brendon is driving; they haven't discussed it, but he figures it's an unspoken decision that they're heading back to Vegas, now; they've done all they can here. Spencer, curled up in the passenger seat, rolls his window halfway down so they still have the wind for a soundtrack. It blows Spencer's hair in a million crazy directions and makes Brendon kind of grin to himself, tapping out the rhythm of the Beatles in his head on the steering wheel.
"What is it with that song lately?" Spencer asks, his fingers instinctively drumming along against his thigh.
Brendon shrugs. "Blame Jon. Asked a girl what she wanted to be--"
"No, no, don't," Spencer tries not to grin, hitting Brendon on the shoulder. He's been watching Brendon more than the scenery, this drive, his eyes fickle between soft and calculating. Brendon pretends he hasn't noticed, because then Spencer would stop. He gives Spencer a big smile and Spencer rolls his eyes, digging his Sidekick from his pocket to check compulsively. "Zack says he's proud of you for being alive, and I better be in one piece or he will make grr-faces at you."
"Zack is biased and a heathen," Brendon says, pulling a face he hopes conveys the deep wound to his soul.
Spencer looks smug. "Yes, he is."
Brendon pouts, then sobers, runs a hand through his hair and looks over at Spencer. "Are you still in love with her?"
Spencer blinks, the only indication of his surprise at the question. He shakes his head, glancing off toward the road.
"Were you, then?" Brendon asks, after a moment.
Spencer shifts around in his seat to prop his feet up on the dashboard, squashing his toes against the inside of the windshield. "I like to think I was. It's hard to remember what being in love is like when you're not."
"There's a big difference," Brendon says, "between loving and being in love."
"That sounds like something Ryan would say," Spencer says, picking at a hole in the knee of his jeans that Brendon doesn't remember being there when they first left.
He shrugs. "It is something Ryan said."
Spencer smiles a little, to himself, but Brendon sneaks a peak anyway.
Brendon's house is still too empty.
Even after all of that, the soul-seeking and the epiphanies and revelations, it is still too quiet and too big. He has been home two days and both of those have been spent with the television up loud on the Home Shopping Network so he can hear it while he's out in his backyard, poking through the mess of flowers and vegetables he plants but is never around to tend. It's hot out; no ocean breeze can reach as far as Nevada. Brendon itches to take his car out again, drive forever with the windows down, but he's afraid he'll end up searching for something he really can't find, this time.
The afternoon of the third day, when Brendon's standing between a tomato plant and bed of petunias and listening to a disembodied voice try to sell him a set of panda-inspired salt and pepper shakers, Spencer calls.
"Stalkerazzi pictures from the beach on the internet," he says in a tone of deadpan that Brendon thinks might actually be amused. "Apparently, we've eloped."
"Awesome," Brendon says, finding himself grinning suddenly. "I love getting married when I don't know about it."
The pictures are from San Diego, not San Francisco, and Brendon is somehow disappointed but this, but they're just grainy shots, anyway, Spencer and Brendon standing by the water, Brendon sitting on the hood of the Camry while Spencer changes, obscured by the car door. There are a lot of comments about true love and rebounds and broken hearts. None of them are right.
"Hey, Spence?" he says, turning his monitor off and leaning his head against the wall and cradling the phone on his shoulder.
"No, I don't want to drive your car," Spencer says.
Brendon laughs. "But baby, I love yooou," he croons. Spencer snorts. "No," Brendon says, "I was just gonna ask if you'd wanna come over? There is a gaping hole in my life without you by my side."
Spencer is quiet for an extra beat, but, "Okay, sure."
He is over in half an hour wearing his jeans with the hole in the knee and the three hundred-dollar sneakers. Brendon scoops him into a hug and he makes a half-hearted noise of protest, but winds his arms tight around Brendon's neck anyway. His body is warm and familiar against Brendon's and Brendon grins into Spencer's hair, singing in a low voice, "Asked a girl what she wanted to be and she said, baby, can't you see--"
Spencer actually laughs, bopping a fist lightly on Brendon's head. "Oh god, shut the hell up." But he doesn't let go, so Brendon doesn't either.
"Fine," he says, pressing his nose next to Spencer's ear. "You pick a song."
"Hmmm," Spencer hums, the sound vibrating low against Brendon's skin, right down to his heart. He doesn't sing, but he closes his eyes and whispers, "Please, please, please, let me, let me, let me."
"Get what I want this time," Brendon finishes softly.
"Mmhmm," says Spencer.
Brendon tilts his head, carefully, just in case, so that when he murmurs the words are right next to the corner of Spencer's mouth. "Epic," he says. "Fucking epic, Spencer Smith."
"Trainwreck," Spencer murmurs back, his lips curling up into a grin. Then his hands are in Brendon's hair, and Spencer kisses him right on the mouth like it's the easiest conclusion he's ever come to.
(end)