Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/168734.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Panic_At_The_Disco, Bandom
  Relationship:
      Spencer_Smith/Brendon_Urie
  Additional Tags:
      First_Time, Roleplay, Fluff, Angst, Alternate_Universe_-_Canon
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-03-08 Words: 8211
****** Seventeen (Here’s to the Atom Bomb) ******
by fictionalaspect
Summary
     "Tomorrow?" Spencer says, flicking a scrap of something off his
     cymbal. It makes a clanging noise, and he stills the vibration with
     one hand. They need to dust in here. The studio's getting messy, and
     normally Spencer wouldn't care, but it's a lot of expensive
     electronics in a small space, and also his cymbals sound funny when
     they're coated in dust. None of this necessarily means either of them
     will dust today, but it's a thought. He should probably at least wipe
     down his kit.
     "It's the seventeenth," Brendon says, leaning over to poke at his
     laptop. His hair is pushed off his forehead, greasy, sticking to
     itself. He's still holding the iced tea in one hand as he clicks.
     "Oh," Spencer says. "Really?"
Notes
     Loosely based on canon. This is one of those stories that kept poking
     at me until I wrote it down. I also want to give another shout-out to
     the Timeline!_at_the_Disco by
     [[info]]
starafar because man, that thing is awesome. Thank you to [[info]]ailleann23
for fixing everything, as usual.
I. October 16, 2010
"So, tomorrow?" Brendon says. He's sucking on the straw of a large iced tea, no
sugar, just lemon. The paper cup is so wide he can barely fit his hand around
it. Iced tea is beginning to soak through the bottom in a damp ring. He's been
working on it for a while, setting it down for hours at a time and then picking
it up again to slurp noisily on the straw during breaks.
"Tomorrow?" Spencer says, flicking a scrap of something off his cymbal. It
makes a clanging noise, and he stills the vibration with one hand. They need to
dust in here. The studio's getting messy, and normally Spencer wouldn't care,
but it's a lot of expensive electronics in a small space, and also his cymbals
sound funny when they're coated in dust. None of this necessarily means either
of them will dust today, but it's a thought. He should probably at least wipe
down his kit.
"It's the seventeenth," Brendon says, leaning over to poke at his laptop. His
hair is pushed off his forehead, greasy, sticking to itself. He's still holding
the iced tea in one hand as he clicks.
"Oh," Spencer says. "Really?" He pulls his phone out of his pocket and checks
the date, and yeah. Brendon's right. Seventeenth of October.
Huh.
Spencer looks up, sees Brendon watching him. Brendon darts his eyes over to the
corner of the room, and then he looks back at Spencer. He's wearing a tiny
smile, nothing obvious. He just looks—pleased. Pleased with Spencer and pleased
with the world, even if Spencer forgot, because it's the seventeenth of the
month, and maybe that means nothing to other people, but it means something to
them.
"Cool," Spencer says, letting his eyes rest heavy on Brendon's shoulders, on
the thin lines of his frame. "Thanks for reminding me."
"No problem," Brendon says, and smiles a little wider.
Spencer's actually been planning this one for almost a month, but in the studio
he's somehow managed to lose track of time. He'd thought the seventeenth was
next week; now that it's tomorrow, he's suddenly nervous.
"You have something planned?" Spencer says, because maybe, just maybe, there's
a chance to put this off again.
"I could," Brendon says thoughtfully. "If you didn't."
Spencer takes a deep breath. "No," he says. "No, I've got an idea."

March 17, 2005
As far as Spencer's concerned, everything is going great until Brendon pulls
away from him.
"This is such a huge fucking mistake," Brendon says, and Spencer blinks and
tries to keep up. He feels like saying that Brendon's pointing out the obvious
and they should get back to the making out, but he keeps his mouth shut.
"Spence," Brendon says, in a harsh whisper. "Seriously, we shouldn't do this."
"I know," Spencer says, finding his voice. "Of course we shouldn't." His hands
are still curled around Brendon's sides, under his shirt. His palms are
sweating on Brendon's skin, and Spencer would be worried if either had them had
showered in the past five days. They're all sweaty and sticky and disgusting,
living on red bull and ramen and it's two o'clock in the morning and Brendon's
right but he's also missing the point.
"But we're going to do it anyway," Brendon says, softer now, like a secret.
"Aren't we?"
"Probably," Spencer says, but he's already leaning back in. He doesn't know how
to say that he's lonely and tired and kissing Brendon feels something like
home. Everything in his head is all jumbled up, and Spencer can't really think
beyond this moment, beyond how good things suddenly became when Brendon rolled
over and kissed him. When Brendon pushed himself up, over Spencer's legs,
straddling him, hands down near Spencer's hair, everything about his movements
firm and deliberate, like he'd been psyching himself up and was going for broke
until he was hit with a sudden attack of reality.
Brendon holds back, this time around. Spencer has to push for it. He tightens
his hands on Brendon's hips, waits for Brendon to sigh and part his lips before
deepening the kiss.
None of this is about love.
Brendon's hair is greasy against Spencer's fingers, and their sheets are dirty
and smell faintly like mold, but Brendon's skin is still soft against Spencer's
mouth. He jerks and gasps when Spencer bites down, and Spencer doesn't give a
fuck that this is a bad idea but he doesn't want this to blow up in their
faces, either.
"Tell me this is okay," Spencer says, even though Brendon's throwing his head
back and rolling his hips down and on the surface, it seems as though everyone
involved here is very much onboard. Spencer's pretty sure the one thing that
could kill his boner right now is the thought of Brendon having a gay panic
freakout and then not talking to him for weeks afterwards. Spencer's not a
mind-reader, but he's pretty sure Brendon's never done this before.
(With anyone.)
"It's okay," Brendon says, low and husky. "It's—whatever. It's okay, Spence."
Something in his voice suggests he's telling the truth. Spencer kisses him,
just to be sure, holding back nothing. Brendon melts into it, arching his spine
and digging his fingers into Spencer's shoulders. They're both going to have
bruises tomorrow.
It's quiet, so quiet, because it has to be. It's rough and quick and when it's
over neither of them even bother to clean themselves up. Spencer wakes up with
his leg stuck to Brendon's thigh. There's the moment of realization, and then
Brendon pulls away and makes an awkward, loping walk of shame to the bathroom
in his ruined boxers.
Spencer lies in Brendon's bed and listens to the water run.

February 17, 2006.
"There's something going on," Ryan says, slanting his eyes at Spencer. He
doesn't look upset. It's more like he's cautiously interested, curious, but he
knows enough not to push Spencer too hard about it. There's a lot of things
they don't talk about out loud. Sometimes Spencer feels like talking to Ryan is
less about listening to what he's actually saying than it is about reading his
expression, the way he moves his hands and the set of his shoulders. It's like
he's listening to Ryan's emotional state instead of what he's actually saying,
and that's what he takes away with him when the conversation's done.
Spencer kind of wishes Ryan would do that with him, right now, instead of
making Spencer say it out loud.
"Something?" Spencer says instead, playing dumb. "What, like, in the venue?"
"You and Brendon," Ryan says, lowering his voice. "We're not stupid, Spence.
You guys keep disappearing together. He gets all weird when he looks at you."
"Weird?" Spencer says, forgetting to be opaque and mysterious. He hadn't
noticed Brendon getting weird around him. "What do you mean, weird?"
Ryan waves his hands a little bit, long fingers tracing awkward patterns in the
air. "Weird," Ryan says, again. "Just. Like, he always watches you, and then
whenever someone catches him at it, he pretends he's not doing it."
"Oh," Spencer says, feeling something warm up in his chest, small and secret.
"So I'm asking you again," Ryan says. "What's going on?"
Spencer shifts on the couch. He thinks about the bite mark on his thigh, hidden
underneath his jeans. It's less of a hickey and more like a bruise, and every
once in a while he can feel it when the seam of his jeans twists the wrong way
and rubs up against it. It's exactly twenty-three hours old, last night in
Atlanta, a bathroom with a single-stall smelling of piss and cheap air
freshener. The only time Brendon had met his eyes was when he was coming into
Spencer's hand, and Spencer had been struck by the opacity of his gaze, by the
sense that Brendon was letting him see something hidden.
Then Brendon had looked away, and the moment was broken. He'd gotten down on
his knees and sucked Spencer off, rough and intense, and Spencer had stopped
trying to meet Brendon's eyes and just given in to the feeling of Brendon
biting at his hips and then letting Spencer come down his throat.
"Nothing's going on," Spencer says, bumping his shoulder into Ryan's. "Maybe
he's got a crush on me, or something."

II. October 17, 2010
"So," Spencer says. "Today." Brendon makes an interested noise in response, his
mouth full of milk and cereal. It seems incongruous that they should be having
this conversation now, at breakfast. Spencer's been psyching himself up for an
entire month, and it's still hard to push the words out.
"What's today?" Brendon says, after he swallows. He blinks sleepily at Spencer.
"Are we doing something besides going to the studio?"
"It's the seventeenth," Spencer says, after another sip of his coffee. He waits
for the recognition to dawn on Brendon's face, and then Brendon raises an
eyebrow and gives him an interested look. "Oh, right," Brendon says. His tone
sounds warmer now, less sleepy and more focused.
"I have an idea," Spencer says. "This thing I wanted to do. It's kind of—you
sort of just need to trust me."
Brendon nods. "Okay," he says, without hesitation. "I can do that."
"Good," Spencer says, letting out a breath. "Also, you have to, um. Promise not
to laugh."
"Does this idea involve fur suits?" Brendon says. "Because I'm not sure I can
promise that."
Spencer snorts, choking a little on his mouthful of coffee. Brendon grins at
him, entirely guileless.
"It doesn't involve fur suits," Spencer says, when he's able to speak again. He
can feel himself smiling without meaning to. "But you promise? You won't
laugh?"
"Probably," Brendon says. "I might snicker now and then. But seriously, Spence,
just tell me. I'm so curious."
"I want us to go on a date," Spencer says.
Brendon gives him an unimpressed look. "That's it?" Brendon says, with a faint
note of disappointment.
"No, I wasn't finished," Spencer says, flicking Brendon in the shoulder. "I
wanted, um. I sort of wanted to take you on the date I never got to take you
on. In high school. It's—I mean, you remember. It wasn't exactly a dating kind
of situation."
"Oh," Brendon says, quieter this time. He looks over at Spencer. "You really
wanted to take me on a date back then?" he asks. Something in his eyes goes
soft.
"Yeah," Spencer says. They both know it wouldn't have happened—this thing
between them started so haphazardly, both of them young and confused and
exhausted all the time, just needing someone to be close to. But when Spencer
was falling asleep, he used to lie on his dirty mattress and think vague
thoughts about taking Brendon out somewhere, about holding his hand and
watching him smile. He'd always dismissed the thought during the day time, well
aware that whatever was going on between them, it wasn't something that
happened in public.
It's just that lately, Spencer can't stop thinking about it. About what they
should have, could have done if they weren't both so screwed up. About how
Brendon really deserved something like that, and about how much Spencer wants
to give it to him now.
"Thanks for not laughing," Spencer mumbles, when the moment stretched on.
Brendon just reaches over and squeezes his hand, kisses him on the temple as he
walks by to drop his plate in the sink. Then he leaves and goes to get dressed,
and Spencer doesn't think anything of it until he's walking into the bedroom
and Brendon's adjusting his glasses in front of the mirror. He's wearing tight
jeans and a purple t-shirt, his old new balance sneakers. Spencer bites his
lip. Brendon doesn't look quite the same; he's grown into his features, the
shadow of stubble on his cheeks the sure sign of a man and not a teenage boy.
His glasses are different. His biceps fill out his t-shirt in a way that they
never did when he was seventeen but the entire effect is enough that Spencer
feels that old ache starting up again. He used to feel so helpless around
Brendon; so overwhelmed and confused and a little awed. He used to push it all
down inside and it would spill out at strange moments.
"You like it?" Brendon says, turning to Spencer once he's satisfied. Spencer
nods. "Yeah," Spencer says. "Should I, um...?" He leaves the sentence hanging.
He doesn't think he'd be able to recreate his old teenage self quite so
effectively; he'd have to shave, for one, and his body has changed far more
than Brendon's.
"If you want to," Brendon says, shrugging. "I just thought, you know. If we're
going to do this, let's do it all the way."
"Thank you," Spencer says, suddenly, stupidly grateful that Brendon
understands. That he's not laughing at Spencer for wanting this.
"No problem," Brendon says. Spencer goes to change.

March 17, 2007
"For real, Ryan," Jon says, shaking his head and grinning. He's on hold with
FBR, stage whispering to them out of the side of his mouth. "You didn't get us
a house with separate bedrooms?"
"I didn't book it," Ryan mumbles, around the joint clenched in his teeth. He
pushes his sunglasses up onto his messy hair as they stand outside the car and
look at the cabin. "I just said, you know, find us a cabin. Blame the label."
"I always blame Pete," Brendon says, nodding. "It's a pretty solid life
choice."
"I'm sure he appreciates that," Spencer says. He leans over and plucks the
joint out of Ryan's mouth, inhaling long and slow.
"Okay," Jon says, to the person on the phone. "So, under the first potted plant
to the left of the door? And you guys promise to fedex us the actual keys
tomorrow, right?"
"Potted plant," Brendon says, snickering. Ryan flicks him in the nose and
steals his joint back from Spencer.
"Thanks," Jon says, hanging up his phone. "Four double bedrooms," Jon says,
after he hangs up. "Everything else is what we asked for, but they couldn't
afford one with separate rooms. She said they're really big, though."
"Good," Ryan says. "Keep all of your flipflops on your side of the room. They
smell."
"You smell," Jon says mildly, leading the way up to the front door. He picks up
the correct plant, peeling off the spare key duct-taped to the bottom. "Voila,"
Jon says, opening the door. "Cabin."
"Nice cabin," Brendon says approvingly. It's large and airy, high ceilings and
exposed pine beams and thick carpet. Ryan ambles off to pick a bedroom, and
everyone else trails behind him.
"This one," Ryan says, pointing to the second room on the left. It has a
reading nook by the window, and Jon nods approvingly. "Okay," Jon says, and
Spencer tries not to feel annoyed that no one even asked him and Brendon if
they wanted to room together. Or maybe Brendon's going to room with Shane, when
he gets here, and Spencer can stay with Zack. That would be okay, Spencer
thinks. Zack is awesome, even if he snores like a truck.
"Spence," Brendon says, from the bedroom across the hall. "Check this one out."
This bedroom faces the woods; it's a vast expanse of forest, trailing up the
side of the mountain. The sun peeks through the trees on the other side. The
room is cool and faintly greenish. "Nice," Spencer says approvingly. "For you
and Shane?"
"For you and me," Brendon says, lifting his chin slightly, a clear challenge.
"If you want."
This is a problem, Spencer thinks to himself. This whole thing is a problem.
It's worse and worse by the day, slowly rolling itself into a giant,
complicated mess of him and Brendon and everything between them that they don't
talk about.
At some point, they're going to have to start talking about it.
Whatever. Like he's going to say no to rooming with Brendon. Spencer wonders
how sound-proof the walls are. He let Brendon fuck him for the first time a few
weeks ago, and they got kind of loud. Spencer is apparently really loud when
he's got Brendon's dick up his ass. He can't help it. It's like he's learning
something new about himself every day, lately. Total voyage of self-discovery.
"Duh," Spencer says mildly, trying not beam a victory smile. He thinks he's
still pretty stoned, but it doesn't change the fact that Brendon beams back.
"Of course we'll room together."
December 17, 2007
"It's been two years," Ryan says, shaking his head. He looks annoyed, his mouth
pinched tight as he stares ahead at the tv screen. "And you're not going to—you
guys won't even—"
"It hasn't been two years," Spencer says, turning away. Why, why, why did he
ever come clean to Ryan about this whole thing? "It wasn't the whole time. And
we're not. We're just."
"Fucking?" Ryan says.
"No," Spencer says. "We're not justfucking."
"That's my point," Ryan mutters.
"That's my point, too," Spencer says, shrugging, looking away. He doesn't know
what they are, and neither does Brendon. Brendon doesn't like names for
things—it makes him tense up, makes him nervous. Spencer doesn't like it when
Brendon's nervous. And besides, he doesn't really give a shit what they call
it.
It doesn't matter, anyway. Spencer doesn't even know why he and Ryan are
talking about this. Brendon is out of town, visiting family, and so Ryan's over
and they're supposed to be watching a movie and—-and now Ryan is ignoring the
movie in favor of grilling Spencer about Brendon and the relationship they may
or may not have, and it sucks. Spencer didn't sign up for this.
"He's going to leave you," Ryan says, sharp and fierce. Spencer turns back to
him in shock, anger rolling in his stomach. Ryan's eyes are wide and furious
and utterly sincere. "He doesn't know what he wants," Ryan says. Next to him,
just out of Spencer's field of vision, the tv continues to play. Something is
exploding onscreen, because Spencer picked the movie. "He fucks around and you
just lethim," Ryan continues, "Like it doesn't matter, like youdon't matter—"
"You should talk," Spencer says coldly. He looks down at Ryan's phone, still
clenched in one hand. He tries to keep his words civil. If there's anyone who
shouldn't be throwing stones, it's Ryan, but of course Ryan won't see it like
that. "And he's not fucking around. He's—Brendon's not fucking around. It's not
like that with us. He can do what he wants."
"Takes one to know one," Ryan says. "All I'm saying, Spence. You deserve better
than—this. Than whatever he feels like giving you." He stands up then, turns to
leave, back tight with anger, long limbs and awkward angles underneath his
vest. His keys are in one hand and Spencer doesn't know how this got so fucked
up so fast. Or maybe he does, maybe their conversation has been trickling
around the edges of this subject for so long that here and now, it's like a
firecracker. A short fuse and a sharp ignition.
Spencer wants to punch Ryan in the face. He clenches and unclenches his hand.
He tells himself it's a bad idea. Ryan keeps walking.
"Does Keltie deserve better?" Spencer says, before he can stop himself. "Does
she deserve better than you?" The words come out in a rush, jumbled into a heap
of syllables.
In the doorway, Ryan freezes. Spencer swallows down the painful taste in his
gut, the adrenaline rush of too far, too far.
"Of course she does," Ryan hisses, just before he slams the door behind him.
"Of course she does, asshole. What do you think?"

III. October 17, 2010
The only thing that's playing that sounds even remotely interesting is
Paranormal Entity 2. It's not ideal, but Spencer will take what he can get.
"I'm sorry it's not zombies," Spencer says apologetically, as he's buying
Brendon popcorn. "Apparently Hollywood is all out of zombies at the moment."
"It happens," Brendon says, shrugging. "I wanted to see this anyway. The first
one was awesome."
"Uh-huh," Spencer says. He doesn't mention how the first one scared the crap
out of him. He'd watched it all alone one afternoon, kind of bored and
unimpressed until the last ten seconds, and then he'd had to walk out to his
car in the parking lot in the fading light and almost pissed himself when
someone's dog howled.
Brendon keeps up a steady stream of narration, as usual, and shushes Spencer
when Spencer tries to reply. It's a totally annoying movie habit, but Spencer
is used to it by now. At least Brendon tries to keep his voice down during the
scary parts. By half-way in, Spencer jumps every time Brendon brushes his
shoulder.
"You scared?" Brendon whispers, his breath hot on Spencer's ear.
"No," Spencer whispers back. Brendon bites at the curve of Spencer's ear and
doesn't reply.
Afterwards, they go to In and Out. It's kind of stupid, and Spencer can tell by
the grin on Brendon's face that he's trying not to laugh as they pull up, but
Spencer sort of feels like the whole point of this thing is ruined if he takes
Brendon someplace nice that he never would have been able to afford when he was
sixteen.
"Very classy," Brendon says solemnly, as they're getting out. "You really know
how to treat a boy, Spence."
"Be happy it's not ramen," Spencer threatens, and Brendon grins and takes his
hand. He ignores the stares they get from random people while they're standing
in line. No one recognizes them.
"So what are we doing after this?" Brendon says, once they sit down. He pops a
fry into his mouth, chewing obnoxiously.
"I don't know," Spencer admits. "I hadn't actually thought that far. What do
you want to do?" It's only fair, Spencer thinks, to give Brendon the choice.
Brendon thinks about it for a moment. "Mini-golf," he says decisively. "I want
to play mini-golf like whoa."
"We could go to that fun-park-kids-place-thing," Spencer says. "The one that
has like, laser tag and bumper cars and skee ball and stuff."
"We could," Brendon says, with a glint in his eye. "You going to win me an ugly
stuffed animal?"
"Do you want an ugly stuffed animal?" Spencer says. "Because if you do, I might
have to just buy you one. You know I suck at skee-ball."
Brendon shrugs. "It's the principle of the thing," Brendon says, eating another
fry.
"You could win me an ugly stuffed animal," Spencer points out. "In fact, if
you're taking orders, I want a crocodile. A pink one."
"Uh-huh," Brendon says, through the first bite of his cheeseburger. "Pink
Crocodile. Duly noted, you freak."

January 17, 2008
It's raining in London. The balcony of their hotel is under yet another
balcony, all stacked up like rows of shoebox lids jutting out from the walls.
Really ornate shoebox lids, with curving girders of iron. They swoop up,
pushing out from Spencer's feet, only to curl back in neatly at the railing.
Brendon's smoking a cigarette, for no reason that Spencer can ascertain. He's
leaning up against the railing, staring out into the flat grays and browns and
reds of the city, muted by rain, hidden by fog. The raindrops form a curtain
six inches from the tip of his nose. He's turning his head to inhale every time
he takes a drag, holding the cherry away from the danger zone.
Spencer watches him from the open door of their room, leaning up against the
sliding glass door. It's winter, but it's been unseasonably warm all year.
Global warming is totally going to kill them all, but at least it means it's 50
degrees out right now, and Brendon only needs to wear a thin jacket over his
plaid shirt to keep warm.
"Where did you get those?" Spencer says, eventually, taking a sip of his beer
before moving to join Brendon at the railing. "I thought they were stupid
expensive over here, with the exchange rate."
"They are," Brendon says, shrugging. He turns around, smiling briefly at
Spencer before facing forward again. "I wanted a few. I gave the rest to
Shane."
"Any reason?" Spencer says. He lets himself lean so that they're just slightly
touching, shoulder to shoulder, nothing incriminating. They're in public, but
they aren't, really. Spencer doesn't think anyone can see them up here through
the rain, but Lindsey Lohan didn't think anyone would see her sunbathing
topless, and look how that turned out. The moral of the story is, people with
cameras are scary unless they're your friends. Or maybe the moral is that
famous people shouldn't keep secrets, but Spencer doesn't really have time for
that one. Ryan's words are still ringing in his ears, a month on. They've fixed
it, apologized, but the hairline fracture is still there, visible to anyone who
cares to look.
Now, they just don't talk about Brendon.
"Just thinking," Brendon says, taking another drag. "Just needed to think.
That's all."
"I hear most people think with their brains," Spencer says. "Not with their
lungs." He leans over and steals a drag of Brendon's cigarette.
Spencer inhales, thinks about what Ryan said. He thinks about how he and
Brendon haven't fucked in a while. Not a long time, just a couple of weeks.
They've been busy, and sometimes they just—don't. Sometimes Brendon pulls away,
and when that happens Spencer just lets him go.
"You want to stay with me tonight?" Brendon says, taking the cigarette back
with careful fingers. It's almost down to the filter, but Brendon sucks one
more drag down before flicking it over the railing. They both lean over to
watch the cherry fall, a tiny point of light extinguished by the rain.
"I am staying with you," Spencer says. He doesn't feel like being easy. He
wants to make Brendon work for it.
"No, I mean," Brendon shrugs one shoulder. "We could stay in. Just, you know.
You and me."
Spencer leans his forearms on the railing, pushing back with his knees, ducking
his head down so he can rest it against his forearms for a minute. The stretch
is immediate and apparent. It feels good all the way down to his legs.
"If you want to fuck, you just have to say it," Spencer says, against his own
better judgment. Sometimes he's too forward. Sometimes he scares Brendon off,
but he's tired of playing these games.
Brendon bites his lip. "Okay," Brendon says. "Okay. Yeah."
"Right," Spencer says. It should feel like a victory, but it doesn't, not
really. He feels vaguely hollow inside.
"Fuck it," Brendon murmurs, under his breath. He swallows in a whole mouthful
of air, shoulders curling up around his ears, and then lets it out. Spencer
expects that to be the prelude to kissing—they don't have anywhere to go,
they're just waiting around for Ryan and Jon and Zack to finish showering, and
if they're not even going to leave with them then there's nothing stopping him
and Brendon from starting right now.
It should be a prelude, and so Spencer doesn't quite know what to do when
Brendon says "How many other people have you slept with in the past six
months?"
"What?" Spencer says. He can feel his brow furrowing. It's an odd feeling.
"Besides me," Brendon says. "How many, Spence?"
"Uh," Spencer says. He tries to think. Time passes in such a blur. Spencer can
barely remember what happened last week. Six months ago would have been June.
So okay, summer, coming back from the cabin, the new album, a couple of one-off
shows, Ryan and Spencer's birthdays, Reading and Leeds, more recording. "Two,"
Spencer guesses. It's a ballpark. It's definitely not more than that, and two
seems like a safe number. Or maybe—wait, no. Maybe it's one. Maybe it's less
than that. Spencer can't remember.
Brendon lets out a breath. "Okay," he says.
"Why?" Spencer says. "You think I'm not safe? I always—dammit, Brendon. You
knowI'm always safe." Out of all the fucking things to be suddenly freaked
about, Spencer thinks crankily, and then Brendon opens his mouth again.
"I just wondered," Brendon says. "I don't know. I wanted to know."
"So you can give me a pity fuck?" Spencer says, before he can stop himself.
"Thanks, Brendon."
"No," Brendon says, finally turning to face Spencer. His eyes are wide and
confused. "No, I—why are you being such a dick about this? I just wanted to
know."
"Because it doesn't matter," Spencer says. "Do you want to do this, or not?"
"The last time I slept with someone else was before the cabin," Brendon blurts
out, and then he looks away again. Spencer pauses, tirade still forming in his
mind. He opens his mouth, and then he closes it again, and he still can't think
of anything to say.
"I don't know," Brendon says, answering the questions that Spencer hasn't
asked. "I have no fucking clue why. I just—I'm so bad at this."
"At not sleeping with people?" Spencer says.
"At realizing there's only person I want to fuck," Brendon says. He looks
terrified. "So maybe we shouldn't do this. Because that's not—if that's not
what you want, maybe we just shouldn't."
"Oh," Spencer says. He can hear Ryan's words in his head, and he wants to run
out of the room and into Ryan's room and be like fuck YOU, asshole. You thought
you had him figured out.Spencer thinks about how sometimes Ryan only sees
himself in every surface, every reflection.
"I'm sorry," Brendon says, shaking his head. "I shouldn't have said anything."
"No, it's," Spencer tries to think, to process this new information. "It's
okay."
"I'm glad it's okay with you," Brendon mutters. "Right, because that's what I
was worried about."
"Brendon, hey," Spencer says, intentionally muting his tone. Now isn't the time
for accusations. "No, I'm just. I didn't think you—"
"Me either," Brendon says, with an awkward smile. He pushes himself up to his
tip-toes, and then back down, hands still clinging to the railing. A fine sheen
of water droplets rest on the delicate hairs of his forearms. "But now you
know. So."
"So," Spencer says. "Yeah." The city is nearly silent beneath them. The rain
mutes everything, turning the hum of city noise into a soft murmur. Spencer
listens to the beeping of a far-off car horn, fading slowly away as the driver
moves forward.
"You still want to do this?" Brendon says softly. Brendon's hair is sticking
slightly to the back of his neck. Spencer wants to brush it away, wants to tug
Brendon into their room and find out how those raindrops taste on his skin.
Spencer wants a lot of things.
"Yeah," Spencer says. "Yeah, I do."

February 17, 2008
"Sometimes I don't want to be me," Brendon says quietly. His feet dangle off
the end of the high bar stool. Through the window, it's raining again. Spencer
can't believe the amount of rain they've managed to run into in the past two
months. It's like the clouds are following them, continent to continent, and as
soon as they're done doing whatever they have to do—like shooting an outdoor
video, thank god—the sky fucking opens up again.
"Me either," Spencer says, snagging the last buffalo wing off Brendon's plate.
Neither of them have mentioned the fact that Brendon's still theoretically
vegetarian. "I kind of want to be Batman. If we're making a list."
"Batman would be awesome," Brendon agrees. He's silent for a while. The bar is
muted around them, a low hum that seeps into Spencer's spine and makes him lax
and lazy. Or maybe that's just the beer.
Three beers.
Whatever.
"Do you ever wish you weren't you, though?" Brendon says. "Like. Like,
sometimes you just want—I don't know. A few hours off. From being you."
"Uh," Spencer says. He's getting the sense that Brendon is slightly drunk and
philosophical, which is fine, but it requires Spencer to refocus on the
conversation. "Yeah," Spencer says, slowly. "Yeah, sometimes." He thinks about
all the interviews he'd gladly give up, all the long flights and travel days
and stomach flu outbreaks. It's not that he's not grateful, because holy shit,
when Spencer actually takes a step back and looks at his life, it's way more
awesome than he ever expected. But sometimes he wishes he could just trade it
with someone else, because he knows as well as anyone that for every kid like
him—there's six thousand more, recording in basement home studios and eating
ramen and dying for a taste of fame. Spencer kind of wishes he could just pick
one of those kids to trade with, sometimes. The ones who crowd up against the
barrier at shows, the ones who slip them CD's in plastic sleeves at meet and
greets, looking awkward and eager and asking if maybe, if they see Pete any
time soon, you know. Could you?
"What are you thinking about?" Brendon says, nudging him. "Bro. You got all
quiet and thoughtful."
"Just. Fame and stuff," Spencer says, and then grins at Brendon when he says
it, because the reality of it is that they aren't even all that famous. "I
guess I was just thinking about those kids at shows, you know, how sometimes I
wish I could trade with one of them."
"Kids at shows?" Brendon says.
"The ones who still want to make it," Spencer clarifies. "You asked if I didn't
want to be me, and I guess sometimes I don't, but mostly I just kind of want to
trade with them. Give them a taste. I'd take a few hours back in high school
for that."
Brendon raises an eyebrow at him. "Wouldn't that be like, fucking torture,
though?" he says. "Getting a taste of fame and then having to give it up.
Better to have loved, and all that. Or wait, shit, is it the other way around?"
"I think you just agreed with me," Spencer says. "But I don't think you meant
to."
"Dammit," Brendon says, shaking his head and laughing.

IV. October 17, 2010
Brendon kicks his ass at skee-ball, which is exactly what Spencer expected.
There are no pink crocodiles to be had for love or money. They sit at the
neighboring bar and drink beers—a concession to reality, and also Spencer
really wants a beer—and then they wander back through the parking lot towards
Spencer's car, illuminated by patches of incandescent light. It's a breezy
night. Spencer can taste the rain that's coming, and they both leave their
windows rolled down for the drive home.
Brendon kisses him in the driveway, leans over once Spencer's parked and
clambers into his lap. Spencer leans down and pushes his seat back with one
hand, the other a steadying presence on the small of Brendon's back. When
Brendon finally pulls away, he gives Spencer a wide-eyed look and asks, "Are
your parents home?"
Spencer blinks at him, and then there's a warm feeling in his chest, something
golden and expansive and a little bit sore. He hadn't mentioned this part of
it, because he didn't want to push. This is the part he's more embarrassed
about, if he's honest.
Spencer knows there's no way of fixing the past; this is at best a way to
smooth over the painful edges. Memories to replace the ones that still hurt
sometimes, even if they didn't hurt while they happened. Even if neither of
them realized what they were doing until it was too late, until they finally
had something else and only then looked back and saw all the jagged edges
they'd managed to ignore for so long.
"No," Spencer says. "You want to come inside? I don't think they're home."
"Yeah," Brendon says, smiling a little. He shifts on Spencer's lap, the corner
of his iPhone digging into Spencer's hip through his painted-on jeans. "In a
little bit. Let's stay out here for a while, first."
When Brendon leans back in, his glasses bump against Spencer's nose.
They leave them on.
September 17, 2009
"What are you thinking about?" Spencer whispers, because Brendon's eyes are
closed, lashes dark against the pale hollows of his cheekbones, eyes shadowed
by the golden light of the lamp next to Spencer's bed. Brendon sucks in a
breath, kisses him again, teeth sharp against Spencer's lower lip.
"I'm thinking we met in a club, " Brendon says, eyes still closed. His voice is
soft, almost hesitant. "I've never seen you before tonight. You don't know who
I am, we're just—nobodies, just kids—"
"Kids?" Spencer says, sliding his hand down to graze over the swell of
Brendon's ass. It gets a snort, a small laugh and a flicker of eyelash from
Brendon. "You know what I mean," Brendon says, leaning in to suck just under
Spencer's ear, tongue soft and slick against the stubble. "The kids who go to
shows. Those kids."
"Yeah," Spencer says, tipping his head back. They were those kids, once. It's
not such a stretch. "Were we at a show?"
"Yeah," Brendon breathes. "And fuck, you're—you, just like you are now, and I'm
like eighteen, and I can't stop staring at you—"
Spencer swallows, his mouth falling open a little. Brendon's hard against his
thigh; the skin on his lower back is sweat-damp, warm through his thin t-shirt.
Spencer can see him so clearly; skinny jeans, tiny boy-hips, glasses and hair
and his loud, awkward laugh. He thinks about standing in a crowd and watching
Brendon beam at the stage, about the way his Sidekick used to wiggle out of his
pockets because his jeans were so tight.
"Keep talking," Spencer says, and Brendon rolls his hips, ass pushing back up
against Spencer's palm.
"I think you're so hot," Brendon says, pressing his face into Spencer's
shoulder. The words are muffled, but clear enough. "And we're in the crowd, and
you keep looking at me, and I can't stop thinking about how much I want it,
about how I want to just go home with you and lay back on your bed and let you
fuck me. I'm shivering with it, even though it's hot in the club, even though I
don't know you at all, because I can almost feel it, your hands on my hips, the
stretch, the slide of you pushing in—"
"Jesus," Spencer says.
"I really want it," Brendon whispers, mouth moving against Spencer's neck.
Spencer can feel the way he's shaking, just a little. "I want it, and I don't
want to have to think about it."
"Okay," Spencer says. "We can. Okay."
"Are you sure?" Brendon says, and tips his head back, just enough so that
Spencer can see his eyes. He takes a deep breath. His voice is soft like an
echo when it returns, soft and hesitant. "You only just met me," Brendon says,
holding Spencer's gaze, and Spencer swallows down the questions taking up space
in his throat. Not now, Spencer thinks. Later on, ask him later, not now. This
is a fragile peace, stretched out between them. The moment of no return. They
can drop the act, or they can keep going.
"That's okay," Spencer says, letting his hands wander back towards the seam of
Brendon's jeans. He closes his eyes and tries to think about what he would tell
Brendon—this Brendon, the one here and now, superimposed over the present like
a double exposure. "I have stuff," Spencer says. "We'll be safe. You've done
this before, right?"
"Yeah," Brendon says. Spencer presses his fingers down, tracing the crease, and
Brendon arches up into his hand. "Couple times."
"We'll make it good," Spencer hears himself say, as if from a great distance.
Brendon flicks his eyes up again, bites his lip. His face is at once
calculating, and utterly honest. He leans up for more kisses, and Spencer lets
him. "We'll make it good," Spencer whispers, cupping Brendon's face between his
palms. "I'll make it good. For you."

April 17, 2010
"So what's up for tonight?" Spencer says, scraping the last of the lo mein off
his plate and into the garbage disposal. He turns around to take Brendon's
plate, holding out his hand. Brendon leans over him instead, scraping the
noodles in over his shoulder. "You're making this way harder than it has to
be," Spencer points out, because Brendon's aim is a little off, and not all of
the noodles make their way down the drain.
"It's more exciting this way," Brendon says, pressing a fleeting kiss to the
side of Spencer's forehead before setting the plate down next to the counter.
Spencer rolls his eyes, but he grabs Brendon's plate anyway, rising it off
before sticking it in the dishwasher next to his own.
"Speaking of exciting—" Spencer says, trying to get the conversation back on
track. Brendon hums in response, but doesn't actually reply. Spencer sticks the
cover over the drain, and then leans over to flip the switch. The disposal
whirrs into life, and for a few moments there's no point in talking. Then it's
quiet again, and Brendon still hasn't responded.
"We don't have to," Spencer points out, because that's part of this. It's not a
requirement. It's interest-only, like they'd agreed from the beginning. Just if
they want to, if they need to. It's a night away from being Brendon-and-
Spencer-from-Panic!-at-the-Disco, and sometimes they need it, and sometimes
they don't. Sometimes it's a night to just be Brendon and Spencer, to sit
around and watch lame movies half-naked and smoke up and turn their phones off.
Sometimes they forget the date entirely, but tonight Spencer has remembered and
he wants to give Brendon the option.
"I want to," Brendon says, eventually. He's popping the cap off a can of PBR,
because Brendon is nothing if not a classy drinker. And by classy, Spencer
means lame. "I want to, but I just—"
"Hey," Spencer says, wiping his hands off on the dishtowel. "Hey, B. You know
you can tell me." He wonders what Brendon wants that's so kinky and beyond-the-
pale that he can't even verbalize it, and then Brendon says, "I really just
want to fuck."
Spencer blinks. "Okay," Spencer says.
"I just want to have some beers and then get naked and fuck you," Brendon says.
"Is that okay?"
"Yeah," Spencer says. "Yeah, that's—that's totally okay."
"Awesome," Brendon says. He tosses Spencer a beer, and they drink them leaning
against the kitchen island. A breeze wafts through the open window, the scent
of heated earth and summer and ozone. They have another beer, and then another,
and then Brendon kisses him, soft and careful. His mouth is warm. Spencer pulls
away, eventually, after what feels like a long, long time. He drains the last
of his beer and then tosses it across the kitchen towards the garbage. He
misses. The beer bounces off the side with a spray of foam and a clang!
"Easy there, Cujo," Brendon snickers, and Spencer grins at him. "Let's go get
naked," Spencer says, and Brendon grins back at him and puts down his beer.
It's slow going. Brendon's wearing a shrunken t-shirt and stupid flowery board-
shorts that show off his hips, and he looks good pressed up against the wall
with Spencer's hands on his skin. Spencer takes advantage of this, and soon
they're not so much walking to the bedroom as making out in the hallway and
vaguely stumbling towards their destination.
"I had plans," Brendon murmurs eventually, low and soft in Spencer's ear. "This
wasn't in the plan."
"Too bad," Spencer murmurs back, totally focused on the thin skin at the curve
of Brendon's neck, and the way Brendon tastes like salt and sand under his
mouth. "New plan."
"No," Brendon says, and digs his fingers into Spencer's hair, yanking firmly
until Spencer gives up and moves away with an injured noise. "Plans that
involve fucking. I have them."
"Fine," Spencer says, and he tries for a pout but it comes out wrong on his
face, lopsided and entirely unconvincing. Brendon's eyes crinkle at the
corners. "You still can't pout for shit," Brendon says, grinning at him. "You
look like a constipated turtle."
"Do you know a lot of constipated turtles?"Spencer says, letting himself be
pulled along, Brendon's fingers clasped firmly in his own.
"No," Brendon says, and then they're in the bedroom. The bed is a jumble of
blankets and pillows. When Spencer lies back on the sheets, he can smell both
himself and Brendon, the comforting scent of their skin.
Brendon is impatient but gentle, like he always is. He always wants Spencer
naked now and to be ready now but he knows enough not to push, knows that just
wanting it won't make it so. It takes Spencer a while. He's turned on, he's
hard and he's naked and his brain is ready for it but they don't do this a lot.
It takes his body longer than usual to warm up to the feeling.
Brendon kisses him, wet and messy, sucks bruises into Spencer's collarbone and
uses too much lube. Spencer's entire thigh area is sticky by the time Brendon's
pulling out his fingers, but the slide is worth it, the first push smooth and
wet and warm. Spencer tips his head back. His mouth falls open and Brendon
pauses, squeezing his fingers where they're laced together, checking in.
"S'okay," Spencer mumbles. "S'okay, keep going."
"Yeah," Brendon whispers, and starts to move. This is everything, Spencer
thinks blearily, before he gets lost in the rhythm. Before he lets himself
relax into the pressure inside, no mind, no single heartbeat, just the two of
them moving together, breathing inside each other until there's nothing left.
This is everything. You are everything.

V. October 17, 2010.
Brendon sticks close to Spencer while he unlocks the door, hands in Spencer's
back pockets, mouth hot on the back of Spencer's neck.
"You're sure they're gone?" Brendon says, once the door is open. He smiles
against the back of Spencer's neck.
"Yeah," Spencer says, even though they both know his parents are miles and
miles away in Vegas. "They're gone. We'll be home alone."
"Good," Brendon says, and then pushes Spencer forward. Spencer stumbles a
little, into the doorway, and then Brendon finally detaches himself from
Spencer's back so Spencer can stand upright.
Spencer shakes his neck out, rolling his back and feeling the vertebrae in his
spine pop into place. When he's done, he looks up to see Brendon watching him.
Brendon looks hesitant, almost, the bravado totally wiped away. He looks
younger than Spencer's seen him look all night, even with the outfit.
"Upstairs?" Spencer manages to croke out, and Brendon smiles a little and nods.
He kisses Spencer again as they're walking into the bedroom.
Everything is suddenly fraught with a familiar tension. It takes Spencer's
breathe away. It's that feeling of maybe, of are we going to? of not knowing
where the boundaries lie before everything starts.
Brendon's hands are on Spencer's hips, careful above the fabric. Spencer tugs
Brendon's head to the side, lets himself place three tiny marks on the side of
Brendon's neck while Brendon squirms, makes tiny, pleased noises. He has one
hand at the small of Brendon's back. Everything is still above the waist.
Brendon hasn't touched him at all like that; had barely even rolled his hips
down when they were in the car.
Spencer wonders how this is going to go.
"Come lie down with me," Brendon murmurs, just then, and it's smooth, too
smooth. Spencer wants to laugh but he doesn't. He wouldn't have laughed then,
and he's not going to laugh now, even if the perspective of distance affords
him a clearer view of when Brendon is and isn't hamming it up. Brendon's
embellishing the tone, just a little, but Spencer doesn't think he's doing it
on purpose.
It's slow. Everything right now is slow, expansive, shimmering at the edges.
They lay down and Brendon crawls on top of him and Spencer is pretty sure they
actually make out for at least an hour, if not more. He's achingly hard, mouth
sore and bruised, by the time Brendon pulls away and says softly. "Spencer."
"Hey," Spencer whispers back, moving his hand from Brendon's shoulder up to
Brendon's jawline, rubbing his thumb comfortingly over the hidden space
underneath Brendon's ear. "You okay?"
"Is this my first time?" Brendon says, instead. Spencer swallows. Brendon's
voice is like glass, small and fragile to the touch. But maybe not glass,
because there's a warmth hidden underneath the surface. Like he's waiting for
Spencer to say yes. As though somehow they have been leading up to this,
stepping around the edges without knowing what they needed was here all along.
"Yes," Spencer says, swallowing hard. "If. If you want it to be."
"Is it yours?" Brendon says, his eyes a little darker.
"Yeah," Spencer says. "Yeah, it is."
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