fic: feed the soul with a human touch
Title: feed the soul with a human touch
Author: floridapeaches
Disclaimer: I made up everything but the puking.
Summary: This was almost titled "JULIA >:[" 2,300~ words.
A/N: Notes and disclaimers here. Thank you to my lovely beta (AND SWORN ENEMY, WHAT?) torturemysoul. ♥♥♥
to erica's fic
Brendon really, really hates ginger ale. The bittersweet, cloying taste of it always reminds him of that one time in sixth grade when he caught the stomach flu from hell and spent a week in bed with a clammy washcloth on his forehead, eating saltines and puking them back up again. His mom was convinced that ginger ale would make him feel better, would ‘settle his stomach,’ and instead, the sickly sweet taste of it just coated his tongue and got rid of the aftertaste of bile until the next time he hurled.
By the end of the week, he looked like he’d just been released from Auschwitz, ribs digging through his palepalepale skin. The only upside was that Mr. Simmons let him out of PE for almost a month.
This isn’t like that. It isn’t Brendon feeling like his guts are being twisted around and dragged out. This is just Brendon being so fucking hot he could die--so fucking hot he wants to die--and bouncing around, shaking his head and making himself dizzy, maybe having a little too much ice-cold beer on an empty stomach.
He feels better after he pukes, gets through their ‘thank you’s without much problem, sober and thinking straight enough to know Spencer’s going to give him hell after they’re off stage for not picking somewhere else, anywhere else to be sick.
Brendon hands his guitar off to a tech as soon as they’ve made their bows and ducks away toward the shower, so he can at least be clean while Spencer yells at him. He thinks he hears Spencer shouting after him and Ryan saying something to Spencer, but Brendon doesn’t stick around to find out what it was, just nods at Zack to let him know he’s all right and hooks a thumb toward their dressing room to show him where he’s going.
It’s so hot in this god-forsaken country that even with the straight cold tap on in the shower the water is actually more like lukewarm, and by the time it hits his ass it’s disgustingly hot from just his body heat, but Brendon keeps his face under the spray and concentrates on breathing. The post-show jitters combined with the lingering dizziness making him feel unsteady.
He stays until the water is the same temperature when it gets to his feet as it was on his head, and he feels a little less like he’s burning from the inside out. It doesn’t take as long as he wishes it would, not when he knows he’s got a pissed off Spencer on the other side of the bathroom door, but hogging the shower would piss off Jon and Ryan, too. That would definitely not improve the situation.
Maybe they can get the yelling over with in a hurry, so he can go find another beer, something to wash the lingering taste away. He brushed his teeth as soon as he got to the dressing room, but there’s still the sour tang of sickness at the back of his mouth.
Brendon’s got his mouth open on an apology as he pushes at the door, fingers twisted in the towel to keep it around his hips, but Spencer interrupts him before he can even get a word out.
“Brendon, Jesus fuck-“ Spencer says, and Brendon interrupts him right back with a defensive, “I'm sorry, Spencer, I was afraid I’d fall over if I didn’t have something to hold on to.” Spencer is shaking his head, and Brendon is trying to come up with a nice way of saying ‘right next to you was the best place to hack my guts up, deal with it’ when Spencer grabs his shoulder. His fingers dig in hard, and Brendon hisses with surprise and pain.
“Shit, sorry,” Spencer says, fingers going slack, but still touching Brendon's skin. Brendon’s ready for him to do…something. He doesn’t know what, but Spencer looks like he’s going to do something.
It’s not the something Brendon was expecting when Spencer rubs his thumb over the curve of Brendon’s shoulder and says, “Sorry, just. Are you okay? You kind of look like shit, and you just puked on stage, in front of like 10,000 people.”
Spencer’s face is open and his voice is earnest, and Brendon can’t stop himself from saying, “What, you’re not mad at me?” He doesn’t think about how that might make it sound like he thinks Spencer is an uncaring asshole until it’s too late, and Spencer actually does start to look pissed.
“What the fuck, dude, why would I be mad at you for getting sick? It’s not like you did it on purpose or anything.” From the way he says it, Spencer is obviously irritated, but his fingers are still curved over Brendon’s shoulder, so maybe Brendon has a chance to defuse this before there’s yelling after all.
Brendon shakes his head and settles his free hand on Spencer’s forearm, and says, “No, hey, sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”
Spencer’s still frowning, so Brendon keeps going. “Just, it was pretty gross, and I’m sorry. I should have gone somewhere else. And - I don’t even know what I’m saying, sorry, I still feel kind of out of it.” Bingo. Spencer’s look slips from borderline bite-your-head-off to mother-hen-Spencer, and Brendon knows he’s in the clear.
He smiles weakly to seal the deal and steps closer to Spencer, moving his hand from Spencer’s arm to tangle his fingers in the hem of Spencer's shirt. He hides his grin against Spencer’s neck when Spencer slides his arm across an shoulders and tugs him close enough for a proper hug.
Brendon pulls away, mumbling about needing to get dressed. Spencer nods and says, “Yeah, you find pants. I’ll be right back. I’m gonna let Jon know he can have the shower.”
By the time Spencer gets back, Brendon’s sitting on the couch in a pair of basketball shorts, watching some kind of news program. He’s not paying any attention to the content; he just likes watching an Asian guy speak in a perfect British accent.
Brendon looks up when the door opens and waves to Jon as he heads past. Spencer is right behind him, arms full of something, and Brendon shuts off the TV and gets up to help him with whatever it is. He’s only two steps across the room when Spencer shakes his head, says, “No, no, lie down. I’ve got it.” Brendon raises a brow, but Spencer’s got his serious-business face on now, so he just sits back down on the couch.
He watches as Spencer starts setting things out on the little table beside the couch, and Brendon grins when he sees a package of those rice crackers he likes. Spencer glances up as he’s unloading, and says, “Seriously, Brendon. Lie down.”
Spencer keeps staring until Brendon finally rolls his eyes and stretches out on the couch, folding his hands over his chest and saying, “Happy now?” He knows he’s being a bitch, but he just puked in front of a million people and it’s probably already on YouTube, and he figures he can get away with a little bitchiness.
“Are you still feeling sick?” Spencer asks, adding a casual, “And don’t be such a little bitch. I’m trying to take care of you.”
Brendon snorts, caught, and says, “A little. I’m mostly just dizzy now. I really want a fucking beer, even if it’s that Tiger shit. Anything to get the taste out of my mouth.”
The couch dips and something cold bumps Brendon’s shoulder, and Spencer says, “Here. No beer, but maybe this will help.”
Brendon slits his eyes open, and he can’t stop himself from saying, “Oh, gross. No thanks.” Probably the only thing he’d ever want less than ginger ale would be foreign ginger ale.
“Come on, Brendon. It’ll settle your stomach.” Spencer is perched on the edge of the cushions by Brendon’s hip, and he’s got the can of nastiness in one hand and a package of the rice crackers open in the other. When Brendon’s eyes flick to the crackers, Spencer shrugs. “I looked, but I couldn’t find anything like saltines. Zack’s still checking, but these will have to do for now.”
It hits Brendon, then, how much Spencer reminds Brendon of his mom, and he doesn’t quite stifle his laugh. Spencer scowls and starts to stand up, and Brendon grabs at his knee and holds him still. He manages to quit laughing to say, “No, don’t. It’s just. My mom always fed me saltines and ginger ale when I got sick. And she always said the ginger ale was to 'settle my stomach.'” He smiles at Spencer and squeezes his knee, and Spencer settles back down on the couch.
“My mom always gave me ginger ale and saltines, too. Or Sprite, sometimes she gave me Sprite,” Spencer says, reaching to set the can of soda back on the table. “Do you want me to get you some Sprite instead?”
Brendon tries to look pitiful and says, “What, no shitty Asian beer?” Even before Spencer shakes his head, Brendon knows he’s not going to get any, says, “Fine. Sprite. But no ginger ale, please. I swear to god it’ll just make me puke again. I hate that stuff.”
Spencer gets up again, seems to think about it, and then sets the crackers on Brendon’s chest, says, “Try to eat a couple of those. Maybe they’ll help. I’ll be back in a minute.”
He’s out the door and back again with a Sprite in no time. Brendon pushes himself up on his elbows so he can drink it without spilling it all over himself. It mostly gets rid of the sour taste, and Brendon smiles at Spencer and says, “Thanks. That helps.”
Spencer nods, serious-business face still firmly in place, and settles back on the edge of the couch. He waits until Brendon’s done with the drink, and then sets it out of the way. Brendon shakes his head when Spencer asks if he wants any more crackers, and Spencer moves those, too.
Then it’s just Spencer on the edge of the couch, and Brendon on his elbows, and Brendon feels kind of weird. He’s mostly not nauseous anymore, and he kind of wants to sit up and see if the British Asian dude is still on TV, but he thinks Spencer would probably veto that, so he just stays where he is.
The silence stretches long enough that Brendon finally shrugs awkwardly and says, “So, um. What else did your mom do when you were sick? Mine always put a cold washcloth on my head, but I don’t have a fever, so I don’t think I really need one.”
Spencer smiles and says, “Lie back down.” Brendon gives him a look, but he flops back on the couch anyway.
Brendon’s abs clench when Spencer’s hand settles against his stomach. Brendon says, “Your mom tickled you when you were puking? Seems counter-productive.”
“Hush,” Spencer says, fingers moving in light, slow circles across Brendon’s skin. The touch is just firm enough that it doesn’t tickle, and Brendon relaxes again, humming in the back of his throat because it feels really fucking good. Spencer laughs at him and says, “This always helped. I got the worst cramps whenever I got sick, and this was the only thing that really got rid of them.”
Brendon keeps humming, arms stretching back over his head, toes curling a little because it feels so good. “Yeah, that feels pretty fucking amazing. Your mom is a smart woman.”
Spencer doesn’t say anything, just keeps moving his hand in a slow, steady rhythm across Brendon’s abs, from the waistband of his shorts up to the bottom of his ribs.
It’s been a really long day, and Brendon’s brain still feels kind of cooked from the heat, and Spencer’s calluses feel really good dragging over his skin. Brendon wakes up to Ryan laughing at him and Jon standing in the doorway in ragged jeans and a faded t-shirt, hair hanging wet in his face.
“Dude, you were like, purring,” Ryan says, grinning. Brendon glances at Jon, sees the smile splitting his face and he blushes when Jon just nods and says, “You totally, totally were.”
Brendon starts to pull away, but Spencer doesn’t move his hand, still rubbing Brendon’s stomach. Spencer looks over his shoulder and says, “Ryan, go shower. Jon, go away. Both of you stop being assholes.”
Ryan keeps laughing, and Jon keeps grinning, but they both do as they’re told. No one fucks with Spencer when he uses that tone of voice.
It feels like it should be awkward now that they’ve been disturbed, but Brendon feels himself relax back against the cushions, and before he realizes it, he’s drifting off again.
He wakes up when Ryan comes out of the bathroom. Spencer’s not on the couch anymore - he’s passing Ryan on his way to shower, finally - and Brendon calls out, “Thanks, Spence.”
Spencer waves, an ‘it’s nothing’ gesture, and then he’s gone.
Brendon’s listening to the British Asian dude again when he thinks he remembers Spencer’s lips on his cheek, right before he drifted back to sleep.
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Author: floridapeaches
Disclaimer: I made up everything but the puking.
Summary: This was almost titled "JULIA >:[" 2,300~ words.
A/N: Notes and disclaimers here. Thank you to my lovely beta (AND SWORN ENEMY, WHAT?) torturemysoul. ♥♥♥
to erica's fic
Brendon really, really hates ginger ale. The bittersweet, cloying taste of it always reminds him of that one time in sixth grade when he caught the stomach flu from hell and spent a week in bed with a clammy washcloth on his forehead, eating saltines and puking them back up again. His mom was convinced that ginger ale would make him feel better, would ‘settle his stomach,’ and instead, the sickly sweet taste of it just coated his tongue and got rid of the aftertaste of bile until the next time he hurled.
By the end of the week, he looked like he’d just been released from Auschwitz, ribs digging through his palepalepale skin. The only upside was that Mr. Simmons let him out of PE for almost a month.
This isn’t like that. It isn’t Brendon feeling like his guts are being twisted around and dragged out. This is just Brendon being so fucking hot he could die--so fucking hot he wants to die--and bouncing around, shaking his head and making himself dizzy, maybe having a little too much ice-cold beer on an empty stomach.
He feels better after he pukes, gets through their ‘thank you’s without much problem, sober and thinking straight enough to know Spencer’s going to give him hell after they’re off stage for not picking somewhere else, anywhere else to be sick.
Brendon hands his guitar off to a tech as soon as they’ve made their bows and ducks away toward the shower, so he can at least be clean while Spencer yells at him. He thinks he hears Spencer shouting after him and Ryan saying something to Spencer, but Brendon doesn’t stick around to find out what it was, just nods at Zack to let him know he’s all right and hooks a thumb toward their dressing room to show him where he’s going.
It’s so hot in this god-forsaken country that even with the straight cold tap on in the shower the water is actually more like lukewarm, and by the time it hits his ass it’s disgustingly hot from just his body heat, but Brendon keeps his face under the spray and concentrates on breathing. The post-show jitters combined with the lingering dizziness making him feel unsteady.
He stays until the water is the same temperature when it gets to his feet as it was on his head, and he feels a little less like he’s burning from the inside out. It doesn’t take as long as he wishes it would, not when he knows he’s got a pissed off Spencer on the other side of the bathroom door, but hogging the shower would piss off Jon and Ryan, too. That would definitely not improve the situation.
Maybe they can get the yelling over with in a hurry, so he can go find another beer, something to wash the lingering taste away. He brushed his teeth as soon as he got to the dressing room, but there’s still the sour tang of sickness at the back of his mouth.
Brendon’s got his mouth open on an apology as he pushes at the door, fingers twisted in the towel to keep it around his hips, but Spencer interrupts him before he can even get a word out.
“Brendon, Jesus fuck-“ Spencer says, and Brendon interrupts him right back with a defensive, “I'm sorry, Spencer, I was afraid I’d fall over if I didn’t have something to hold on to.” Spencer is shaking his head, and Brendon is trying to come up with a nice way of saying ‘right next to you was the best place to hack my guts up, deal with it’ when Spencer grabs his shoulder. His fingers dig in hard, and Brendon hisses with surprise and pain.
“Shit, sorry,” Spencer says, fingers going slack, but still touching Brendon's skin. Brendon’s ready for him to do…something. He doesn’t know what, but Spencer looks like he’s going to do something.
It’s not the something Brendon was expecting when Spencer rubs his thumb over the curve of Brendon’s shoulder and says, “Sorry, just. Are you okay? You kind of look like shit, and you just puked on stage, in front of like 10,000 people.”
Spencer’s face is open and his voice is earnest, and Brendon can’t stop himself from saying, “What, you’re not mad at me?” He doesn’t think about how that might make it sound like he thinks Spencer is an uncaring asshole until it’s too late, and Spencer actually does start to look pissed.
“What the fuck, dude, why would I be mad at you for getting sick? It’s not like you did it on purpose or anything.” From the way he says it, Spencer is obviously irritated, but his fingers are still curved over Brendon’s shoulder, so maybe Brendon has a chance to defuse this before there’s yelling after all.
Brendon shakes his head and settles his free hand on Spencer’s forearm, and says, “No, hey, sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”
Spencer’s still frowning, so Brendon keeps going. “Just, it was pretty gross, and I’m sorry. I should have gone somewhere else. And - I don’t even know what I’m saying, sorry, I still feel kind of out of it.” Bingo. Spencer’s look slips from borderline bite-your-head-off to mother-hen-Spencer, and Brendon knows he’s in the clear.
He smiles weakly to seal the deal and steps closer to Spencer, moving his hand from Spencer’s arm to tangle his fingers in the hem of Spencer's shirt. He hides his grin against Spencer’s neck when Spencer slides his arm across an shoulders and tugs him close enough for a proper hug.
Brendon pulls away, mumbling about needing to get dressed. Spencer nods and says, “Yeah, you find pants. I’ll be right back. I’m gonna let Jon know he can have the shower.”
By the time Spencer gets back, Brendon’s sitting on the couch in a pair of basketball shorts, watching some kind of news program. He’s not paying any attention to the content; he just likes watching an Asian guy speak in a perfect British accent.
Brendon looks up when the door opens and waves to Jon as he heads past. Spencer is right behind him, arms full of something, and Brendon shuts off the TV and gets up to help him with whatever it is. He’s only two steps across the room when Spencer shakes his head, says, “No, no, lie down. I’ve got it.” Brendon raises a brow, but Spencer’s got his serious-business face on now, so he just sits back down on the couch.
He watches as Spencer starts setting things out on the little table beside the couch, and Brendon grins when he sees a package of those rice crackers he likes. Spencer glances up as he’s unloading, and says, “Seriously, Brendon. Lie down.”
Spencer keeps staring until Brendon finally rolls his eyes and stretches out on the couch, folding his hands over his chest and saying, “Happy now?” He knows he’s being a bitch, but he just puked in front of a million people and it’s probably already on YouTube, and he figures he can get away with a little bitchiness.
“Are you still feeling sick?” Spencer asks, adding a casual, “And don’t be such a little bitch. I’m trying to take care of you.”
Brendon snorts, caught, and says, “A little. I’m mostly just dizzy now. I really want a fucking beer, even if it’s that Tiger shit. Anything to get the taste out of my mouth.”
The couch dips and something cold bumps Brendon’s shoulder, and Spencer says, “Here. No beer, but maybe this will help.”
Brendon slits his eyes open, and he can’t stop himself from saying, “Oh, gross. No thanks.” Probably the only thing he’d ever want less than ginger ale would be foreign ginger ale.
“Come on, Brendon. It’ll settle your stomach.” Spencer is perched on the edge of the cushions by Brendon’s hip, and he’s got the can of nastiness in one hand and a package of the rice crackers open in the other. When Brendon’s eyes flick to the crackers, Spencer shrugs. “I looked, but I couldn’t find anything like saltines. Zack’s still checking, but these will have to do for now.”
It hits Brendon, then, how much Spencer reminds Brendon of his mom, and he doesn’t quite stifle his laugh. Spencer scowls and starts to stand up, and Brendon grabs at his knee and holds him still. He manages to quit laughing to say, “No, don’t. It’s just. My mom always fed me saltines and ginger ale when I got sick. And she always said the ginger ale was to 'settle my stomach.'” He smiles at Spencer and squeezes his knee, and Spencer settles back down on the couch.
“My mom always gave me ginger ale and saltines, too. Or Sprite, sometimes she gave me Sprite,” Spencer says, reaching to set the can of soda back on the table. “Do you want me to get you some Sprite instead?”
Brendon tries to look pitiful and says, “What, no shitty Asian beer?” Even before Spencer shakes his head, Brendon knows he’s not going to get any, says, “Fine. Sprite. But no ginger ale, please. I swear to god it’ll just make me puke again. I hate that stuff.”
Spencer gets up again, seems to think about it, and then sets the crackers on Brendon’s chest, says, “Try to eat a couple of those. Maybe they’ll help. I’ll be back in a minute.”
He’s out the door and back again with a Sprite in no time. Brendon pushes himself up on his elbows so he can drink it without spilling it all over himself. It mostly gets rid of the sour taste, and Brendon smiles at Spencer and says, “Thanks. That helps.”
Spencer nods, serious-business face still firmly in place, and settles back on the edge of the couch. He waits until Brendon’s done with the drink, and then sets it out of the way. Brendon shakes his head when Spencer asks if he wants any more crackers, and Spencer moves those, too.
Then it’s just Spencer on the edge of the couch, and Brendon on his elbows, and Brendon feels kind of weird. He’s mostly not nauseous anymore, and he kind of wants to sit up and see if the British Asian dude is still on TV, but he thinks Spencer would probably veto that, so he just stays where he is.
The silence stretches long enough that Brendon finally shrugs awkwardly and says, “So, um. What else did your mom do when you were sick? Mine always put a cold washcloth on my head, but I don’t have a fever, so I don’t think I really need one.”
Spencer smiles and says, “Lie back down.” Brendon gives him a look, but he flops back on the couch anyway.
Brendon’s abs clench when Spencer’s hand settles against his stomach. Brendon says, “Your mom tickled you when you were puking? Seems counter-productive.”
“Hush,” Spencer says, fingers moving in light, slow circles across Brendon’s skin. The touch is just firm enough that it doesn’t tickle, and Brendon relaxes again, humming in the back of his throat because it feels really fucking good. Spencer laughs at him and says, “This always helped. I got the worst cramps whenever I got sick, and this was the only thing that really got rid of them.”
Brendon keeps humming, arms stretching back over his head, toes curling a little because it feels so good. “Yeah, that feels pretty fucking amazing. Your mom is a smart woman.”
Spencer doesn’t say anything, just keeps moving his hand in a slow, steady rhythm across Brendon’s abs, from the waistband of his shorts up to the bottom of his ribs.
It’s been a really long day, and Brendon’s brain still feels kind of cooked from the heat, and Spencer’s calluses feel really good dragging over his skin. Brendon wakes up to Ryan laughing at him and Jon standing in the doorway in ragged jeans and a faded t-shirt, hair hanging wet in his face.
“Dude, you were like, purring,” Ryan says, grinning. Brendon glances at Jon, sees the smile splitting his face and he blushes when Jon just nods and says, “You totally, totally were.”
Brendon starts to pull away, but Spencer doesn’t move his hand, still rubbing Brendon’s stomach. Spencer looks over his shoulder and says, “Ryan, go shower. Jon, go away. Both of you stop being assholes.”
Ryan keeps laughing, and Jon keeps grinning, but they both do as they’re told. No one fucks with Spencer when he uses that tone of voice.
It feels like it should be awkward now that they’ve been disturbed, but Brendon feels himself relax back against the cushions, and before he realizes it, he’s drifting off again.
He wakes up when Ryan comes out of the bathroom. Spencer’s not on the couch anymore - he’s passing Ryan on his way to shower, finally - and Brendon calls out, “Thanks, Spence.”
Spencer waves, an ‘it’s nothing’ gesture, and then he’s gone.
Brendon’s listening to the British Asian dude again when he thinks he remembers Spencer’s lips on his cheek, right before he drifted back to sleep.
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