Deliberate Fiction (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} deliberatefic) wrote,@ 2006-11-04 00:52:00 |
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Title: just a little longer, long enough
Author:deliberatefic
Rating:NC-17
Pairing:Spencer/Ryan, Ryan/Brendon, Spencer/Jon, and more.
Summary: Spencer has plans, Spencer gets what he wants, Spencer is clueless.
Author Notes: So I wrote most of this, thought I’d throw it away, started a new Spencer fic, decided I hated that, threw it away, came back to this and figured my shit out. Spencer Smith is a little demon and hard to write. With neverending thanks toaddictedkitten for the handholding. She owns me, if you didn't know.
Forclumsygyrl.
~5000 words.
Spencer lost his grip on Ryan a long time ago; he’s man enough to admit that. If he’s being maudlin he can pinpoint it to the first time Brendon walked into one of their practices, the way Ryan’s eyes went to him and never really left. But actually it was a gradual thing, like anything is, and inch-by-inch Brendon seeped in the cracks where Ryan and Spencer’s friendship had strained. But Spencer never saw it like that, instead one day he woke up and Brendon was finishing Ryan’s sentences and Ryan would bring Brendon a sandwich back to soundcheck and not offer to anyone else.
It pissed Spencer off, simmered under his skin, cause who the hell did Brendon think he was? Waltzing into Spencer’s band, taking away his best friend. Spencer had put in years, years holding Ryan’s hands, dealing with his moods, picking him up, keeping him sane. It wasn’t fair.
Painfully, annoyingly, Spencer woke up to Ryan slipping out of his grasp at the same time he woke up to wanting Ryan, to watching his exposed hips, the twist of his wrist as he applied his eyeliner. It was stupid, maddening, and before he could get his feet under him, could do something about it, Brendon and Ryan were fucking.
That -- that was so much worse than anything else. If anyone had the right to touch Ryan like that, it was Spencer. They’d jerked off in the same room in middle school, for Christ sakes. And what could Spencer do to compete with sex? He wasn’t going to fuck Brent, and he didn’t really want to fuck anyone but Ryan. His only consolation was Brendon and Ryan as boyfriends were a lot more volatile than Brendon and Ryan as just friends, and they broke up just as often as they stayed together. So Spencer sat, and waited, and when the tour ended in Brendon looked too much at a brunette at the after party and Ryan left screaming, Spencer knew this was his chance.
--
Two nights after they get back to Vegas Spencer and Ryan go see a show. They got the tickets for free, and it’s almost more exciting than every other freebee they’ve gotten because this is a Vegas show and a premiere and how are they important enough for this? Ryan’s quiet, though, and not as excited as Spencer knows he would normally be. After they drive out to the desert. They climb out of the car and sprawl on the roof. Brendon calls and Ryan presses ignore on his Sidekick. “Trouble in paradise?” Spencer muses, even though he already knows.
“He’s just-“ Ryan looks at the stars, can’t look at Spence. They’ve never really talked about this and Spencer just lets the silence work to his favor. “No one else has ever, I haven’t. I kind of want to. Be twenty, you know?”
Spencer rolls on his side and pokes Ryan. “I don’t. I’m barely nineteen.”
Ryan smiles, rolls his eyes.
“Anyone in mind you want to...”
Ryan swallows, fidgets.
“Maybe.”
They’re silent for a while, Spencer concentrating on a particular spot on Ryan’s cheek, trying to blur it, make it nothing. “Look, fuckhead, I’m not going to let us let that-“ and then Ryan turns and pulls Spencer toward him, kisses him softly. Spencer’s been thinking about this for years and it’s nothing like he expected. Ryan’s hands are so big on his shoulders and he thought he’d be in control, only it’s Ryan pushing him on his back, climbing on top of him.
Ryan’s grinding down, the roof of a car is not the optimal place for this but when Ryan gets a hand on his dick and breathes “Can I, can I” in Spencer’s ear, Spencer is quick to say yes, choked against Ryan’s shoulder, even though he has no idea what he’s agreeing to.
Ryan tries to slide down and almost falls off the car, then almost takes Spencer with him. He rights himself and looks at Spencer under his bangs. “Backseat?” And they are so very much back in Vegas as they scramble inside and push against each other, Ryan twisted awkwardly to get Spencer’s pants open, Spencer braced with one palm against the window.
Ryan looks positively gleeful at the sight of Spencer’s dick and Spencer feels inordinately proud for some reason. It’s a rare thing to make Ryan really happy, and if dick is what it takes, Spencer can manage that. Better than Brendon can, that’s for sure. He grits his teeth and tries to focus on how he has to make this good for Ryan, has to, before Ryan’s on him, licking a sucking and Spencer’s head thumps against the seat.
Its slow, quiet for a while, and Spencer’s quite fine, but Ryan makes a huffy little noise around his dick and grabs Spencer’s hand and puts his on the back of his head, twists their fingers tight together in his hair and pushes down, pulls back, pushes down, looking up at Spencer with wide eyes.
Spencer shivers, trembles, and Ryan blinks owlishly at him. Exhale, breathe, and Spencer starts fucking Ryan’s face, forcing him down until Ryan should be gagging but he’s not, he’s taking it.
Spencer tries to grunt a warning before he comes, and maybe Ryan does hear it because he pulls back and lets it splash over his cheeks, his chin, mouth slightly open to catch some of it. Spencer looks away, leans his head against the glass and comes down.
There's a long, silent moment, Ryan sitting on his haunches, leaning against the back of the driver's seat, and Spencer with his forehead jammed against the plastic door. Spencer's pretty sure he's a fucking idiot. He's afraid to look at Ryan because that last glimpse of him, come dripping down his face, bruised lips, wild hair, was just -- so not the Ryan he knew, he known for ten years, had ever really expected to find.
Spencer clears his throat, after a while. "Do you, I mean, do you want me to --" and then practically jumps at Ryan's hand on his knee, knocking his head against the plastic.
"You don't have to. I don't --" And then Ryan's hand falls away and when Spencer twists up Ryan is looking down, palm pressed flat against his crotch, but not moving.
"Don't what?" Spencer sits up and tucks himself back in, waiting. Ryan still doesn't look up, doesn't move his hand.
"Expect."
Spencer pushes Ryan's hair out of his face, shaky, and presses a thumb to his forehead. "I'm not very good, come here." His fingers along the line of Ryan's throat guides Ryan up to the seat until they're side by side, normal, and Spencer kisses Ryan, slow like he wasn't just shoving his cock down Ryan's throat a few minutes ago.
Ryan moans, breathy, when Spencer starts to bite his neck, shoves on hand down his pants at an odd angle and cups him. He's so hot, firebursts where ever Spencer touches him, and his mouth is slick against Spencer's ear, begging.
"Hard, please, hurt me."
Spencer falters at that, and Ryan sobs, high-pitched, and thrusts into Spencer's hand.
"Fuck, come on."
"Ryan, I -" And Ryan sobs again, and again, and Spencer knows he's crying, has heard Ryan cry enough in his life to recognize true and real tears, and Spencer can't believe how fucking needy Ryan is for this, how easy he comes apart at this, it's like he's never really known Ryan at all. He squeezes, hard as he can, and Ryan bucks.
Stupid fucking angle, he can't do much more, so he pulls out to fumble with Ryan’s zipper, tugs his pants down to his ankles while Ryan paws at him, half-climbs in his lap.
"I'll get you hard, just please, need it, fuck." Ryan's pulling Spencer's pants open again, and he doesn't have to get Spencer hard, he's already there, full, and Spencer feels Ryan grin against his neck when he realizes.
Then, in a flash of clarity, Spencer sees the lube sitting in his bedside drawer. He didn’t think it would be this easy with Ryan, he didn’t prepare. "I don't have anything, we can't. Not here." Now Spencer's the one sobbing, frustrated. He's already this far, it's not like it's going to change anything, not really, at least he figures not, it's too fucking late.
"I can take it. You're wet enough, I can take it." Ryan plants his hands on the ceiling and scrambles up, fluid, until Spencer's dick slips against his ass and Spencer's nose is pressed against his breastbone.
"Holy fuck, Ryan." Spencer clutches at Ryan's hips, trying to stop him from moving, from Spencer coming again, hot against his back before he even has a chance to –
and fuck, Spencer lets his head fall back against the glass and thinks, shit, I'm going to fuck Ryan. Somehow it's gone from crazy pipedream to amazing blowjob to fucking his friend in the back of his mom's car. Ryan sits ups, positions Spencer and guides him in. It's slow, Ryan never stops making noise, but he's not even stretched at all and Spencer knows this has to hurt like crazy. Ryan gets himself down, shakes, shifts, and then takes his hands off the ceiling to clutch Spencer's neck.
"Fuck me, fuck me."
Spencer can't really, like this. He rolls his hips a few times, gasps. "You have to, I can't, please." Ryan nods frantically and grinds down, fucks himself.
--
They don’t talk about it, everything starts to move fast from the moment Ryan drops Spencer off at home and kisses him goodbye chastely on the cheek, to the VMAs and getting ready for Australia and Brendon with his arm casually around Ryan again, the soft sounds of them kissing in the bunks at night.
Spencer feels, fuck, hurt, jagged. Sometimes Ryan looks at him with sad eyes and Brendon smiles in a secretive way and Spencer’s fingers curl into his palms, nails biting the skin. It’s not fair, and he needs a new plan.
--
Jon's not going to be easy, Spencer knows that. Not like Ryan, getting him was just a combination of Brendon's faults and patience. Spencer could get Ryan, but he couldn't keep him.
Jon, well first of all Jon was straight. Which was fine, Spencer was straight too. He could play this to his advantage. Two straight guys, a little drunk maybe (Spencer could make an exception, he could, for this) a little curious, who wouldn't be in this air charged by Brendon and Ryan? Spencer's lost count of the times he's walked in on them now, progressively worse each occasion. Kisses, stolen behind equipment at first, around corners, Spencer turning on his heel without a word. And then clothing missing, Ryan bend over couches and moaning at Brendon's touch, Ryan on his knees, Brendon's head thrown back. And, recently, now that's he's slept Ryan, Ryan won’t look away. Brendon’s shameless, sure, but now Ryan starts looking at Spencer, mouth full of cock or Brendon between his legs, like he wants something.
It's a sick, twisted, fucked little game and Spencer will be damned if he doesn't win. Jon's obviously the most perfect prize he can imagine. Jon’s just. Jon.
So, Spencer’s formulated a plan, and he won’t be so hasty this time. There’s no rush, not at all, he can tolerate Brendon and Ryan a little longer, can ignore the bruises on Ryan’s wrists and his flushed cheeks and they way they always gravitate toward one another for just a little longer. The flirtation with Jon’s a nice distraction. Jon’s, well, nice. Spencer really doesn’t have another word for it, and sometimes Spencer sits in the lounge playing cards with him late in the afternoon and thinks about how pleasant it will be when he gets to suck his cock.
“Dude, I asked if you had any queens?” Jon flicks Spencer’s forehead and pulls a face.
“Shit, sorry. No, go fish.” Jon does, frowns, adjusts his cards. Spencer contemplates his next move.
“Life of international heartthrobs, eh? Thrilling.” Jon smirks and leans back in his chair, shirt riding up to expose a line of skin, rounded belly, red lines where his jeans have dug in a little. Spencer shrugs.
“What, we sort of trashed a hotel room last night.”
“You threw a hissy fit because you couldn’t find your white hoodie and knocked over a lamp.” Spencer scowls and Jon rolls his eyes. “Anyway, I picked up the lamp.”
“Jon!” Spencer throws down his cards and one of the assistants knocks on the door before walking in and dropping off their schedules for that night. Meet & Greet, interview with the local paper, be in makeup by 9. Spencer wonders if he can talk Jon into eyeliner again. Not that he sees Jon during the show, but Jon looks good in eyeliner.
Jon sighs and Spencer looks up from his paper. “What?”
“I don’t get to do the interview.”
“That’s not something to be sad about.”
Jon bites his lips and then throws the paper aside. “Right, so what do you want from me?”
Spencer squints and then remembers the cards in his hand. “Oh, sevens?”
“Go fish.”
--
Adjoining rooms seemed like a good idea two months ago, but now for the third hotel night in a row Ryan’s pleas of “harder, Brendon, please” and the rhythmic thump of the headboard against the shared wall have been louder than the TV at any bearable setting. Jon throws a pillow across the room and takes a long swig from the bottle of whiskey Spencer had left in his bunk the week before, a note tied with a neat bow around the neck. He tilts the bottle at Spence and Spencer thinks – right, now – and takes the bottle and drinks, ignoring Jon’s surprised little face.
“Could they, just – Christ, I don’t get it.” Jon drags the back of his hand over his mouth and glances at Spencer, who hands him back the bottle.
Spencer coughs once, the liquor burning his throat — fuck who even likes this shit? – before answering. “What don’t you get, they’re fucking.”
“Right, yeah, no I thought they were quilting.” Jon contemplates the bottle before scooting over to pass it to Spencer, so he’s almost hanging off the bed. “Seriously, it’s like they don’t care if anyone hears.”
Spencer swigs, changes tactics. “Yeah, I know. I mean, why be so loud, it’s just sex.” Spencer keeps hold of the bottle and Jon stares up at the ceiling, fidgeting his feet under the comforter.
“Hey, do you ever?” Spencer asks, and waits for Jon to turn and look at him before he looks away.
“Huh, what?”
Spencer covers his mouth to muffle the sound, but not enough. “Think about what it would be like, you know.” Bare you throat, bare your throat, just lie here, Spencer thinks, the liquor warm in his arms and settled in his chest. He hears Jon shifting on the other bed, a hitch in his breathing. Almost perfect.
“Dude, I’ve had sex.” Spencer can hear the hesitation under it, though, perfect little opening to wedge his fingers, his words, a little more liquor.
“Fuck, nevermind.” Spencer sits ups, fast, a little dizzy, and shoves the bottle at Jon, a little sloshing out over the carpet. Jon sits up and grabs Spencer’s hand.
“Hey, Spencer, wait up.”
Spencer doesn’t make eye contact, tries to make himself tremble. This is amazingly easy, something about Jon’s fingers on him, breath close to his face. “Jon, I’m just.” And then Spencer thinks, ‘oh, fuck it’ and brushes his lips against Jon’s. There’s something to be said for shock value, and the smell of whiskey making him heady. Jon moans into his lips and Spencer feels his knees go weak. So easy.
It gets deep, fast, and Spencer is almost falling off the bed until he does, indeed, fall, and Jon catches him and their lips come apart, Jon panting against Spencer’s cheek. Everything’s quiet except for the continued thumping against the wall and Spencer closes his eyes, lets his eyelashes drag against Jon’s skin.
“Um, Spencer, I.” Jon’s fingers flex on Spencer’s forearm and Spencer gasps despite himself.
“Can we just –“ Spencer turns, mouths Jon’s jaw, inching back to his lips. “I like you. I want.”
Jon pulls back a little and Spencer follows, until they’re crawling up the bed in a stilted embrace, coming apart and knocking together, Jon mumbling ‘Spencer, spencer’ a little lost, but not stopping.
Spencer gets his knees on either side of Jon’s hips, rubbing slowly, kissing down his throat, before Jon’s elbow knocks the liquor bottle and it spills out on Spencer’s hand and Jon fumbles apart, apologizing. Spencer sits up and deliberately licks the sticky mess off his fingers before taking another gulp and holding the bottle out to Jon, eyebrow raised. Jon takes a quick one and sets it heavily on the beside table, surging up to meet Spencer’s lips, hungry, pushing, cupping his face like Spencer might break.
Spencer’s never seen Jon kiss anyone, which is odd in this band. Spencer’s kissed people in front of Jon, but Jon doesn’t really do the public thing. Whereas Spencer’s never kissed Brendon he knows how it would be sloppy, wet, imprecise. He had no clue that Jon would be so focused. Intent. Like everything else disappeared to Jon expect Spencer, like he needed to touch Spencer everywhere, warm hands a little rough, twisting up in his hair and pulling his head back, Jon marking his neck. Spencer, as his head clears, gives himself a mental pat on the back for playing this perfectly, for getting what he actually wants and can – but then Jon bites down sharp and Spencer moans and thrusts up, toppling them over and thumping the headboard against the wall. Spencer grins and can feel Jon’s smile on his neck. Jon’s going to be so good on his knees.
Except it’s Spencer who ends up there, that night, elbows and knees over Jon on the bed, sucking his dick sloppily until Jon comes, a little bit trickling down Spencer’s chin. Spencer wipes it off with the back of his hand and shoot Jon a nervous smile. Jon tugs him down, fierce, and kisses him, murmuring ‘thank you, fuck, beautiful’ against Spencer’s lips and jerking him off steadily before they fall asleep in a tangle.
Spencer wakes Jon up with a blowjob in the morning, relishing the feeling of Jon waking up under him, sleep-soft moans and the tiniest shift of his hips, and right when he’s at the edge Spencer pulls off, mouth glistening and Jon’s dick pushing against his cheek.
“We’re good, Jon?”
Jon shudders and his thighs flex. “Shit, Spencer, of course.”
“Do you want to fuck me?”
”Spencer.”
And then Spencer slides up, angles himself over Jon and pushes Jon’s dick against his entrance. “I want it.” Spencer shifts his hips, slides Jon’s cock against his ass, once, and Jon arches up and comes wet against his back. Spencer chuckles and kisses Jon’s nose.
“Well now I need a shower.” Spencer leaves the door open and jerks off loudly, legs spread and forehead pushed against the tiled wall, and he comes out to find Jon standing in the doorway, waiting.
“Spencer, where did this –“ Spencer cuts him off with a kiss and slides past him into the room to get dressed. Jon drops it.
And then things are blissfully normal. Jon and Spencer still hang out ever day and play cards and make faces at each other during interviews when Ryan can’t form a sentence or Brendon makes pointless jokes that aren’t really that funny. Except now Jon brings him a cinnamon rolls at breakfast in hotels when Spencer forgets to get his own, and makes them two poptarts on the bus in the morning and leaves one sitting on a paper towel for Spencer when he stumbles out of the bunk. And they share a bunk, and a bed, and Jon fucks Spencer as hard as he asks for it and never more, and the first time Spencer fucks Jon, Jon cries and Spencer licks up the tears and goes slow for him. After Jon tells Spencer stories about Chicago and Academy and embarrassing things about Pete and Spencer laughs like he hasn’t in a while. And sometimes Jon holds Spencer’s hand, discretely between their thighs, when they’re hanging out on the bus, but Ryan and Brendon never notice. All through Australia and Europe and London and at some point Spencer forgets why it’s important for them to notice.
Until the day before they fly home and Ryan and Brendon, break up, again, and have been throwing shit and cursing the next room over all night. At 4 a.m. when things are finally quiet and Spencer’s come twice, Jon curls up beside him and just as Spencer’s about to drift off whispers, “I love you, Spence.”
Spencer doesn’t sleep that night.
--
There are a million reasons why what Jon said was so wrong, and Spencer lists them on the edge of his napkin in secret codes on the plane ride home. Jon’s acting like nothing abnormal has happened, he’s reading a book leaned up against the window and doesn’t seem bothered that Ryan is slumped on Spencer’s shoulder, talking quietly about how much the world sucks. Brendon has been banished to the row ahead, with Zack, and he hasn’t turned around once to talk to any of them.
Spencer lists “too quick, that wasn’t the point, he’s not gay, I want Ryan, “ and thinks, but doesn’t list, I might be able to fall for him too, then crumples the napkin up and stuff it in his cup for the stewardess to take.
They’re home barely a week and then they’re off on tour again, landing in Florida and stepping on the bus. Ryan and Brendon pick bunks as far away from each other as possible in the tiny space and make a big show of never touching as they move around. Jon rolls his eyes at Spencer and Spencer forces a smile, thankful he can write everything off as the stress of a new tour.
Spencer gets into his own bunk that night and waits until it gets quiet. Jon usually crawls over to him and Spencer keeps going over in his mind what’s he’s going to say until he hears a curtain draw back and someone take a few steps and he’s forgotten it all. He murmurs, “hey, missed you” as the body slides in, too boney and slight to be Jon.
“Spencer, sorry, just –“ And then Ryan bites at his neck, cupping him through his boxers. “Can you fuck me? Loud so Brendon will hear.”
Spencer shudders and tries to twist away, thinks how painfully oblivious Ryan must be to not have noticed anything, tries to stutter out a “no, can’t” and Ryan sobs out a please against Spencer’s collar, freeing his dick and stroking, squeezing. Spencer hears another curtain slide open and Spencer’s not sure who he’s hoping for at this point. Ryan’s got no mute, no sense of quiet, he’s moaning and panting and twisting against the sheets even though Spencer isn’t touching him.
“Fuck, hard like last time, Spence, you’re so good.”
Ryan slides on top of him, nudges Spencer’s dick against his ass and Spencer can’t help but moan, “fuck yes.” He hears the lounge door open and shut and closes his eyes and fucks Ryan dry, tries to remember how he’s getting exactly what he wants and forget about what he’s losing.
--
The next morning there’s no poptart and no Jon or Brendon anywhere to be found. Ryan comes out to the front and flops sleepily next to Spencer.
“I’m so sore, thank you. I was so sick of you paying all your attention to Jon.”
Spencer tries to control his face, but his lips still twitch, “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, missed you.”
And Spencer believes him all day, ruffles his hair and tries to remember how his plan has worked out perfect and successfully avoids Jon and feels damn good, until he walks in on Brendon pushed up against Ryan in the dressing room, hears him call Ryan a slut and sees Ryan curled into him at those words, watches them kiss, hungry, before Spencer slips away and back to the bus. Then Spencer realizes his might have walked into someone else’s plan by mistake.
--
They’re in Prague, day off, and Jon’s inside him, has been inside him for what feels like hours. On their sides, slow, sweat-drenched and Spencer’s lost count of how many times they’ve fucked, but it’s been in every country, he knows that.
“You’re so tight, how you are so tight?” Jon’s nipping along the shell of his ear, rolling his hips.
“Shut up, you’re worse.”
Jon shakes his head into Spencer’s neck and brushes his thumb over the head of Spencer’s dick and Spencer arches. It’s still slow, sun streaking in the blinds painting bands across their bodies, Jon whispering how he loves when Spencer rides him, how Spencer is his, how he’s so happy.
Spencer doesn’t think he’ll ever come, but he doesn’t care if Jon will just stay.
--
The band doesn’t break up. Spencer’s thankful for that, and actually slightly confused that they’re actually strong enough to withstand this. He wouldn’t have bet on it.
The tornado of Brendon and Ryan has weathered them, Spencer guesses, and the slight shift of Jon and Spencer barely speaking anymore isn’t enough to break them. It’s just a little quieter, colder, as the bus winds westward, another arena that it got boring to skateboard around week one. Jon isn’t unpleasant, just quiet, and only with Spencer. He’s still content to pet Ryan’s hair, makes jokes with him, and Spencer’s angry. It takes two to tango, something like that, but Spencer’s got no ground to be upset. He’s fucked.
They’re still sharing a room at hotels because Brendon and Ryan would never not, and so when Spencer finally wakes up from his nap on an empty bus and stumbles across the parking lot to the hotel, up the stairs and into his room, first he thinks he’s dreaming and then he thinks maybe he’s in the wrong place, but no. There’s Jon on the bed, and Ryan between his legs and Brendon sitting at the desk chair, feet propped up on the bed, eyes hot.
Jon looks over at Spencer and grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Hey, now we’re all here,” and reaches out, beckoning Spencer with his fingers, other hand still threaded in Ryan’s hair, guiding him. Ryan licks a precise line up Jon’s cock and slants his eyes at Spencer.
Spencer shakes his head and flees. It’s too cold, too far to go back to the bus, so he sits down in the lobby in an uncomfortable armchair and curls his knees to his chest.
Jon comes down maybe ten minutes later, rumpled, and grabs Spencer’s shoulder, hard.
“What, I figured that would make you happy.” Spencer’s never seen Jon this angry, the sharp edges of his words, hand tight enough to bruise.
“Fuck, stop, Jon.”
“You get Ryan, me, Brendon’s like a fucking bonus.” Spencer tries to tug away but Jon just clings, gets in front of him and kneels on the chair in the space Spencer leaves, boxing Spencer in, there’s not enough room. Spencer glances, fast, at the night attendant and she turns away, clicks on her computer. Jon cups Spencer’s cheek and drags his face back.
“I’ve been trying to figure out for two weeks what the fuck happened, Spencer.”
“I don’t know, Jon.” Jon’s breath is warm on his face, too close.
“I’m not a replacement.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Spencer swallows, swallows again, closes his eyes against it all.
Jon props his chin on Spencer’s knees and laces his fingers behind Spencer’s head, waits. They sit like that, Spencer feeling every heartbeat, thinking about plans and friendship and what he’s really looking for and what he’s going to find. About sweaty palms and smiles just for him and growing up.
“I’m not good enough for you, you’re too good—“
“Shh.” Jon shakes his head against Spencer and Spencer kisses Jon’s forehead and they sit there just a little longer, long enough.
Author:
deliberateficRating:NC-17
Pairing:Spencer/Ryan, Ryan/Brendon, Spencer/Jon, and more.
Summary: Spencer has plans, Spencer gets what he wants, Spencer is clueless.
Author Notes: So I wrote most of this, thought I’d throw it away, started a new Spencer fic, decided I hated that, threw it away, came back to this and figured my shit out. Spencer Smith is a little demon and hard to write. With neverending thanks to
addictedkitten for the handholding. She owns me, if you didn't know.For
clumsygyrl.~5000 words.
Spencer lost his grip on Ryan a long time ago; he’s man enough to admit that. If he’s being maudlin he can pinpoint it to the first time Brendon walked into one of their practices, the way Ryan’s eyes went to him and never really left. But actually it was a gradual thing, like anything is, and inch-by-inch Brendon seeped in the cracks where Ryan and Spencer’s friendship had strained. But Spencer never saw it like that, instead one day he woke up and Brendon was finishing Ryan’s sentences and Ryan would bring Brendon a sandwich back to soundcheck and not offer to anyone else.
It pissed Spencer off, simmered under his skin, cause who the hell did Brendon think he was? Waltzing into Spencer’s band, taking away his best friend. Spencer had put in years, years holding Ryan’s hands, dealing with his moods, picking him up, keeping him sane. It wasn’t fair.
Painfully, annoyingly, Spencer woke up to Ryan slipping out of his grasp at the same time he woke up to wanting Ryan, to watching his exposed hips, the twist of his wrist as he applied his eyeliner. It was stupid, maddening, and before he could get his feet under him, could do something about it, Brendon and Ryan were fucking.
That -- that was so much worse than anything else. If anyone had the right to touch Ryan like that, it was Spencer. They’d jerked off in the same room in middle school, for Christ sakes. And what could Spencer do to compete with sex? He wasn’t going to fuck Brent, and he didn’t really want to fuck anyone but Ryan. His only consolation was Brendon and Ryan as boyfriends were a lot more volatile than Brendon and Ryan as just friends, and they broke up just as often as they stayed together. So Spencer sat, and waited, and when the tour ended in Brendon looked too much at a brunette at the after party and Ryan left screaming, Spencer knew this was his chance.
--
Two nights after they get back to Vegas Spencer and Ryan go see a show. They got the tickets for free, and it’s almost more exciting than every other freebee they’ve gotten because this is a Vegas show and a premiere and how are they important enough for this? Ryan’s quiet, though, and not as excited as Spencer knows he would normally be. After they drive out to the desert. They climb out of the car and sprawl on the roof. Brendon calls and Ryan presses ignore on his Sidekick. “Trouble in paradise?” Spencer muses, even though he already knows.
“He’s just-“ Ryan looks at the stars, can’t look at Spence. They’ve never really talked about this and Spencer just lets the silence work to his favor. “No one else has ever, I haven’t. I kind of want to. Be twenty, you know?”
Spencer rolls on his side and pokes Ryan. “I don’t. I’m barely nineteen.”
Ryan smiles, rolls his eyes.
“Anyone in mind you want to...”
Ryan swallows, fidgets.
“Maybe.”
They’re silent for a while, Spencer concentrating on a particular spot on Ryan’s cheek, trying to blur it, make it nothing. “Look, fuckhead, I’m not going to let us let that-“ and then Ryan turns and pulls Spencer toward him, kisses him softly. Spencer’s been thinking about this for years and it’s nothing like he expected. Ryan’s hands are so big on his shoulders and he thought he’d be in control, only it’s Ryan pushing him on his back, climbing on top of him.
Ryan’s grinding down, the roof of a car is not the optimal place for this but when Ryan gets a hand on his dick and breathes “Can I, can I” in Spencer’s ear, Spencer is quick to say yes, choked against Ryan’s shoulder, even though he has no idea what he’s agreeing to.
Ryan tries to slide down and almost falls off the car, then almost takes Spencer with him. He rights himself and looks at Spencer under his bangs. “Backseat?” And they are so very much back in Vegas as they scramble inside and push against each other, Ryan twisted awkwardly to get Spencer’s pants open, Spencer braced with one palm against the window.
Ryan looks positively gleeful at the sight of Spencer’s dick and Spencer feels inordinately proud for some reason. It’s a rare thing to make Ryan really happy, and if dick is what it takes, Spencer can manage that. Better than Brendon can, that’s for sure. He grits his teeth and tries to focus on how he has to make this good for Ryan, has to, before Ryan’s on him, licking a sucking and Spencer’s head thumps against the seat.
Its slow, quiet for a while, and Spencer’s quite fine, but Ryan makes a huffy little noise around his dick and grabs Spencer’s hand and puts his on the back of his head, twists their fingers tight together in his hair and pushes down, pulls back, pushes down, looking up at Spencer with wide eyes.
Spencer shivers, trembles, and Ryan blinks owlishly at him. Exhale, breathe, and Spencer starts fucking Ryan’s face, forcing him down until Ryan should be gagging but he’s not, he’s taking it.
Spencer tries to grunt a warning before he comes, and maybe Ryan does hear it because he pulls back and lets it splash over his cheeks, his chin, mouth slightly open to catch some of it. Spencer looks away, leans his head against the glass and comes down.
There's a long, silent moment, Ryan sitting on his haunches, leaning against the back of the driver's seat, and Spencer with his forehead jammed against the plastic door. Spencer's pretty sure he's a fucking idiot. He's afraid to look at Ryan because that last glimpse of him, come dripping down his face, bruised lips, wild hair, was just -- so not the Ryan he knew, he known for ten years, had ever really expected to find.
Spencer clears his throat, after a while. "Do you, I mean, do you want me to --" and then practically jumps at Ryan's hand on his knee, knocking his head against the plastic.
"You don't have to. I don't --" And then Ryan's hand falls away and when Spencer twists up Ryan is looking down, palm pressed flat against his crotch, but not moving.
"Don't what?" Spencer sits up and tucks himself back in, waiting. Ryan still doesn't look up, doesn't move his hand.
"Expect."
Spencer pushes Ryan's hair out of his face, shaky, and presses a thumb to his forehead. "I'm not very good, come here." His fingers along the line of Ryan's throat guides Ryan up to the seat until they're side by side, normal, and Spencer kisses Ryan, slow like he wasn't just shoving his cock down Ryan's throat a few minutes ago.
Ryan moans, breathy, when Spencer starts to bite his neck, shoves on hand down his pants at an odd angle and cups him. He's so hot, firebursts where ever Spencer touches him, and his mouth is slick against Spencer's ear, begging.
"Hard, please, hurt me."
Spencer falters at that, and Ryan sobs, high-pitched, and thrusts into Spencer's hand.
"Fuck, come on."
"Ryan, I -" And Ryan sobs again, and again, and Spencer knows he's crying, has heard Ryan cry enough in his life to recognize true and real tears, and Spencer can't believe how fucking needy Ryan is for this, how easy he comes apart at this, it's like he's never really known Ryan at all. He squeezes, hard as he can, and Ryan bucks.
Stupid fucking angle, he can't do much more, so he pulls out to fumble with Ryan’s zipper, tugs his pants down to his ankles while Ryan paws at him, half-climbs in his lap.
"I'll get you hard, just please, need it, fuck." Ryan's pulling Spencer's pants open again, and he doesn't have to get Spencer hard, he's already there, full, and Spencer feels Ryan grin against his neck when he realizes.
Then, in a flash of clarity, Spencer sees the lube sitting in his bedside drawer. He didn’t think it would be this easy with Ryan, he didn’t prepare. "I don't have anything, we can't. Not here." Now Spencer's the one sobbing, frustrated. He's already this far, it's not like it's going to change anything, not really, at least he figures not, it's too fucking late.
"I can take it. You're wet enough, I can take it." Ryan plants his hands on the ceiling and scrambles up, fluid, until Spencer's dick slips against his ass and Spencer's nose is pressed against his breastbone.
"Holy fuck, Ryan." Spencer clutches at Ryan's hips, trying to stop him from moving, from Spencer coming again, hot against his back before he even has a chance to –
and fuck, Spencer lets his head fall back against the glass and thinks, shit, I'm going to fuck Ryan. Somehow it's gone from crazy pipedream to amazing blowjob to fucking his friend in the back of his mom's car. Ryan sits ups, positions Spencer and guides him in. It's slow, Ryan never stops making noise, but he's not even stretched at all and Spencer knows this has to hurt like crazy. Ryan gets himself down, shakes, shifts, and then takes his hands off the ceiling to clutch Spencer's neck.
"Fuck me, fuck me."
Spencer can't really, like this. He rolls his hips a few times, gasps. "You have to, I can't, please." Ryan nods frantically and grinds down, fucks himself.
--
They don’t talk about it, everything starts to move fast from the moment Ryan drops Spencer off at home and kisses him goodbye chastely on the cheek, to the VMAs and getting ready for Australia and Brendon with his arm casually around Ryan again, the soft sounds of them kissing in the bunks at night.
Spencer feels, fuck, hurt, jagged. Sometimes Ryan looks at him with sad eyes and Brendon smiles in a secretive way and Spencer’s fingers curl into his palms, nails biting the skin. It’s not fair, and he needs a new plan.
--
Jon's not going to be easy, Spencer knows that. Not like Ryan, getting him was just a combination of Brendon's faults and patience. Spencer could get Ryan, but he couldn't keep him.
Jon, well first of all Jon was straight. Which was fine, Spencer was straight too. He could play this to his advantage. Two straight guys, a little drunk maybe (Spencer could make an exception, he could, for this) a little curious, who wouldn't be in this air charged by Brendon and Ryan? Spencer's lost count of the times he's walked in on them now, progressively worse each occasion. Kisses, stolen behind equipment at first, around corners, Spencer turning on his heel without a word. And then clothing missing, Ryan bend over couches and moaning at Brendon's touch, Ryan on his knees, Brendon's head thrown back. And, recently, now that's he's slept Ryan, Ryan won’t look away. Brendon’s shameless, sure, but now Ryan starts looking at Spencer, mouth full of cock or Brendon between his legs, like he wants something.
It's a sick, twisted, fucked little game and Spencer will be damned if he doesn't win. Jon's obviously the most perfect prize he can imagine. Jon’s just. Jon.
So, Spencer’s formulated a plan, and he won’t be so hasty this time. There’s no rush, not at all, he can tolerate Brendon and Ryan a little longer, can ignore the bruises on Ryan’s wrists and his flushed cheeks and they way they always gravitate toward one another for just a little longer. The flirtation with Jon’s a nice distraction. Jon’s, well, nice. Spencer really doesn’t have another word for it, and sometimes Spencer sits in the lounge playing cards with him late in the afternoon and thinks about how pleasant it will be when he gets to suck his cock.
“Dude, I asked if you had any queens?” Jon flicks Spencer’s forehead and pulls a face.
“Shit, sorry. No, go fish.” Jon does, frowns, adjusts his cards. Spencer contemplates his next move.
“Life of international heartthrobs, eh? Thrilling.” Jon smirks and leans back in his chair, shirt riding up to expose a line of skin, rounded belly, red lines where his jeans have dug in a little. Spencer shrugs.
“What, we sort of trashed a hotel room last night.”
“You threw a hissy fit because you couldn’t find your white hoodie and knocked over a lamp.” Spencer scowls and Jon rolls his eyes. “Anyway, I picked up the lamp.”
“Jon!” Spencer throws down his cards and one of the assistants knocks on the door before walking in and dropping off their schedules for that night. Meet & Greet, interview with the local paper, be in makeup by 9. Spencer wonders if he can talk Jon into eyeliner again. Not that he sees Jon during the show, but Jon looks good in eyeliner.
Jon sighs and Spencer looks up from his paper. “What?”
“I don’t get to do the interview.”
“That’s not something to be sad about.”
Jon bites his lips and then throws the paper aside. “Right, so what do you want from me?”
Spencer squints and then remembers the cards in his hand. “Oh, sevens?”
“Go fish.”
--
Adjoining rooms seemed like a good idea two months ago, but now for the third hotel night in a row Ryan’s pleas of “harder, Brendon, please” and the rhythmic thump of the headboard against the shared wall have been louder than the TV at any bearable setting. Jon throws a pillow across the room and takes a long swig from the bottle of whiskey Spencer had left in his bunk the week before, a note tied with a neat bow around the neck. He tilts the bottle at Spence and Spencer thinks – right, now – and takes the bottle and drinks, ignoring Jon’s surprised little face.
“Could they, just – Christ, I don’t get it.” Jon drags the back of his hand over his mouth and glances at Spencer, who hands him back the bottle.
Spencer coughs once, the liquor burning his throat — fuck who even likes this shit? – before answering. “What don’t you get, they’re fucking.”
“Right, yeah, no I thought they were quilting.” Jon contemplates the bottle before scooting over to pass it to Spencer, so he’s almost hanging off the bed. “Seriously, it’s like they don’t care if anyone hears.”
Spencer swigs, changes tactics. “Yeah, I know. I mean, why be so loud, it’s just sex.” Spencer keeps hold of the bottle and Jon stares up at the ceiling, fidgeting his feet under the comforter.
“Hey, do you ever?” Spencer asks, and waits for Jon to turn and look at him before he looks away.
“Huh, what?”
Spencer covers his mouth to muffle the sound, but not enough. “Think about what it would be like, you know.” Bare you throat, bare your throat, just lie here, Spencer thinks, the liquor warm in his arms and settled in his chest. He hears Jon shifting on the other bed, a hitch in his breathing. Almost perfect.
“Dude, I’ve had sex.” Spencer can hear the hesitation under it, though, perfect little opening to wedge his fingers, his words, a little more liquor.
“Fuck, nevermind.” Spencer sits ups, fast, a little dizzy, and shoves the bottle at Jon, a little sloshing out over the carpet. Jon sits up and grabs Spencer’s hand.
“Hey, Spencer, wait up.”
Spencer doesn’t make eye contact, tries to make himself tremble. This is amazingly easy, something about Jon’s fingers on him, breath close to his face. “Jon, I’m just.” And then Spencer thinks, ‘oh, fuck it’ and brushes his lips against Jon’s. There’s something to be said for shock value, and the smell of whiskey making him heady. Jon moans into his lips and Spencer feels his knees go weak. So easy.
It gets deep, fast, and Spencer is almost falling off the bed until he does, indeed, fall, and Jon catches him and their lips come apart, Jon panting against Spencer’s cheek. Everything’s quiet except for the continued thumping against the wall and Spencer closes his eyes, lets his eyelashes drag against Jon’s skin.
“Um, Spencer, I.” Jon’s fingers flex on Spencer’s forearm and Spencer gasps despite himself.
“Can we just –“ Spencer turns, mouths Jon’s jaw, inching back to his lips. “I like you. I want.”
Jon pulls back a little and Spencer follows, until they’re crawling up the bed in a stilted embrace, coming apart and knocking together, Jon mumbling ‘Spencer, spencer’ a little lost, but not stopping.
Spencer gets his knees on either side of Jon’s hips, rubbing slowly, kissing down his throat, before Jon’s elbow knocks the liquor bottle and it spills out on Spencer’s hand and Jon fumbles apart, apologizing. Spencer sits up and deliberately licks the sticky mess off his fingers before taking another gulp and holding the bottle out to Jon, eyebrow raised. Jon takes a quick one and sets it heavily on the beside table, surging up to meet Spencer’s lips, hungry, pushing, cupping his face like Spencer might break.
Spencer’s never seen Jon kiss anyone, which is odd in this band. Spencer’s kissed people in front of Jon, but Jon doesn’t really do the public thing. Whereas Spencer’s never kissed Brendon he knows how it would be sloppy, wet, imprecise. He had no clue that Jon would be so focused. Intent. Like everything else disappeared to Jon expect Spencer, like he needed to touch Spencer everywhere, warm hands a little rough, twisting up in his hair and pulling his head back, Jon marking his neck. Spencer, as his head clears, gives himself a mental pat on the back for playing this perfectly, for getting what he actually wants and can – but then Jon bites down sharp and Spencer moans and thrusts up, toppling them over and thumping the headboard against the wall. Spencer grins and can feel Jon’s smile on his neck. Jon’s going to be so good on his knees.
Except it’s Spencer who ends up there, that night, elbows and knees over Jon on the bed, sucking his dick sloppily until Jon comes, a little bit trickling down Spencer’s chin. Spencer wipes it off with the back of his hand and shoot Jon a nervous smile. Jon tugs him down, fierce, and kisses him, murmuring ‘thank you, fuck, beautiful’ against Spencer’s lips and jerking him off steadily before they fall asleep in a tangle.
Spencer wakes Jon up with a blowjob in the morning, relishing the feeling of Jon waking up under him, sleep-soft moans and the tiniest shift of his hips, and right when he’s at the edge Spencer pulls off, mouth glistening and Jon’s dick pushing against his cheek.
“We’re good, Jon?”
Jon shudders and his thighs flex. “Shit, Spencer, of course.”
“Do you want to fuck me?”
”Spencer.”
And then Spencer slides up, angles himself over Jon and pushes Jon’s dick against his entrance. “I want it.” Spencer shifts his hips, slides Jon’s cock against his ass, once, and Jon arches up and comes wet against his back. Spencer chuckles and kisses Jon’s nose.
“Well now I need a shower.” Spencer leaves the door open and jerks off loudly, legs spread and forehead pushed against the tiled wall, and he comes out to find Jon standing in the doorway, waiting.
“Spencer, where did this –“ Spencer cuts him off with a kiss and slides past him into the room to get dressed. Jon drops it.
And then things are blissfully normal. Jon and Spencer still hang out ever day and play cards and make faces at each other during interviews when Ryan can’t form a sentence or Brendon makes pointless jokes that aren’t really that funny. Except now Jon brings him a cinnamon rolls at breakfast in hotels when Spencer forgets to get his own, and makes them two poptarts on the bus in the morning and leaves one sitting on a paper towel for Spencer when he stumbles out of the bunk. And they share a bunk, and a bed, and Jon fucks Spencer as hard as he asks for it and never more, and the first time Spencer fucks Jon, Jon cries and Spencer licks up the tears and goes slow for him. After Jon tells Spencer stories about Chicago and Academy and embarrassing things about Pete and Spencer laughs like he hasn’t in a while. And sometimes Jon holds Spencer’s hand, discretely between their thighs, when they’re hanging out on the bus, but Ryan and Brendon never notice. All through Australia and Europe and London and at some point Spencer forgets why it’s important for them to notice.
Until the day before they fly home and Ryan and Brendon, break up, again, and have been throwing shit and cursing the next room over all night. At 4 a.m. when things are finally quiet and Spencer’s come twice, Jon curls up beside him and just as Spencer’s about to drift off whispers, “I love you, Spence.”
Spencer doesn’t sleep that night.
--
There are a million reasons why what Jon said was so wrong, and Spencer lists them on the edge of his napkin in secret codes on the plane ride home. Jon’s acting like nothing abnormal has happened, he’s reading a book leaned up against the window and doesn’t seem bothered that Ryan is slumped on Spencer’s shoulder, talking quietly about how much the world sucks. Brendon has been banished to the row ahead, with Zack, and he hasn’t turned around once to talk to any of them.
Spencer lists “too quick, that wasn’t the point, he’s not gay, I want Ryan, “ and thinks, but doesn’t list, I might be able to fall for him too, then crumples the napkin up and stuff it in his cup for the stewardess to take.
They’re home barely a week and then they’re off on tour again, landing in Florida and stepping on the bus. Ryan and Brendon pick bunks as far away from each other as possible in the tiny space and make a big show of never touching as they move around. Jon rolls his eyes at Spencer and Spencer forces a smile, thankful he can write everything off as the stress of a new tour.
Spencer gets into his own bunk that night and waits until it gets quiet. Jon usually crawls over to him and Spencer keeps going over in his mind what’s he’s going to say until he hears a curtain draw back and someone take a few steps and he’s forgotten it all. He murmurs, “hey, missed you” as the body slides in, too boney and slight to be Jon.
“Spencer, sorry, just –“ And then Ryan bites at his neck, cupping him through his boxers. “Can you fuck me? Loud so Brendon will hear.”
Spencer shudders and tries to twist away, thinks how painfully oblivious Ryan must be to not have noticed anything, tries to stutter out a “no, can’t” and Ryan sobs out a please against Spencer’s collar, freeing his dick and stroking, squeezing. Spencer hears another curtain slide open and Spencer’s not sure who he’s hoping for at this point. Ryan’s got no mute, no sense of quiet, he’s moaning and panting and twisting against the sheets even though Spencer isn’t touching him.
“Fuck, hard like last time, Spence, you’re so good.”
Ryan slides on top of him, nudges Spencer’s dick against his ass and Spencer can’t help but moan, “fuck yes.” He hears the lounge door open and shut and closes his eyes and fucks Ryan dry, tries to remember how he’s getting exactly what he wants and forget about what he’s losing.
--
The next morning there’s no poptart and no Jon or Brendon anywhere to be found. Ryan comes out to the front and flops sleepily next to Spencer.
“I’m so sore, thank you. I was so sick of you paying all your attention to Jon.”
Spencer tries to control his face, but his lips still twitch, “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, missed you.”
And Spencer believes him all day, ruffles his hair and tries to remember how his plan has worked out perfect and successfully avoids Jon and feels damn good, until he walks in on Brendon pushed up against Ryan in the dressing room, hears him call Ryan a slut and sees Ryan curled into him at those words, watches them kiss, hungry, before Spencer slips away and back to the bus. Then Spencer realizes his might have walked into someone else’s plan by mistake.
--
They’re in Prague, day off, and Jon’s inside him, has been inside him for what feels like hours. On their sides, slow, sweat-drenched and Spencer’s lost count of how many times they’ve fucked, but it’s been in every country, he knows that.
“You’re so tight, how you are so tight?” Jon’s nipping along the shell of his ear, rolling his hips.
“Shut up, you’re worse.”
Jon shakes his head into Spencer’s neck and brushes his thumb over the head of Spencer’s dick and Spencer arches. It’s still slow, sun streaking in the blinds painting bands across their bodies, Jon whispering how he loves when Spencer rides him, how Spencer is his, how he’s so happy.
Spencer doesn’t think he’ll ever come, but he doesn’t care if Jon will just stay.
--
The band doesn’t break up. Spencer’s thankful for that, and actually slightly confused that they’re actually strong enough to withstand this. He wouldn’t have bet on it.
The tornado of Brendon and Ryan has weathered them, Spencer guesses, and the slight shift of Jon and Spencer barely speaking anymore isn’t enough to break them. It’s just a little quieter, colder, as the bus winds westward, another arena that it got boring to skateboard around week one. Jon isn’t unpleasant, just quiet, and only with Spencer. He’s still content to pet Ryan’s hair, makes jokes with him, and Spencer’s angry. It takes two to tango, something like that, but Spencer’s got no ground to be upset. He’s fucked.
They’re still sharing a room at hotels because Brendon and Ryan would never not, and so when Spencer finally wakes up from his nap on an empty bus and stumbles across the parking lot to the hotel, up the stairs and into his room, first he thinks he’s dreaming and then he thinks maybe he’s in the wrong place, but no. There’s Jon on the bed, and Ryan between his legs and Brendon sitting at the desk chair, feet propped up on the bed, eyes hot.
Jon looks over at Spencer and grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Hey, now we’re all here,” and reaches out, beckoning Spencer with his fingers, other hand still threaded in Ryan’s hair, guiding him. Ryan licks a precise line up Jon’s cock and slants his eyes at Spencer.
Spencer shakes his head and flees. It’s too cold, too far to go back to the bus, so he sits down in the lobby in an uncomfortable armchair and curls his knees to his chest.
Jon comes down maybe ten minutes later, rumpled, and grabs Spencer’s shoulder, hard.
“What, I figured that would make you happy.” Spencer’s never seen Jon this angry, the sharp edges of his words, hand tight enough to bruise.
“Fuck, stop, Jon.”
“You get Ryan, me, Brendon’s like a fucking bonus.” Spencer tries to tug away but Jon just clings, gets in front of him and kneels on the chair in the space Spencer leaves, boxing Spencer in, there’s not enough room. Spencer glances, fast, at the night attendant and she turns away, clicks on her computer. Jon cups Spencer’s cheek and drags his face back.
“I’ve been trying to figure out for two weeks what the fuck happened, Spencer.”
“I don’t know, Jon.” Jon’s breath is warm on his face, too close.
“I’m not a replacement.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Spencer swallows, swallows again, closes his eyes against it all.
Jon props his chin on Spencer’s knees and laces his fingers behind Spencer’s head, waits. They sit like that, Spencer feeling every heartbeat, thinking about plans and friendship and what he’s really looking for and what he’s going to find. About sweaty palms and smiles just for him and growing up.
“I’m not good enough for you, you’re too good—“
“Shh.” Jon shakes his head against Spencer and Spencer kisses Jon’s forehead and they sit there just a little longer, long enough.
