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23 September 2009 @ 04:13 pm
Bandom fic: Brendon in Real Life  
Bandom fic: Brendon in Real Life
Brendon/Spencer, NC-17, 6000 words

Written for fiddleyoumust in the popoffacork challenge.

"I'm in jail," said Brendon. "You have to come bail me out, Spence, please?"
Brendon deals with his feelings for Spencer in a very adult manner.

a/n: Helen insisted I post this, so blame her for the spam today! I am indebted to her, softlyforgotten and murklins for their habitually stellar beta-work. &youguys!;

Brendon woke Spencer by breathing in his ear and prodding at his shoulder so that, lax in sleep, it rolled back and forth. Spencer was aware of Brendon doing this as he swam up from the depths of a dream about green sausages and pigs; just aware enough to be severely irritated when he woke fully.

The curtains were thrown wide open, but the sky was still a milky grey. "Fuck off," said Spencer, grinding the pillowcase between his teeth. "Too early."

"Rise and shine, sleepyhead!" said Brendon cheerfully. He acted like Spencer had said nothing at all. He was also fully dressed.

It reminded Spencer of Christmas morning - the first they'd shared in the same house. Since the very first incarnation of Panic!, Spencer had been used to dropping by his friends' houses late on Christmas Day to exchange presents and to make sure Brendon had enough to eat (in the early days) or that he hadn't electrocuted someone with fairy lights (more recently). Spencer had never realised Brendon actually got up at the crack of dawn on Christmas Day. That wouldn't have been so bad except that he insisted Spencer get up too. They opened the two presents under the tree and made hot chocolate; Spencer fell asleep on Brendon's shoulder watching stupid made-for-the-holidays cartoons. He arrived late at his family's Christmas dinner, mad at Brendon for not waking him. It was not his best holiday memory.

"Go. Away," said Spencer. He rose up a little on one elbow but didn't open his eyes fully, knowing that if he did he'd never fall back asleep.

"Nope." Brendon wrapped two hands around Spencer's bicep and tugged. His hands were warm and slightly sweaty, as usual. Spencer wondered if it was weird that he knew that.

Brendon liked to visit Spencer in bed in the mornings, as Spencer would sleep till noon daily if he could and Brendon was a natural early riser. As Brendon usually brought breakfast, snuggly dogs or both, Spencer hadn't complained yet. Brendon didn't mind that Spencer only hummed responses to his chatter and kicked his cold toes away; it seemed to reassure Brendon that Spencer was there - even practically comatose - if the constant flitting touches were anything to go by.

Brendon wasn't above manhandling Spencer out of bed, but even he usually had a better survival instinct than to do so at - Spencer squinted - six-thirty am. They didn't have any early morning radio interviews and Spencer could think of no other reason why Brendon would inflict such torture on him.

"It's the baby shower today!" said Brendon. "We have to go buy decorations, remember?"

Spencer remembered. He remembered drunkenly volunteering to help and Ashlee, cruel mastermind that she was, taking advantage of his inebriated state and roping him into collecting her pre-ordered decorations and putting them up. He was too tired to wonder why Brendon was suddenly so keen on the whole plan. This was the Brendon who had yet to buy Ashlee a gift. Spencer had had to buy two presents in the end, as Brendon kept promising he'd get his own and coming back from designated baby-gift shopping trips with iTouches and obscure CDs and, on one memorable occasion, a stack of vintage porno mags. Spencer didn't think the Wentzes' unborn daughter would be a position to appreciate those for decades to come, if at all.

"Still don't understand," said Spencer, "why it is six-thirty."

Brendon made an indignant noise directly inherited from his mother. "We have to beat the downtown traffic, hello? Where have you been driving the last three years?"

"Fine." Spencer fountained the bedcovers with his heels and flopped out of bed, ungainly as a newborn seal. Brendon was at his elbow right away, helping him stay balanced, in one of those curious, secretive acts of kindness he was always so unwilling to acknowledge. A second later he'd darted away, giving Spencer's heart-patterned boxers the eye. Spencer even opened his mouth to retort that they were a gift before he remembered that they actually were - from Haley. He sighed instead, flicking the unheld and often-repeated banter from his mind, and wobbled into the bathroom.

In the moments before he kicked shut the door, he saw Brendon's still, blank face, staring at him in the mirror.


Brendon threw peanut M&Ms into the air and caught them in his mouth, much to the delight of Bronx and - secretly - Spencer. Bronx had broken his usual phlegmatic expression to blow - assumingly - appreciative bubbles at Brendon. Spencer was sure he even caught a flicker of a smile when Brendon gave a handful to Bronx to eat. Bronx's idea of eating consisted of sucking off all the chocolate and solemnly handing the sodden peanut back to Brendon.

"Go on," said Spencer, waving a bottle of Coors drunkenly, as befitted it. "You've had worse in your mouth," he added, because it was true.

"You don't know the half of it," murmured Brendon. All the same, he gulped down the peanuts a la baby spit with barely a wince. In somewhat impressed congratulation, Spencer leaned in and clinked his beer bottle against Brendon's.

"What else can we get you to eat?" Spencer wondered aloud, thinking along the lines of doggy-licked rusks or suspiciously furred baby food. They were among the last guests at the baby shower, which had started at four pm - a ridiculous time to have a party, but then, pregnant women slept a lot and were preternaturally grumpy, so Spencer didn't argue. Pete and Ashlee had snuck off for some alone time, leaving Spencer and Brendon holding the baby - literally. Patrick was in the kitchen with a few other stragglers. Spencer could tell because someone was playing the spoons. If you left Patrick in a bare cell with mud for a floor he'd find some way of wringing a tune out of it.

"I haven't eaten you," said Brendon. Spencer was about to laugh it off when Brendon stretched his throat across Spencer's shoulder and sucked his earlobe gently into his mouth. Spencer probably should have been freaked out by Brendon's manifesting cannibalism, but all he felt was a warm wave roll down his body, leaving his skin tingling in its wake.

When he didn't move - didn't shrug Brendon off or even say a word - Brendon's mouth ghosted across Spencer's cheek. His hands slipped over Spencer's, which were wet from bottle condensation, and carefully pulled it out by the neck.

As soon as both bottles were safely out of the way Brendon pounced. Spencer had no other word for it. One minute, Brendon's lips were tickling his stubble and his hand stroked lightly down Spencer's sleeve; the next, Spencer was beneath Brendon, a tumbling cage of arms and legs and hot, hot mouth.

"I'm gonna eat you alive," said Brendon softly, hands clenched around Spencer's chest. He dipped his head and found Spencer's mouth again, kissing hard and deep. His knees forced Spencer's legs apart - not that Spencer was fighting. Every part of Brendon wanted to taste Spencer, from the fingers shoving up his shirt and squirming into his jeans, to his tongue and even his bare toes, brushing the tiny hairs on Spencer's leg the wrong way.

And Brendon wasn't the only one who was hungry.


Spencer awoke from a delicious sleep to the harsh trill of a phone ringing. He nosed into the pillow, pretending that he was still asleep even as he grew steadily more alert. The brush of sheets against his bare skin brought the events of the previous night into startling clarity. Rather than be embarrassed - yet - he decided to use the memory to his advantage.

"Bren, get that, willya?" he mumbled. There was no reply, and the phone continued to ring. Spencer kicked Brendon, only to find the space where he'd been empty and cold.

Spencer woke up completely at that. He hoped for Brendon's sake that Brendon was just out getting them some breakfast, and that he hadn't bailed on Spencer after seducing him at Pete and Ashlee's baby shower.

The phone was still ringing, which was unusual. Most people gave up after ten or so rings in favour of sending a message or twittering. Frowning, Spencer reached towards the noise - it was coming from deep within the bedclothes - and winced as several muscles in his groin pinged uncomfortably. He eventually located the phone, wrapped up in Brendon's teal boxers. Extricating it was less disgusting than it might otherwise have been, but Spencer still blushed as he remembered Brendon practically ripping them in half in his haste to get them off.

"Hello?" he answered. His voice sounded gruff to his own ears, which matched the way the inside of his mouth felt sandpapered.

"Spencer, thank god. I thought you were never going to answer. Listen, I have to be quick, I only get five minutes."

"Brendon?" Spencer was confused. "What do you mean? Where are you?"

"I'm in jail," said Brendon. "You have to come bail me out, Spence, please?"

Spencer was already fumbling for his shirt (flung inside out across the bedside lamp). He felt a twinge of hurt that Brendon felt the need to beg in this situation. Then again, if Brendon had killed someone, maybe begging was in order.

"Of course, I just have to find my pants -" Spencer couldn't see them anywhere. His boxers, however, were swinging from the doorknob.

"Yeah, um." There was a long burst of static as Brendon breathed in. "I'm kind of wearing them?"


In the end, Spencer had to wear a pair of Ashlee's sweatpants. A pair of Ashlee's pregnancy sweatpants, because no one Spencer knew was normal-sized, least of all Pete or Brendon. At least Pete seemed inclined to be amused rather than enraged about Brendon's stint in the nick.

"What's he in for?" he asked. His gaze was piercing, although that could have been a side-effect of watching Bronx demolish a bowl of sliced banana.

"I don't know," said Spencer. "He didn't say."

"Do you need my credit card?"

"Christ, I hope not." Spencer rubbed his eyes, feeling a malodorous waft from his armpits. He smelt of sex. He smelt of sex in front of a baby. "But I could use some transport."

Pete tossed him the keys of the nanny car without another word.


Spencer could barely find the pedals under the drifts of plastic toys on the floor of the Jeep. There were three different baby chairs strapped into the backseat, presumably in case Bronx fancied a change of scenery, and about a million fluffy things dangling from the rear-view mirror. They were incredibly distracting, especially in Spencer's current state of mind.

The precinct was quiet when he drove into the carpark. He'd been expecting a lot of flashing lights and maybe a showdown between shouting police and an armed getaway driver, but the only person in sight was a female police officer smoking a stubby cigarette and squinting against the sun. Spencer jammed the Jeep into park and leapt out, his sockless feet squelching uncomfortably inside his shoes.

"I'm here to bail out my friend," he said breathlessly. "He's innocent, I'm pretty sure -"

"Kid," said the police officer, "I'm on my break. There's a reception inside for a reason."

She blew a smoke ring. Spencer was impressed in spite of himself.

The officer on duty looked relieved when he said he was there to bail out Brendon Urie. "The one who sang all night?" he said. "Nothing but Cher songs? That's great, follow me."

"What are the charges?"

The officer looked down at a file, which had Brendon Urie stamped on it in smudgy black letters. Spencer's stomach clamped, and for the first time he felt afraid. "Causing an affray in a public place - more singing - and one count of reckless driving."

"Oh God." The blood drained from Spencer's face. "He was drunk driving?"

The officer coughed. "Ah, not quite. That is, he was certainly drunk, but he wasn't driving a car so much as a ... well, a shopping trolley." At the look on Spencer face, the officer added, "Down the wrong side of the road!" He leaned forward. "Between you and me, I think they arrested him to keep him from harming himself."

"Yes," said Spencer grimly, "that sounds about right."

He signed a few papers and paid the two hundred dollar bail - god, Brendon owed him so many new shoes for this - before he was lead to the cells. Brendon was the only inhabitant. Spencer heard him before he saw him, hoarsely belting out, "When I was five and you were six, we rode on horses made of sticks." The officer rolled his eyes expressively.

Brendon lit up when he saw Spencer, jumping up and running full pelt into a hug. Spencer hugged him back tightly - surely he was allowed, after last night? - but the action seemed to confuse Brendon, who dropped his arms and laughed.

"Thanks for coming for me," he said. His over-bright eyes darted around Spencer's face, eyes-nose-mouth-nose-mouth-mouth-mouth. He'd said some things last night about Spencer's mouth that Spencer hadn't realised anyone could think about his mouth. Clearly Brendon was remembering that too, for his face started to turn red.

"Did you think I wouldn't?" asked Spencer.

"Well -" Brendon crossed his arms over his middle, tapping a restless shuffle on the floor. "- you might have been mad at me. For getting into jail," he added hastily, as if Spencer were going to get into a fight about their sexual exploits in front of an officer for the law.

"I hate to break up this touching reunion," the officer of the law interrupted, "but I have to get back to my desk. You can see yourselves out."

"C'mon, c'mon, let's break for freedom!" said Brendon. He grabbed Spencer's hand and tugged him away. He was sweating profusely, and while the aircon in the cells wasn't the greatest it shouldn't have affected him that much.

"Nice wheels," laughed Brendon.

"You were the one who drove us to the party," Spencer pointed out. "Where is your car now?"

Brendon looked shifty. "I'm not sure. And it was a shower."

"What was a shower?"

"The party," said Brendon, "was a baby shower."

"I know that," said Spencer, exasperated.

"Shove over," said Brendon. "I'm driving."


On the basis of car insurance, the holding thereof, Spencer couldn't object to Brendon driving. He felt he should have once Brendon peeled out of the police carpark and into the three lanes of traffic without so much as a cursory glance in the mirrors. As soon as he could, Brendon got on the freeway and overtook lorries and race cars with reckless abandon, cutting in so fine Spencer swore he saw sparks from the connecting bumpers.

"Where the hell are we going?" Spencer yelled over the thumping bass music, when he regained his voice. Brendon had all the windows down and the air rushing by was as loud as three jets taking off. The plastic flowers attached to the windscreen flailed merrily, nearly taking out Spencer's eye.

"What?" Brendon took his eye off the road and immediately the Jeep swerved alarmingly. Spencer huddled into his seat to the sound of disgruntled beeping and strained brakes. He didn't know anyone who lived somewhere that took a freeway to get to; it was one of the reasons he'd persuaded Brendon into buying the house he'd bought.

Spencer didn't like the look of the place they were driving through when Brendon finally turned off the freeway. Pete was wildly overprotective of Bronx, but Spencer doubted that even he had bulletproof windows fitted into the nanny's ride. This looked like the kind of neighbourhood where they'd come in handy.

All Spencer's worst fears were swept aside when Brendon hit the breaks for the first time and rode the sidewalk beside a blinking neon sign - to be replaced by a fear he hadn't even known he had. The sign was doubly tawdry in daylight and the outline of a naked woman was missing a few bulbs, so she only had one leg.

"Surprise!" said Brendon. He killed the engine and hopped out before Spencer could speak, which was a wise move on his part. Spencer could yell with the best of them, but he hated making a scene in public. Damn Brendon for knowing all his weak spots.

Spencer scrambled out of the passenger door. Brendon was yards ahead of him, the dry half-desert, half-ocean breeze lifting his hair and rippling his t-shirt where it wasn't stuck to his back with sweat. When he heard Spencer's jogging footsteps he lifted one arm and buzzed the locks, but didn't turn around. Spencer hurried after him, all too soon finding himself crossing the threshold of the strip joint in Brendon's wake.

It wasn't that Spencer was a prude, or that he had anything against the general concept of hot women taking off their clothes in front of him. But Spencer had been brought up by a feminist and her husband, and he had rooted principles concerning paying for sex and how it was Wrong. He'd been to a few strip clubs in his time, but always in drunken groups where the main object was to laugh at the guys who couldn't contain themselves. Spencer always made sure to tip heavily those times, and not in the stripper's bra.

Brendon didn't appear to have any such scruples, for after gazing around the dimly lit cavern Spencer spotted him on the arm of a woman whose sequinned bikini was barely a nod to modesty. Despite the fact that it wasn't long since lunchtime, there were a number of patrons scattered around the sticky, circular tables. A lone dancer was gyrating lazily and upside down around a pole. Spencer tore his eyes away from her pearl g-string and marched over to Brendon.

"Gloria! This is Spencer!" said Brendon, before Spencer could hiss a word. Brendon was booming in the way he only did when super-high or nervous. Spencer sighed when he saw the cocktail in Brendon's hand. At least that meant he wouldn't insist on driving again. "Remember, the one I told you about?"

"I remember, honey," said Gloria, in a manner eerily reminiscent of the beleaguered police officer whom Brendon had tortured with Cher. "Do you have it?"

"Yup." Brendon rummaged in his back pocket. Spencer grabbed the cocktail before Brendon could spill the drink down Gloria's glorious frontage, and earned himself a genuine smile from her. Brendon handed over a wad of bills - more than enough to cover his own bail, Spencer thought uncharitably - and tucked them into Gloria's sparkling panties.

"C'mon, then," said Gloria. "Remember, I can only guarantee you a few minutes before Charlie cops on."

"A few minutes is all I need," said Brendon, winking lewdly. Gloria led him away and Spencer was left blinking into Brendon's vile cocktail.

"Are you Spencer?" The girl who'd been onstage a few minutes ago raised delicately plucked eyebrows at him. Spencer tried not to look at the way her nipples were dusted with glitter.

"Yeah," he croaked.

"Gloria said for you to take a seat," she said. "Near the stage would be best, I reckon." She had a Southern accent and lusciously tanned skin, like a female Brendon. The thought of Brendon's skin turned Spencer hot and cold, as he remembered sucking little kisses all over Brendon - the soft skin in front of his elbow, his earlobes, his eyelids, the sides of his ankles, and all over his thighs. He didn't even notice when the stripper left, and sat down in a tacky velvet chair in a daze.

The lights dipped then and came up in a dazzling disco array. Barry White oozed out of the loudspeakers and suddenly, Spencer knew all too well why Brendon had brought him here.

It didn't mean he didn't watch, transfixed, as Brendon slithered on to the stage in a filmy white shirt, silver hotpants and a pink feather boa. It just meant that pure and unfiltered humiliation mixed with undeniable heat in his belly. He clutched the arms of the chair in a skull-white grip.

Brendon did a better job of singing along to "My Everything" than he did dancing, but Spencer wasn't judging. The sight of Brendon sliding unashamedly up and down the pole, skin-tight shorts riding up his lean brown thighs, made Spencer's cock ache. He was glad of Ashlee's sweatpants then, as he could discreetly adjust himself and press down on his growing erection at the same time. Then Brendon leaned over backwards, baring acres of flat midriff and flaunting his crotch in Spencer's face. The fact that Brendon was so very bendy was something Spencer had had to block out for years. Suddenly breathing required a lot of concentration.

Brendon flipped himself upright and looped the feather boa around Spencer's neck, shimmying it back and forth while thrusting his hips. Although he was grinning his plastic camera smile, there was something intense in his dark eyes that stopped Spencer from telling him to knock it off. All at once Brendon released the feather boa and swirled back around the pole, keeping himself attached with one bent knee as he popped the buttons on his shirt and let it drop around his elbows. Spencer wanted very much to know where Brendon had learned to pole dance, and if he'd shared his talents with anyone else, so Spencer could find them and kill them. But he was distracted from homicidal thoughts when Brendon planted his feet on the floor and spread his legs, stroking his palms down his legs until he was staring at Spencer between his widely-parted thighs. The shimmery material stretched obscenely over Brendon's ass. Spencer was two seconds from hauling him offstage and on to his lap when the house lights suddenly went up and a man's voice began shouting muffled obscenities.

"Oops," giggled Brendon. "Time to scarper." He leapt off the stage and pulled Spencer up by the arm. Spencer didn't notice Brendon was barefoot until he started hissing as they ran outside on to the gravel.

"Baby," said Spencer, as Brendon hovered in the doorway and pouted. The sound of shouting grew louder and Brendon's eyes widened to almost comical proportions. Spencer was sure it wasn't actually against the law to usurp a strip club's stage show, and he didn't think the proprietor of a dive like this would enjoy calling the police. All the same, he crouched slightly and hefted Brendon over his shoulder. Brendon yelped, but he was heavy and his ass was right next to Spencer's face, so he hurried them back to the Jeep without registering Brendon's protests.

Or maybe they hadn't been protests, because when Spencer shoved him into the passenger seat Brendon was giggling. "My big strong mountain man," he said. "Look at you coming over all Arnie. What's next, woodchopping?"

"You're the one who has the bouncers after us," said Spencer sulkily. He didn't like to be teased, which is why Brendon and Ryan did it all the time.

"Nah, Gloria will calm them down," said Brendon, and just like that, with the car door open and Spencer between his knees, Brendon leaned forward and kissed him.

Spencer gasped with surprise and Brendon took it as permission to slide his tongue boldly into Spencer's mouth, licking inside with such heated concentration Spencer had to grab on to his bare knees to keep his balance. They'd kissed a lot last night, made out for hours before Brendon finally slid his hand down the back of Spencer's jeans - now forever in the hands of a stripper called Gloria, Spencer supposed. He hadn't realised Brendon had learned him so well. The hard-on that hadn't abated surged to life again, nudging against the soft flesh of Brendon's inner thigh. Brendon made a happy mewling sound when he felt it. He buried his hands in Spencer's shirt and tried to pull him bodily into the Jeep, but while he could drum he didn't have the upper body strength of a full-timer.

Brendon drew back and whispered into Spencer's ear, "Get in the car." Then he bit it.

Spencer got in the car, Brendon shoving up to make room. He tipped the passenger seat back as far as it would go but the dash was still prodding Spencer in the back. He was afraid he was squashing Brendon from the way he was wriggling and gasping into Spencer's neck, but when he tried to lever himself upwards Brendon pulled him back down. They kissed like that for a while, the thrust of Brendon's tongue distracting Spencer from the way the windshield was turning his spine into a curve.

"Brendon," Spencer tried. All Brendon did was laugh and push Spencer across the seats, the handbrake scraping his back. He hooked his fingers around the waistband of Spencer's pants.

"Sweatpants," said Brendon, "I approve. And commando, I really approve of that." He was grinning and sweating and red in the face, beard burn bright on his cheeks. His ridiculous shirt was still puddled around his arms - with an impatient grunt, Spencer reached up and yanked it off. The tiny shorts did nothing to hide the bulge of Brendon's hard cock. Spencer could practically see the outline through the sheer material. He traced it with a finger, feeling dampness gather at the head. Brendon threw back his head and groaned, but he also tugged Spencer's hand away.

Cars were not made for having sex in, and Spencer thought the ugly faces on the plastic daises were staring at him in reproach. But he couldn't give a damn when Brendon slid off his sweatpants and tossed them on to one of the baby seats, licked broad wet stripes down to Spencer's balls and beyond. Spencer shuddered and gasped as Brendon's head nestled between his thighs, tongue darting out to swipe kittenish licks across his hole. Spencer bucked his hips up, wanting more, and Brendon got the hint. Still lapping enthusiastically - Spencer could hear every tiny wet noise and it drove him wild - he slid his index finger in alongside his tongue, crooking it just right. It wasn't enough, wasn't nearly enough, but Spencer keened and then moaned as Brendon's other hand came up to roughly grasp his cock, groping it artlessly while he concentrated on fucking Spencer open with his tongue and fingers.

"Fuck, fuck," gasped Spencer. "Gonna come, Brendon."

"Nuh-uh," said Brendon. Spencer hissed and opened his legs wider, bumping off the carseat and the steering wheel, trying to get more of that thrumming vibration. He nearly sobbed when Brendon squeezed the base of his cock in a too-tight grip, preventing him from coming even as his mouth and three fingers, now, sunk deeper inside Spencer.

Brendon pulled out with a slurp that should have been disgusting but somehow, wasn't. "Gonna fuck you now, Spencer Smith," he said, mouth all shiny. "Gonna fuck you in this car."

"Oh God," said Spencer, not entirely from ecstasy. His muscles were already cramping from the unnatural folding, and Brendon fucked hard. He'd loved it, last night in a bed, but even then he was sore all over afterwards.

Brendon didn't give him a chance to argue, slipping on a lubricated condom that was one of a whole variety in the glovebox. Spencer made a mental note to ask Pete about it - or maybe not - and then Brendon was sliding into him, carefully but not slow, and Spencer cried out and arched into it.

One knee braced on the passenger seat, Brendon grabbed the steering wheel and the headrest and pounded into him, giving no respite from the incessant pulsing of his cock. Each thrust banged Spencer's head against the door and he didn't even care, back bent almost in two to drive Brendon deeper inside of him. And yes, Spencer had been with guys before, but always on top, always in control. Now he was free to moan (and maybe scream, a little) as someone else took care of him, as Brendon bit his lip and angled his hips so his cockhead began ramming Spencer's prostate.

"Look at you," Brendon gasped, never faltering, "all flushed and pretty, fuck. You should see yourself. I wanna film you coming with my cock up your ass so I can jerk off to it whenever you're not around -" and whoa, that came pretty close to a confession of eternal love from Brendon Urie. Spencer reached down and rubbed his palm across the thick precome dripping from his cock, started stroking himself in time to Brendon's thrusts.

"Oh fuck, I love you," he said, as his vision grew a little hazy and his hand a lot wet and warm. He just about noticed the stuttering halt in Brendon's movements before there was a banging at the window. From upside down, it looked like the strip joint owner didn't approve of any stripping on his property that he didn't get paid for.

Brendon pulled out so quickly Spencer winced and rolled into the driver seat, kneeing Spencer's chest in the process. "We're just leaving!" he yelled, gunning the accelerator before the car had even started. It jerked forward, nearly running over the guy's foot.

"That was fun, huh?" said Brendon, eyes fixed on the oncoming traffic for once. Spencer pushed his head into Brendon's lap, where he was still hard and wet against Spencer's cheek.

"Yeah," he said, kissing Brendon's cock gently. There was a squeal of brakes.

"Jesus fuck, Spencer, I'm driving!" yelled Brendon, shoving Spencer's head aside.

He didn't look at Spencer the rest of the way back to Pete's. Not even when Spencer climbed bare-assed into the backseat to retrieve his sweatpants, and stayed there.


Brendon's car was back in Pete's driveway when they arrived. Or at least, it was Brendon's car underneath a radical makeover involving luminous yellow paint, green racing stripes and wobbly Bedazzled daisies. There was also a silver bow on the front, vomiting bells and horseshoes.

Pete waited on the steps, holding a yowling Bronx. Either Pete had grown immune to being punched in the ear by his son or it was just such a regular event in his life that he didn't notice. He tossed the keys at Brendon as he slid out of the Jeep without closing the door; Spencer followed more sedately, trying not to list to one side.

"What the hell did you do last night, Urie?" yelled Pete. "This was delivered an hour ago by a troupe of circus dwarfs. And they didn't look in any chemical state to be driving, if you know what I mean."

Brendon shrugged, eloquently. Spencer stared at the silver bells, wondering why they looked so familiar -

"What the fuck? Did you get married last night?"

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," said Bronx gleefully.

"I didn't," said Brendon, with a great deal of dignity for someone dressed only in hotpants. "But Margery did."

"You don't know anyone called Margery!"

"Correction. You don't know anyone called Margery." Brendon lifted his chin. "Do you want a ride home or not?"

"Can I drive?"

In answer, Brendon threw the keys at Spencer's nose. They connected, hard.

"What is up with him?" Pete drew near to Spencer and dropped his voice as Brendon climbed into the backseat. "He seemed pretty normal yesterday - kinda buzzed, and of course you two disappeared -"

Spencer flushed. "Don't remind me."

Ashlee shuffled into the foyer, pushing her neat little bump into Pete's back and hugging him from behind.

"Mommy!" said Bronx, squirming. "Fuck, fuck."

"Pete!" Ashlee slapped Pete across the ear Bronx had been so recently pummelling. "What did I tell you about swearing in front of the little dude?"

"I -" began Pete, looked at Ashlee's face, and continued, "Sorry, sweetheart."

Ashlee made a 'humph'ing noise and smiled at Spencer. "I won't ask if you had a good time last night. Is Brendon okay?"

"In body if not in mind," said Spencer. He quickly wished he hadn't thought about Brendon's body in front of a baby.

"Did you see the joint gift Jon and Ryan sent us?" Ashlee asked Pete. "I've been looking for it everywhere." For Spencer's benefit, she added, "They sent us the sweetest set of rubber ducks, all different sizes. Some of them are wearing dresses!"

"Um, I don't know," said Pete, looking guilty. Spencer noticed there were soap bubbles in his hair.

"They sent a joint gift?" said Spencer.

"Yeah, I thought that was weird too," said Pete. "Or cheap, whatever."

"Listen, I better go," said Spencer. "I'll call you later. Brendon wants you to hear some new stuff we've been working on."

"Awesome. Say 'Bye Spencer', Bronx."

In response, Bronx tucked his head into Pete's neck and bestowed upon Spencer once of his miracle-rare smiles. "Bye," he said. "Fuck."


At first Spencer thought Brendon was being quiet due to a fit of the sulks, but it turned out he'd fallen asleep across the backseat, head cocked at an uncomfortable angle. As Spencer was soon trapped in a glut of LA evening traffic, he let the engine dull to a low roar and indulged himself in staring at Brendon through the rear-view mirror.

He slept like a little kid in a movie, hands tucked under his cheeks and knees curled to his chest. Spencer knew for a fact that Brendon's favourite sleeping position was a sprawling starfish. If it could encompass a sofa or pillow someone else was using, while they were using it, then all the better. Spencer could easily picture him as a toddler, trotting determinedly down the hall at night trailing a blanket and hopping into the nearest occupied bed, sleeping content and satisfied on the chest of a brother or parent.

Since the split, he'd changed. It was inevitable. Spencer had changed too. He was no longer the guy with a best friend he'd known since preschool. He was a guy with a good friend he'd known since preschool, but one that he didn't call every day or hang out with more than once a month. Spencer hadn't actually noticed the change until it was well established. He'd had Brendon instead.

He'd got to know Brendon as himself, not Brendon who needed to impress Ryan or show off to Jon how cool he could be. This Brendon was one he knew only through late night Guitar Hero battles and pizza runs when Ryan and Jon were busy doing Ryan-and-Jon stuff. Spencer was one of the very few people around whom Brendon could truly relax. He'd never said as much, but he didn't need to.

And yes, Spencer's feelings towards him weren't exactly brotherly. While there were four of them, Spencer had never needed to define Brendon other than 'good-looking' and 'easy to be friends with'. When they shrunk to two, when all Spencer's spare thoughts were concentrated on Brendon and Brendon alone, he'd widened his definitions to 'hot, sweet, funny, bitchy, adorable jerk' and 'easy to fall in love with.' He'd never intended on making a move due to Brendon's apparent disinterest; he'd got over crushes before, it wasn't the hardest thing in the world to accomplish. Especially when he had so many other things to concentrate on: making music and planning Brendon's career and babysitting and learning to surf so Brendon wouldn't go out on the water alone and break his head.

Until last night.

He nearly missed the right turnoff due to his absorbing thoughts. The sharp angle he wheeled the car into jerked Brendon awake. He looked fuzzy and exhausted when Spencer glanced back at him. Spencer guessed he hadn't got much sleep since the night before last.

Spencer's back had been contorted into several weird and terrible shapes in the past twenty-four hours. Spencer, leaning into the backseat to wrap his arms around Brendon, decided one more wouldn't hurt. Much.

Brendon was only awake enough to know he was awake. He wound his arms into a complicated tangle involving Spencer's neck and let his lower body droop. Spencer managed to get a hand under Brendon's knees without braining either of them on the roof of the car, but only just. He didn't bother locking the car. Anyone who could bear to steal it in its current state was welcome to it.

Spencer was often grateful that Brendon's house was single level, usually on nights when he'd taken a few substances more than his body's gravity could handle, but never moreso than right then. He staggered down the hall to Brendon's bedroom and dumped him unceremoniously on his unmade, reeking bed.

"God, this place is a dump," said Spencer, leaning back with an ominous crack of vertebrae. "Would it kill you to clean a little?"

Brendon moaned into his grubby pillow. Given that his was face down, ass up, the sound did nothing to calm Spencer's heightened awareness of everything Brendon-shaped.

"We have a maid," Brendon eventually mumbled. "Cleaner, whatever."

Spencer noticed a plate on the floor, growing mould he recognised from his seventh-grade Science Fair project. "I think we're paying them too much."

"Shut up and get into bed with me," groaned Brendon.

"Dude. It's, like, seven pm. Since when do you go to sleep that early?"

Brendon extracted one eye from the swathes of pillowcase and winked at him. "Who said anything about sleeping?"

Spencer sighed, more to get some air into his suddenly tiny lungs than a real sign of exasperation. "No. No more fucking till we talk about this - what are you smiling at?"

"You said fucking," said Brendon, and hid his face in the pillow. Spencer was pretty sure he was blushing.

"You know," said Spencer conversationally, sitting down on the bed and running one hand slowly up Brendon's bare thigh, "if you can't say it, you shouldn't be doing it."

"Whatever, I heard no complaints," said Brendon. He turned over completely, trapping Spencer's hand between his thighs. His eyes were intently focused on Spencer's face, belying his jokey tone of voice. "God, remember before you had the beard? It was easier then. You looked like a girl."

"That's what they say." Spencer shrugged. He never understood why people always threw that at him like it was an insult.

"So I could pretend you were a girl," Brendon continued relentlessly, "and it was okay to like you like a girl. And sneak looks at you in the shower at venues and share your bunk at night -"

"Yeah, and you are not small," said Spencer, "in terms of bunk-sharing."

"Would you not interrupt?" Brendon complained. "I'm trying to say something here."

"Yeah, I know," said Spencer. "But really, all you had to say was 'me too.'"

"What? Why?"

"Earlier, in the Jeep," said Spencer gently. "Did you think I was lying when I said I loved you?"

"I -" Brendon looked up at him, eyes wide and bright. "I thought you were having an orgasm."

"Yeah," said Spencer, slipping his hand around Brendon's jaw and pulling him up for a kiss, "that too."

~the end~
peripatetic extemporizations: Bden Spence linked armshatoyona on September 23rd, 2009 10:49 pm (UTC)
Lol adorable!!
every Starbucks should have a polar bear: Quotey: save a lifescoradh on October 5th, 2009 10:07 pm (UTC)
Maevele: hardmaevele on November 19th, 2011 05:08 am (UTC)
Totally loved this. Was all "what about the baby?" though