BBB: Like or Like-Like (5/8)
Part 5
Brendon’s been acting off all week.
He hasn’t been to lunch since he skipped to go to some meeting last Thursday. Instead of hanging out, he disappears and acts all sneaky when Tom drops casual questions about where he’s been.
He also seems really enthusiastic about class lately, which makes no sense at all, since they’re on the Sew Much Fun! Unit and don’t even get to back pie or anything.
On Friday, after a really exciting lesson on how to darn a sock-and Tom can seriously not believe that he now knows freaking sewing terminology-Brendon asks Tom to hang back for a few minutes before heading for lunch. Tom is just glad that that means Brendon is actually coming to lunch with him.
“What’s up, man?”
“I have got something awesome to show you,” Brendon says, his voice low with barely contained excitement.
He navigates around the sewing stations to the back of the Home Ec lab and begins rifling through the cupboard that holds the sewing supplies. He seems to find what he’s looking for, and heads back to Tom, holding something at his back.
“Okay, so you know how next class is Muffin Madness Monday?” Brendon sidles up next to him, looking up at Tom from under his eyelashes.
“Um, yes?”
“And you know how we totally own at this baking thing, right?”
“Right.” There really is no other answer to that. Brendon and Tom are like culinary dynamos or something. Mrs. A said she’s never seen bread rise quite so beautifully before. They could school that Rachel Ray chick.
“Well, shouldn’t we look as fantastic as our raspberry torte tastes?” Tom is positive that that is the gayest thing that Brendon has ever said in his life. Also the most confusing.
Brendon shoves the bundle that he’s been hiding behind his back at Tom, and rocks back on his heels to take in his reaction.
Tom holds the scraps of fabric that Brendon thrusts at him away from his body to get a better look. It takes a few seconds for Tom to even process what he is seeing, and once he does, all he can say is, “Holy shit.”
“Is that good or bad?” Tom’s eyes dart to Brendon’s face, his expression now one of worry. Tom looks back at Brendon’s gift. He doesn’t even try to stop the laugh that escapes him, and bends over double in an attempt to breath through his laughter as he clutches the gift to his chest.
“Good. It’s good. The best ever,” Tom assures, voice still a little weak from his laughter once he’s gotten himself under control.
Brendon’s grin practically splits his face in two “Right? Put yours on. I want to make sure I got the colors right.”
Tom lets out another short burst of laughter at that, and shrugs the neck of the apron over his head. Brendon takes his own from Tom’s outstretched hand and does the same. He reaches behind his back, tying the trailing apron strings in place then smoothes the apron down his front.
He looks back at Tom, and tilts to the side in a ‘what do you think?’ gesture.
Emblazoned across the chest of the apron in Brendon’s name, painstakingly spelled out in three-inch tall letters of sparkly pink and purple rhinestones. Tom’s own apron features his name in blue and green rhinestones.
They are hideous and gaudy, and pretty much the best thing Tom has ever seen. They’re as ridiculous as Brendon.
Tom shakes his head in amazement. “You bedazzled me an apron.”
“Bet your ass I did,” Brendon says, his tone smug. “I bedazzled us aprons. I was going to wait for your birthday, because honestly, what eighteen-year-old guy doesn’t want something bedazzled for his birthday? But I figured by then we’d have moved on to the microwave cooking unit, and that didn’t seem as exciting as muffins. Not that I’m not planning on wearing this baby when nuking Lean Cuisines, because I totally am.” Brendon hooks his thumbs through the bib of the apron, proudly displaying the sparkling letters of his name.
Brendon’s eyes are practically fucking twinkling, and Tom feels suddenly short of breath in a way that has nothing to do with his laughter. He fiddles with the apron string that he still has in his hand, and has a sudden brainstorm.
“Dude, you know what would really freak the guys out?”
Brendon seems to be reading his mind, and is already nodding his agreement. “If we wore these to lunch?”
“Yes,” he says. His hand finds the small of Brendon’s back and pushes him toward the door and the cafeteria beyond.
Brendon bedazzled him an apron.
-
April
“What are you doing?”
“Um, sleeping.”
“Oh. Not anymore.”
A sigh, then, “How long have you been parked outside?”
“Not long.” No more than an hour.
Tom checks the clock on the dash. 1:30AM. He didn’t realize it was so late. Whoops.
“Fine.” The line goes dead.
Tom assumes that means that Brendon will be out in a minute. It usually does.
He drums his fingers on the steering wheel in time to whatever CD has been repeating in his car stereo for the past week. The song hasn’t even ended before Brendon wrenches open the passenger side door and throws his body back against the car seat.
“Where to?” he asks.
Brendon always asks “Where to?”, knowing full well that Tom doesn’t have anywhere specific in mind, and Tom always responds, “Not sure.” It’s their thing.
Tom is still always vaguely surprised when Brendon doesn’t get annoyed by his late night interruptions. He knows it’s pretty selfish of him to keep showing up at Brendon’s house at all hours of the night and expect him to drop whatever he’s doing to spend a few hours in a car with him. But Brendon never seems to mind, he just hops in the car, props his feet up on the dash and rolls the window down as the nights get warmer.
Ever since he came back from his first tour the previous summer, he’s had the occasional bout of sleeplessness. It’s never too bad, just a feeling of restlessness that seems to subside once feels the road passing under his feet. Tom didn’t really think anything of it when he let it slip that he sometimes drove around the city at night to combat his insomnia.
It surprised him when Brendon offered up his company on his late night drives. He figured that Brendon, with his need for constant noise and movement, would find one trip in relative silence to be more than enough.
At first Brendon seemed twitchy with only the low drone of the music to break up the quiet, but after a few short bursts of nervous chatter, they settled into a surprisingly comfortable silence.
Now Tom likes the feel of having someone in the passenger seat. He hadn’t even realized that the drives were kind of lonely until they weren’t anymore.
He is pretty sure that Brendon enjoys them too. He seems to find the idea of driving aimlessly through darkened city streets exciting and romantic. Not romantic in a weird way, just like it’s some sort of charming adventure to be on. Tom isn’t about to disabuse him of that notion.
Tonight Tom feels like avoiding the bright lights of the still-awake parts of the city. He steers the car in the direction of the quiet outskirts.
-
Tom parks the car at the end of a dark residential street. The headlights illuminate an empty playground. Tom has barely turned the key in the ignition before Brendon is bounding out of the car in the direction of the tire swing.
Tom takes his time getting out, and moves around to the front to hop up on the hood of the car. Brendon is twirling around on the swing, one sneakered foot pushing at the mulch-covered ground.
It’s only a few minutes before Brendon grows tired of spinning in circles and joins Tom on the hood of the car. He leans back until his head rests against the windshield, his feet dangling out over the grille. They rest in the quiet for a while.
Brendon is, predictably, the first to break the silence. “I’ve never been camping,” he says out of nowhere.
“Yeah?” Tom drops back to lie next to Brendon.
“You know how you can’t see the stars in the city? It’s the same in Summerlin. Too close to Vegas.” Brendon is quiet for a minute. “Isn’t that a big part of the whole camping thing? The stars.”
“I guess. I went camping with my dad once.” It was a lot of sleeping in uncomfortable places and not showering. Come to think of it, it wasn’t actually all that different from touring, aside from the whole playing music thing.
“We should go camping,” Brendon says, turning his head against the glass to look at Tom.
Brendon’s features are ghostly pale with only the headlights as illumination. “That doesn’t really seem like your kind of thing.”
Brendon scrunches up his nose in grudging agreement. “It’s not. It’s just one of those things that sounds like it would be fun. In theory.”
Tom can’t imagine anything more out of place than Brendon in the woods. The thought of Brendon sleeping in a tent in kind of laughable.
“My dad went camping with my older brothers once. I was too little to go,” Brendon says.
Tom feels his muscles tense at the mention of Brendon’s family. Are they actually going to talk about this? He is curious, but he doesn’t want to press, not when it is something that obviously upsets Brendon to talk about. “Yeah?”
Brendon looks back up at the sky, squinting his eyes as if trying to see those stars. When he speaks again, his voice is distant. “I think it’s not that I really want to go camping. I think that I just wish that I’d gotten to go with them.”
Tom’s hand rises to scratch at his so-far-past-five-o’clock shadow. “I always hated not being tall enough to ride the roller coasters at Six Flags.” He cringes. That is definitely not the right thing to say.
“Yep, you can’t wait to grow up when you’re little. Don’t know that being a grownup is totally lame.” At least Brendon doesn’t sound far away anymore, just wistful.
Tom is wracking his brain for the right thing to say when Brendon speaks again, “I always hated having to order off of the kid’s menu at restaurants. It wasn’t that I didn’t like the food, I just didn’t like being pigeon-holed. It especially sucked during Monopoly time at McDonald’s. Why were adults the only ones who got to play?”
Tom snorts. That is so typically Brendon. He is so strange.
Eventually the time comes when they both know they need to head back for the night. Tom climbs off of the hood of the car and reaches out a hand to help Brendon down. Brendon hops to the ground, one hand gripped in Tom’s, the other coming up to rest on Tom’s chest to help steady him as he lands.
As neither of them moves to break the other’s hold, Tom finds himself blinking stupidly down at the other boy. Their bodies are close, really close. He can feel Brendon’s chest expand as his breath quickens, Tom is feeling a little out of breath himself, and he can’t quiet figure out why.
Brendon shakes his head and steps away, pulling his hand out of Tom’s grasp. His eyes don’t leave Tom’s. “Thanks, Tom.”
He doesn’t ask what for. He also doesn’t ask what the hell had just happened, some part of him knows better than that. He just gets in the driver’s seat and makes his way back to Brendon’s house.
Neither of them speaks on the ride back. Tom doesn’t know why Brendon doesn’t say anything, but he has the absurd feeling that if he says a word, something irreparable will happen.
He parks the car in front of Brendon’s aunt’s house and turns the key in the ignition. Brendon gets out starts down the front walk.
Tom watches him for a moment, and then follows after. They do this all of the time. It would be stranger if he didn’t go.
Brendon has stopped walking and turns back toward the car, his expression a question. Tom just moves past him and up the porch, waiting for Brendon to unlock the door. Their silence feels more natural once they are inside the house, the act of sneaking up the stairs giving them a reason, however superficial, to be quiet.
Brendon doesn’t even bother to turn on the lights when they get to his room, just shucks off his shoes, peals off his jeans and flops down on the mattress. Tom follows suit, nudging at Brendon’s hip to get him to make room on the bed.
They both maneuver their way under the covers and drift off to sleep.
-- --
Tom has parents, Brendon is pretty sure about that. Brendon just hasn’t actually met them.
When Tom stays over at Brendon’s place, Brendon doesn’t think it’s a thing like it was with Ryan. Tom has parents who probably love him; they just don’t seem to feel the need to keep tabs on him. And they are apparently fine with him spending several nights a week away from home. The whole thing is pretty far outside of the realm of Brendon’s experience.
It is no longer a surprise for Brendon to wake up with a mouthful of Tom’s t-shirt. His mother always said that he sleeps like a log; Brendon bets Tom’s mother -whoever she is-doesn’t say the same about him. He’s just grateful that his body seems content with making its cuddle quota during the hours he’s conscious.
Tom doesn’t cuddle so much as stake his claim on a majority of the mattress by flinging his limbs out as far as they will go. It’s a good thing that Brendon is a pretty small guy with a pretty big bed, otherwise it might be hazardous to his health. As it is, they haven’t had any truly embarrassing wake-up calls yet.
More often than not, Brendon wakes to the sound of his alarm or the light coming through the windows on weekend mornings, and sometimes to find that Tom Conrad’s armpit or elbow has been resting on his face for an indeterminate amount of time.
It isn’t a big thing. Brendon won’t let it become a thing. It is purely platonic, like on that show where those assholes search for their BFFs. After Tom spent the night the first time, it just happened more and more often. Tom would get dropped off at Brendon’s after a party - to save the sober driver another stop, or he’d crash after taking a drive-the few blocks to his house seeming too far to drive to so late.
They go to sleep and wake up like two people who have absolutely no interest in each other sexually. Mostly. At least, one of them has no interest, and the other is bound and determined to fake it.
So, Brendon does what he usually does, flings whichever of Tom’s appendages has made its way into his space off of him, and checks the clock on the nightstand. Sometimes he’ll poke Tom in the ribs until he wakes up, but he stops himself short. He isn’t really sure how everything things will be between them after the strange moment last night.
He climbs over Tom’s faintly snoring body and stumbles his way to the desk where he’d left his phone charging before going out the night before. The little icon at the corner of the screen indicates that he has a voicemail. He checks the log and sees a missed call from Spencer.
It figures. Even as together as he is, Spencer still messes up the time-zone thing. He must have left the message after Brendon went to meet Tom.
As he listens to the message, the smile that forms at the sound of Spencer’s voice grows wider. When Spencer signs off, Brendon lets out an enthusiastic, “Awesome!”, momentarily forgetting the boy sleeping a few feet away.
Brendon is still grinning helplessly at nothing when Tom’s head pops up off the bed with a disgruntled, “Wha-?”
Brendon flings himself back on the bed, mindless of Tom’s conquering invader act. He tests the box springs with his wild jumping, each bounce narrowly missing Tom’s arms and legs.
Tom reaches out a hand and grabs onto one of Brendon’s ankles, and pulls his feet right out from under him. Brendon bounces the length of his body against the bed experimentally a few times before turning to take in Tom’s annoyed face. “Today is the best day, Tom.”
“Huh.” Tom is so lame in the morning.
“Ask me why.”
Tom sits up and squints sleepy eyes at Brendon. “Fine, why?”
“Because Spencer is coming to visit!” Brendon feels a renewed burst of joy just from repeating the news.
That wakes Tom up pretty quickly. “What, today?”
“No, in a few weeks. For Spring Break.”
Spencer is coming to visit. Spencer is coming to Chicago in only a few weeks.
“Since when?” Tom asks.
Brendon is kind of irritated that Tom doesn’t seem all that thrilled by the news. “Well, a while ago I mentioned it would be really great if he could come. I didn’t think he’d actually go for it. He just called me last night to let me know that his parents go him a ticket.”
“That’s great, Bren,” Tom says through a yawn. Brendon is willing to excuse his earlier lack of enthusiasm for tiredness. Tom really isn’t a morning person.
“Yeah, it is.” Brendon hops back off of the bed, glad he doesn’t’ have to crawl over Tom to manage it this time. “Let’s go get something to eat.”
They go downstairs and grab a breakfast of Fruit Loops for Brendon, and Frosted Flakes for Tom. Then they head back upstairs to the bathroom, where Tom uses his very own toothbrush to brush his teeth. When they get back to his room, Brendon pulls on a thin t-shirt, glad that the weather is finally warming up.
He backs away from the dresser to let Tom grab one of his t-shirts from the drawers. Tom tosses Brendon a pair of socks and shrugs into the shirt.
Brendon wedges the socks into his back pocket and shoves his bare feet into a pair of sneakers. They’re running late as usual, and the few seconds that it would take to don the socks are a few seconds they don’t have. He’ll just put them on in the car. After he finds his homework, that is.
He sifts through the papers on his desk, displacing one of Tom’s English books in the process. He finds the sheet with his Pre-Calc problem set, and shoves it in his bag. He hesitates, and then drops Tom’s wayward copy of The Scarlet Letter into the bag as well.
As he turns away from the desk to hurry Tom along, he spots one of Tom’s camera lenses sitting forlornly next to an empty glasses case. He opens his mouth to let Tom know, but something stops him.
He steps back near the door, taking in the whole room. His eyes move from Tom’s camera lens, to where Tom’s book was, then to the arm of one of Tom’s shirts sticking out of an open dresser drawer. Little pieces of Tom are scattered all over the room, and somehow Brendon hadn’t even realized it.
How did Tom’s stuff end up in Brendon’s drawers? And when did Tom get his own toothbrush?
Brendon gapes at his startled reflection in the mirror over Tom’s shoulder. And when did Brendon start acting like they are totally gay married?
Brendon’s chest is suddenly tight. He wonders if this is what an asthma attack feels like. He is pretty sure that he’s never seen anything like this on an MTV reality show. He doesn’t even think that show is on anymore.
He can’t even really fault Tom for this, he probably didn’t even notice. But Brendon should have. He should have noticed that Tom has practically accidentally moved in. While Brendon is in love with him.
And he was wrong, this is the worst day ever.
Oh man, the universe is totally paying him back for telling Ryan Ross that sleepovers are gay.
-- --
Brendon trips down his front steps with Tom’s guitar case in one hand, a brown paper grocery bag in the other and no backpack in sight.
Peculiar as the rest of the picture is, Tom’s attention is caught by the scrap of bright red fabric flopping limply over the side of the bag.
Shit, not again.
Brendon opens the car’s back door first, dumping his belongings in a heap. After hopping in the front, he spins in his seat to deliver a greeting.
“Yeah, ’morning, Brendon,” Tom says in response, darting his eyes curiously to the backseat. “What’s with the stuff?”
Brendon shifts to his knees on the leather and leans over into the back of the car, his hand fishing in the grocery bag. He pulls the red fabric bundle from the bag and settles back in his seat.
“Here, I brought this for you,” Brendon says, holding the hoodie out to Tom.
Tom stares balefully down at his favorite red sweatshirt and tries to shake off his vague feeling of annoyance.
Brendon has recently developed the strange habit of presenting Tom with his own belongings. In the morning he’ll get in the car, and then offer Tom’s stuff up like a gift. And in the face of Brendon’s cheerful nonchalance, Tom can’t even bring himself to ask why. It’s bizarre and kind of irritating. Tom has about half of his wardrobe and schoolbooks amassed in the backseat of his car.
“Thanks,” he says shortly, tossing the sweatshirt over his shoulder, back into the backseat. “What’s with the guitar and the grocery bag?”
Brendon wriggles a little in his seat, straightening his spine in preparation for the explanation.
“Today is the day,” he says.
Tom feels any lingering frustration drain out of him. “Okay, I’ll bite. The day for what?”
“The day we play hooky,” Brendon announces grandly.
“Play hooky?” Tom repeats dumbly.
Brendon dips his head in confirmation, his face grave. “It’s about time we took a mental health day.”
Tom smiles at that. “I’m not about to disagree, but what’s with all that?” he asks, indicating the backseat.
“Those are the supplies for our adventure,” Brendon says.
“Okay,” Tom agrees, “but you’re going to have to tell me where to go. I can’t read your mind.”
“Thank God for that,” Brendon snorts.
Tom doesn’t want to think about what that could mean.
After driving for a while, Tom pulls to a stop as directed and waits for further instructions.
“Look straight ahead,” Brendon says.
It takes Tom a second to recognize what he’s seeing in the bright light of day. The park looks unfamiliar in the sunlight, young mothers rest on park benches while children dart around the equipment that Tom is used to seeing vacant. A little boy spins dizzily on the tire swing.
It’s kind of fascinating, like he’s stumbled into Oz.
“Surprise!”
“You want to play hooky at a playground?” he feels stupid even asking the question.
“Where else would you play hooky?” Brendon looks so honestly perplexed that he has to be kidding. Tom is positive that he is. Almost completely.
“What are we going to do at a park all day?” This was pretty spur of the moment. He didn’t exactly have the chance to get the kind of provisions that could potentially make a day in the park more interesting. Plus, there are kids around, so that’s definitely a bad idea.
Brendon shoots him a censuring look that almost has him believing he can read Tom’s mind. “Um, go on the slide, play tag, maybe swing a little. Have a picnic?”
Tom is almost too distracted by the idea of the absurdity of a two-person game of tag to notice the question Brendon utters last. Almost, but not quite.
“Oh my god, that’s what’s in the bag, isn’t it? You brought a picnic.” That will definitely trump two-person tag for most absurd… anything, really.
“Yep,” Brendon says, not fazed in the slightest. “I made finger sandwiches and cupcakes.”
“Does that even count as a picnic?” Tom thought potato salad was a requirement at picnics. But this will be his first one, so he doesn’t have much to go by.
“After I slaved away at a hot oven for you, this is the thanks I get?” Brendon’s mouth pulls into a pout.
“That depends. Are the cupcakes homemade or from a box?” Tom asks. Since this whole Home Ec thing happened, he’s developed standards.
“What do you take me for? From scratch, of course. Mrs. A would put you on dishwashing duty for the rest of the year for even asking that.” Brendon is trying his best to look scandalized, but Tom’s not buying it.
“Okay, okay. And the guitar?”
“I thought that would be pretty self-explanatory.” Brendon shakes his head in disappointment. “And you call yourself a musician.”
“So… to play?”
“Got it in one, Tom! C’mon, let’s go. We’ve got a few hours before it’s socially acceptable to eat lunch, and I want to get all of my lazin’ around time in before then.”
With that, Brendon grabs the stuff from the back, and bounds out of the car. He waits at the curb for Tom, paper bag clutched to his chest and the guitar case gripped in his left hand.
Tom takes his time getting out, slowly pushes open the door and swings a leg to the ground. He rises into a stretch, his mouth opening in a wide yawn. It’s still barely eight in the morning, and part of him feels like if he isn’t in school he should be asleep.
Brendon is tapping his foot impatiently on the pavement, telling Tom without a word to hurry up.
Just as Tom is about to slam the door shut, he spots his camera resting on the dash. Without a thought, he grabs it by the strap and goes to join Brendon.
-
“Tom, you can’t just take pictures of kids in a park,” Brendon admonishes. “They have special police for people who do that.”
Tom settles back against the metal leg of the picnic table and looks to Brendon.
Brendon is sitting close by, leaning his back against a nearby tree. He has his legs spread out in front of him on a bed sheet that he said he’d confiscated from his aunt’s linen closet. He has the guitar resting gently across his lap, his fingers carelessly strumming a nonsensical tune. He’ll occasionally burst out with a string of lyrics about the world around him.
Tom particularly liked the line about the teeter-totter and playground bullies.
Once Tom had learned that Brendon’s parents hadn’t let him bring a guitar with him, having deemed it a tool of the devil or something crazy like that, he had offered to let Brendon use one of his old acoustic guitars. Brendon had refused, politely -just like his whackjob parents had drilled into him-saying that he couldn’t possibly accept something like that.
Tom didn’t ask Brendon again, but he did make a point of leaving the guitar over at Brendon’s place and never taking it back. Eventually Brendon gave in and began to actually play the thing. And they both pretended that it was still really Tom’s guitar.
“Fine. I won’t take pictures of kids,” Tom replies, swinging his camera up and training the lens on Brendon.
Brendon doesn’t even have time to pull his usual ridiculous camera-ready face. He’s got his head ducked down over the guitar, his shoulders hunched a little against a sudden breeze. The sunlight filters through the leaves of the tree, creating shifting spots of light on Brendon’s dark hair. Tom clicks the shutter.
It’s going to be a great picture.
At the sound of the click, Brendon looks up and ruins the peaceful image. A stripe of chocolate icing stands out darkly along one side of his mouth.
Tom is unexpectedly reminded of going to Brendon’s house that first time. He recalls being greeted by a suspicious scowl and a sweatshirt covered in chocolate pudding. He lets out a loud laugh at the memory.
“What?” Brendon demands.
“Nothing. You’ve got a little icing on your face.” Tom gestures vaguely at his own mouth.
“Would you be a dear and get it for me, Tom?” Brendon makes calf-eyes over at him.
So weird. Tom shrugs and moves to do as requested, his right hand reaching for the chocolate smudge. His fingers have just brushed Brendon’s lip when the other boy jerks abruptly away.
“Ha. Just kidding, dude. I’ve got it,” Brendon says, voice sounding a little shaky. He swipes hastily at his mouth.
“Okay,” says Tom, nonplussed.
He sees a small shiver rack Brendon’s body.
The breeze doesn’t feel that bad, but apparently Brendon is cold even in the mild-April afternoon. Brendon always has been a freak about the weather.
“You should have said you were cold, dork,” Tom says, rising to his feet. “I’ll be right back.” He ambles back to the car to get the hoodie Brendon had bequeathed to him that morning.
He opens the driver’s side door, and kneels on the leather seat, right hand reaching into the back where he’d thrown the garment earlier. He hesitates for a moment before grabbing it. His fingertips feel oddly tingly.He flexes his hand once to rid himself of the feeling, and snatches up the hoodie.
He’s just cresting the hill above Brendon’s impromptu picnic when Jon’s ringtone splits the air.
He really needs to change that. He hates Garth Brooks.
He flips open his phone and brings it to his ear. Jon doesn’t bother with a greeting, just launches into the conversation. “I’m trying to come up with a cover song we can do that has a really good bass part.”
Okay…
“Yeah?” That should work.
“Yeah, so I need to talk to Brendon,” Jon states baldly.
Tom processes that for a moment. He thinks he should be offended. He’s in the band with Jon. But Brendon does play bass, and he’d probably ask Brendon about something like that, too. The guy’s like an encyclopedia of vast and random musical knowledge.
After deciding he’s not offended, he thinks to wonder why Jon called him to talk to Brendon in the first place. He asks as much.
“Why are you calling me, then? Why didn’t you just call Brendon?”
“His phone is off. I knew he’d be with you, so I called you,” Jon explains simply.
Huh. “How’d you know he’s with me?”
Jon’s answer is prompt. “Neither of you was at school today. Plus, you’re always together.”
Oh.
“Hang on a sec.” He drops the phone down by his leg.
Brendon’s not sitting on the sheet where Tom left him. Tom’s eyes scan the playground in search of the skinny brunette.
He catches sight of him at the other end of the playground. Brendon is moving steadily across the dry mulch, a tiny girl in pigtails hot on his heels. He’s running in a mad zigzag pattern, his arms thrust comically out in front of him. The little girl’s hand connects with his back with an audible thwack.
It’s only a split-second before Brendon rounds on her, his face morphing into a poor approximation of glower. The girl lets out a delighted shriek and darts under one of his upraised arms to join the passel of children spread out behind them.
Brendon is actually playing tag. Tom’s lips crook in a smile. He’d kind of been expecting it.
Brendon spots Tom just as he’s debating how best to interrupt Brendon’s game. After waving a quick goodbye to his playmates -and seriously, Tom was only gone for a few minutes and Brendon’s already befriended every little person in sight-Brendon jogs over to him. Tom is maybe a little relieved that he didn’t have to break up all the fun.
The quiet, tinny shout of “Tom!” reminds him of his mission.
Tom shoves the phone and the sweatshirt at Brendon, saying, “Jon for you, your phone’s dead.” Then he turns and walks back to their picnic.
Brendon trails close behind him, and sits at the picnic table by their things. “Hey, what’s up?”
Tom takes up Brendon’s previous position on the sheet, and listens with half an ear as Brendon talks cover songs with Jon. He rests his eyes for only a moment, but when he blinks them open again, he has the feeling that some time has passed. He can no longer hear the excited rhythm of Brendon’s voice.
Something nudges at his side. He looks down to find the top of Brendon’s head pressing lightly on his ribs. He absent-mindedly brings a hand up to pet clumsily at Brendon’s hair. Brendon is stretched out on his back, Tom’s phone clasped tightly in his hand. His other hand is buried in the pocket of the red hoodie.
The only sound around them is the rustling of leaves and the distant sound of children’s shrieking laughter.
“Hey, Tom?”
“Yeah, Brendon?”
“Thanks for coming out here with me today.”
Tom rubs his knuckle lightly against Brendon’s scalp, soothing him. “No problem. Any day without school is a good day. Plus, I learned that picnics are awesome.”
Brendon breathes out a quiet laugh at that. “They are. But seriously, thanks for just going with it. I needed this.”
Tom thinks Brendon is done, and is about to say something when Brendon continues, “My phone isn’t really dead.”
“Oh?” Tom asks. That response seems safe enough.
Tom doesn’t know where this is going, but from the tension running through Brendon’s frame, he can guess it’s nowhere good.
“I turned it off.” Brendon shifts around a bit so that he’s looking up at Tom. “I just didn’t want to be staring at it all day waiting for my parents to call.”
“They … were supposed to call?” Tom hazards. He is really out of his depths here.
Brendon’s eyes flit away. “It’s my birthday,” he says, the words taking on the tone of a confession.
Tom’s hand stops its circular motion, his fingers tangling in Brendon’s hair. Oh, fuck.
“Fuck. I’m so sorry, Brendon. I completely forgot.” He is the worst friend ever. Brendon shouldn’t forgive him for this. He knows that Jon Walker won’t.
“You didn’t forget, Tom. I never told you.” Brendon gives a small chuckle again, this one sounding a little more genuine, like Tom freaking out cheers him a bit.
Tom is a little ashamed of the relief that rushes through him at that. But his gut is still churning a little with the thought of Brendon baking cupcakes for his own birthday.
“I’m still sorry.” His moves his hand from Brendon’s hair, down past his neck. He raps his fingers softly against Brendon’s collarbone. “Happy birthday, Brendon.”
“Yep, I’m seventeen now. Practically a man.” His hair brushes Tom’s shirt with his nod. And his voice falls just short of lighthearted.
“I’m sorry that your seventeenth has sucked.” Tom lets out a breath in a gust of noise. Something occurs to him that could potentially cheer Brendon up.
What he says next is hard coming. “Well, your friend Spencer is coming in a few days. Maybe you can have a real celebration then.”
Brendon twists to look up at him again, his eyes fixed on Tom’s face. He shakes his head firmly. “No, this is perfect. One of the best birthdays yet.”
Tom really doubts that. Brendon must be missing his family and friends back in Vegas like crazy right now. He doesn’t want to think about why that makes his gut twinge.
He must not be very good at hiding his disbelief, because Brendon scoots a little closer and pushes his pointy chin into Tom’s ribs. “No, really. This is great.”
Brendon breaks out in his first smile in what feels like forever. An unsmiling Brendon is just unnatural.
Something in Tom’s chest loosens a little at the sight.
-- --
“So, when do I get to meet Tom?”
That is the first thing that Spencer says after setting his bags down on Brendon’s bedroom floor.
It makes Brendon kind of nervous.
“Soon, I guess.” Brendon eyes Spencer with suspicion as he collapses down on the bed. “You aren’t going to scare him, are you?”
Tom is mostly impervious to things like subtle meanness, mostly because he doesn’t really understand the point of people being assholes for no clear reason, so Brendon isn’t really worried. But Spencer can be tricky.
Spencer’s face is all innocence, brows raised as if to ask who me? But Brendon isn’t about to be taken in, he knows Spencer entirely too well for that.
But he also really doesn’t want to fight. He hasn’t seen Spencer in months, and he would much rather be indulging in an embarrassingly tight hug than preemptively defending Tom’s honor or whatever it is he’s about to do.
He doesn’t care how pathetic he sounds when he implores, “Just, please be nice. I like him, you know.”
“Yeah, I know.” It really shouldn’t be possible for someone to go from feigning innocence-no matter how poorly-to looking so undeniably evil without missing a beat.
Brendon sighs. “I didn’t mean it like that. He’s a good guy, so you don’t need to be an asshole, okay?”
Spencer scowls at him, says, “Jesus, Brendon. You make it sound like I go out of my way to be an evil bastard.”
“I didn’t mean that either. You don’t, most of the time.” Brendon chances a smile at Spencer, partly to gauge his mood and partly because he really can’t help smiling at him. “It’s just that you’re kind of protective sometimes. It’s sweet, but it could prove potentially deadly for my social life.”
Brendon can see that Spencer is going to give in by the sudden loosening of his shoulders. He shakes his head in disgust, “I promise I won’t say anything to upset Tom’s delicate sensibilities.”
“Thanks, Spence. I know it’s a sacrifice.”
“Jerk,” Spencer responds. But Brendon can that he doesn’t really mean it. Brendon has the niggling feeling that he’s missed something, but he can’t put his finger on what.
He shuffles a few steps closer to where Spencer is standing by the desk. He’s not really sure how to ask for something that used to come so naturally to them. But Brendon is only about a foot away when Spencer launches himself away from the desk, pulling Brendon into a suffocating hug.
“I missed you,” Brendon mumbles the words into the curve of Spencer’s neck.
Spencer whispers them right back.
Apparently he doesn’t need to ask at all.
-
Brendon doesn’t take Spencer to meet Tom until the next night.
He wants to spend the first night with just the tow of them, hanging out and watching bad movies, like old times. Brendon really hates that there is such a thing as old times between them now, that they don’t get to do these things every weekend like the used to.
They fall asleep at the beginning of the third film, curled around each other, as if they couldn’t stand to be too far apart when they were finally so close.
The following night, they meet up with Tom and a few of the others at a diner. Their plan is to grab something to eat, and then head to a party right after.
Brendon’s been to the diner a few times before, but it seems to have a sort of history for the other guys that he doesn’t share. A meal there always prompts a story that inevitably starts with, “Remember that time…”
Brendon is usually pretty good about not letting himself feel left out, and Tom, in his own awkward way, always manages to bring Brendon into the conversation. Usually with related but oddly timed questions like, “Well, have you ever crossed an intersection naked, Brendon?”
But this time, Brendon doesn’t have to worry about that. This time Brendon is bringing Spencer, and he has about a million ‘remember when’ stories with him.
When they get to the diner the others are already there. Brendon had wanted to show Spencer more of the city, and they had spent the day walking around downtown before heading to meet them. Brendon is happy to note that not too many people have shown up. He doesn’t really want to have to share Spencer with a huge group just yet.
They make their way to the booth where Cassie, Jon and Tom sit on one site, and Nick sits opposite them. And Brendon isn’t really sure how he feels about that; Nick can be a lot to handle, especially upon first meeting.
Oh well, if anyone can take it, Spencer can. Still, Brendon takes the seat next to Nick, leaving Spencer the spot on the outside of the booth. Just to be safe.
Even as he scooches his butt along the tacky vinyl seats, he can already tell that Spencer is trying to determine by looks alone which of the guys is Tom. Brendon watches s he looks first at Nick on Brendon’s left, then sees him mentally dismiss the possibility.
Brendon isn’t entirely sure why Spencer doesn’t think that he could have an epic crush on Nick just after taking one look at the guy. He does know that if he were able to tell Tom about it, he’d laugh his ass off.
Spencer’s scrutiny quickly shifts to Jon. Spencer studies him for a few seconds in silent consideration. Then he seems to notice how close Cassie is pressed to Jon’s side. He moves on. Brendon is feeling kind of apprehensive as he tracks Spencer zeroing in on Tom. He shouldn’t be worried. Spencer promised.
“Hey, I’m Spencer.” Spencer sticks his hand out across the table, his smile wide and plastic.
Tom just stares at the outstretched hand for a moment before taking it gingerly in his own, clearly confused by the fact that a sixteen-year-old boy is trying to shake his hand in a somewhat dingy diner. “Um, Tom.”
Brendon jumps in to stall any further conversation between the two. “And that’s Cassie, and Jon.”
Brendon lets out a quiet sigh of relief at the sight of a genuine smile from Spencer for Jon.
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Spencer says.
Jon meets Spencer’s smile with one of his own. “Yeah, likewise.”
Jesus, they could probably light up an apartment building with the power of their smiles alone.
Brendon finishes off the introductions with a hastily added, “And this is Nick Scimeca.”
Spencer does his cool guy nod at the table. “Nice to meet you guys.”
The others put Spencer through his paces, asking many of the same questions that had been asked of Brendon at first meeting.
At least, Jon and Cassie do. Tom is strangely mute, and Nick asks questions like, “So, are they all topless, or do some of them wear those tassle thingies?”
Spencer mostly ignores Nick, which Brendon thinks is the wise decision.
Tom finally breaks his eerie silence to ask, “Tell us more about your band. Brendon hasn’t said much about it.”
Brendon knows that Tom doesn’t mean anything by it, but he feels a stab of hurt at the question just the same. He has mostly avoided finding out anything about the band since he left Las Vegas. He told Spencer once or twice that they really should look for another pianist, or a guitar player, at the very least.
Spencer had said something about Ryan maybe knowing a guy, but not being sure if he would measure up to their high standards. Brendon had been so hopeful, that he couldn’t even tell if Spencer was lying just to make him feel better.
He does know that he has yet to be replaced, and he thinks he might even have Ryan to thank for that. Or at the very least, Ryan’s impossible requirements.
Brendon looks from Tom back to Spencer. He is entirely too invested in the answer to this question.
Spencer is watching Tom speculatively. “Not much to tell. We’re on a kind of working hiatus. Our friend Ryan is singing right now, and writing a bit. We’re trying to make do without a pianist for the moment. It’s just a temporary situation. It should resolve itself before long.” Spencer’s tone seems to be implying something with the last.
Brendon is too caught up in Spencer’s words to puzzle over any deeper meanings. His band is going to find another pianist. One that is not him. He knows that he said that they should, but that doesn’t mean that they had to listen to him. And he doesn’t have to like it.
In his aim to look anywhere but at Spencer, Brendon catches sight of Tom’s expression.
If anything, he looks even more affected by what Spencer said than Brendon does. His eyes are narrowed sharply at Brendon’s friend, and Brendon can’t even begin to understand what that is about.
“That’s nice,” Cassie speaks up, leaning into the formica tabletop to be heard over the din of the restaurant. “You play the drums, right? And Brendon plays the guitar and piano? So tell me really, is he any good?” Her voice is teasing, her eyes bright with humor.
“Brendon? Brendon is awesome. He doesn’t just play the guitar and the piano. He plays practically everything. Even plays the drums. Almost as well as I do.” Spencer beams across the table at Cassie, sounding more like a proud mother telling an acquaintance at the grocery store about ‘her son, the doctor’, than an ex-boyfriend or bandmate, or even a friend for that matter.
Spencer turns that smile on Brendon, saying, “Remember that time that you tried to play both the piano and the guitar parts for that one song. And Ryan just about strangled you with an amp cord?”
“Oh man, as if he didn’t terrify me enough already, back then. I had nightmares about scarecrows trying to garrote me for weeks afterwards.” Brendon is glad this is one of those things that he can laugh about now. At the time Ryan really did scare the crap out of him just by breathing.
That was also back when Brendon was convinced that Ryan was pretty much the coolest person on the planet. It was a really long time ago.
“That’s your… friend?” Jon asks, face trouble over something that had happened before he even met Brendon.
Brendon can’t even imagine how totally chill Jon Walker would get along with the perpetually irritated Ryan Ross. He smiles at the thought. “Yeah, Ryan’s one of a kind.”
“Sounds like it,” Tom mutters under his breath.
Brendon feels Spencer tense next to him. He doesn’t believe for a second that Spencer will just let it go when someone says anything negative about Ryan, even if Ryan almost always deserved it.
But Spencer just inches a little closer to Brendon, his smile still firmly in place. “He’s a good friend. He was always supportive of me and Brendon.”
If by supportive Spencer meant threatened to gouge his own eyes out if he had to see Brendon and Spencer kiss one more time, then yes. Ryan was fully supportive. Spencer settles back against the booth looking oddly self-satisfied. He drapes his arm along the back of the booth in a move that would look completely casual to anyone that didn’t know him.
Brendon knows him, but as Spencer’s fingers curl lightly around Brendon’s shoulder, he can’t figure out the motivation behind the move.
But Brendon isn’t about to spend his night trying to work out why Spencer does what he does. The guy has a slippery mind and Brendon doesn’t have the infinite time and resources it would take to decipher Spencer’s thoughts.
And if Spencer is keeping his eye on Tom, Brendon is willing to pretend to ignore it.
Part 6
Master Post