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Pluck All Your Silly Strings

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It begins with Spencer sitting in his boxers and an old t-shirt in their kitchen, drinking a cup of coffee and frowning over some paperwork. "Fucking math," he grouses, tapping one bare foot against the floorboards. Brendon is pretty fond of their floorboards; he's not a crazy interior decorator, like some people, but he likes to think he has a certain touch.

"Oh, baby," he croons, and Spencer lifts his eyes from the small print, squinted blue against the sunlight. "Baby, baby. How you doin' this morning, my little sex machine?"

"It's too early in the morning for this," Spencer says, and lets his head fall forward with a dull thump! against the kitchen table.

"He just doesn't understand the purity of our love, baby," Brendon confides, trailing a loving hand over curved and gleaming chrome and steel. "We are twin souls, Spencer Smith, this coffee machine and I. Our souls call to one another, each to each." He frowns pensively at the fruit bowl across the bench. "Do I dare to eat a peach?"

Spencer throws the cap of his pen at him. Spencer can be a little touchy in the antemeridian, and particularly before he's been adequately caffeinated. Brendon stops fondling the espresso machine.

"Seriously, dude, what's causing the little black cloud I can practically see hovering over your head?"

Spencer moans, plaintive. "Taxes," he says. "Taxes. I hate them."

"You should just hire someone to do it for you," Brendon says sagely, hand poised over the fruit bowl and hovering between an apple and the aforesaid peach. "Problem solved."

Spencer laughs shortly. "Yeah, no. After last year's clusterfuck, never again. I looked up some stuff online, and, uh, I bought a book –"

"Tax Returns For Dummies," Brendon reads, charmed, and sinks his teeth into the flesh of the apple with a particularly satisfying sharp crunch. "I like this self-acceptance thing you've got going on."

"Fuck you," Spencer says, without heat. "I'm doing yours, too, asshole. Show some respect."

"How'm I doing?"

"Could be better," Spencer tells him. "I keep finding all these awesome tax rebates we're totally not qualified for. It sucks. It's going to hurt this year; the state's totally fucked, financially."

Brendon makes a sympathetic sound, sucking air in through his teeth. "Do you want more coffee?"

"Do you think you can make it?"

"How dare you, sir," Brendon says, and throws the pen cap back at him, popping his mouth like a gunshot. "I'm totally capable of operating our espresso machine. She purrs under my sensual touch."

"Brendon," Spencer says. "Brendon. I have a photo from the last time you were in charge of making coffee. The photo is of our dog. In the photo, our dog is brown."

"Brown is an excellent colour for a dog."

"True, I'm not denying that," Spencer nods. "It's just, well. Our dog was born brown and white. Mostly white."

"She entered the danger zone." Brendon shrugs, cavalier. "Some damages we must carry with us, throughout our lives."

"Don't talk to me about damages," Spencer says, and glares at Tax Returns For Dummies.

Brendon wrestles with the espresso filter. It is a truly Herculean struggle, like Jacob wrestling with the angel, or Liston vs Clay if Liston hadn't punked out. "Maybe I should make an honest man out of you," he suggests. "That'd help some, right?"

There is silence from across the room, and Brendon looks up from the bowels of his caffeine-giving love machine into Spencer's distant-eyed, distinctly calculating face. "Huh," Spencer says, meditative. "We could do that."

"We could," Brendon echoes. "We could. However, I'm pretty sure you have to be boyfriends or something first, it's like a pre-req."

Spencer waves a hand. "We share a mortgage and a dog, it looks totally legit. Do you even realise how much that could save us?"

"You're wearing your plotting face," Brendon says. "I find that vaguely foreboding."

"A handful of states allow gay marriage, right?" Spencer says, scribbling something feverishly in the margins. "California recognises same-sex marriages made out of state now. Next time we go through one of states that have it, this coming tour –"

"Sure, sure," Brendon says, because he knows better than to try arguing theoretically with Spencer ever. "You take care of the logistics, dude, just tell me when to show up."


If Brendon kept track of every silly conversation he's ever had, or even just the silly conversations where he came up with totally cunning schemes, or even the silly conversations with the cunning schemes that he swore an actual blood oath to carry out – well, anyway, the point is, Brendon has a lot of silly conversations. He has a lot of silly conversations with Spencer alone, since it's not like he's ever very far from Spencer, on tour or off.

They can get kind of hard to remember. So when they pull up in Hartford, Connecticut and Spencer looks up from his iPhone and says "No, man, you and Dallon go on, take Zack. Brendon and I have other plans" when Ian suggests going to the mall in the couple of hours they have free before soundcheck, Brendon has no idea what Spencer's talking about.

"What are you talking about, dude?" he asks, as soon as Ian's shrugged and wandered back into the bunkroom. "Tired of everyone already?"

"Not yet," Spencer says, scratching his ear. "I'm sure I'll get there soon. But I'm not even lying, we've got shit to do, so you should grab your jacket and get moving."

"You have your planning face on," Brendon accuses, and Spencer grins at him, confirming nothing.

They make it most of the way into the central city before Brendon gives up on guessing and says "Okay, no, I'm giving up an hour or two of down time, spill."

"We're going to the courthouse," Spencer says. He doesn't stop walking.

Brendon has no idea what to say to that, except "Um. Why?"

Spencer pushes him. "Walk faster, we're going to be late. That legal thing, remember?" He waits for a moment, then sighs. "The tax thing. Come on, keep up."

"Wait," Brendon says. "Wait, what?"

"We said we were going to have our friendship legally recognised." Spencer raises his eyebrows at him. "You still want to, right?"

He looks kind of hopeful and kind of impatient, and the way he says it is kind of a challenge, so Brendon says "Sure, sure," because trusting Spencer has never led him wrong before; not when it comes to the big, important things. He's learned better than to trust Spencer when it's something more like 'dude, that's totally avocado, I don't think it looks like wasabi, put the whole thing in your mouth.'

Brendon's not really sure what he was expecting; not a Vegas chapel o' love, or anything, but not what he gets, anyway. Spencer speaks to someone at the front desk, and then they're walking quickly down dark and wood-panelled corridors, being herded towards a small room. There are three sober-looking professional people there, in suits and ties, and Brendon feels kind of underdressed in his tight jeans and his rather be surfin' t-shirt.

"Hey," he says, smiling and nodding nervously.

"I'm Spencer Smith," Spencer says, shaking hands with one of the legal-types. "I had my lawyer organise the license and the paperwork last month, did that all come through okay?"

One of the legal-types, a lady in a grey pantsuit with neat dark hair, says "Absolutely, we have everything here," and Brendon says, soft but urgent, "Wait, Spencer, what, you spoke to your lawyer about this?"

"Yeah," Spencer says out of the side of his mouth. "I kind of had to? Don't worry, legal counsel is like the confessional, no one's going to be talking."

One of the suits checks his watch. "Okay, it's all ready, Mr Smith," he says, and Brendon fights the urge to giggle a little hysterically, because hearing Spencer called Mr Smith will never not be hilarious to him.

The lady looks from Brendon to Spencer and then down at the papers. "According to the material I have here, you don't want a celebrant, is that right?"

Spencer nods, impatient.

"You understand that you're entering into a binding legal contract?"

That's pretty much it; Spencer provides their proof of identity and signs the register. He passes the pen silently to Brendon when he's done, and Brendon writes out Brendon Boyd Urie, born April 12, 1987, profession musician and signs his name with a flourish.

The other two suits – witnesses, Brendon realises – sign as well, and the lady says "Congratulations," with a little nod of her head. She smiles at them, and for a moment there's a weird sort of pause, like everyone's waiting for something.

Brendon looks across at Spencer, properly, and Spencer looks back. He looks as uncertain as Brendon feels. He offers Brendon his hand and Brendon takes it; they shake hands, firmly, with each other, just a moment too long into awkwardness. Spencer's hand is very warm and dry in his, concrete and anchoring in a sea of surreality.

Finally, Brendon manages to let go. They shake hands with the lady, and with the witnesses.

"Thank you," Spencer says, in his light, polite voice, the one he uses in interviews. "Thank you very much, we really appreciate it."

"Yeah," Brendon echoes. "Thanks for all your help."

And that's pretty much it. They're married, sort of; married properly in five states and recognised in New York State, Washington D.C. and California. It doesn't feel anything like a wedding, and Brendon's kind of glad about that. Having a wedding with Spencer would feel stupid. Signing some legal papers feels weird and awkward, but not stupid or grotesque.

They walk down the front steps of the courthouse in silence, shoulders brushing, and finally Spencer lets out his breath with a hishhhhhhhhhhh sound, like a punctured cylinder of gas.

"Man, I know, right?" Brendon says, and then they're laughing desperately.

"Holy shit," Spencer gasps, "we did it."

"I know," Brendon says. "I'm not sure if that was really stupid, or totally brilliant."

"Me neither," Spencer admits, and Brendon punches him playfully in the shoulder.

"Now you have to take care of the boring paperwork shit for me forever, Spencer Smith. You're legally obligated."

"Wow, I'm pretty sure that's not in the contract," Spencer says, shoving him back a little, but he's smiling, approximately forty or fifty china-white teeth on display.

They're both still grinning when they get back to the bus. Zack opens the door and pounces on them before Brendon's even finished entering the combination.

"Where the fuck have you been? You should've texted me, assholes, if you were going to disappear, not just left a message with Ian."

"We had to go get married," Brendon says, and shrugs. "Love takes precedence."

"Yeah, be mysterious." Zack rolls his eyes. "Soundcheck, duders, you're late."


They finish the tour and they play their shows and they fight over the Wii and take turns dodging questions in interviews about their missing half, and it doesn't change anything. Brendon pretty much forgets about it, honestly; it's not like he has a wedding ring to remind him.

When the tour wraps, they go home and play with their dog, surf every morning, and redecorate their living room again. Brendon sleeps with a few nice girls, dates one or two; Spencer starts dating again, too, after a long period of recovery, and it slots neatly in with their domestic routine.

Downtime finishes and they start another leg of tour, and the whole legal thing still doesn't seem any more tangible; they don't talk about it, but on the occasions Brendon remembers, he likes knowing that it's there. It feels like a touchstone; even when they're fighting over writing or scheduling or just because they've been stuck on a bus too long together, he knows absolutely that whatever they're arguing about isn't going to be the end of the world. It's going to take more than a stilted announcement on a website to untangle their lives, and that's something quietly comforting.

The only other times Brendon feels it pressing on him with a faint imperceptible weight usually happen when someone else starts talking about marriage. One night between the tours they have dinner with Pete and Ashlee, and Brendon gets down on his hands and knees to play with Bronx, talking to him cheerfully and happily with no self-consciousness about anything he's saying, because fuck dignity.

"Oh man, you're the most awesome little guy ever, aren't you? That's an awesome truck, look at its wheels, those are fierce. Let's make it run up and down, okay? Like this, brrm-brrrm, brrrrrrrrrm-"

"You're going to make such an awesome dad one day," Ashlee says, leaning forward and resting her chin on her hands. Brendon looks up from the floor and grins at her.

"He has nieces and nephews." Spencer sips at his wine. "He's pretty broken in."

"It's true," Brendon says, and helps Bronx make the truck fly through the air with the appropriate whooshing noises. The laws of gravity are overrated. "Totally a broken man."

"You just wait," Pete says, tipping his chair back, his eyes crinkled fondly at the corners. "One minute, you're young rockstars, living it up, and the next minute you're meeting a girl who tangles your insides up, and then, wham. Married and with kids and no idea how it happened so fast."

Ashlee laughs, and tries half-heartedly to stab his hand with her fork. "Jeez, sorry to cramp your rockstar style."

"Oh, baby, you're my ball and chain," Pete throws back, but his face is soft and open when he looks at her. Then they turn their heads in one smooth shared motion and smile at Brendon and Spencer with zealous missionary spirit, like a married couple on tv proselytising to their single friends. It's vaguely creepy, like confronting the Borg. "Seriously, dudes, it's the best."

"Uh, yeah," Brendon says. "I'm not in a rush."

"It'll happen," Pete predicts confidently, and then there's a sudden loud crash; he unbalances slightly on his slanted chair, the wine in his hand sloshing against the glass.

Bronx sits startled in the middle of the living room floor, surrounded by the fallen and tumbled bright toys he'd sent flying across the room with one well-aimed swing of his plump little fist. His tiny red-gold brows are drawn together in extreme displeasure as he surveys the carnage, mouth puckering.

"Well done," Brendon says, genuine, and applauds lightly.

"He's like a toddler Godzilla," Ashlee says proudly. "Seriously, Brendon, Spencer. You should let me play matchmaker for you. I've got some awesome friends, and I think I'd probably do a better job than whatsername in Clueless."

Spencer shrugs. "Well, I'm kind of married already."

Pete throws back his head and laughs his loud braying laugh. "Yeah, yeah," he says. "I know how it gets. The band, the business –"

"Pretty much," Brendon admits. Spencer smiles across the table at him, a shared smile with a secret folded in it, and Brendon smiles back, feeling the wine pooling warmly in his stomach. When Bronx starts to grizzle and Ashlee gets up and goes to him, Brendon finally looks away.


When they're ready to record their next album, they have to go through the whole process of signing with Decaydance all over again, since their three-record contract is fulfilled, done and dusted. They only sign for one album this time, with the option of renewal.

("No one knows where the industry's going," Pete explains, very serious, "so we don't want to lock you into an old business model-"

"Yeah, yeah," Brendon agrees, since he never wanted another three-album deal, for the same reasons. The future is too unpredictable.)

The process is different to 2005; just the two of them as full members, adults with no parents looking over their shoulders, worrying about potential sketchiness and muttering about college and missions. Brendon leaves most of the process to Spencer and to their lawyer, and it's several weeks in and pretty much down to the label suits sorting out the final details when Brendon's phone goes off one night, sharp and urgent.

"Hey, Brendon's smokin' hot phone sex line," he answers, since a glance shows Pete's number on the screen. "Willing to talk you through the dirtiest shit your mind can come up with-"

"Brendon," Pete says curtly. He sounds kind of upset. "I know I'm your boss, kind of, but I'm your friend, too, you know that, right?"

"Uh, is this a trick ques-"

"I mean," Pete continues, talking right over him, "I mean, okay, sure, at some point I'm probably supposed to lay down some rules or whatever, but I don't even know, dude, I wouldn't even know where to start -"

Brendon sits up. "Has something gone wrong with the contracts?"

Spencer looks over at him and Brendon mouths Pete and shrugs, making his best 'totally fucking baffled' face. Baffled is such a cool word. Brendon's been trying to use it more often in conversation.

"No, no," Pete says, "that's all cool, all finished this afternoon, you just need to sign off on the last of it. No, we're talking about the fact that you didn't think you could come to me. Did you think I would, like, take it badly? I don't even get it, unless you thought I was going to forbid you or something, which, like - I wouldn't do, I thought you knew that," he says, suddenly sounding more lost and hurt than clipped.

Brendon can feel his mouth hanging open. He doesn't have space to say anything, though, because Pete just keeps talking, barrelling onwards at the rate of knots.

"Did I do something to make you guys feel like you couldn't trust me? That I wouldn't be there for you? Did -"

"Um, Pete, wow," Brendon interrupts, at a loss. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You're married." It comes out more YOU'RE MARRIED, and Brendon holds it away from his head, wincing. "YOU AND SPENCER. YOU'RE MARRIED."

"Oh," Brendon says ineffectually, "that," and Spencer's standing right next to him suddenly.

"Give me the phone," he hisses, and then "Pete? Hi." It's his pleasant talking-to-strangers-or-reporters voice, reasonable and soothing. "How did you – the lawyers, I see. So much for the sanctity of the confessional – no, that's not relevant. Yeah, no – you're not a bad friend, dude, we're the bad friends, I swear. We weren't keeping it secret from you, man, we know you better than that."

Spencer makes a few mm-hmm noises, then says "Uh, actually, you're the first person to know, full stop. No one knows but, like, the lawyer, and the registrant and a couple of witnesses in Connecticut. So if you could – oh. You already told - well, tell them to keep it quiet, please. Okay, I will, but don't yell at him anymore, okay? I kind of need him to be on pitch. Okay, dude, you too."

Spencer doesn't hand him back the phone; he just holds it against the side of Brendon's head and looms over him, listening, which Brendon appreciates.


Brendon feels like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop, after that, but a few months go by and nothing happens. They're laying down demos and they're almost ready to go back into the studio; the rhythm of what's been his life since he was eighteen is holding steady, writing-recording-tour-break-tour and back again. They explained to him that they were married, but not married, yet ludicrous wedding gifts from Pete show up every week or two anyway; lurid self-help books with titles like Tips For Pleasing Your Man, Mating In Captivity: How To Reconcile The Erotic And The Domestic, and Love, Sex and Intimacy in Emotionally Committed Relationships one week, along with pair of sequinned, rotating nipple tassels that Brendon honestly finds pretty hilarious but hopes devoutly don't come from Pete's private collection. He and Spencer quite enjoy reducing a three-foot china statue of a pair of turtledoves pressing their beaks together fatuously into chips and splinters, but the even larger metal sculpture of male and female hands exchanging rings on top of a heart refuses to yield to their makeshift clubs, and in the end they hide it in their garage and try to convince themselves that they were hallucinating its hideousness.


Brendon's sitting in their kitchen one morning, and later he'll think about how much it feels like that other, earlier morning, but at that moment he's mostly enjoying the sunlight coming in through the skylight, and nudging at Bogart's belly with his toe. Bogart is sprawled out across the floor, luxuriating in the pool of sun in almost cat-like fashion; tongue lolled out of his mouth and panting like a porn star, a sort of hitched arrhythmic wheeze of appreciation.

"Pete sent us fifty pounds of glow in the dark condoms," Spencer says in the careful tone of voice that means he's trying not to laugh, and slugs his coffee back. "In the smallest commercially available size. I think this officially means war."

Brendon purses up his mouth. "That could end badly. Very, very badly. I'm not sure this is a war we want to start."

"We can't just keep taking it," Spencer protests. "We have to retaliate."

"Maybe if we keep ignoring him, he'll get bored and move onto tormenting other innocent victims," Brendon suggests, hopeful but not particularly sanguine. "Ones whose fates we don't care about? He can, I don't know, pick on The Cab or something."

It's weird. This is just them, and they've been living together on and off since they were teenagers, but sometimes when they're quiet together, like this – Spencer walking around in his boxers, waving his cup of coffee or scratching idly at his balls – the fact that they're married feels real to Brendon, not like a giant joke they're playing on everyone that only they really get.

His phone goes off against his hip, chiming with one message, and then another, and another. On the bench, Spencer's starts to buzz, whirring flat and frantic against the marble countertop.

"Whoa." Brendon jerks upright in his chair. He fumbles for his phone, but Spencer's faster, and he's got his unlocked, scrolling through his messages before Brendon has his out of his pocket. Both phones continue to sound.

"Fuck," Spencer says viciously, through his teeth, in a strained and gritted out voice that sounds little like his own.

"What is it?" Brendon asks, before he's even looked at the screen of his phone, still chiming madly; he kind of already knows before Spencer tells him, before he finishes pulling his phone free. "Spencer," he says, breathlessly, and Spencer stares at him across the kitchen, an ocean of space between them.


Panic! At The Disco: Gay married!
Filed under: Gay Gay Gay > Music Minute

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Panic! At The Disco fans, start panicking!!! Brendon Urie and Spencer Smith are married – to each other!


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Check out their marriage certificate at this link – it's genuine, folks, and filed in Hartford County back in 2009. The emo rockers have been keeping that one on the downlow, but the news is out!!

Posted: February 09, 2011, at 10:12 am


10 February 2011 @ 12.34 PM

Married! At The Disco? “Give Them Some Time To Sort Themselves Out,” Says Pete Wentz
Pete Wentz refuses to return journalist’s calls

By James Montgomery

Yesterday JustJared, Perez Hilton and various Internet gossip blogs and music sites were ablaze with news that Panic! At The Disco's surviving official members, singer Brendon Urie and drummer Spencer Smith, had been secretly married in the state of Connecticut.

As of writing, Smith and Urie were still refusing to return our calls, and even Fall Out Boy bassist Pete Wentz, whom this reporter considers a friend as well as a contact, was responding to enquiries with a terse statement of support for Smith and Urie, and a request to "give them some time to get themselves sorted out". Wentz then appeared to turn off his phone...


Brendon feels that he looks way better without giant splashes of pixellated jizz on his face. It's kind of a personal preference he's not afraid to own.

They haven't left the house for three days, since the news hit; not because there might be reporters lurking in the bushes, because seriously, they're not that famous, although Pete warns them seriously of the possibility, but because they're under siege in every other way, and staying low seems like the best plan. Brendon's phone fills up with texts faster than he can clear them, and his voicemail gave up the ghost shortly into the first day. It keeps on ringing, though, and he almost never answers.

Before Brendon stops trying to clear his inbox out out – which he gives up on as soon as he gets a text from one of his brothers – he gets one from Ryan. It says assholes, and it’s followed a moment later by congratulations. Brendon stares at it for a while; he still has no idea what the tone is, amused or friendly or blank, upset or annoyed, but it feels like a small bitter stone cast into still water, hurt rippling out and out. He can't untangle it properly. If Ryan gets in contact with Spencer, Spencer doesn’t tell him.

Jon texts, Hey dudes, well done, best wishes, me and cassie will send you a wedding present, p.s. you suck but not really. Brendon texts back Were registering at guitar center. He figures Spencer will do or has done the actual explaining of what the deal is. Jon sends back a photo of Dylan and Clover curled together like yin and yang, smooth grey melting into brindle. Were thinking about legalising their union. Cant have them living in sin. Promise youll attend.

Brendon laughs shortly and taps out Animal weddings = crazy cat lady. Please don't hit me with your handbag.

"What's funny?" Spencer asks, raising his head, in haggard tones that indicate he's not planning to find anything funny ever again. His beard is already running wild and unclipped, a wild tangle of soft tawny fur that kind of makes Brendon want to start humming In the Jungle.

"Jon," Brendon says, in equally doleful tenor. "He said – you know, it wasn't that funny."

Spencer sighs heavily, and they sit in silence for a another long space, until the rumble of an engine pulling up their driveway jolts them out of lethargy and leaves them sitting straight-spined, quivering like greyhounds.

"We can ignore them," Brendon whispers, but then there's the sound of someone fumbling with the lock and the sounds of the front door creaking open.

"Are you two still wallowing in your own filth?" Shane calls from the hallway. His footsteps echo down the hallway, tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap. They stop, and Brendon slouches lower in his armchair. Shane's gaze slides over the flotsam of their self-exile, the open pizza boxes mottled with grease, the floes of sad and empty beer bottles, lying here and there. "Seriously, guys, you can't stay in here forever."

"Can too," Spencer mutters, then cowers weakly when Shane tears open the curtains and lets daylight burst raucously in.

"Wow, it smells like something died in here," Regan says, walking up behind him. She wrinkles her nose. "We brought you guys food and figured we'd take Bogart for a walk, but maybe we should leave you to your own devices and see if you rouse from your stupor."

"This is a bunker situation," Spencer says. "No one leaves."

Brendon looks as plaintive as he can. "Pete said we weren't allowed to leave until we figured out how we were going to handle this officially."

Shane throws up his hands. "Well, figure it out! It can't be that hard."

"Can too," Brendon and Spencer grumble in petulant unison, and then trade half-embarrassed, half-complicit glances.


What Pete says to them on the fourth day, sitting gingerly amongst the pizza boxes with his best and most paternal look of concern heavy on his brow, is "Okay, come on, we have to say something. I need you guys to figure out how you want to handle it. I strongly advise against 'it's totally fake for sinister tax purposes,' though. That could be messy."

Brendon glances at Spencer. Spencer is staring at the floor, the bridge of his nose marking ninety degrees. Brendon bites his lip, and turns his own eyes to his bare feet.

"Guys," Pete says, exasperated. "I've been running interference here, happily, but throw me a bone."

"It's not fake," Spencer says finally. "It's never been – it's not fake."

Brendon's chin jerks up sharply. He looks at Spencer soft, though, hesitant; sideways.

Pete cocks his head. "This is not what I have been told."

"No, I didn't - I didn't mean it like that. Just because we don't have sex, it doesn't mean we don't care about each other, it doesn't mean it's fake, that's what I meant." Spencer sounds kind of angry. He runs his hand through his hair in frustration, fingertips pale amongst the brown. Brendon touches his elbow, and Spencer looks at him sideways and smiles, hand going still, then dropping. He blows out a breath through his nose, and Brendon squeezes.

"That's good," Pete says, still watching them, his dark eyes bright and sharp. "That's what you should say. That sounds good."

"It does sound good," Brendon says quietly when Pete's left them to their own devices once more, with an injunction to shower immediately.

"I just feel, I don't know," Spencer says. "I don't like anyone implying that this is, like, a bad thing, just because we don't. Fuck it, let's not say anything but 'we're married', they can deal."

Brendon swallows. "Okay. Following your suggestions usually works out for me pretty well, so. I'm glad I did."

"Me too," Spencer says, and sends a beer bottle rolling across the floor with a swipe of his toe. It hits another with a resonant glassy clink; Brendon laughs, for no particular reason.

"You know, we should get wedding rings, or something. Now that everything's out there."

"It could foul your game," Spencer points out, and when Brendon says honestly "I don't really care," he smiles kind of shyly.