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It takes Alex a couple of months to realize the correlation between one of Smith's Happy Fun Times Band tweets and one of Ryan's killer death moods. The one where Spencer @replies to Brendon about the dogs waiting for him to come home prompts Ryan to kick half of the drum set over and to make the poor barista who accidentally puts whipped cream on his caramel frappuccino light cry.
Greenwald thinks anyone who orders a fucking coffee milkshake deserves a lot worse, but far be it from him to intercede. Ryan would probably refuse to pick up Alex's doppio if he did, and Alex can't jeopardize his best caffeine connection.
And, y'know, Greenwald gets that this is a rough, transitional time for him. It's gotta suck, leaving his first band and two of his bandmates behind. ...It's not like they're dead or anything, but change change change et cetera et cetera, there's always weirdness to work through at first. Alex gets the feeling that while Ryan's pretty used to Urie being pissed off at him for something, he's not used to Smith not having his back and it's fucking with him more than he's willing to admit. That shit blows.
However, none of this changes the fact that if Ryan Ross gives Alex one more pissy glare, or threatens to torch his guitar again, Alex Greenwald will not hesitate to fuck his shit the hell up.
Obviously Alex needs backup.
Obviously Alex must direct message Spencer Smith's Twitter.
Spencer blinks, and then starts snickering helplessly, unable to stop even when Brendon hops over to gaze at the screen over his shoulder (even though he knows Spencer hates that). "What?"
"Greenwald," Spencer responds, grinning at the screen.
"Oh." Brendon wrinkles his nose. "Shit, I thought it'd be a good manip or something. Way to get my hopes up, Spenny."
"Told you it doesn't bother me, you're going to have to think of something worse," Spencer says calmly, not looking away from the laptop, ignoring Brendon's muttered oh, I WILL. "Apparently Ryan's being himself and Greenwald's going to kill him unless I help."
Brendon pauses, and starts snickering as well. "Spencer Smith: Ryan Whisperer."
"That's me." Spencer tilts his head to grin up at Brendon, and twists his chair so Brendon can see the screen a bit better. "Soooooo I'm thinking I should tell him about Ryan's secret love for anything related to Twilight."
"Oh my god, yes," Brendon says, eyes gleaming. "And Vampire Diaries. And Melrose Place. And, and, fucking...King of Queens, man, that's his favorite."
"And Dan Brown."
"Shit, yeah," Brendon gasps. "And Tokio Hotel. And the Monkees."
Spencer starts chuckling again, covering his mouth with a hand, only feeling a little guilty about plotting the easiest way to make Ryan Ross swallow his tongue in rage. "Snuggies, he loves Snuggies."
"Fuck yeah, Snuggies, holy shit." Brendon's cackling, actually cackling, and moving around the room excitedly. "Actually, I want a Snuggie, that'd be awesome."
"I'll get you a Snuggie," Spencer promises, beginning to type a list of Ryan Ross's Favorite Things in Wordpad. "Oh man, he's totally Team Edward."
"Fuck you. Team Jacob."
"Whatever, so long as Greenwald gets him a t-shirt with one of them on it. Shit, this day is suddenly so awesome," Spencer says, cheerfully tacking away at the keyboard. "He loves macrame and scrapbooking. And anime. And Precious Moments figurines and pictures of kittens in teacups."
"Hey, I like scrapbooking," Brendon says, pausing in his rotation around the room. Spencer raises an eyebrow at him, smirking a little as he watches Brendon duck his head. "Not, like - I don't have like bags of stickers or patterned scissors or anything, but."
"Sure you don't," Spencer drawls, gazing up and down at him for a few beats too long, long enough to make Brendon uncomfortable, get him shifting his weight one foot to the other. "Focus, Bren. We need to remember all of his awesome hobbies."
"Well, um." Brendon pauses, and then starts grinning again. "It's not a hobby, but you could include that he's totally a morning person."
“Oh shit, yeah,” Spencer breathes, beaming. “Dude, we should get Zack in on this, he’ll have awesome ideas.”
“Totally.”
The thing is, Spencer knows exactly what Greenwald is having to deal with. It makes him a little more sympathetic than Brendon and Zack (who did admittedly have the greatest ideas of all time - including telling Greenwald that Ryan’s lifelong dream was to be serenaded by Wayne Newton in Vegas on his birthday). However, he’s kind of perversely enjoying being a spectator to this particular sport – he’s been playing first string for over a decade, after all. Ryan’s emo twitters are a lot more enjoyable when Spencer’s not sitting two rooms over, worried about what Ryan’s going to do or say next.
Still. He’s not a complete asshole, at least not yet. So after about a week of rumination, he practices a bit of restraint and relegates the Ryan Rossy’s Favorite Things list to a huge dry-erase board on the back of the studio door. He even transcribes everything that he and Brendon and Zack and Shane were able to come up with, and then he sits down at his laptop and goes about actually answering Greenwald’s plea.
1. If the door’s unlocked, he’s not serious about wanting to be left alone, he wants to talk.
2. If it’s locked, give him an hour and then start threatening to break his stuff.
3. He used to be partial to scarves, don’t know if he still is – try those dumbass necklaces of his. Cool?
And then he hits reply.
Somewhere on the other side of the Valley, a phone buzzes. A few minutes later, a response to Spencer’s message: No shit. he’s started talking in fucking blank verse, send help :(
(Greenwald closes his phone quickly, because Ryan's clopping over in cowboy boots that are way too big for him. He's wearing a bolo tie that Alex can't easily remove - he's tried. Ryan's waving his hands around in small circles. "What's the plural for chrysalis? Chrysales? Chrysali?"
"Google it, Ross, Jesus Christ. ...Wait, do I have to sing it or anything? What does it mean?"
"God, Greenwald, you're such a fucking philistine.")
Stuff a paisley tie in his mouth Spencer types, grinning despite himself. It’d be a public service not to let him wear it.
He leans back in the computer chair and stares at the screen for a minute or two, before hunching back over. Give him a Palahniuk short story to counteract. When he's obnoxious from that, make him watch Moulin Rouge. Should equal out. Is it a girl? he thinks to type, biting his lip a little, feeling a small churn of conditioned anxiety deep in his gut.
Ryan Ross with girl troubles is something for which there is no help. No booze is strong enough, no book is miserable enough, no saint would dare intercede. If so, seek cover under overpasses or in basements or bathtubs. Never under a tree.
Haha roger that one. Q: He gets Hobo for Halloween. Good idea for him to meet k to get the dog?
Spencer grimaces. Ask him to go see a movie or something around the same time, he’ll only go see her if he doesn’t have an available out. get someone else to pick up hobo?
On it. There should be a rulebook. write me a rulebook, Smith.
Spencer rolls his eyes and shuts the laptop, and goes to find Brendon and see if he wants to mess around with Beatles Rock Band for a while (though honestly at this point, it’s mostly an excuse for Spencer to listen to Brendon do all the harmonies). He doesn’t think much about Greenwald, or Ryan, or how it sucks that the only reason he has for writing Greenwald’s rulebook is that they’re not his rules to live by, anymore.
Passing a torch that you’re not tired of yet really sucks, Spencer decides.
He finds Brendon in the kitchen, and hooks his chin on a bony shoulder and demands that Brendon make him a sandwich. After a five-minute argument, they agree to split a sandwich and then go to the dog park. It’s only a ten-minute walk.
Behind the comforting invisibility of his sunglasses, Spencer watches Bogart cavort around the park, and stretches his arms along the back of the park bench he’s sitting on. The sun is warm on his back, and Brendon’s head is a heavy, familiar weight on his shoulder. Spencer tilts his head – Brendon’s hair is warm on his cheek, and smells like the rosemary mint shampoo they always swipe from hotels. He sighs.
“Cheer up, emo Smith,” Brendon murmurs, not moving.
“Okay,” Spencer replies, and ducks his head so he can give Brendon a wide, cheesy, insincere smile.
“Much better,” Brendon says, and pats his knee. His hand rests there for a moment, til Spencer can feel the warmth of it working through his jeans. “It’ll be okay,” Brendon says, matter-of-factly. “Wanna go home?”
Spencer raises his eyebrows and looks around at the mostly empty dog park, the waning sunlight. “Yeah,” he says, answering more than Brendon’s last question.
It’s almost two weeks and four DMs from Greenwald later. They’ve exchanged actual email addresses, because watching Greenwald try to cram whole thoughts into 140 characters was becoming painful (also – Spencer can’t figure out the guy’s penchant for smilies in his personal conversations and it’s beginning to grate). They’ve covered Emergency Floorplans and first response procedure for Ryan Ross Breakups (it basically consists of semi-literal variations on stop, drop and roll), and Vernacular Oddities, but Greenwald is still missing a few fundamentals. A couple of days ago in the studio, Ryan froze up and couldn’t sing in front of anyone, and no one knew what to do to snap him out of it.
Spencer stares at the blank email body for a while, and then frowns a little, scrunching his face up, and begins to write.
A Field Guide to Ryan Rosses
by Spencer J. Smith, Esq.
1. a.Quote Choke at him. Quote Fight Club at him (but don't mention the movies, trust me on this). More authors available upon demand. (Spencer even helpfully includes a link to an announcement about a reading/book-signing Palahniuk's doing in Pasadena in a couple of months.)
2. He secretly loves Mulan and will sing along if encouraged. Exploit.
3. He likes hugs, but not for too long - let him pull away. If he gets really mad, let him rant about whatever and then mess with his hair. He goes stupid-happy whenever anyone plays with his hair. Don't touch his neck.
4. Don't let him get his hair cut on his own. Ever. Two words: BOWL CUT.
5. Don't let him go clothes shopping on his own. Ever. Two more words: ROSE VEST.
6. Make sure he eats - he forgets to, and then he gets quiet and pissy about everything.
7. His dad's b-day is the tenth of next month. Be around all day. Don't ask him about it.
8. Make him laugh. Never tickle him though.
9. He’s allergic to amoxicillin. He’s a pain in the ass when he has a cold or something but when he’s really sick he just gets quiet and sleeps a lot and you have to make him go to the doctor.
10. He freezes up when he thinks he won’t do a good job. So tell him a lot that you think he’s doing a good job.
11. He likes the carbonara from Buca, and 3-by-3's from Jesus Burger - don't attempt to watch him eat them, it's seriously gross. When he's sick, get the Campbell's chicken soup dry mix packets, with the little noodles, and no-pulp OJ. Strawberry jam, never grape. Unsweet tea (green, not black), coffee with lots of 2% and 3 raw sugars. Don't let him watch The Hours or Everything Is Illuminated or Mulholland Drive on his own. He always likes holding hands, especially when he's nervous. He likes being the big spoon unless he's sick. Don't let him forget the water bill.
12. Text me when they have a show.
Spencer finishes by typing in his phone number, in case Alex doesn't have it/lost it/whatever, and hits send. Inside, he feels strangely hollow, and there's a stale taste at the back of his throat that he can't swallow down. He closes the laptop and rubs a hand over his face, then pushes himself up off the couch and wanders down the hallway, out of the kitchen door, and onto the patio. Brendon's there, facing the bare glimmer of ocean they can see, past the other houses. There's a guitar in his hand (news at eleven), and as Spencer approaches he thinks he recognizes the chorus from Drive My Car.
He walks up behind the chair and wraps his arms around Brendon's head, smirking at the little yelp Brendon gives. "The subtleties of the lyrics, they get me every time," he drawls, then yelps and pulls away as Brendon licks his fucking arm. "Asshole." He flops onto the deck chair beside Brendon, and gazes onto the horizon.
He can sort of feel Brendon's eyes on him, but he doesn't look over, just slouches a little and shifts as his skin prickles under the weight of scrutiny. Eventually, Brendon snorts and starts plucking at strings. "Burritos for dinner?"
"Yeah," Spencer nods. He pauses, lolls his head back against the chair. "Hey. What's my favorite Disney movie?"
"Fox and the Hound," Brendon answers easily. "And then the Lion King because you like Rafiki. ...Wait, Are we including Pixar? Because Wall-E." He frowns, his eyebrows knitting together distractedly as he ducks his head, lowering his ear nearer to the strings to examine a note he's playing.
"I...no, yeah, the Fox and the Hound, yeah," Spencer says, sort of startled at the promptness, gazing at Brendon interestedly. "Wall-E was pretty sweet, though."
"Fucking awesome, you mean," Brendon says, straightening up, pleased with the note finally. "If I thought I could make it through, I'd totally wanna cover Put On Your Sunday Clothes on the next tour, are you kidding?"
"Wow," Spencer says, and breaks into a grin. "I sort of forget how you're a walking advertisement for them. When is Disney giving you your own show? Can we play a show at Disneyland one day?"
"Shut up," Brendon snorts, though his head has tilted a little to the side, which Spencer knows means that Brendon is honestly considering the question. He starts laughing a little, and Brendon turns and smiles at him. "Dude, you asked the question. All I did was answer it."
"Yeah, I'm just surprised. You never told me you were a Jonas brother."
Brendon laughs, his head tilting back a little so all Spencer can see is his neck and teeth and the delight in the slits of his eyes. "Yeah, well, I figure give the younger kids a chance to enjoy themselves, y'know? Their moment in the sun."
"That's really big of you, looking out for them like that."
"Yeah, being the secret oldest brother is a trial sometimes," Brendon sighs. "But the fans make it all worthwhile."
"Your heart beats for the diehards, huh?"
Brendon smirks, and starts humming the first few bars of the refrain, before he breaks off, giving Spencer a beady look. "Didn't tell me you're a secret Jonas fan."
"Yeah, no, that's no secret," Spencer tells him solemnly. "I love them."
"You love me," Brendon says, confident, shifting the guitar on his lap and banging a few chords out, loud and obnoxious. "I am your favorite."
"Yeah," Spencer agrees cheerfully, gazing out at the waning sun, his smile fading as slow as the pink in the sky. Lights are beginning to blink on in people's living rooms, patches of bright in the encroaching dark. "...Yeah, pretty much."
A week later, Spencer's interrupted in the middle of lunch with Brendon and Pete by a weird text from Alex. JESUS CHRIST IT'S A LION!!! GET IN THE CAR! :(
He laughs, bemused, and shows Brendon (who's looking over his shoulder anyway) and doesn't think anything about it until he gets another text two hours later: Next time try selling your insider info to the Enquirer.
He pales, and stops laughing at the story Brendon's in the middle of, and waves off the slightly worried looks and questions Pete and Brendon are suddenly giving him. And he wonders how the hell Ryan found that email.
There isn't much he can do about it just now (he and Brendon and Pete are surfing - well, Brendon's surfing, he's trying, and Pete is running around after sandpipers and seagulls and digging holes in the sand), so he keeps surfing for another hour, trying to work off the sudden onset of guilty nausea. Eventually, he distances himself enough from the text to be sort of annoyed - he hadn't said anything bad about Ryan, after all, and Alex had approached him about the whole thing. A wave crashes onto his head and he splutters and heads up onto the beach, back to his stuff, and finds his phone. He types in doubt they’d be interested, maybe I’ll call jmont instead! and hits send before he can talk himself out of it.
The he texts Greenwald because what the fuck. 1st rule of Ryan Ross is you do not talk about Ryan Ross >:(
Alex hits him back in minutes. sorry dude sorry! He came out of nowhere! Hey that was field guide rule one! excellent
I’m an old pro, Spencer shoots back, because being mad at Alex Greenwald is occasionally about as much fun as kicking an overeager three-legged puppy. (Other times Spencer could build a religion around it, but it takes a lot of effort to build up that kind of rage and lately he doesn't have the energy.)
He doesn't get a response from Ryan til 4:13 in the morning, his phone incredibly loud in the silence of his bedroom. Spencer stretches to grab his phone and opens it and blinks blearily at the too-bright screen, squinting the characters of his 1 New Message into focus.
I didn’t expect this from you
He rolls his eyes and shuts the phone with a too-hard snap, and flops over onto his stomach, muffling his groan in his pillow.
"Mmph?" An arm snakes around his back, and Spencer tenses for half a second before he relaxes into the touch.
"Nothing," he mumbles, turning his cheek onto the pillow. He shifts closer, and squawks quietly when Brendon presses his cold toes against Spencer's shin. "Asshole," he huffs.
(Nothing has happened between them, nothing more than linked hands and crawling into the closest bed together when their muscles are jelly from days at the beach. Nothing has happened, but there's definitely an implicit yet to that statement these days, one that seeps warmth through Spencer's skin, makes his chest feel too tight to hold everything inside.)
"Yep. Night," Brendon mumbles, mouth near his ear. Spencer shivers and closes his eyes and feels better, as Brendon snuggles up next to him. He feels a little guilty for feeling better, but mostly he just...feels better.
He doesn't bother calling til 4 the next afternoon, and is surprised when Ryan actually answers his phone on the second ring, albeit with a terse "Yes?"
"Hi." Spencer abruptly panics. "Alex emailed me first and I was just trying to help him out because he doesn't get stuff and you're a dick to him. Stop being such a dick." Great.
"Yeeeeeeah. Funny how all of your attempts to help never really help, isn't it?" Spencer recognizes that voice, it's the voice Ryan uses on idiot interviewers, which makes him so fucking mad so quickly he almost get dizzy. Motherfucker, you cried when I beat you at Risk when I was ten years old. Don't you fucking try.
"Yeah, almost as funny as how every time I have to try to help, it's because you're being an asshole to someone who actually likes you, huh?"" Spencer snaps, even though his stomach is starting to lurch and drop like a carnival ride, twenty seconds in.
"Funny how they still like me, whereas they only contact you when they want something."
"Yeah, you're super special, Ryan. Everybody really loves this tortured, difficult artist bit of yours, that's why they all stick around." Shit. Shitshitshit. This is pretty much the opposite of how he wanted this to go, he never wanted to have these lines drawn, at least none that separated the two of them. For most of his life, he's operated under the assumption that he would be on the Ryan side of any line Ryan drew in the sand - being on the other side, facing him, is sad and scary and fucking lonely.
"Oh, don't worry, I know better than to expect anyone to stick around forever," Ryan says, his voice still syrup-sweet, irritatingly light. "Don't feel like you have to do me any favors."
"People really won't stick around if you keep scaring them off, you know. Maybe Greenwald just wanted the Cliffs Notes version of you so he doesn't feel so unprepared when you're a dick to him."
A slight pause. "Yeah. I like that. Cliffs Notes." Ryan sounds really bored, sort of amused. "Short, sweet and superficial. ...Which reminds me, how's the album coming?"
"Oh, y'know, won't hold a candle to the subtle artistry of your Kinks cover band." There's a small intake of breath down the line, an almost-gasp, and Spencer can't help rolling his eyes. "Look, just shut up about the music, okay? That's not why I'm calling anyway."
"Wow, a call that isn't all business."
"Yeah. You done now?" Spencer waits, until he hears Ryan huff on the other side of the line, which he supposes is permission for him to continue. "He texted me first. He wanted help. I wanted to help. I don't really see what the big deal - "
"Big deal?" Ryan's voice climbs a few keys, gets sharper. "You told him about my dad's birthday, you stupid fuck, you - "
"Because I knew you wouldn't!"
"That's my fucking choice, isn't it?" Ryan shouted. "That's my dad, my dead fucking dad, it's not some story you can co-opt just to make yourself interesting - "
"Okay, whoa. I'm sorry. I probably shouldn't have told him that," Spencer manages, feeling his cheeks heat through, "but I only told him because not everybody finds this moody Byronic bullshit you pull as charming as we used to."
"Oh, we. Nice."
"Fuck off, Ryan, you know what I'm saying."
"Yeah? It sounds to me like what you're saying is you're still desperate to hold onto this self-styled nanny schtick that you developed when we were in middle school, even though I've done pretty much everything I can to demonstrate that I don't really need or want you holding my hand these days," Ryan spits, his voice gone low and vicious. "I don't need you anymore."
Spencer pauses, and takes a breath - one he really hopes Ryan can't hear.
"Yeah, don't worry, I got that part," he says, finally, his voice steady. (His hands are shaking, weird.) "I also got the part where you only like people as long as it benefits you, I got that part back in high school. Oh, and the part where you think doing lines because it's Tuesday and fucking girls whose daddies bought them studio time makes you some bullshit form of hipster? Yeah. And how - what was it, how being a real artist means being unsuccessful?"
"Fuck you, that wasn't me, that was - "
"Some other real artist? Like I care, I'm fucking Top 40, I must be a sell-out. Oh hey, and how planning fake Twitter weddings and not washing your hair and hanging out at a Waffle House at 4 a.m. talking about William S. Burroughs makes you something other than a pretentious fucking douchebag, fucking - you know what?" He has to pause, just to breathe. "Fuck this. You're not my problem anymore."
"...That's the spirit!" Ryan manages after a second, bright and brittle.
Spencer has no idea how to read his voice, which just makes him more frustrated, shakier. He accidentally brushes his cheek with his fingers as he adjusts his grip on the phone, and it startles him, how cold and clammy they are. While he's talking to his best friend.
(he was seven and he could still ride my Big Bird bike even though I'd outgrown it, he taught me how to use a flatiron, he asked me to call Brent and I did but he hugged me the whole time, we tried to dig a pool in the backyard one summer)
"Yep! But hey, tell Greenwald he has my condolences, and tell Jon he can crash with us after you get tired of him too!" he says, trying to match the fake jocularity in Ryan's voice, even as he's pulling the phone away from his ear and snapping it shut. He can hear Ryan responding, his voice from the receiver, but not the actual words, before the line is cut.
He takes a breath.
And then another.
And then he slumps down in his chair, curling into himself, his forehead resting on his knees. He sticks the cell under his thigh, sandwiching it between himself and the chair cushion, and then he presses his palms against his hot cheeks, his forehead, trying to use their iciness to cool down his face.
His breathing is almost entirely even and steady, if shallow. ...It's not noticeable, anyway. He'll calm down.
He can sort of hear footsteps, but he's so not physically capable of moving his head right now - he doesn't really respond as Brendon perches on the arm of the chair, making it squeak as their weight redistributes. "Hey," he croaks after a moment.
"Hey," Brendon murmurs, his voice low and soft around the edges. Spencer tenses at the first touch of a hand to the back of his neck, but then he sighs and closes his eyes, glad that Brendon's hands are nice and cool. "So I might've overheard the last part of that," Brendon admits, guilt in his voice. "Sorry."
"S'okay," Spencer mutters, still not moving his head from his knees, even though his back is starting to ache. "It's been a long time coming."
Brendon sighs and sinks down onto the armchair with him, curling around him protectively, and Spencer tries to breathe and keep his face from getting redder as he listens to Brendon sing but I kno-o-ow a change gon' come under his breath. "C'mon," Brendon mutters, eventually, and Spencer lets himself be bullied and hauled up into sitting, uncharacteristically spooned by Brendon, in a way he hasn't been since he put the last of the girl t-shirts in storage.
Brendon's hand is solid and warm on his waist and there's another one in his hair, and Spencer can feel Brendon's breath hot against his neck. "I didn't mean," he manages, before he sucks in a breath and curls into a tight ball and shudders hard, really really wishing Brendon weren't here for this. "Goddamn it, I meant to just talk to him."
"Funny how that happens."
"I wasn't trying to - "
"I know, Spence."
When he can't press them back anymore, there are tears hot on his face, running down along his nose. There are only like five or six, but it's still enough to be humiliating. "Well why doesn't he know?" he manages, hating how his voice sounds thick and whiny and young. He tries to take a breath, but it gets stuck in his throat and he nearly chokes.
"Yeah," Brendon murmurs, soft and sad, and Spencer tries to be quiet, pushing his hair into his face more so Brendon can't see how his cheeks are wet and his nose is sorta running now, great. There's a tsk, and Brendon shifts and starts rubbing the back of Spencer's neck. Brendon's breath is coming in hot, damp little bursts against the back of Spencer's ear, making him shiver. "C'mon, Spence, I've cried on everybody at our label. I'm trying to cuddle you, here, wanna help out?"
Spence huffs, secretly glad for the distraction. "So fucking needy," he manages, voice only sounding a little strangled and thick as he lets himself be rearranged on the chair, turning and sinking against Brendon gratefully. Brendon brushes the hair off his forehead and kisses it, and Spencer shivers again and ducks his head, pressing his knuckles to his mouth as another wave of anger and sadness rises up.
It's touch and go for a minute (fourteen years old and only allowing himself to sing along to blink songs on the radio after Spencer starts, nine and helping him make a blanket fort, nineteen and helping him make a blanket fort) but Spencer gets it back under control. "...So did you cry on Andy, ever?" he asks, raising his head, meeting Brendon's eyes even though his are bound to be red and wet still. He's gonna try to brazen this out.
"Dude, it was epic. He started the crying, we cried on each other," Brendon says, giving him a small, uncharacteristic smile. "Like we were in a Nicholas fucking Sparks movie and one of us had cancer."
"That's...pretty intimidating," Spencer says, sniffing quietly and grimacing as he wipes his cheeks. "I don't think I can compete."
"Not even an honorable mention," Brendon agrees, and Spencer gives him a watery smile, totally unsuspecting of how Brendon suddenly leans in and presses their mouths together, sighing quietly into the kiss.
Spencer's head hurts from trying to use logic on Ryan and then the trying not to cry and then the crying, but he still feels a weird, pleasant crackle shoot through him as Brendon's lips slide over his. Eventually, Brendon pulls away and mutters "Sorry," his cheeks sort of pink.
Spencer gazes at him, startled. "Uh?"
Brendon's cheeks go redder - he doesn't really blush anymore, so Spencer can't help staring at him a little, taking in the sight. It's a good look. "You just. ...Shut up, Spence, your mouth was all red. From the...y'know, the manly tears."
Spencer thinks about this for a minute, and then smirks, leaning his head back against the chair. "Wow, Urie, that's sorta sick." He pushes his hair out of his eyes and sits up, one arm still around Brendon's waist, anchoring them together.
Brendon gives him a relieved beam, and rests his head on Spencer's shoulder. "I can't help that you're so pretty when you cry." Spencer snorts, and feels better (it's always Brendon who makes him feel better), and is thinking about tugging Brendon down for an encore when they both get distracted by Brendon's phone buzzing in his pocket. Brendon tugs it out and flips it open, and snorts before he hands it over to Spencer. "From Jon."
wtf did s do??? we were supposed to record today & now i have to take him for milkshakes :(
Spencer's smile goes a little lopsided before it disappears entirely.
"'Strawberry unless there's peach, peach unless there's Butterfinger'?" Brendon quotes, squeezing his arms around him a little, giving him a sad little pout as he threads fingers through Spencer's hair.
"Maybe it's something different now."
Brendon tilts his head, thinks for a minute before giving Spencer a long, curling smirk. "Coke floats, maybe."
Spencer's so fucking shocked that he actually lets out a bark of laughter. And then Brendon's snickering and poking him and saying coooooke floooooats in stupid voices, and Spencer gets distracted from feeling sorry for himself by having to retaliate.
Thanks for the pasadena link, he’s psyched
Hey he keeps yelling @ Tennessee :(
MY GUITAR. MY GUITAAAAAR. GOIN 2 KILL HIM >:(
call Jon :(
no seriously call Jon he misses you :'(
tell Brendon thanks for calling Jon
yuou shodu comeaout wer alll heqe
sory :( ow hungover
why?
Don’t break up with me Spencey
okay SPENCER.
No, I know. He told me that, too. I’m ignoring him
>:)
>:D
I win!
He looks like this today: :[
Today: :\
Today: :/
Today: :(
Today: >:(
Today: 8D SEND HELP
Today: :{| i told him to shave.
Today: :<
holy shit it DOES look like Beaker
genius!
Today: :6
Hey caught him lookin @ your twitter CALL HIM
>:( SPENNY
GO LOOK AT HIS TWITTER RIGHT NOW I AM SERIOUS
"You really should," Brendon says, giving Spencer a solemn look. It's only halfway destroyed by the fact that he's talking not only with his mouth full, but with half a dozen ramen noodles still strung from the bowl to his lips. "It's kinda pathetic."
"Gross, Brendon," he says, raising an eyebrow until Brendon gives him a wide, noodle-y smile. Spencer looks away, out towards the small strip of ocean they can see from their house. "I'm tired of pretending to be interested."
"You're such a bad liar," Brendon snorts, twirling ramen around his fork, still grinning down at his bowl.
"I'm a great liar," Spencer huffs.
"Nope. You're going to check up on him just as soon as I leave the room. ...So, y'know, guess I'll get on that." Brendon finishes his ramen and gets up to put the bowl in the kitchen, but pauses while he's walking by Spencer's chair to stroke a hand through his hair. Checking in.
"M'not," Spencer protests feebly, butting up into the hand, closing his eyes.
"Yuh-huh," Brendon says kindly, fingertips catching on the shell of Spencer's ear. "Come downstairs when you're done." And he leaves.
Spencer sighs, and opens his eyes. They fall onto the laptop hanging out on the armchair closest to the entertainment system, and he glares at it for a few seconds. It doesn't respond, obviously, and he grumbles and gets up and heads over, hauling it into his lap and waiting impatiently, annoyed as he watches the screen blink to life, as he waits for icons to arrange themselves.
He pulls up the web browser and rolls his eyes at Brendon's homepage, clicking through as fast as he can to twitter. He dicks around for 15 minutes, replying to Zack and Ian and Dallon, killing time and procrastinating the real reason he's even on the computer. Finally he gets mad at himself enough to just click on Ryan's icon, and he holds his breath for the few seconds it takes the page to load.
(The dumbass antlers picture still makes something in him wrench loose and shaky - despite the amazing photo ops, that whole time was pretty much just terrible and sad.)
He glances over the first couple of tweets, not really sure what Brendon was getting at. There's a lot of Z on this page. Spencer's almost relieved - Z was weird when he met her, but she seemed solid, like she wouldn't let Ryan wander off somewhere where neither of them could find him.
And then he gets a couple of tweets down, and clicks a couple of links open into new tabs, and realizes what Brendon and Greenwald were talking about. Third from the top is an obvious quote: Regret for the things we did can be tempered by time; it is regret for the things we did not do that is inconsolable. http://twitpic.com/edr00t
Spencer pulls up the corresponding tab for the photo and winces, a breath caught high in his lungs as he gazes at himself, about age eight, sitting at the kitchen table in Ryan's childhood home. Beside him, wedged into his side, is Ryan, who's in the middle of picking something off of Spencer's plate. On the other side of Ryan is Ryan's dad. Ryan is absolutely beaming up at him, and he's looking down at the two boys fondly (there's a brown bottle in his hand), and there's something so wistful and familiar in George Ross's smile that Spencer has to click away, to another tab, for a moment.
He comes back, though - he can't not, he has to stare at the photo and remember. It was one Thanksgiving. Spencer's family was doing a big dinner, but Ryan's dad had invited the Smiths over for lunch and football and the end of the Macy's Day Parade. The girls took up most of the living room floor with Barbies and neither Ryan nor Spencer was interested in watching a football game, so they'd stayed in the dining room mostly. Spencer had brought his matchbox cars and Ryan read books to him and they both camped out underneath the table until it was time to eat.
It is regret for the things we did not do that is inconsolable. Spencer frowns, and studies Ryan's dad's face, the hesitant happiness he sees there. He wonders how drunk the man was, when the photo was taken. He wonders how many years it took for Ryan to stop grinning like he did then.
And then another more predominant part starts worrying about Ryan putting himself out there too much - he doesn't even want to look at Ryan's @replies. He bites his lip hard, and tries to tamp down a persistent thought that it's probably not a coincidence that Ryan used a photo of both his dad and Spencer for that quote. He thinks for a minute, scrolling down the page, snorting at a couple of one-liners from Z and Greenwald, and then has an idea.
He has to run downstairs and look in some of the boxes he and Zack brought from Vegas, but eventually he finds what he's looking for: an old flash drive. Spencer gives Brendon a little wave as he runs by again, only pausing to flip Brendon off for laughing at him, and then he takes the stairs two at a time.
He waits impatiently for all the old photos to upload, and then spends ten minutes sifting through all of them, snickering at all the bad fashion choices. Finally, he settles on one to post, and takes a minute to think of an appropriate caption. Then, for another minute, he thinks of all the ways this could backfire, and in a super-public arena too. Double-plus bonus.
He takes a breath, exhales, and hits "reply" anyway.
@thisisryanross I'm inconsolable that we didn't all wear bras for this one: http://twitpic.com/ne0ql woulda been HOT
His stomach immediately starts attempting to make its way up his throat, and he closes the laptop and heads downstairs and curls up against Brendon on the sofa and tries not to think about what he just did.
To his credit, Brendon doesn't immediately start poking Spencer, or asking him what's wrong every thirty seconds. He pauses his game of Smash Bros and saves it, and then goes into two-player mode and hands Spencer the other controller wordlessly. Spencer takes it with a grateful look and sinks against him comfortably, and that's how they spend the next few hours, cursing each other under their breath and getting up to best 37 out of 73 before they decide to go look for some dinner.
Spencer's phone starts vibrating in his pocket while they're in line at the taco place. He stops poking Brendon's side relentlessly to flip the phone open, and cringes when he sees Greenwald's number displayed, along with 1 New Message. He gives Brendon a nervous look, and then hits "View Now."
today: :]
Spencer breathes, and suddenly can't stop grinning.
thisisryanross (11:28 pm Oct 2) @thespencersmith: haha yeah. None of us would've filled them out like Bden though.
thespencersmith (11:47 pm Oct 2) @thisisryanross: Sad but true. He has womanly curves
thisisryanross (11:56 pm Oct 2) @thespencersmith: I'm inconsolable that I didn't burn that sweater. http://twitpic.com/niwmx
thespencersmith (12:09 am Oct 3) @thisisryanross: I'm inconsolable I didn't elbow your FACE
thisisryanross (12:21 am Oct 3) @thespencersmith: I'm inconsolable I haven't seen these shoes in forever http://twitpic.com/nixo0
thespencersmith (12:39 am Oct 3) @thisisryanross: me too :( Those were amazing. Pretty sure a tour ate them
thisisryanross (12:51 am Oct 3) @thespencersmith: The real tragedy of life on the road.
"Seriously, Bren," Zack's voice splutters from the phone, "make him stop, a thousand teenage girls just emailed me wanting to know if Panic is getting back together or if Spencer and Ryan are getting back together, and I'm too old for this shit."
Brendon can't stop laughing. "Wait, seriously?"
"Yes, dude, it's completely fucking crazy. Your LJ community just got fifty-two new posts in an hour, okay, that is a lot of feverish typing going on. Just tell him to lay off til the morning?"
"Okay, okay, I'll see what I can do."
brendonuriesays (1:02 am Oct 3) @thespencersmith @thisisryanross: gentlemen, these hips don't lie!
Brendon picks up his vibrating phone and glances at the flashing screen. Then he smirks and answers it. "Y'ello?"
"You're a dick."
"Love you too."
"Seriously. A dick."
Spencer finally shuts off the laptop at nearly four in the morning, rubs his eyes and face, and stumbles through the house, turning off a couple of lights in the hallway on his way to the bedroom. He's the sort of tired that doesn't even register as tired anymore, it's closer to drunk or dead, he thinks, as he opens the door and shuffles inside. Bogart lifts his head up from the foot of the bed and manages one halfhearted, entirely unthreatening woof before he flumps back down, and Brendon is sprawled under the covers, snoring softly.
Spencer pads over to the bed and rubs the top of Bogart's head and ears for a second, until his tail thumps tiredly on the mattress. Then Spencer stretches and slides under the sheets, sighing with relief at their coolness, at the "mountain spring"-scented laundry detergent that Brendon insisted on, at the way Brendon mumbles and half-rolls closer to him on the mattress. He shifts over a little, nearer the center of the bed, careful not to dislodge Bogart or jostle Brendon too much.
"'thing okay?" Brendon mumbles, ending the question with a sleepy groan as he turns and burrows into Spencer's side.
"Yeah," Spencer mutters, into his ear. "Ow, hang on." He has to tug his arm out from under Brendon's elbow, and moves around so that Brendon's cheek is basically on his shoulder. "He called a little while ago."
"Thought I heard you laughing," says Brendon, smiling a little, though his eyes haven't opened once. "S'good," he yawns, jaw cracking.
"Go to sleep." Spencer shifts again, and manages to crane his wrist enough to slide his fingers through Brendon's hair. "See you in the morning."
Brendon hums his agreement into Spencer's skin, and curls an arm around Spencer's waist before his muscles go heavy and lax as he falls back into sleep. Spencer closes his drooping eyelids, and tries to stay completely still, and tries to keep from reliving the best parts of that night, how he made Ryan laugh and laugh on the phone, and the weird pause at the end where he suspects they were both choked up as they said bye.
"Sorry about telling Greenwald."
Ryan sucks his teeth (Spencer winces - he hates that sound). "Yeah, I know. Sorry for the temper tantrum, I just. ...My dad."
"Yeah. Dick move, self."
"Nah, now I get that you didn't do it out of spite, so."
"Yeah." Spencer shifts uncomfortably before he continues. "Look, y'know. Even with everything that happened, I wouldn't do something like that."
"Well." Spencer can hear Ryan moving around as well. "...I probably would," Ryan admits.
"Yeah." Spencer's lips press into a thin line. "You kinda did, dude."
"Huh?"
"The New Perspective launch. I mean, whatever, it worked out, but. That sucked."
"Yeah."
"If you're coming out with a song called 'The Other Band', maybe now would be the time to mention."
"Shut up, Spence," Ryan snorts. And then he sighs. "I'm sorry I was an asshole."
"Yeah, well. I'm pretty much used to it by now, so."
"No, seriously. I'm sorry. Just." There are a few seconds of tense silence, and Ryan's voice, when it returns, is muffled so that Spencer has to strain to hear it. "Thought you hated. Um."
Spencer exhales, and rubs a hand over his face, skritches at his beard. "Yeah, well, wrong. Way to be wrong, Ross."
"First time for everything."
"Dick. Anyway, for the record, I don't hate you. Though I do pretty much hate your hair."
"My hair is awesome, Spencer Smith."
"Dude, you look like my mom in her college pictures. I'm just saying."
"Y'know, I'm okay with it. She was pretty foxy."
"Next Thursday we're getting together for a show, you should totally come."
"Um, cool. Can I bring Brendon?"
"Dude, it's not like a business thing, me and Greenwald and Jon and some people are just going to be hanging out."
"Yeah, that's. I know."
"No, I mean. It's not the kind of thing you take notes at."
"Ryan," Spencer huffs, and somehow he's pretty sure Ryan can tell how hard he's blushing, "I don't mean as a band, I mean as like a plus one, jesus."
There's a pause. And then Ryan chokes and starts giggling. "You're serious? Oh my god."
"Shut up, dude."
"No way, you can't just - seriously?" Ryan laughs even harder. "Oh my god, wow."
"Yeah. Um."
"No, hey, mazel tov, I guess," Ryan manages between snickers. Even Spencer joins in, a little, until Ryan can compose himself a little. "Whoa. Weird. ...Wait, this is like. New. Right? This wasn't going on when..."
"Yeah, no, new."
"Oh. So is that why you went with Bren - "
"No, Ryan, jesus. We weren't even - no."
"Okay, okay." A pause. "I mean, it'd make sense if it were."
Spencer thinks for a moment, then shrugs. "Well, it probably helped, but not really. ...I hated playing that damn tambourine, man."
"Fair enough," Ryan says, and Spencer can hear him smirking. "Soooooo. ...Is he always that loud? Like, always?" There's an unmistakable leer in his voice.
"Oh my god," Spencer grumbles, to Ryan's unending amusement. Spencer pulls the cell away from his ear for a moment, scowling at it - he can still hear Ryan laughing - before he puts it back to his ear and says smoothly, "No, louder. Except for when his mouth's full."
Another pause. "Gross," says Ryan, and Spencer can hear the disgusted face he's making. "Yeah, okay, bring him. But if he gets on my nerves or if you guys start making out in front of me or something, I'll take pictures and post them on twitter."
"So. Z."
"Yeah."
"She's cool."
"Yeah."
"Don't fuck up."
"Yeah."
"Seriously."
"Yeah, got it. Thanks."
"She could probably kick both our asses, is what I'm saying."
"Hmmm. Yeah."
Spencer cracks up, because Ryan sounds dreamy.
"So."
"So."
"So I'll see you next week?"
"Yeah, you better. I'll text you, okay?"
"Yeah, sounds good."
"We should go get pancakes sometime. Oh man, we could eat breakfast at a diner every week. We could have our own Old Man's Club, Spence, seriously."
"Dude. ...Dude, that sounds awesome. We totally should."
"Cool. ...Okay, yeah, I've gotta go, so."
"Okay."
"Okay."
"So...call me, okay? Seriously."
"Yeah. Yeah, I will."
"I mean it, Ryan."
"Okay, geez. I promise. I'll talk to you later. ...And Greenwald says to say hi."
"Hi to him."
"Yeah. Hi to Brendon."
"Shut up." Spencer pretends he isn't blushing.
"Loser."
"Basically. Okay, I'm gonna go to bed. I'm gonna go get in my awesome bed and sleep."
"Sure you are."
"Goodnight, Ryan."
"Oh. I - yeah. Yeah. Night, Spence."
Spencer blinks. "What?"
"Huh?"
"You were. Um. Were we done?"
"...What?"
"You sounded like you weren't done. Yeah, nevermind."
"No, hang on, um."
Spencer sighs and rubs his eyes. "Okay, seriously, wow. We are emotionally retarded."
"I know, right?"
"Yeah. Well. I need some fucking sleep, so I loooooove you, Ryan Ross. I missed your stupid face."
"Shit, you really are fucking Brendon, aren't you?"
"Not at the moment, some asshole won't get off the phone."
"People can be so inconsiderate," Ryan drawls. "Night, Spence."
"Night, Ryan."
The next morning, Spencer wakes up before his alarm goes off. He has shower sex, and makes coffee and omelets, and later on in the morning he bangs on his drums til sweat drips from strands of his hair. He and Brendon have sandwiches for lunch, tacos for dinner. They take Bogart to the dog park, and they make out through two episodes of CSI. Spencer falls asleep halfway through the third, lulled into unconsciousness by Brendon's fingers sliding through his hair, the steady rhythm of his breathing.
Brendon wakes him up around 1 in the morning, and pushes and bullies him into getting up and stumbling into the bedroom. Spencer's half-asleep as Brendon helps him tug off his jeans, but he's aware enough to reach into a pocket and grab his phone, setting it on the bedside table. The sheets are cool on his shoulders, and Brendon's warm against his back, and Spencer almost doesn't notice his phone vibrating on the table.
He grumbles, and stretches for it, pressing the heel of one palm to his eye as he slides the phone open to read his new text.
today: :D
Spencer snorts, and smiles a little as he sets the phone down, and doesn't really dwell on how the past day has been more effortlessly cheerful than all of the days he can clearly remember before it.
The day after is just as good.
Spencer and Brendon go to the party the next Thursday, and endure a lot of teasing from pretty much everyone. Spencer figures it's well-deserved.
Brendon drinks one or two (or six) too many out of nerves, but he sits beside Spencer and they hold hands most of the night, and Spencer takes him home early.
"You were doing it tonight, the eyebrow thing," Brendon slurs from the passenger seat, his forehead against the cool of windowpane.
"Hmm?"
"You and Ryan."
Spencer glances over at him. "The eyebrow thing?"
Brendon sighs, and lolls his head over to gaze at Spencer dolefully. "You know. The eyebrow mind-meld thing. Where you said oh hey my boyfriend's drunk and he said no shit and you said I'm gonna take him home even though I'm having fun with you, best buddy and he said okay, talk to you tomorrow, but I'm bummed you can't stay. With your eyebrows."
Spencer tilts his head, gazing at Brendon while they're stopped at a red light. He can't help the smile that spreads all over his face at, like, twelve completely separate things in Brendon's little monologue. "Boyfriend, huh?" he finally comes up with.
Brendon blinks, and then ducks his chin and gives Spencer a little smirk, waggles his eyebrows. "Oh yeah," he purrs. "Drunk boyfriend."
"Sweet."
Spencer reaches for his hand, and there's a companionable quiet in the car for the next few blocks.
"Been awhile since the eyebrow thing," Brendon mentions, gazing down at their clasped hands. "I'd missed it. Always made everything feel - I dunno, safer."
"Yeah." Spencer squeezes his hand, swallows. "Same here."
They talk on the phone once, twice a week. Send texts and picture messages intermittently. Somehow, Sunday afternoons at around 3 have become the default Ryan Catch-Up Hour, and Spencer spends most of his time on the phone laughing til he cries or teasing Ryan til he squawks. Twice, Ryan gets Spencer to come down and listen to a couple of things from the new album for him, give some feedback.
About three weeks after Twitter Night, Brendon comes bounding in the house after having been gone most of the day, and hugs Spencer tight. Spencer finds out fifteen minutes later that Ryan asked Brendon to come hang out and that they didn't get into a single fight.
It's not what it was. With the obvious exception of him and Brendon, none of them live in each other's pockets anymore. Ryan isn't even in the top three of Spencer's auto-dial options on his cell (Brendon, Mom, and 911).
The fondness, though, is still there. Spencer likes Ryan a lot more than he has in a long time, likes his sarcasm and goofy creativity and the contentment that's seemed to sink into his bones lately. He likes still knowing Ryan's expressions, but having new stories to tell and be told. He likes ganging up on Ryan with Z, trying to make him believe things like "Where the Wild Things Are" was originally supposed to be called "Where the Wild Pandas Are" but Sendak couldn't draw pandas.They have him going for about three minutes, until Ryan frowns and says "That's dumb. If he could draw Carol, he could draw a fucking panda."
Spencer likes that now Ryan can sometimes surprise him. One night out, when he and Brendon and Ryan and even Jon (and a group of other people) are headed to the Bay for a show, he comes back from putting gas in the car and notices a row of finger puppets stuck on the dashboard. Ryan's finishing a thin line of superglue on the bottom of the last one, his tongue wedged between his teeth as he concentrates, and then he sticks it down at the end of the row, holding it for a second. "Ta da," he says, with a small flourish.
"...The hell?" Spencer demands, gaping down at them. "My car."
"You," Ryan says, pointing to the first finger puppet in line. "Brendon," he says, moving to the next one, not pointing out how the Spencer and Brendon finger puppets are apparently holding hands. "Me," he says, "and Jon."
Spencer blinks at them. The Spencer finger puppet is orange, with green hair. "Where the fuck did you even get these?"
"The quarter machines inside. Jon gave me some change."
Spencer glances in the rear view mirror, and Jon gives him a sheepish smile. Spencer sighs. "The likenesses are uncanny," he says, as he turns the key in the ignition and throws the car into gear.
Ryan smiles a little. "I thought so," he says, obviously pleased as he settles back into his seat.
It's good. It feels right, he tells Brendon later while they're getting ready for bed, to just get Ryan and want the best for him, and have that be enough.
It's almost a month later, when Spencer's phone starts vibrating with a new notification. He sees it's from Ryan's twitter and opens it, and follows the link without really paying attention to the caption. He blinks, and then goes back a step.
thisisryanross: (2:31 pm Nov 10) Happy Birthday. http://twitpic.com/oqm33
Spencer clicks through to the photo again, and studies it for a moment, head tilted. He thinks it's either Z or Tennessee, and he's willing to bet the photographer is Jon. It takes him a moment to place the caption, until he remembers his own words to Alex in that email, and flushes with the memory. "The tenth of next month. Be around all day. Don't ask him about it." Right.
There is a small - a very small part of him that still stings at not being somewhere in the photo on his phone screen. But the larger part of him is glad the photo's there, that Ryan's surrounded by people who love him best, if not most, for today.
Spencer gazes at the photo for another minute or two, then smiles and saves it to his phone. He shoves it into his pocket, and gets up to go find Brendon and see about starting a new song.
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