“Breakfast?” The girl in Spencer’s kitchen startles, turns to look at him.
“Um, hi?” she says. “I’m Greta, you’re—?”
“Spencer.” He shakes her hand, manages not to watch the way her breasts move under Ryan’s bathrobe. “How do you feel about French toast?”
“That’s, um. Do you know where Ryan is, by any chance?”
He usually doesn’t let them bug him about Ryan leaving or why they don’t have his number until after they’re sitting down to eat; it just goes better that way. “He’s gone to work,” Spencer says. “He—won’t be back.”
Greta makes a face, the face Spencer has seen too damned many times. The I should have known he was a bad bet face. “Ah,” she says.
“So French toast?”
“Fuck yeah,” Greta says. “Pour on the syrup.”
Greta’s a musician, it turns out, in some indie band Spencer hasn’t heard of. “My parents got me into it young,” she says, and Spencer nods and gets out the ingredients, greases his pan. French toast is easy, automatic, and he chats with Greta about the local scene, about his old garage band, until they’re sitting down to it.
“So he just—he’s just not, ah. I shouldn’t expect a call.” Greta stares at her fork and knife as she’s asking, as if she’s embarrassed to be double-checking.
“He’s a dick,” Spencer says, bluntly. “I mean, he’s my best friend and I love him and in a lot of ways he’s a great guy but this isn’t one of them, you know what I mean?”
Greta folds a long strip of French toast into her mouth, cheeks red. She lets the question drift away, unanswered, and then asks, pointedly, “So what do you do?”
Spencer loves Ryan, he does. They’ve been best friends so long that Spencer doesn’t know what he’d even be without Ryan in his life. But this particular habit is really starting to grate.
It would be easier if Ryan could pick up assholes, or morons, or people obsessed with stamp collecting. But of course they’re all wonderful, if excessively hipster, types, and Spencer has a nice conversation with them over breakfast and crushes their hopes into the ground.
He’s pretty sure he’d like to be friends with most of Ryan’s hookups, but they pretty much all can’t stand to look at him after breakfast is over.
He’d tried, a few times, back in the beginning. There’d been one guy, far enough into the pattern that Spencer knew Ryan wouldn’t be calling him, who had just been cool, a laidback stoner type. Jon, Spencer remembers now. They’d had muesli with fresh strawberries and vanilla yogurt.
“I should have known,” Jon says, twisting his mouth. “His eyes weren’t saying the same thing as his mouth, you know? But whatever.” He doesn’t look like he means the whatever; he looks pissed.
“That’s—perceptive.” Spencer spoons up some muesli, avoiding Jon’s diffuse anger. He wonders if Jon can hook Spencer up to his dealer. Ryan’s sources have all run dry, mostly because he slept with them and never called them again, and the smell of pot is hanging off Jon and making Spencer want to pack a bowl.
Jon shrugs. “Virgo.”
Spencer manages not to roll his eyes, because he likes this guy, and instead they talk about Spencer’s classes, about Jon’s cats. They linger over the muesli, and as Jon’s getting up, finally, Spencer blurts out, “hey, we should hang out sometime.”
He means as friends, and he can tell Jon gets it, so he isn’t expecting the rejection. “I don’t think that’ll work, dude,” Jon says, gently. “You’re great, and all? But I’m kind of done with this scene.”
Sometimes, halfway through the meal, they start unloading on him. This is usually Spencer’s least favorite kind of breakfast.
“I mean, if he’d just told me he was only looking for a hook-up, you know, I could have, like. Reassessed my intentions, you know? I might have totally been into that.” This guy, Gerard, is waving a fork, but Gerard had insisted on making shapes with the pancakes, and Spencer’s pretty sure the one Gerard’s halfway through eating was supposed to be a Dalek. That makes the fork-waving much less menacing than Spencer usually feels about gesturing with cutlery. “But he was so earnest, you know?”
“Yeah.” Spencer knows. “He’s kind of an asshole, you should just, you know. Move on. Go out and get drunk.”
“I’m in recovery,” Gerard says, not unkindly.
“Sorry,” Spencer says. “You could get, you know. Fucked by somebody else, then.”
Gerard laughs, puts the fork down. He licks his lips in Spencer’s general direction. “I don’t suppose, um. I mean—”
“Oh,” Spencer says. “Oh, um. That’s—” He glances at the clock. “Yeah, okay.”
They don’t finish the pancakes, and they don’t promise to call.
One notable morning, Spencer wanders into his kitchen and finds it full of lanky men in bright clothing. “Hey,” he says, waving them out of their conversation. “I don’t know if I have enough bacon for all of you guys.”
“That’s okay.” The guy with the neck tattoos and the nose ring steps forward a little, smiles reassuringly. “I’m vegetarian.”
“Hey, me too.” The second speaker’s wearing a purple hoodie, clashing with Spencer’s yellow kitchen.
“So you guys are—?” Spencer asks, and collects the names: Travie, Bill, Gabe. They’re all a million feet tall but as intimidating as bunny rabbits, so Spencer doesn’t mind having to push through them to get to the fridge.
“Waffles, then? I think we have some frozen strawberries.”
“Awesome,” Bill says, and the other two agree, and they spend most of Spencer’s prep time loudly agreeing with each other about what a dick Ryan is, and what charmers they all are. Spencer doesn’t miss that they exchange numbers on their way out the door, bellies full of Spencer’s waffles.
A few of the hookups, mostly women, turn down breakfast altogether. One blonde with barely-smeared smoky eye makeup and a ‘60s bob gives Spencer a long and lyrical list of things Ryan can shove up his lying ass, and Spencer thinks that if Ryan weren’t, well, Ryan, she’d have been perfect for him. She’s the only one Spencer’s ever been tempted to give Ryan’s number to, but she’s not interested in taking it.
On one or two occasions, Spencer has to physically stop someone from taking revenge on Ryan’s stuff. One guy, a short dude with killer hip tattoos, gets his dick out and threatens to piss all over Ryan’s books before Spencer convinces him, lying through his teeth, that the books are actually Spencer’s.
The worst is probably the criers. There aren’t that many, because Spencer works hard to not put out nurturing vibes, but there have still been a few, and that’s definitely a few too many. Spencer really wants to erase the memory of the big blond guy with the beard trying to keep it cool and failing. It makes him wonder what Ryan says to them, to get them into bed with him, but he figures it’s better for their friendship if he doesn’t know.
“Uh, hey there.” This morning’s hook-up is a guy, shorter than Spencer and wearing hipster glasses and not much else.
“Hey,” Spencer says. “Breakfast? I was thinking Western omelets.”
The guy just looks at him for a moment, pushes the glasses up his nose. “Uh—thank you?”
Spencer shrugs, starts pulling ingredients out of the fridge. When he sets down the ham and hip-checks the door closed, he finds that the guy’s pulling dishes and silverware out, even though he has to check a couple of cabinets and drawers before he finds the right ones. “Thanks,” Spencer says.
“No problem.” The guy shrugs. “I’m Brendon.”
“Spencer.” They shake and Spencer gets out his favorite mixing bowl, his good omelet pan. He’s always liked to cook, but living with Ryan has made breakfast his wheelhouse. “You good with this stuff?” He gestures to the peppers, the portobello mushrooms, the onions, the ham.
“Yeah,” Brendon says, “I can handle that,” and before Spencer can correct him he’s pulling a knife from the block and starting to slice the green pepper. He’s deft, and Spencer decides to let him, pulls up his own section of the counter and dices the onion.
“So he’s making you let me down easy?” Brendon asks, and Spencer shrugs. “That’s rough, man.”
“I’m used to it,” Spencer says, before he can think better of the phrasing. “I mean—”
Brendon just laughs. “Yeah, I got it. Man, he doesn’t—you know, I would’ve gone home with him even if he’d just been straight with me, you know? He didn’t need to—make it something else.” Brendon sounds wistful, but not self-pitying. “Anyway, enough about that. How is it you come to be in this kitchen on this fine morning?”
Spencer can’t help but look at him, this funny, dorky guy rocking tight black briefs in Spencer’s kitchen. He’s gorgeous—everyone Ryan picks up is gorgeous—all lean muscle and smooth skin, and he’s rocking the knife like he knows a little about what he’s doing, at least enough to be trusted with Spencer’s good knives. “Uh, well. When a mommy and a daddy love each other very much—”
Brendon snorts. “Is that code for ‘none of your business’?”
“Nah,” Spencer says, despite himself, and switches to the ham. “Ryan’s my best friend. We’ve been roommates since college.”
“Were you one of his, you know. Did someone make you breakfast?”
Spencer almost drops the knife. “Oh, God, no. No. We’re—he’s like my brother,” Spencer says. “We’ve known each other since we were, like, five.”
“The lady doth protest too much, methinks,” Brendon says, but he’s laughing, and Spencer just flips him off, lets the gesture mask another long look over Brendon’s mostly-naked torso. Brendon’s tan line is above the line of his briefs, and Spencer wonders if he surfs, wonders how his thighs look when he’s balancing on the board.
“So you guys work different hours or something?” Brendon’s voice startles Spencer, and Spencer turns back to the ham, chops a little faster.
“Yeah,” Spencer says. “I do some studio drumming, and a lot of private lessons. If I don’t get a call before seven I’m not needed anywhere until noon, usually. Ryan—Ryan’s good at sneaking out early.”
“I noticed,” Brendon says. “I’m usually a pretty light sleeper.”
“He’s had a lot of practice,” Spencer says. “Here, can you do the mushrooms while I—”
“Yeah,” Brendon says, already pulling the stems off. He’s being pretty awesome, and Spencer wishes that maybe they’d met in some club, instead of him and Ryan. Spencer wouldn’t have lied to Brendon and then snuck out of bed. He’d have wanted to sleep in next to him, maybe curl closer when they were both half-awake.
“How about you?” Spencer says, for lack of any other conversation topic that isn’t about Brendon’s smooth skin. It helps that he’s had plenty of practice at not ogling scantily clad people in his kitchen. “What do you do?”
Brendon lights up, leans his hip on the counter and turns towards Spencer a little. He’s pulling the mushrooms apart where Spencer would chop them, but that’s all right, if Brendon wants to take the time. “I work at a shelter—well, a shelter network. I’m in LGBT outreach, it’s—you know, almost a fifth of the state’s queer kids are homeless? They get kicked out or they run away because of abuse or fear of reprisal, and then they don’t have anywhere to go, you know, ‘cause if your parents hate you you’re probably shit out of luck with other relatives, right?”
“Yeah,” Spencer says, and he swallows. That was never Ryan’s problem, but it still hits too close to home.
“It’s—we’re doing a lot better now than we were even a few years ago. People are more educated about the issue. But the funding’s never what it should be, you know, and we have a lot of issues with training staff to deal with trans issues, especially, and getting some of the shelters that don’t have LGBT issues as a focus to recognize the need for—I’m sorry, this is, this is not the conversation you wanted to have over breakfast.” Brendon’s caught himself up short not just verbally but physically, paused with half a mushroom in his hand.
“No, it’s—it’s interesting,” Spencer says. “It’s sad, but it sounds like you’re the man for the job.”
“I hope so,” Brendon says. He bites his lip, like he’s thinking about saying something else, and then he turns back to the counter, finishes pulling the mushrooms to pieces.
Spencer’s dicing the ham, and Brendon pulls a square of it off the counter to eat. “I used to be vegetarian,” he says. “But, you know.”
“Couldn’t hack it?” Spencer says, smiling. “Good to know you’re not actually perfect.”
Brendon’s laugh is a beat too late. “Oh, um. No, definitely not.” Spencer feels like an ass, but he can’t really apologize for accidentally hitting on Brendon without making it worse, so instead he cracks the eggs into his bowl, beats them as loudly as he can.
“Do you have cheese?” Brendon asks, and Spencer realizes he hasn’t gotten any out.
“Tons,” he says. “Can you grab me the cheddar?”
Brendon opens the fridge. “Nope, I can’t.” Spencer turns to look at him and Brendon grins, holds up a different package. “Not when you have Monterey Jack. It’d just be a crime against breakfast to pass that up.”
“You grate it, then,” Spencer says, but he’s smiling. He likes a man with cheese preferences. Except—Brendon’s never going to want to see him again. At best, he could angle for another Gerard, fuck him and never see him again, but Spencer’s thinking about—sandwiches, and entrees, and desserts, and he just can’t have multi-meal feelings for one of Ryan’s hookups.
And even if he could—he knows the rules, that you don’t date your friends’ exes. He and Ryan have done a careful dance over the years, running in the same circles, and Ryan’s never gone near any of Spencer’s exes. Spencer isn’t going to be the one to break the rule first.
“So the complete collection of Farscape DVDs—that yours or Ryan’s?”
“Mine,” Spencer says, and turns the stove on, greases the pan. “You watch Farscape?”
Brendon passes the plate of cheese over and crosses past Spencer to clean the cheese-grater in the sink. “Muppets, spaceships, Ben Browder—what’s not to like?”
“Mm, and Claudia Black,” Spencer says.
“Less my type.” Brendon grins. Spencer distracts himself from Brendon’s mouth by dumping the contents of his mixing bowl into the warmed pan, scraping the eggs around it with a rubber spatula.
“I have pretty broad tastes,” Spencer says. “Can you pour the stuff in?”
Brendon reaches around Spencer instead of walking back over to his spot, and he’s pressed well into Spencer’s space, chest almost brushing Spencer’s back as he picks up handfuls of the vegetables and the ham and drops them into the pan. Spencer stares at the stove and folds them in, carefully not moving. “Um, that should do it,” he says. He’ll put the rest of the ingredients in a ziploc and make salad or something.
“Okay,” Brendon says, and steps back to the sink. “So you don’t have anything until noon, you said?”
“I don’t have anything today,” Spencer says, although he isn’t sure why Brendon’s asking.
“Me neither,” Brendon says. “Day off. I—do you want to watch a couple?”
It takes Spencer a moment to get what he’s asking, and he has to flip the omelet, anyway, so that gives him a moment to think about it. “Sure,” he says, finally. Whatever, it’ll be fun. He’ll just be spending some indeterminate period of time hanging out with and trying not to accidentally hit on the cutest nicest funniest guy in the world. No big deal.
Brendon picks a DVD and sets it up while Spencer divides and plates the omelet, gets them both forks and napkins. It’s weird how comfortable Brendon seems, like he lives here, too. Maybe Brendon’s just one of those people who can be comfortable anywhere. Especially considering—“Uh,” Spencer says. “You know you’re only wearing briefs, right?”
Brendon glances down at himself, huffs a laugh. “Oh, man, sorry. I’m always overheated, you know? But I’ll go get dressed, you can start without me.”
“No, hey, it’s—I know we don’t keep the air up enough. You can wear whatever you want, dude.” Spencer picks at his omelet, tries not to sound like he’s hoping Brendon won’t change. Spencer’s not sure when he became such a total masochist.
“Okay,” Brendon says after a beat, and settles himself on the other end of the couch, bare feet up on the coffee table. “Muppets ahoy.” He presses play.
Spencer isn’t terribly surprised that Brendon turns out to be a talker. Normally he’d hate it, somebody talking through the show, but he’s seen this episode a million times and, well. If he’s never gonna see this guy again, he kind of wants a little more of him, first. Spencer’s pretty sure that his inevitable jerk-off sessions about this are going to be his entrance fee to Hell, but Brendon’s just so—Spencer can see why Ryan picked him, even though he must have been actually wearing clothes at the bar or the club or the poetry reading or whatever.
The credits roll, and Spencer starts to say something about needing to—whatever, he’ll think of something, when Brendon suddenly says, “Did you ever see that parody they did on Stargate? I didn’t really watch it but the clip’s on YouTube, it’s—can I show you?”
“Uh, sure,” Spencer says. His laptop’s propped beside the couch and he pulls it up, wakes it from sleep. He can’t understand why Brendon’s still here, why he hasn’t run out to repress Spencer’s existence as well as Ryan’s. “Should I just search—”
“Here,” Brendon says, and he’s sliding over, reaching over Spencer’s lap to type into the search bar. He’s pressed against Spencer, the whole long line of him, and okay, Spencer is definitely not misreading this.
“Um,” Spencer says, but then the video’s playing, and okay, yes, that’s pretty hilarious, even without much context. Spencer didn’t know Ben Browder was ever on Stargate. Maybe it was a cameo.
Brendon finds something else funny in the sidebar, and then something with a barking cat, and then a whole string of classic animal blooper videos, and Spencer’s just letting Brendon lean over him and rub his bare everything into Spencer’s side, because—well. Because he wants to.
They can’t just pretend forever, though, and finally Brendon reaches over to press pause. “Hey, so, um. This is, like. About as obvious as I get, but I mean, I could try words if that’s more your—” and Spencer kisses him.
He doesn’t mean to, or, well, he does, but it’s just that Brendon’s so close and mostly naked and he likes dogs and Farscape and he can slice a green pepper and he cleaned Spencer’s cheesegrater, and those things are a lot more than Spencer’s seen in anyone else, lately. And it’s good, it’s a really excellent fucking kiss, buzzing all over Spencer’s lips and down to his cock, and Spencer is definitely going to send Brendon home but maybe just another minute or two of this, first.
Of course, that’s when Ryan comes home.
“Wow,” Ryan says.
Spencer’s never failed to get a hookup out of the apartment before, and he’s definitely never been caught kissing any of them. This is some seriously uncomfortable new ground to be breaking. “Shit, Ryan, I—I’m sorry.”
Brendon sits back, and Spencer can feel the space that’s between them now. “No, I’m sorry. I don’t—I’m not usually—look, I’ll go, I just gotta get dressed.” Spencer can’t stop himself from watching Brendon escape into Ryan’s bedroom, door shutting behind him, and then Ryan’s in his eyeline instead.
“Dude,” Ryan says. “Dude, what the fuck?”
“It just sort of—happened,” Spencer says. “You—why do you always have to be an asshole to them, man? I just—you know, I try to be nice, and then they’re all—and he’s—” Spencer gives up, covers his face with his hands and groans. “I’m sorry.”
“Is this an omelet?” Ryan asks, picking up the plate. “You made him breakfast?”
Spencer can’t believe that’s what Ryan’s focusing on. “Of course I made him breakfast. I always make them breakfast.” He looks up to find Ryan staring at him, incredulous.
“What, all of them?”
“Well, not if I have to go in early to the studio, but if I know someone’s in your room I leave some fruit salad and a note, usually.” Spencer can’t believe Ryan doesn’t know about this. It’s been fucking years. Ryan’s unobservant, but this is ridiculous. “Did you think I just pushed them out the door?”
Ryan twists his mouth, shoves his hands in his pockets. “I dunno.”
“Well, I don’t,” Spencer says, and suddenly he’s pissed. “They’re all—they think you have intentions, or some shit, and they’re fucking surprised when I tell them you’re actually a dick, and I think they deserve a damned meal. They’re all—great people,” and he can’t help glancing at the door to Ryan’s room, still conspicuously shut. “They deserve some—whatever. Consideration.”
“So you cook for them, fuck them, and send them home?” Ryan’s voice is raising, too, and there’s no way Brendon can’t hear this.
“Jesus! No, I don’t fuck them! I cook for them and I crush their spirits or whatever and then I send them home. Fucking hell, Ryan.” Ryan just looks at him, and, okay, maybe this looks kind of bad. “I was going to! I just—he’s—you seriously need to start fucking assholes, okay? Ugly assholes.”
“Yeah, that sounds fun for me,” Ryan says. Despite himself, Spencer huffs a laugh, and Ryan sits next to him, which is as good as a hug from Ryan. “Sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry,” Spencer says. “I didn’t mean to, like, break the bro code.”
Ryan snorts, and he knocks his shoulder into Spencer’s. “Yeah, you know how closely I hew to that.”
“Still,” Spencer says. “It’s like, a really central rule. You don’t fuck your friends’ exes.”
“I don’t know if ‘ex’ is really a fair description,” Brendon says from Ryan’s doorway. Shit, Spencer should definitely have been listening for him. He looks—tired, and this, this is why Spencer keeps away from the hookups.
“Yeah, not so much,” Ryan says, and Spencer turns to look at him, incredulous. This whole conversation is starting to go off the rails.
“I—look,” Spencer says, before anyone can say anything else. “Brendon, I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have. You’re just, you’re very—I’m sorry. I hope the omelet was good. I’m just gonna—” he gets up to flee to his own room, and behind him Ryan says, “Quick!”
Brendon catches Spencer around the waist. “Hang on there, cowboy.”
“You can totally have my blessing,” Ryan says, and it’s sardonic but Spencer can read Ryan well enough to know it’s sincere, too. “I gotta go back out anyway, there’s a lunchtime poetry thing at Lumos.”
“Maybe just tell today’s conquest you’ll be gone in the morning, hey?” Brendon says, and it’s muffled by the way he’s already mouthing at Spencer’s jaw.
Ryan just grunts and lets himself back out of the apartment, whistling “Sexual Healing” as he goes.
“Hey,” Brendon says, half into Spencer’s neck. “I think you’re a little confused about how seriously Ryan takes hookups.”
Spencer tries to parse Brendon’s statement over the rush of sensation Brendon’s mouth is sending through him, and the way Brendon’s hands are sneaking up under his shirt. “Everyone always tells me about how—romantic he is,” Spencer says. “How, you know. Connected.”
Brendon laughs into Spencer’s collarbone. “Oh, man,” he says. “Maybe you need someone to cook you breakfast and tell you Ryan’s a dick who doesn’t mean it.”
“Oh,” Spencer says. “Oh.”
“Yeah,” Brendon agrees. “So, um. Great people, I think you said?”
Brendon’s not going to leave, Spencer realizes. He’s not going to just eat Spencer’s omelets and disappear forever.
Spencer lets his hands go where they’ve been wanting to all morning, the smooth curves of Brendon’s ass. “I bet I can think of a few more adjectives.”
“Yeah?” Brendon lifts Spencer’s shirt higher, ducks down to mouth at his chest under the folds of it. “I have been told I can be very inspirational.”
Spencer thinks they should maybe get out of the living room at some point, just in case Ryan comes back. “Cool with it” probably extends to Brendon being around for meals and TV and stuff, but probably not to Ryan having to see them have sex.
“Don’t muses usually wear, like, diaphanous robes?” Spencer pushes Brendon back toward his bedroom door, and Brendon grabs his hand and carries the momentum, getting them inside and shutting the door, pressing Spencer against it.
“I left mine at home,” Brendon says, and goes back to Spencer’s neck. Spencer thinks maybe Brendon has a neck thing. He must have felt so cockblocked by Ryan’s scarves. “But if you just mean you can usually see their tits, I can totally show you mine.”
“Hot,” Spencer deadpans, but it totally is, the way Brendon steps back and starts to inch the shirt up his belly, grinning like a dork. He’s the most remarkable combination of devastatingly built and absolutely ridiculous, and Spencer wants to lean back against this door and watch him strip forever.
By the time Brendon gets the shirt up to nipple-level, his obliques are starting to stand out from the position, and Spencer has to reach out and touch them. “You’re—kind of stupid hot,” Spencer says, and Brendon laughs and flings the shirt the rest of the way off.
“Um, thanks, I think,” Brendon says. “You’re kind of smart hot.” He’s fussing with Spencer’s shirt now, and Spencer leans forward enough to let him pull it off, pull them back together. Brendon’s not kidding about running hot; he’s sweating just from this, and his chest slides against Spencer’s and makes Spencer’s nipples harden.
“Jesus,” Spencer mutters, and pushes Brendon back and onto the bed. “Just—yeah,” and he kneels between Brendon’s legs and opens his fly, watches the way Brendon settles back on his elbows to watch. Spencer fucking loves sucking cock, and he’s pretty sure he’s going to fucking love sucking Brendon’s, especially the way Brendon gasps when Spencer pokes it with the tip of his tongue, funny and obscene. “You’ve seen my best move now,” Spencer says, fisting the base. “It’s all downhill from here.”
“Doubt it,” Brendon says, and then, “Fuck, dude,” when Spencer sucks him down, sets up a fast rhythm. He puts a hand in Spencer’s hair, just stroking Spencer’s scalp. Spencer wasn’t sure if he was going to get Brendon off this way but now he is, because that hand is just right, not pressuring but encouraging, friendly. Spencer wants to be friends with Brendon—well, obviously not just friends, but he wants to watch Farscape together and go surfing and fuck around with their laptops.
Right now, though, he just wants this, Brendon’s cock heavy on his tongue, Brendon’s hips quivering under his hand.
“You can—fingers would—you can fuck me, after,” Brendon says, gasping it out, and Spencer pulls off long enough to suck a couple of his fingers wet. Brendon pushes his pants and his briefs down and then Spencer’s back at it, rubbing his fingertips at Brendon’s hole. It’s too many hands, not really Spencer’s style, but Brendon’s going fucking nuts up there, lying flat now, head whipping back and forth on the comforter. “Spencer, fuck, want—want your cock, just—I’m close, I’m—”
Spencer is seriously glad that Ryan picked this guy up, right about now, and he fingerfucks him faster, keeps sucking as Brendon jerks in place and comes into Spencer’s mouth.
“Jesus,” Spencer says, and then he’s fumbling at his own zipper, getting his pants off, and Brendon’s reaching up and picking through Spencer’s nightstand, gamely ignoring Spencer’s sex toys in favor of the condoms and the Wet.
“Clover clamps, huh?” Brendon asks, and okay, maybe he wasn’t ignoring the sex toys. Spencer just takes a condom from him, rolls it on, and watches Brendon lubing himself up, three fingers deep in. Brendon’s got to be sensitive so soon after his orgasm but he looks seriously into it, and when he pulls Spencer towards him, wet fingers on Spencer’s hip, Spencer goes.
Fucking Brendon is like—like Spencer wants to make a meal to commemorate this moment, and then he wants to eat that meal three times a day, seven days a week. Brendon’s loud, loud enough that Spencer doesn’t know how he slept through last night’s whatever, and Spencer likes it, the clear responses to everything he does. Brendon likes rapid, shallow strokes; likes when Spencer scratches over his ribs; likes having his nipples pinched more than stroked. Spencer guesses he’d love the clamps, and, yeah, Spencer wants that.
“God, you gotta—I can, I can, you gotta lean up,” and Spencer gets far enough out of the way that Brendon can easily fist his cock. Spencer’s impressed that he's hard again already, and Brendon just kind of grins at him, says, “Mad skills,” half a groan.
“Rolled a—20 for constitution?” Spencer manages, and Brendon cracks up, losing all of his rhythm.
“Oh my god,” Brendon says, and hauls Spencer down and kisses him. “I am keeping you.”
“Okay,” Spencer says, and it’s too soft, too honest, but whatever, mid-fuck is the perfect time to be embarrassingly earnest. Brendon probably won’t even remember after he’s come.
He’s not going to beat Spencer there, though, not when he’s this tight around Spencer’s cock, legs this warm around Spencer’s chest. Spencer’s been thinking about this all morning, while Brendon was wandering around half-naked and gorgeous, and he just can’t wait any longer. He makes a stupid groaning noise when he comes, but Brendon echoes it, hand back in the game now.
Spencer pulls out before he’s really ready, pushes three fingers back into Brendon, watches Brendon’s hand flying on his cock. “You look—so good,” Spencer says, mouthing the words into Brendon’s hip. “So fucking hot.”
Brendon whines, hips all over the place, like he can’t decide whether to buck up into his hand or down onto Spencer’s fingers, and Spencer mouths at Brendon's hip until he comes, just a few hard-won spurts on his belly.
Spencer crawls up next to him and flops down, finally disposing of the condom that’s starting to slip off his dick. “My idea of a good day off,” Brendon says, voice gritty. “And it’s barely even noon.”
“Pretty good on my end, too,” Spencer says. They’re quiet for a long moment, Brendon’s fingers stroking Spencer’s thigh, and then Spencer asks, “Do you want some lunch?”
“Let me help you with it,” Brendon says, and Spencer hides his smile in Brendon’s arm.