A Most Brilliant Dance, Chapter 5

[ex_zarah5186]

Full Headers [ here].

Ryan/Spencer, Brendon/Jon
PG-13
~77’000 words

Written by softlyforgotten and zarah5.

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A Most Brilliant Dance

Chapter 5

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Okkervil River - Song Of Our So-Called Friend

His mother, as predicted, is considerably furious with him; she takes him and Mr Smith into a room to rail at him, shrieking something about the livelihood of the family and his own well-being and have you considered, young man, that this is the only marriage proposal you will get? and Spencer grits his teeth and bears it all because outside the window Brendon’s making cheerful faces at him.

“My dear,” Mr Smith says, eventually, “There is very little we can do if Spencer has set his mind upon rejecting his cousin. Mr Iero’s a good man, I’m sure he won’t take it too personally.”

Mrs Smith starts sobbing, and Spencer moves awkwardly forward, seizes her in a hug. “Listen,” he says. “Frank’s not mad at me. We’re still friends, he just - he made a bit of a mistake. He’s not going to seize the house off of us the moment Father dies because he’s still Frank whether or not I’ve accepted any proposals from him recently. And, Mother, I never would, because - it wouldn’t work.”

“Stupid, headstrong child!” she cries, and Spencer looks up at his father, who nods wearily at him, and then Spencer slips out of the room. Frank’s waiting outside for him, smiling a little sheepishly, and Spencer folds his arms and glares at him.

“I should hate you for putting me through that,” he says, and Frank starts giggling. Spencer is ridiculously relieved that apparently they can now joke about it.

Mrs Smith retires to her bedroom for the rest of the day, and it passes quickly in helping to get Frank all packed up, as his possessions have somehow - in three days - managed to spread throughout the house. Spencer helps him gather them all up while Brendon (who is useless at packing) trails around after them to keep them company. The girls have disappeared; a mixture of the twins’ not wanting to help and Spencer getting tired of seeing Anne’s long face every time she looked at Frank and said “I can’t believe you’re leaving already.”

The carriage for Frank arrives at four, and it’s harder than Spencer had anticipated to say goodbye to him. Frank goes around and hugs everyone, apparently haven given up on the courteous handshakes and bows that had heralded his arrival, and when he gets to Spencer he hugs so hard that it knocks most of the breath out of him.

“Maybe I should marry you,” Spencer mumbles. “It’s going to be boring here without you.”

Frank laughs softly into his neck and says, “I’ll write. And you have to come visit me some time soon.”

“I promise,” Spencer says, and means it.

Frank gets into the carriage but sticks his head out the window and waves all the way down the drive, and then down the road when Spencer and Brendon follow to keep waving. The carriage turns around a bend and Frank is, suddenly, lost to sight; Spencer swallows around the utterly ridiculous lump in his throat.

“Well,” he says gruffly, turning around to where Brendon is watching him with a half-smile.

“Well,” Brendon mocks, using an overly hoarse voice, and then he laughs and throws an arm around Spencer’s shoulders. “He lives in Kent, Spence. It’s not that far away.”

“Yeah, I know,” Spencer says, and he does.

That night, Spencer tells Brendon what he and Frank overheard between Ross and Pete. Brendon sighs and scrubs at his face. “I’m too tired for this,” he says. “I really have no idea what could be going on between them.”

“Besides Ross being a bastard of the worst kind?” Spencer drawls, and Brendon yawns and climbs into bed, pulling the covers up around his shoulders.

“I don’t know,” he mumbles. “From what you said, it didn’t sound as if Pete was entirely pleasant during the meeting either.”

“Would you be?” Spencer challenges, and Brendon smiles sleepily at him and closes his eyes.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Are you planning to kick me out of home the moment your parents die?”

“What?” Spencer scoffs. “No, of course not!”

“Then I don’t really care, to be honest,” Brendon says. “Blow out the candle, will you?”

Spencer sighs and does as asked, crawling into the bed next to him. He says, “It’s weird, Frank being gone. It feels like he’s been here a lot longer than just a few days.”

“Mmmn,” Brendon breathes, and Spencer can tell he’s half-asleep already. He grins and rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling.

“Maybe we could go and visit Jon tomorrow,” Spencer says. “We could take the horses. Take him down to the river.”

“Sounds good,” Brendon half-whispers, and Spencer blinks down at him, a little annoyed. Spencer’s wide awake and he wants to talk but Brendon apparently seems set on sleeping as quickly as possible.

“Or you could just go, if you liked,” Spencer offers, propping himself up on his elbows. “I wouldn’t want to be in the way.”

“Spencer,” Brendon groans, and grabs his wrist, drags him down until he’s half-curled on the bed, facing Brendon. “You should come, or you’ll be lonely and whine at me when I get back. For now, can we please, please go to sleep?”

“Fine,” Spencer says, and rolls over with his back to Brendon. Brendon touches just between his shoulder blades, a warm, firm pressure, and then he rolls over too and goes to sleep pretty quickly, snuffling into his pillow.

“Bastard traitor,” Spencer comments.

*

The next morning he wakes later than he’s used to, nearly nine o’clock judging by the sounds of activity around the house, and Brendon is already gone. He groans to himself, unwilling to get up from the warm bed - considering June is approaching, the weather has been unseasonably cold these last few days. On the other hand, he knows from past experience that it won’t be long now before the twins come up with a pitcher of icy cold water and Spencer doesn’t particularly want to stay around for that.

He crawls out of bed and gets dressed blearily, crossing over to the window as he buttons up his shirt. The morning is even colder than yesterday and Spencer thinks he can see a fog coming in from over the hills. Perhaps they’ll have to wait until tomorrow to visit Netherfield, he thinks absently; riding horses through fog is not his idea of fun (although once, when he and Brendon were twelve or so, they’d done just that, with handkerchiefs tied around their mouths, pretending they were pirates. They terrified the girls and called it a good day’s work).

Spencer’s still staring absently out the window when he realizes that there’s a lone horseman on the gentle slope that leads up to Netherfield, and he has his face tilted up to Spencer’s window. Spencer blinks - for a moment, he thinks it’s Jon, maybe come to say hello or invite them around or something, and he raises a hand to wave, and then stops. The horse stays exactly where it is and Spencer realizes with a cold shock that the man has a straight, perfect stature (unlike Jon, who rides with his shoulders raised up) and that Spencer has seen that coat before. He stares - it’s too far away to see Ross’s features, but the other man is strangely still, chin raised up, and Spencer knows with a jolt that Ross is watching him.

As he stands there, hand dropping feebly back down to his side, Ross suddenly wheels his horse around and goes galloping back in the direction of Netherfield. Spencer finishes buttoning his shirt up and shakes his head, still staring out the window as if expecting Ross to come back with an explanation for his strange behavior.

Finally, he turns around and goes downstairs. The house is busy, he thinks, but not like it normally is; he can’t hear the twins shouting or Brendon or Anne at the piano, and when he passes his mother’s room he can see it is barred shut, which means she’s still in there. Normally she’s an early riser - Spencer narrows his eyes and quickens his step.

In the lounge room, Brendon is sprawled out on the sofa, eyes closed, face blank. He is clutching a crumpled letter in his hand.

Spencer says, “Brendon? Brendon, what’s going on? Is there bad news?”

Brendon opens his eyes and sits up. He doesn’t smile at Spencer; he looks wrecked, tired and miserable. “I don’t think we’ll be going to Netherfield today,” he says.

“What?” Spencer asks, bewildered.

Brendon extends the paper to him; Spencer catches sight of the signature, a scrawled Jon Walker.

“A letter came,” Brendon says.

*

In hindsight, Ross’s visit is easy enough to interpret, a triumphant goodbye to an undesirable acquaintance. Jon's letter made it clear that there is no set time for his return to Netherfield, and Spencer doesn't understand. Even with the careful, almost distant phrasing of Jon's words, there is a certain rashness to his letters, as if he couldn't wait to get them out fast enough and be done with it.

It's entirely unlike anything Jon has shown them over the course of recent weeks.

“He did say there was business that he had to take care of,” Brendon says, voice so small that it aches in Spencer's throat. “I'm assuming it was something urgent.”

“Urgent enough to leave without telling you goodbye? I rather doubt that.” Spencer shakes his head and scowls at the vine that climbs up the back of Longbourn. The fine mist that rises from the grass obscures their sight of all objects further than a mile away. Spencer knows he'd find Netherfield regardless, though.

Brendon turns his face away, his breath a visible cloud in the air. “Jon didn't make any promises to me. I might have... misunderstood.”

“You and everyone else? I really don't think so, Brendon.” Spencer sighs and pulls Brendon into a hug. For all that Brendon pretends to resist at first, he comes easily enough, resting his forehead against Spencer's neck, his nose cold.

“He,” Brendon says, then has to clear his throat, voice a little unsteady. “He probably never saw me as more than good company. Someone to while away the time during his stay here.”

“You don't believe that.” Spencer tightens his embrace. Brendon shifts and exhales against the side of Spencer's neck, and then pulls away.

“No, I probably don't. That's kind of the problem.”

“How about...” Spencer trails off. His first impulse was to suggest Brendon visit London. He could stay with their aunt and uncle, and no matter what dark ideas have been planted in Jon's head, once Jon actually sees Brendon... But then, Spencer doesn't think Brendon is quite ready to take that step, its desperate edge too much just yet.

“How about a visit to Netherfield, and then we'll see for ourselves?” Spencer suggests instead.

“Yes,” Brendon says. He straightens and runs a hand through his hair, his eyes far away. “Yes, all right. I think I could use some exercise, anyway.”

“Good, then.” Spencer smiles, and he has to admit that he's as glad to get out of the house as he is for the chance to make Brendon maybe, possibly consider something that Spencer thinks might be a chance to set this whole mess right.

Brendon nods dejectedly. Spencer notices that his arms are covered in goosebumps. “Come on, then,” he says softly. “Let's grab our coats and leave this madhouse behind.”

“Sounds like a wonderful idea,” Brendon says, but the distance in his eyes is still very much noticeable.

*

Netherfield lies still and silent like a ghost house. Its windows are blind, no trace of light anywhere, and they get as far as to the front porch before Brendon sits down heavily on the stairs, staring up at the wall with a blank face. Spencer suddenly hopes that it wasn’t a mistake to bring him here.

He cautiously sits down beside Brendon, letting their shoulders knock together. “Hey,” he says quietly. “Are you all right?”

“Oh, sure,” Brendon says, barely audible. His posture is defeated, and when he tilts sideways to lean against Spencer, Spencer drapes an arm over his shoulders and holds him. Shit, it was a mistake to bring Brendon here, why did he think it was-

“So I guess,” Brendon starts and then stops, laughs uneasily. “I guess he’s really gone.”

The stairs are cold under them, and Spencer shifts while Brendon doesn’t even seem to notice. “He’s in London,” Spencer says, after a long pause. The mist is starting to drift away, a slightly surreal atmosphere to the world that surrounds them, bright, sunlit clouds floating above the fields. It’s breathtaking, beautiful, and yet, Spencer can’t bring himself to enjoy it.

“Which is the same as saying that he’s really gone.” Brendon’s voice is muffled by the cloth of Spencer’s cloak.

“Mr and Mrs Gardiner live in London,” Spencer says carefully. Their aunt and uncle are lovely people, and while their house in London might be nothing spectacular, it’s comfortable and spacious enough to take Brendon in for a few weeks.

“So?” Brendon asks.

Spencer watches the fog banks dissolve, and he doesn’t look down at Brendon because the drawn, unhappy strain around his mouth makes him feel stupid and useless, suddenly incapable of fixing things. “You could… visit them, for a while.”

“And do what, chase after Jon like the twins chase after the soldiers?” Brendon snorts mirthlessly. “I think not.”

“Who said anything about chasing after him?” Spencer says, his tone calming and reasonable. “You could simply visit Aunt and Uncle, and maybe after a few days or so, send Jon a note informing him that you’re there. That’s not. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. And I refuse to believe that Jon won’t want to see you, once you’re there. He… Brendon, Jon adores you.”

“Obviously,” Brendon says, his voice dry and sarcastic, and that’s new. Spencer doesn’t like it in the least. “Since he couldn’t even be bothered to tell me goodbye in person, I’m sure his adoration must surpass the boundaries of class and some such. What’s it always called in those fancy books of yours?”

“I don’t read cheap romance novels,” Spencer says, distracted to defence. “They’re boring. There are always so many transparent misunderstandings, and the bad guys are so cliché, and the good guys are so beautiful and, well, good. It’s quite tiring, believe me.”

“If you say so,” Brendon says.

“I also say that you should go to London.”

“I heard you the first time.”

“Yes, but you’re not listening.”

Brendon sighs and remains silent.

“Brendon,” Spencer says, drawing him closer, bringing one hand up to the back of Brendon’s neck. “Seriously, Brendon. You shouldn’t… You’ve given up without even trying.”

“Maybe there was nothing to give up on.” Brendon is peering past Spencer’s nose, up at the window of the piano room. The curtains are still there, but they hang limp and lifeless. “Maybe I just fooled myself into believing that there was. Maybe I never even really-”

“Stop that,” Spencer says sharply. “Brendon, stop trying to pretend you don’t… like Jon a whole lot, more than you ever liked any other man. Isn’t that worth travelling to London?”

For a second, Brendon’s face looks sullen, as if he were about to protest. Then the corners of his mouth twist downwards, and he lowers his eyes. “I… God, Spence. How could Jon just leave like this? I thought he was…”

“He was,” Spencer says, putting all his conviction into his voice. “I’m sure that there must have been some kind of interference from his family, or maybe Ross, or maybe from Vanek. She’s already in London, right? Jon wouldn’t just… I don’t think he’d have left, if he were thinking clearly.”

“Okay,” Brendon says, and Spencer knows that he doesn’t believe him that much at all but says nothing more. Brendon pulls away from Spencer’s grasp, standing up, and says, “Our aunt and uncle?”

“Yes,” Spencer says firmly, and Brendon nods once, curling arms around his stomach. He stares up at Netherfield’s blank windows for one long moment before he laughs hollowly and turns away.

“Okay,” he says again, and they fall into step together, going home.

*

Mrs Smith, enraged and a little desperate by Jon’s sudden departure, thinks that Brendon’s departure is a marvellous idea, and writes to her brother forthwith. A letter arrives back two days later, saying that they will be very glad to have Brendon and that he may come up as soon as he fancies, and Spencer sets to helping Brendon pack his bags. Brendon moves in a small kind of way and it makes Spencer feel slightly sick and very furious, angry at whoever’s fault it is. He’d blame people except - despite certain inclinations to pile all the fault at a certain gentleman’s feet - he thinks Brendon would probably get annoyed at Spencer charging people with crimes they weren’t there to defend.

He talks brightly as they pack, and at twice his usual speed, in a mostly useless attempt to make Brendon’s silence seem less so. Brendon smiles in all the right places and offers a comment or two when necessary, but Spencer knows that he’s barely slept for the past two nights and that he’s almost beyond exhausted. Spencer is starting to think that maybe the cliché romantic novels he told Brendon that he didn’t read weren’t so stupid after all; Brendon certainly shows all the symptoms of being heartbroken.

Although that’s getting a little melodramatic for Spencer to think without feeling foolish. He’s better at keeping people on track with careful, easy conversation, and so he does just that. Brendon seems a little better after a while, with the shock and initial hurt fading some, and by the time he’s almost ready to head off to the Gardiner’s there is some hope back in him.

“Write to Jon,” Spencer says firmly on Brendon’s last night. “Jon’s gotten confused or something, and you just need to let it be known that you’re in London and then see him again, and he’ll recognise what an idiot he’s being, wait and see. It’s all going to be fine.”

“Probably, Spencer,” Brendon says, and smiles at him. Spencer rolls his eyes.

“Not probably,” he insists. “Definitely. Okay? Brendon?”

“Yes,” Brendon says. “Fine. Come on, Spencer, we have to get up early tomorrow. How about letting me sleep for once?”

“Goodnight,” Spencer says. He blows out the candle and Brendon rolls over, back to Spencer, but Spencer’s not fooled; he sees the tension in Brendon’s back and knows, even as he drifts off to sleep, that Brendon’s not going to get much rest tonight.

*

Brendon leaves bright and early the next morning and the whole family waves him off. Before he leaves, he gives everyone a hug, clinging close, and Spencer tries not to feel guilty about the whole idea. Brendon gets homesick too easily, he thinks firmly, he’s just going to have to get over it, and when Brendon gets to him Spencer hugs back in a reassuring kind of way, patting at Brendon’s shoulder blades.

Brendon tucks his nose against Spencer’s collarbone and says, in a small voice, “You better write to me.”

“Of course,” Spencer says, and squeezes Brendon once. “I doubt you’ll have to be there long, anyway. Show up, go to a ball or two with Jon, bring him back to Netherfield. It’ll be easy. You won’t even notice the time going by.”

“If you say so,” Brendon says doubtfully, and then he steps away and into the back of the carriage, peeking out the window to wave. Spencer stands and waves back at him and tries not to think about how everyone seems to be leaving, these days.

Back inside the house, the twins are already bickering over something and Anne is trying - and failing, mostly - to play something new on the piano. Spencer winces at the jarring notes and walks up to his bedroom. It will be nice, he thinks, to have the room all to himself for a few weeks; to not be woken up by Brendon mumbling in his sleep or accidentally pushing Spencer off the bed in an unconscious attempt to cuddle him. The last month has been a flurry of balls and dancing and walking places, handsome men and secrets and manners and new friends and arguments, and - Spencer thinks - it will be rather nice to have some peace and quiet for a while. He can read for a while, go on long walks, not worry about brushing up on the formal way to hold a fork. It will be lovely, Spencer thinks. He deserves a bit of rest.

He looks up to see Mrs Smith lingering in the doorway, a rare moment of gentleness.

“Mother?” he says, and is dismayed to hear his voice crack a little.

“Oh, my darling,” she says, lip trembling, and opens up her arms when Spencer steps towards her.

*

Spencer mopes around the house for three days before his family finally get tired of him and send him out. He walks into Meryton, trying not to be too bored on the way, and decides eventually that he might as well detour past where the regiment is set up and visit Pete. He hasn’t seen him since the ball, and he thinks with amusement that he’d better check the encounter with Ross hasn’t shaken Pete’s nerves so much that he’s in a bad state. More cheerful with a destination and a purpose in mine, he turns right at the fork in the road and sets off.

When he gets there, though, the barracks are a mass of dust being turned up, and Spencer realises with a cold shock that the regiment is being dismantled. He stand staring for a moment, mouth open in shock, until finally an officer taps him on the shoulder, asks if he’s lost.

“I’m looking for Mr Wentz,” Spencer says, bewildered, and the soldier points him towards a distant figure pulling down a tent. Spencer nods his thanks and sets off, and by the time he’s reached Pete the surprise in him has turned to a slow boiling anger.

“Hello,” he says sharply when he reaches the man, and Pete swings around and looks immediately guilty. Spencer narrows his eyes. “You’re packing up, I see.”

“Hello, Spencer,” Pete says. “We got the orders today, yes-”

“Rubbish,” Spencer snaps. “The camp’s more than half finished leaving, and it was a big one. You’d have to have gotten them at least two days ago, maybe three - were you planning on telling me before you left, Pete? Or would I have just come down some day and found you were gone?”

“Spencer,” Pete says, frowning. “Don’t harp at me. I’ve been busy.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Spencer says. “Busy packing up your things so you could leave without even bothering to tell me goodbye. Yes, really, I can see how that might have kept you busy.”

Pete’s face darkens, and he turns back to store a tent pole away. “Your reaction is entirely out of proportion,” he mutters.

“Oh, is that so?” Spencer asks, his tone sarcastic. He raises a brow, and maybe this is partly a culmination of the last few days, everyone leaving while it seems that Spencer is the only one still stuck in Meryton. Maybe. But it’s most definitely also a reaction to Pete, specifically, showing what can only be seen as a complete lack of consideration. “Because, see,” Spencer says. “The way I see it, you have quite openly sought my attention - taking me out for walks, asking me to dance, kissing my cheek. Or are you trying to deny it?”

Pete shows no reaction, but his grip on the tent pole tightens marginally.

“I’m going to take that for agreement,” Spencer says. “And that you should so suddenly lose interest can be interpreted as flightiness, at best.”

Pete gives him an unreadable look. “I never made any promises to you.”

“No, I guess you didn’t.” Spencer sighs, and now he’s tired rather than angry. If Brendon were here, he’d laugh proudly and tell Spencer that really, if that’s the way things are, Pete doesn’t deserve the effort of anger anyway. But then, Brendon isn’t here, and even if he were, his laughter would come out forced and a little shaky. Spencer’s heard him try.

“Spencer,” Pete begins, and there is an audible edge of guilt in his tone.

Spencer interrupts him, shaking his head and holding out his hand for Pete to shake. “Never mind, Pete. It was nice meeting you.”

After a long moment, Pete accepts the handshake, his fingers warm and slightly nervous as they wrap around Spencer’s hand. Spencer smiles tightly, then frees himself and takes a step back. “Goodbye, Pete,” he says, enunciating clearly.

“Goodbye,” Pete says, and he sounds oddly lost, younger than Spencer remembers. With a nod of his head, Spencer turns and walks away. When he glances back, Pete has resumed taking down his tent, just another person to pack up and leave.

Spencer thinks he’s getting really tired of the word goodbye.

*

The twins take the militia’s removal a lot worse than Spencer does. Spencer is still somewhat irritated, but much more than that, he misses Brendon. He can’t remember having spent longer than a week without Brendon before, and it’s been three days already and still no letter from London.

Spencer is maybe faintly impatient. And a lot bored. Pete leaving is just another drop, really. The twins, on the other hand… Well. Well.

Particularly Marianne spends the first day after receiving the news in a dark mood, scowling at everything and everyone within sight until Spencer snaps and tells her she’ll get wrinkles prematurely.

After that, she’s just sullen, insisting that she and the lieutenant’s wife - a young, silly thing in Spencer’s opinion; no wonder she gets along so well with Marianne - had an agreement, an agreement that Marianne was to accompany her and the regiment during their stay at Kensington in late October. It’s the first Spencer hears of it, and while it’s still more than three months away, Marianne acts as if it were tomorrow. Apparently, she sees her chances at some uninterrupted time in the company of many soldiers reduced considerably, and it takes her less than a day to send off a hurried inquiry to her friend as to why the departure already, and whether the offer is still open.

Quite frankly, Spencer hopes it isn’t. Marianne is unrestrained in the company of her family; there’s no telling what she’ll be like without any kind of supervision.

Also, if Marianne gets to go, but Elinor doesn’t, both of them will be unbearable.

*

Three days later, Brendon’s first letter finally arrives. There’s a short one for the whole family, and, enclosed in another envelope, a longer one for Spencer.

For all the suspense, the actual content is a disappointment. Brendon writes about Mr and Mrs Gardiner’s warm welcome, their cute little house not too far from Hyde Park, the buzzing streets of London - in short, nothing of substance, and Brendon’s cheerful tone seems quite forced. There is the mention of him sending a note to Jon on his second day, but as there is no follow-up, nothing seems to have come of it yet.

Spencer sighs and puts the two pages filled with Brendon’s messy scrawl aside. He hopes he wasn’t wrong in his assumption that if Jon only knew that Brendon was in London, he wouldn’t be able to ignore him.

Spencer is starting to suspect that Ross’s grip on Jon - if that’s what’s motivating Jon, and Spencer refuses to believe that it is Jon’s own emotions - might be tighter than he’d thought possible.

*

Without the constant companionship of Brendon’s chatter, Meryton is rather colourless, the streets quiet. It’s not that Spencer doesn’t love Hertfordshire for its peaceful surroundings, the wide sky and fields that stretch forever. He supposes it’s just that without Brendon providing a source of distraction and entertainment, Spencer is coming to realize how little there really is to do.

He hurries through the town quickly, stopping to talk to Sir William Beckett for a few minutes before he ducks into the bookstore. It’s a small, cramped place that smells of dust and old wood, and the first two shelves are filled with those cheap romance novels Spencer usually passes without a second glance.

This time, he takes a short while to linger, studying the titles - An Unexpected Wedding; Love and Loss; Hearts on Fire. Even against the background memory of Brendon’s still, tired face, they don’t seem any less ludicrous than before.

Spencer is about to move on when Tom emerges from the back. He’s a couple years older than Spencer, quiet and responsible, and since his father fell ill a few months ago, he took over the store. Spencer likes him most when his occasional sense of dry humour shows through. “You’re adapting your tastes to that of the general public, I see?” Tom asks.

“How could I resist a title like Destined for Each Other?” Spencer retorts.

Tom grins quickly, almost as if he were ashamed to be enjoying himself despite his father’s misfortune. “Do I detect a trace of disdain in your voice?”

“Surely not,” Spencer says, face straight.

Tom’s smile is small, but genuine, and God, Spencer missed talking to people who don’t confuse sarcasm with what’s literally meant. With everything going on in those recent weeks, he forgot how much fun Tom is to be around. “Hey,” Tom says. “I think I got something for you. Machiavelli, The Prince. Have you heard of it?”

“The Prince?” Spencer tilts his head and squints into the faint light that trickles in through a dirty window, to the right of Tom’s figure. “With a title like that, it does hold a certain romance novel appeal.”

“Quite the opposite,” Tom says. He ducks behind the counter to retrieve an inconspicuous paperback. Its cover shows what might be a badly done charcoal portrait of the author.

“Still not convinced,” Spencer says, crossing his arms.

“Oh, you will be, because this?” Tom’s grin is a little more pronounced as he waves the book around. “Is a guide on how to rule by force rather than law, written to please the Italian Medici family. It’s pretty much a guide on how to take over power, and how to flatter the right people to keep it. You’ll have a great time glaring at the pages, I’m sure.”

Spencer laughs and lets his arms drop to his side. “All right,” he says. “You convinced me. I’ll give it a try.”

“Let me know what you think, will you?”

Spencer counts out the money in his hand, but he glances up for a warm smile. “Definitely,” he says.

*

The twins assault him before he even makes it into the courtyard. “There’s a-” Elinor begins breathlessly, and, “From Frank,” Marianne cuts in.

“What?” Spencer says, and he tries not to hold his new book up like a shield against their excited curiosity.

“A letter,” Marianne says, her tone that of forced patience. “A letter from Frank. It’s waiting in the kitchen.”

“All right, then,” Spencer says, “Let me catch my breath,” but he starts smiling and hurries up. The letter is propped up on the kitchen table and Spencer snatches it up and then glares when the twins giggle a little at him, opens it at a more leisurely pace. For a second, he has to blink at the page; Frank has big, sprawling handwriting, and there is a multicoloured smudge of paint about halfway down the page obscuring some of the words.

Eventually, though, he settles down to read properly, reading relevant bits out loud to the twins - “He says to convey his regards to you, and hopes that you’ve not forgotten your promise to give him dance lessons next time he comes.”

“Is it a love letter?” Elinor demands, and Spencer blinks at her.

“No!” he says, turning red. “Why would you think that?”

“Mother says that Frank was in love with you,” she tells him. “And that you rejected his proposal and broke his heart, and now he will not have you. Is that true, Spence? I think it’s awful mean of you. I liked Frank.”

“It’s not true,” Spencer says, eyes narrowed, and resolves to have a firm word with his mother. He’s in a slightly annoyed mood (who knows who else his mother has blathered to?) until he reaches the end of the letter.

Anyway, Frank writes, it’s dreadfully boring all of a sudden without you. Lady Helena demands a great deal of Gerard’s time, and I’m left wandering around my house all by myself. You promised you’d come visit, Spencer, and I know I haven’t been gone long, but I find I simply must demand the pleasure of your company. Bring Brendon, too, if he would like - there’s plenty of room for both of you. You can meet Gerard. And Lady Helena, though I can’t promise that will be an equally pleasant experience, unfortunately. Do say you’ll come?

Spencer breathes out, “Oh, thank the Lord,” and goes up to ask his father.

*

It takes a while for Spencer to get permission to go stay with Frank, and after that it’s another week and a half before all the necessary letters are sent and arrangements are made. Spencer is expected on the third day of the month to stay for as long a duration as he wishes (“but no longer than a month,” Mrs Smith informs him).

The day before he’s due to leave, he sets off for a walk and, for no real reason, finds himself heading towards the abandoned Netherfield. The first week after Jon and Ross had left had found many of the townsfolk trekking out to the property to see if the rumours were true, but now it stands alone and unvisited, like it had for all of Spencer’s life. He and Brendon used to come out here now and again, especially when they were younger, and take advantage of the huge stretches of open, beautiful property. It hadn’t seemed empty, then, but it does now, and Spencer feels strangely sad about it.

He walks up the front, thinks of all the carriages arriving the night of the ball. It had been well-lit, then, and the sound of music had drifted out into the night. Spencer sighs and leans back against a tree, scruffs his hand awkwardly through his hair. For a small moment, he remembers his first visit to the occupants of Netherfield and half-expects Ross to slide out from the shadows and offer to show him the way.

And when he’s nostalgic even for Ross’s impoliteness, Spencer figures it’s time to head back home. Tomorrow he’ll see Frank again; meanwhile, Brendon is in London, probably charming Jon all over again at this very moment. Things could be much, much worse.

*

Frank is waiting outside when Spencer’s carriage rolls up in front of his house. Spencer’s tired, and it’s been a long enough drive for needless worries to set in. He’s mildly concerned that Frank will be different in his own home, but he steps out only to be promptly knocked off-balance by a hug, Frank grinning hugely up at him.

“Took you long enough,” he says, and then steps back and bows, eyes bright. “What a pleasure to see you again, Mr Smith. May I lead you inside to get settled?”

Spencer makes a face at him and then pulls out his bags, piles them on Frank, who staggers under their weight. “Certainly, sir,”  he says sweetly. “I am most exhausted after my trip. Perhaps I will nap some in your best guest bedroom.”

Frank laughs and passes one of the bags to Spencer and they set off inside. Frank’s house is kind of small, but it’s warm with huge windows that let light in. The guest room, where they leave Spencer’s bags, looks comfortable, too, and there’s a fire burning warmly in the hearth. Spencer is almost sleepy enough to wonder if Frank would mind if he crawled straight into the comfortable looking bed, but decides against it. Instead, they go into the parlour (Frank makes a face when he says it, and Spencer giggles) which is warm with comfortable chairs and a quite beautiful painted landscape on the mantelpiece, and Frank serves tea.

“I have a cook,” he says, “but she only comes at meal times. Most of the time we’re going to have to clean up after ourselves, my apologies.”

“It’s fine,” Spencer says, taking a thankful gulp at his tea. “Oh God, I needed this. Thanks.”

“If you’re tired you should be grateful that I’ve put off going to dinner with her Ladyship until tomorrow,” Frank says. “She wanted to see you right away. You may prepare in whichever way you would prefer for the Spanish Inquisition.”

“I hardly think she could stand up in comparison to my sisters,” Spencer says, but Frank laughs ominously and Spencer is a little grateful, after all. “Will this mean I have to wait until tomorrow to meet Gerard, too?” he asks, smiling crookedly, and Frank turns a little bit pink.

“Yes,” he says. “I don’t think we can really sneak in there and avoid Lady Helena just to find Gerard and satisfy your curiousity.”

Spencer laughs, and Frank says, “So, Brendon’s in London? Why?”

Spencer looks down. “The day you left,” he says, “Jon moved away from Netherfield. Just. Packed up and left. He sent Brendon a letter to explain it, didn’t come and say goodbye in person or anything. It was - Brendon was so upset. So we sent him to stay with our aunt and uncle, in London, because Jon said that was where he was going.”

Frank gapes at him. “But why?” he asks. “I mean, Jon was crazy about Brendon, I thought.”

“I was sure of it,” Spencer agrees, nodding. “I think that maybe… maybe Vanek or Ross, you know, might have convinced him that Brendon wasn’t a suitable match? Because we’re not very well-off.” He looks at the floor and adjusts his sleeve, uncomfortable, but Frank leans over and grabs his hand.

“Idiots,” Frank says fiercely, and Spencer laughs shortly.

“Yes,” he says. “I’m certain Jon wouldn’t have thought to do it on his own, though. He seemed to regret every moment he wasn’t with Brendon, he wouldn’t have just left like this. But. I don’t know. It seems a little unfair, too, to accuse people of things that they can’t defend themselves against.”

Frank nods. “Much as I don’t like Ross, it does seem a little beyond him,” he agrees. “The man’s impolite, but I hardly think he’s cruel-”

“I would not say so,” Spencer says, scowling. Being angry at Pete clearly hasn’t let him feel any less furious about Ross’s injustice towards him. “Ross is - not any kind of gentleman at all. I really, truly can’t understand how he could have fooled anyone as nice as Jon into liking him, but-”

Then he looks up, jolts backwards in his chair and drops his (thankfully empty) cup, where it shatters on the floor. Frank says, “What? What!” and Spencer presses a hand against his heart in an attempt to slow it.

“Oh, God,” he says. “Sorry, just - your gardener startled me.” He points out the window to where a man with black hair that’s sticking up in every direction, a smudged face and a slightly manic grin is waving brightly at them, tapping on the window. Frank stares for a second and then bursts out laughing, jumping up from his chair to open the window.

“That’s not my gardener,” he says, giggling. “That’s Gerard.” He pushes up the window and the heir to Rosings Park beams at them, says, “Hullo!” and proceeds to climb in.

“I escaped for the evening,” Gerard tells Frank. “I can’t stay long, though, or Mikey’ll be mad.” He turns his gaze on Spencer, who is still staring in disbelief at him. “You’re Spencer, right? Hullo! I wanted to meet you. I’m Gerard.”

“Umn,” Spencer says. “Yes? Hello.” He would really, seriously like to know how this cheerful, beaming man fits in with the quiet, rather shy Gerard that Frank painted during his visit at Longbourn. Because Spencer can’t exactly see how the two would fit together.

“Did you just arrive?” Gerard asks. He doesn't even wait for an answer before he continues. “Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to -- Surely you must be tired?”

“Not that tired,” Spencer says. He grins slightly and bends down to gather up the shattered pieces of the tea cup. “Although apparently tired enough to let you scare me into dropping Frank's porcelain.”

“That's fine,” Gerard says. “I can just steal some from our kitchen, to make it up to him. We have more than we'll ever need, anyway.”

“Every single piece of your porcelain is probably worth more than my whole service,” Frank interjects.

“So?” Gerard says. Spencer thinks he rather likes him.

“Nothing.” Frank shakes his head and moves to get Gerard a cup, and Spencer a replacement one. “You've been secretly painting again, haven't you?” he asks over his shoulder.

“Not really.” Gerard drops into an armchair as if he belongs there, as if it were the most normal thing for the heir of one of the richest families in the country to sit around in the small house of an elementary school teacher and drink tea out of a chipped cup. Spencer definitely likes him. “Just,” Gerard continues, “I promised Ryan I'd have something done for him the next time he came, a very simple painting, basically just a forest ground, only I don't even know how to begin. I made a few sketches in charcoal, but it’s not really coming along the way I want it to.”

“Oh, Mr Ross is coming?” Frank asks. He sounds casual enough, but Spencer can see his tight grip on the tea pot. Then Spencer's brain catches up with the words. He nearly drops his replacement cup.

Just his luck, really.

“In a few days, yes.” Gerard doesn't seem to notice the sudden tension in the room. “And he loves trees, particularly old ones, you know, with thick trunks and moss and ivy climbing up. So I said I'd have painted him something when he returned, only I got distracted.”

Ross loves trees. Right.

For all that Spencer is pretty sure he likes Gerard, he also suspects that Gerard might be just a bit mad. But then, Frank would certainly appreciate that kind of thing.

“You always get distracted,” Frank says lightly.

Gerard's grin is sheepish, but his eyes are still bright and warm, and honestly, Spencer doesn't know how Frank could describe him as shy and awkward around strangers. Spencer also doesn't know how he'll manage to avoid Ross.

If Spencer were superstitious, he’d think that fate were having quite a laugh at his expense.

*

True to his word, Gerard barely manages to gulp down his tea before he has to return to Rosings, once more choosing to climb out of the window rather than using the door. Spencer is sure he’s watching Gerard’s departure with a slightly confused look on his face.

Frank closes the window and turns around, grinning. “So?” he says, a little smugly.

“He’s… certainly not what I expected,” Spencer says.

Frank nods and throws himself back into his armchair, reaching across the table for one of the pastries Gerard brought from Rosings. “I told you he’s not your average spoiled heir.”

“Most definitely not.” Spencer laughs and shakes his head. “Although I also couldn’t detect a trace of the shyness around strangers that you mentioned.”

“You’re not a stranger,” Frank says. He sounds genuinely surprised.

Spencer helps himself to a pastry as well. They’re filled with marmalade, a delicious mixture of orange and ginger that tastes as if it arrived straight from Spain. “Well, no,” he says, once he swallowed and licked his lips clean of residual sugar. “Not to you, anyway.”

“I don’t think Gerard sees you as a stranger, either,” Frank says. “I told him so much about you that he probably feels like he knows you as well as I do.”

Spencer smirks and raises a brow. “So, did you tell him about that foolish proposal of yours, then?”

Frank pulls a face at him, but doesn’t reply.

“Yes, I rather thought so,” Spencer says somewhat triumphantly, nodding as he leans back. He trails his hand along the armrest of his chair, the velvet somewhat worn in places, the pattern faded. It’s oddly comfortable, and Spencer keeps his voice deliberately light as he adds, “So. Ross is coming.”

Frank’s face darkens. “Yes,” he says. “Well. It’s happened before. I’ve always avoided him when he’s here, much to Gerard’s disappointment. I think he expects his future husband and I to be the best of friends.”

“Frank,” Spencer says. He leans forward and rest his hand on Frank’s arm. “You know that Ross’s visit doesn’t mean… It could be just a normal visit, you know.”

“Gerard is painting something for him,” Frank says, his tone suddenly miserable. He doesn’t shrug off Spencer’s hand, rather stares at it in dismay. “That’s. Not too many people even know that he paints, and he only gives his things only to those that he’s really close to.”

“Is that one of his?” Spencer asks, nodding at the canvas above the mantelpiece. It’s fairly simplistic, just fields in variations of yellow and green that flow into the sky.

Frank glances at it. “Yes, that’s… Yes. Gerard’s housewarming gift, when I returned from my training in London.” He pauses. “After Ross’s first visit.”

“Well,” Spencer says, and keeps looking at the canvas. It seems that Gerard mixed something into the white paint, because the clouds that drift over the sky are fairly plastic, emerging like from a relief.

Frank rises abruptly, dislodging Spencer’s hand. “There’s nothing ‘well’ about it,” Frank says, his voice tight. He whirls around and points at the painting. “This? Was just a housewarming gift, nothing more. Nothing more, okay? He’s painting a godforsaken wedding gift for Ross right now, don’t you get that?” He stands still for a few moments before he sinks back into his armchair, appearing even smaller than usual.

“Frank,” Spencer begins, then doesn’t know what else to say.

“Sorry,” Frank mutters. He raises his head for a brief, flickering smile. “I’m glad you’re here, Spencer. Really, I am. I wish Ross wouldn’t be arriving in a few days and-” He swallows. “Anyway. But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m glad you’re here, maybe even more so now than before. I’ll try not to be terribly bad company, I promise.”

Spencer smiles and shakes his head. “You couldn’t be bad company if you tried, Frank. And hey, I’m here if you need to talk. You know that, right?” He allows a quiet second to pass. “Even though I still say that Ross’s visit doesn’t have to mean anything.”

“I think I’d be grateful for distraction rather than a listener,” Frank says. “I’ll do enough pondering on my own, no need to drag you down with me.”

Spencer shrugs. “That’s what friends are for, no? Share your woes, laugh at the world, shoot at low-hanging stars, that kind of thing.”

“I’d like to shoot some stars,” Frank says, smiling. It’s still slightly off, but not quite as obviously as before. For now, Spencer has to satisfy himself with it, but really, he’ll do his best not to end up with a Frank variation of Brendon’s heartbroken sadness. What a coincidence that Ross might just be at the core of both of these unpleasant experiences in the lives of Spencer’s friends.

Yes, really. What a coincidence, indeed.

_______________

>> Chapter 6