A Most Brilliant Dance, Chapter 11
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 11
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Heart - Stars
Pete and Marianne leave the next morning, amongst a flurry of handkerchiefs and Mrs Smith’s pleas that they must return soon, this year, next month. “We’ll try,” Marianne calls, leaning out of the carriage. “I shall miss you all, but I’m a married woman now! I don’t think I’ll have much time.”
Behind her, Spencer catches Pete’s eyes. For a moment, they stay like that, just looking at each other. Then Pete lifts a hand up to his hat and turns away.
The same feeling of guilty dread twists in Spencer’s stomach and almost lets him choke on his goodbyes. He hopes it will be a long time before Pete and Marianne come for another visit, and he’s well aware that it’s a selfish hope, purely centred around his own desire to forget about his mistakes.
Brendon is the first one to lower his arm and turn slightly, back towards the house. Spencer follows him, two steps behind because there’s still this resenting distance on Brendon’s part, more and more subdued now, but it’s enough for Spencer to know that Brendon won’t let him forget anytime soon.
There was a time when things were simple between them. Spencer hardly remembers.
*
Mrs Smith and Elinor greedily seize the occasion Marianne’s departure provides them with to wallow in delighted misery, and the house is fairly filled with mournful sighs and brave sniffling. Spencer rolls his eyes at Brendon over breakfast and is heartened enough by Brendon’s slow answering smile that he doesn’t let it bother him that much. After breakfast, he curls up on the large window ledge in the living room, tugging the curtains across to block him from sight, and starts reading an enjoyably (and predictably) awful Gothic novel that Elinor had left lying around, ignoring his sister and mother’s histrionics.
Brendon is not so settled, though, and at around midday he comes and slips through the curtains to join Spencer on the ledge, having discovered Spencer’s hiding place when they were eight. His shadow falls across the pages of Spencer’s book and Spencer looks up slowly, still wary of an outbreak of Brendon’s unexpected temper. Brendon is smiling cautiously, though, eyes warm.
“What d’you want?” Spencer asks, because it’s expected that he be annoyed at being torn away from his book, and Brendon laughs quietly. Spencer thinks it’s slightly ridiculous how well Brendon knows him, how easily he can see through him.
“Let’s go for a walk,” Brendon says. “I’m sick of this house. We’ll go into the town and I’ll buy you lunch.”
“I’m enjoying my novel,” Spencer says archly.
“Yes, yes,” Brendon says. “Bring it along and read it over lunch. I still don’t particularly want to talk to you.” He smiles, knife-sharp and honest, and Spencer stands up and tucks the book under his arm, because Brendon might be angry but Spencer knows the possibility of forgiveness when he sees it.
They slip out of the house as quietly as possible (shrugging into their coats on the road and grinning a little foolishly at each other) so as to avoid Anne wanting to tag along. Spencer throws an impulsive arm around Brendon’s shoulders and then freezes, unsure how Brendon will take the gesture, but Brendon leans into him for a moment before skipping ahead to kick a stone down the road. Spencer smiles at him, tentative, and Brendon laughs in his wary face.
“Cheer up,” Brendon says. “Do my chores for the next week and I might consider liking you again.”
“I do your chores anyway,” Spencer scoffs. “You’re the laziest man in the whole world.”
“Well then,” Brendon says, and sticks his hands in his pockets, smiling.
*
The town is busy and almost frantic in its bustling pace when they get to the main road, the clatter of horse hooves on the stones and people shouting at each other across the street vying for attention. Spencer’s already starving, so he and Brendon share a pie and a mug of (watered down, Spencer suspects) cider at their favourite place, out in the courtyard while the first musicians begin to arrive and place out stands for the evening. The sky is blue and the sun warm and Spencer leaves his book lying neglected by the plate of food, leans back and talks drowsily in the fine afternoon.
There are pauses in the conversation, long gaps of silence, but it’s not awkward and Brendon seems a little happier; tired, thin, and Spencer skirts determinedly around topics like marriage or family, people such as Marianne or Pete or Frank even for fear of reminding Brendon of old pain, but it’s good. Better, Spencer corrects himself; but it will be good.
They finish their lunch and Brendon suggests they go past Miss Kay’s store to see if she has any nice shoes on the cheap, as Brendon’s good pair’s soles are very nearly worn through. They sidle through the crowd and the sight of someone’s face reminds Brendon of some new gossip (funny, Spencer thinks with no small amount of relief, how quickly Hertfordshire has moved on from Marianne’s scandal). Brendon is chattering non-stop at last, gesturing wildly and grinning.
That’s why it is impossible to miss it when he looks up and stops abruptly, face going white as though he has seen a ghost, mouth open, hands dropping limply to his sides.
Spencer looks up too and nearly curses aloud, certainly thinks fiercely that they are going to have to learn to look where they’re going, because only a metre away is Ryan Ross and by his side, staring at Brendon, is Jon. Spencer swallows around the dryness in his throat, thinks a friend of his has business down here, thinks he’s the one who found us, thinks I thought I would never see you again.
He grabs Brendon’s wrist without thinking and digs his nails in harshly before releasing him, little white crescent imprints left on Brendon’s skin. Brendon closes his mouth and turns to look at Spencer but says nothing, looks almost helpless.
“Um,” Spencer says, and then forces a smile, eyes darting from Ryan’s face to Jon’s, back to Ryan, unsure where to look. He draws in a breath and says, “I’m sorry, you startled us, appearing out of nowhere like that. Good afternoon. It’s good to see you again.”
Ryan looks at Jon and something like mild exasperation flits quickly over his face. “A pleasure, as always,” he says smoothly, and he and Spencer bow, Jon and Brendon copying them a second later.
Brendon clears his throat and finally says, “I thought you were in London?”
Jon takes his hat off and then seems unsure about what to do with it, holding it a little stupidly in front of him, fingers clenched tight around the brim. He looks exhausted, Spencer realises with surprise, like he hasn’t slept in weeks. He also hasn’t so much as looked at Spencer since they ran into each other, eyes fixed on Brendon’s face.
“Yes,” Jon says quietly, and then hesitates. “I came back,” he settles on eventually and Brendon flushes pink, unwilling or unable to say anything. The moment stretches on awkwardly for what seems like forever to Spencer, Jon and Brendon staring dumbly at each other. Spencer casts around desperately for something to say that could alleviate the tension, save the afternoon so that no one comes away with the impression that all Brendon can do is stare shocked and mournful at someone.
“Mrs Radcliffe, Spencer?” Ryan says suddenly, and Spencer dares to look properly at him for the first time. Ryan’s grinning and Spencer sees Brendon looking too, tries not to blush. Ryan nods at the book tucked under Spencer’s arm and says, voice thick with laughter, “Really?”
Spencer grins then too, can’t help it. “I hope,” he says solemnly, “that you’re not insulting the work of an utter genius. This is of the finest literary merit.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” Ryan says cheerfully. “I preferred her last, though. A little more subtle - or at least rather less of the darkly handsome, glowering heroes skulking around the place.”
“For someone professing a dislike of such men you certainly spend a lot of time imitating them,” Spencer says without thinking, and out of the corner of his eye sees Brendon’s jaw drop at the same time that Ryan bursts out laughing in earnest.
Jon looks between them slowly and finally offers, “Ryan does do rather a good job of it, doesn’t he?”
“Most admirable,” Spencer says, wondering how to draw Brendon into the conversation. “Mrs Radcliffe would probably leap at the chance to base a character on him.”
“I don’t know,” Jon says thoughtfully. “He’s a little behind this month on his quota of damsels in distress to rescue. And then scowl at, of course.”
“Shame on you,” Spencer says sadly, gazing mournfully at Ryan. “And we had such high hopes.”
“Go jump in a pond and drown for a while, there’s a good chap,” Ryan suggests. “And I’ll be along presently.”
“Thank you but no,” Spencer shoots back. “Not all of us are so fond of swimming as you.”
Ryan grins a little foolishly, and Brendon puts his hand on Spencer’s elbow. Spencer takes a breath, knows that courtesy at least has been fulfilled, and says, “We must be back home, unfortunately. It was good to see you both again.”
“Perhaps,” Jon says uncertainly, looking at Spencer but gaze flicking back to Brendon, “We could meet again sometime soon. It has… been quite some time.”
Brendon says, quietly, “That would be nice,” and then ducks his head when all three of them and
look at him at once. Jon swallows visibly and then nods just once. The corners of Ryan’s mouth, Spencer notices dourly, are twitching slightly, and continue to do so even when Spencer shoots him a threatening glare.
“Spencer,” Brendon says, sounding a little annoyed, and Spencer wrenches his gaze away from Ryan’s mouth. “Let’s go.”
“Goodbye,” Spencer says hastily, and Jon echoes him. Ryan only watches, head tilted slightly to the side, as Brendon leads Spencer away.
*
They walk in near-silence for the first few minutes, taking the direct way out of town until it’s just their boots on the gravel path, the vague sound of the river up ahead. Spencer glances at Brendon every three steps or so, Brendon’s shoulders curled in and his whole posture tight and small. Focusing on him keeps Spencer centred, helps him over the bright flicker of thoughts behind his own forehead, so he reaches out a hand and lightly touches Brendon’s shoulder.
“Brendon,” he says, slow and careful.
Brendon flinches under his touch - not away, just… startles and shakes his head really quickly. “Don’t,” he says, voice jagged, then follows it up with a number of tight curses, a litany of shit, Jesus Christ what’s he even doing here, doesn’t he know?
“Brendon,” Spencer repeats. He leaves his hand resting on Brendon’s shoulder, and after a moment, Brendon quiets and leans into the touch.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he says. His tone leaves no room for discussion, but the effect is ruined when he adds softly, “Just, please?”
“Okay,” Spencer says. Okay. He doesn’t take his hand away, though, not even as they resume their steps, the sound of the river drawing closer as they approach the bridge. With a start, Spencer remembers overhearing Pete and Ryan here, long weeks ago, ages, so long that it feels like years. You were never worthy, Ryan’s voice, and then, a not-so-distant memory, Pete’s admission to marrying Marianne because it was the only thing that would keep me from sinking even lower in his esteem than I had already.
Spencer isn’t prepared for the burst of sheer anguish that explodes in his chest, spreads out in his entire body until it tingles in his fingers, makes the soles of his feet itch. He takes his hand off Brendon’s shoulder and clutches his book in a tight grip.
“Anyway,” Brendon says at that precise moment, and Spencer has to concentrate to even hear him over the rush in his ears. Brendon sounds slightly desperate for something else, some other topic to cling to, but there’s a hint of genuine curiosity to it as well. “What, I mean. What was that between Ross and you?”
“I just.” Spencer swallows even though his mouth is dry. “I thought I should take some of the pressure off you, you didn’t seem in the best shape to hold a conversation, so I tried-”
“He called you Spencer,” Brendon says sharply, in that tone he uses whenever people underestimate him because of his easy smiles and quick words. Spencer is hardly ever on the receiving end of it.
“Um, yes,” he says. “About that.” And then he falls silent again and they step onto the bridge.
“Yes, about that?” Brendon prods after another moment passes without Spencer speaking again.
“I never told you, but.” Spencer inhales deeply. “It was all so hectic here, so much happening, but when we were in Derbyshire, Mr and Mrs Gardiner and I, I mean.” He bites down on the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood, then continues. “We spent some time at Pemberley. A few hours in Ryan’s company, and. Yes.”
“Oh,” Brendon says, over the rush of the water and the panicked brightness behind Spencer’s lids. Another moment of silence, and then Brendon repeats, an entirely new clarity to his voice, a hint of awe, almost, “Oh.”
“It was nothing,” Spencer says quickly, his tongue almost tripping over itself. “It was just a few hours, in a different environment, a chance to clear some things up and move on and. Form a healthy, friendly acquaintance, and-”
“Acquaintance?” Brendon interrupts, and he sounds almost like himself again, exhilarated and bright. “Spencer, you flirted with him, you called him darkly handsome, even if it was in a round-about way, and the way you-”
“Don’t, Brendon,” Spencer blurts out, almost ironic in how fast their roles have been reversed, but there’s a knot of panic lodged in Spencer’s throat and he can’t distance himself enough to find it even remotely funny. “Please, don’t.”
Brendon frowns and tries again, “But you-”
“I know,” Spencer says, and he does, God, he does, the realization squeezing painfully around his racing heart. “I know. Please don’t say it.”
“Why not?” Brendon says, honest confusion clouding his face.
“Because.” Spencer shakes his head and takes a step forward, to wherever, anywhere. “Because I was a fool, and I said-I said unforgivable things that were wrong, and it’s too late now.”
He lets the truth of that sink in for a few seconds, stands still with one hand on the railing and one leg braced forward as if to run, but he wouldn’t know where, how. Next to him, Brendon is motionless and silent, and he’d understand, Brendon would understand what it’s like to find a chance like that come and go, what it’s like having to part with the hope of- Oh, God.
It’s too late.
*
Their bedroom is dark around them, candles extinguished, but Spencer stares up at the ceiling regardless. Brendon’s breathing pattern is shallow and irregular, so he’s not sleeping, either.
“Are you sure?” Brendon eventually breathes into the darkness. There’s no need to ask what he’s referring to. The instinctive tightness in Spencer’s chest is enough of a reminder.
“Yes,” he says, and it’s maybe not entirely true, but it’s easier than to cling to a shred of hope. He’s seen Brendon and Pete; he doesn’t want to repeat their mistakes. “Yes, I’m sure. No man in his righteous mind could forgive what I-I thought him capable of cheating his… not his brother because that’d be-no. But capable of robbing a man his father took in of an inheritance, based on nothing but jealousy and spite.”
“You did have your reasons,” Brendon says quietly, hesitant.
“I had one account of the story,” Spencer says. “One. You even warned me, and I.” He sits up and lets the cover fall down to his waist, staring at the dimly white shape of the curtains. “I wouldn’t listen because it all fit in perfectly with the wrong picture I already had in mind. I don’t think anyone could really forgive that kind of offence. I don’t think they should.”
For a long time, Brendon doesn’t say anything. Spencer slowly lies back down, and he would believe Brendon to be asleep if it weren’t for his breathing, still shallow.
“And then,” Spencer says, “I pretty much told Pete we were engaged, and Pete runs off with Marianne and they wouldn’t have-Ryan made them marry, you know?”
Brendon rolls over onto his side, and Spencer can feel the weight of his surprised look. “He did?”
“Yes.” Spencer snorts, but it comes out as more of a choking sound. “He probably thinks it’s what he had to do, like it was his obligation or something when it was really my fault, but he did have concerns about the difference in our social status, even when he proposed. I’m sure Marianne’s behaviour didn’t lessen them.” He takes a deep, greedy breath, and when he squeezes his eyes shut, it’s so tightly that there are bright sparks behind his lids. “So, yes. I’m sure.”
There’s a momentary pause, then Brendon’s arm comes up around Spencer’s chest. “I’m sorry,” Brendon mutters, quiet and sincere.
“Yes,” Spencer says. “Well.”
They take a few breaths together, and then Brendon says, “For what it’s worth, I’m not mad anymore. We’re good, Spence.” And while that’s not enough to ease the tightness around Spencer’s throat, it does take some of the weight off his chest.
Still, he lies awake for a long time, staring blankly up at the ceiling until sleep overtakes him. He doesn’t remember dreaming when he wakes up in the morning.
*
As it has been for the last two days, breakfast is mostly dominated by Mrs Smith and Elinor bemoaning the loss of Marianne. Spencer shares a few exasperated looks with Brendon, half-formed smiles and one raised eyebrow at Elinor’s hope that they’ll move to Hertfordshire since Pete can afford that, right? He’s always dressed so well and all.
Right.
Spencer takes an unnecessary amount of care spreading butter over his slice of bread. He’s still working on evening it all out when their maid comes into the room, her curtsy somewhat hurried. “Yes?” Mr Smith asks, glancing up from his newspaper.
“Mr Jon Walker,” she says, nearly tripping over the name in her eagerness. “Here to see Mr Brendon Urie.”
“Is that so?” Mr Smith asks just as Brendon looks up sharply, his face desperately hopeful for a blink of an eye before he schools his features into something more appropriate, a façade of calm that doesn’t fool Spencer for so much as a second.
“He requests to speak to him in private?” the maid says, gaze flickering to Brendon, then to Mr Smith and from there on to Mrs Smith.
“In private?” Mrs Smith says, voice loud. “Why, that’s… Well.”
It is a little unusual, actually, yes. The normal course of action would have been to talk to their father first, but then, the protocol isn’t quite as strict as it used to be, and it makes more sense to Spencer like this anyway. Maybe it makes more sense to Jon, too.
Assuming, all the while, that this actually is what it sounds like. There aren’t many occasions that justify the request for a private audience, though. Not many occasions at all.
“Spencer,” Brendon says, voice pitched low.
“You’ll be fine,” Spencer replies, just as quietly. “This will be… It will be fine.”
“Yes,” Brendon says, but he’s a little pale around the mouth. Spencer knocks their knees together under the table and gets up when Mrs Smith tells him to, a brilliant smile on her face as she orders everyone out of the kitchen, quick, quick.
They file into the living room, Mr Smith bringing up the rear with an unhappy expression on his face. Since the disaster with Marianne, he’s been paying a lot more attention to them all, and Spencer assumes he doesn’t like to have things taken out of his hands like this. Their mother is nothing but insistent, though.
Spencer glances back for a moment, Brendon alone and uncertain at a table still cluttered with the remnants of their breakfast. Way to be subtle, really. Spencer gives Brendon an encouraging smile and firmly closes the door.
“Let me,” Elinor hisses, squeezing past him to press her ear against the wood.
“Elinor,” Spencer warns, but their mother already follows suit, and while Spencer isn’t trying to listen in, he really isn’t, he can hear Jon utter a greeting, tone a little less relaxed than usual, a layer of uncertainty and excitement to it. Spencer steps away from the door and leaves his mother and Elinor to their eavesdropping and muffled squeals that he’s almost sure will make it through the wood.
It’s a bright day, sunshine flooding the fields that are starting to hint at the arrival of autumn. Spencer props his elbows on the window ledge and tells himself that everything is fine, that he’s happy for Brendon. He is, for the most part.
Ryan is leaning against the fence that surrounds Longbourn’s grounds.
He’s holding the reins of two horses, those of his own and those of the horse that probably belongs to Jon. His body is mostly turned away, gazing off into the distance while the wind rustles his hair. For long seconds or maybe minutes, Spencer merely stares at him. His head is filled with a white, sick noise.
“God, of course,” Brendon exclaims in that moment, loud and overwhelmed and incredibly happy. “Yes, of course, yes. God, Jon, did you even have to ask?”
Spencer walks out.
The front door closes behind him with a thud, and Spencer stands motionless for a beat, fresh air and the sun on his face enough to calm the noise in his head down to a manageable level. He takes a step towards Ryan, then another, and he still feels off-balance, but at least he’s not likely to throw up anymore.
Ryan doesn’t notice him until Spencer is almost close enough to reach out and touch. Spencer shouldn’t be thinking about this. “Hullo,” he says, quietly, and leans against the fence next to Ryan, an arm’s length between them. From here, Spencer can see the sunlight gleaming off the pond beside the way to Hertfordshire, filling his eyes with a strange brightness.
“Hullo,” Ryan echoes, just as quietly. A few feet off, a cricket is chirping, and Ryan’s horse snuffles a soft reply. He pets it almost absently and gives Spencer a tiny smile. “So, did Brendon say yes?”
Spencer snorts. “Was there ever any doubt?”
One of Ryan’s shoulders lifts in a miniature shrug. The sun paints his face in a golden hue, his eyes a warm honey-brown, and God, he’s so beautiful it makes Spencer’s chest ache. “I guess there wasn’t, really,” Ryan says, tone amused. “And I’m sorry I was an idiot about it. I should have… It was pretty obvious, when we met yesterday. It’s a good thing Jon’s the forgiving type.”
“You were an idiot?” Spencer asks. He turns, the fence pressing into the side of his ribcage. “You? Well, what about me, then? I can’t even count all the- I mean, I completely misjudged Pete, and then you, and then the whole thing with Marianne, and… Thank you for finding them.” There’s a shortage of air in his chest, so he inhales deeply, and it’s not enough, he knows that it isn’t, but, “Thank you. You know that my family and I, we’re forever in your debt. Even if they don’t know.”
Ryan doesn’t reply immediately. When he does, he sounds reluctant. “I just, it was the right thing to do, and I know Pete, so it was easier for me to find them than it was for your uncle and you father. You weren’t supposed to know. How did you…?”
“Marianne,” Spencer says.
Ryan chuckles, low and faintly amused, maybe at himself. “I should have known. Spencer, I don’t want your gratitude. This was my fault as much as yours, maybe more, and it wouldn’t have been fair if you and your family had to bear all the consequences.”
“Well.” Spencer swallows thickly. He should have expected Ryan to refute his thanks, but it still hurts somehow, twists in his stomach and squeezes around his throat. “I’m still sorry. And I. Ryan, all those things I said when you-I’m sorry. I was wrong. And it wasn’t just your duty. I mean, how is it your fault if Pete is still in love with you? That’s not something that you can control or… You know.”
“Yes, do I ever.” Ryan’s tone is dry.
“Ryan,” Spencer says, and it’s all that he can think of, so he falls silent again, blinking rapidly against the brightness of the reflected sunlight.
Ryan clears his throat, and when he speaks again, there’s an edge of nervousness to it. “Actually, there’s something that I meant to talk to you about.”
“Yes?” Spencer says. He doesn’t think he wants to hear it, but he owes Ryan so much, more than he’ll ever be able to repay, and listening as Ryan tells him goodbye seems like a rather small feat. It’s still almost more than he can take.
“I received a letter from Pete,” Ryan says. It’s not what Spencer expected, so he jerks his head up and glances at Ryan’s face. Ryan is staring out at the fields, looking thoughtful and distant. “Saying things that I hadn’t thought of - about you, and how maybe things were different now. Different from the last time we had this sort of-” he stops, cheeks slightly pink. “I’m sorry, I’m. I’m really, really bad at this. Which you know. Uh.”
Something warm unfurls in Spencer’s stomach, unexpected and unsure, barely daring to hope. He asks, voice slightly rough, “What did Pete tell you?”
“That maybe,” Ryan says, and then turns to face Spencer and stops, eyes wide and dark in his thin face. He laughs quietly and a little stupidly, and then says, “I should have just danced with you at that damn ball. When you asked me. I should have just - if I had known-”
“It might have been easier,” Spencer says, and offers up a tentative smile. “Now that everything’s all ruined, and. It would have been easier, if I had already fallen in love with you back then.”
Ryan goes very still and Spencer turns away, back to leaning on the fence, face hot. He’s not sure what’s happening now but he regrets speaking already, with Ryan so quiet and unmoving behind him, and he closes his eyes for a moment, very tired all of a sudden. Then Ryan’s hand is resting on the back of his shirt, light between his shoulder blades.
“I know,” Ryan says slowly, “That you must be grateful to me right now, but I wish you weren’t, and I don’t want you to fool yourself into thinking that-”
“Shut up,” Spencer says without thinking, and then can’t help but grin just slightly at Ryan’s surprised huff of breath. “I wasn’t grateful at Pemberley this summer. If I was grateful in town the other day, it was as much because you were back as it was-”
“Spencer,” Ryan interrupts, and when Spencer turns Ryan’s smiling, this huge, happy thing that’s threatening to take up his whole face. Spencer’s mouth twitches just slightly, and Ryan touches the side of his face for just a fleeting second, just long enough for Spencer to want to lean into the touch. “Spencer,” Ryan says again, and then he’s reaching for Spencer’s shoulder, trapping the reins between his own palm and Spencer’s skin, almost painful, and Spencer couldn’t care less because Ryan is…
Ryan is kissing him.
It’s nothing much, just a short, sweet brush of their mouths, not nearly enough to satisfy the blind want that curls between Spencer’s shoulder blades. He angles his head and leans forward, twisting one hand in the fabric of Ryan’s shirt. The expensive silk wrinkles and slips through his fingers, but Ryan tilts closer anyway, a warm rush of air as he exhales into Spencer’s mouth.
“Marry me?” Ryan asks, no more than a breathless whisper.
“Yes,” Spencer says. He should say more, should explain how much this means, how much he wants because Ryan deserves to hear it. But Ryan is claiming his lips again, liquid desire pooling in Spencer’s stomach at the first sweep of Ryan’s tongue across his teeth, and it’s okay, Spencer thinks. It’s okay. He can explain later.
They have all the time in the world.
_________________
Epilogue