Title: Can't Turn Left On Tuesdays
Author/Artist: To Be Revealed
Rating: R - NC-17
Characters: Jon/Spencer, Panic! At The Disco
Word Count: 16,540.
Warnings: None.
Disclaimer: Lies, falsehoods, glorious fantasy.
Summary: "I've made out with guys a few times," Jon says meditatively. He shrugs and takes a sip of beer, utterly casual, like he's saying that he's played a few games of hockey, or played a little guitar in his time.

Notes: Thanks to A, A, and P for betaing. Belladonnalin said in her prompt that she liked laughing and frottage, so I started with that and ended up with *plot*. I hope that's okay. Happy holidays!


Truck Stops and Statelines is their third US tour, and for once, they're not the first ones onstage; they have seniority. Or, as William frequently reminds them during the first few weeks - until he stops, tight-mouthed, and it's no longer a joke - they're second-billed, we run this popsicle stand, little padawans, and don't you forget it, and The Academy are totally and utterly and completely in charge, okay, they're the main attraction.

("Like in a freakshow," Brendon says, nodding seriously, "yeah, I can see that - ow, ow, Carden-").

The important point, as far as Spencer's concerned, is that there are two whole bands that go on before them, and it's no longer them first before the bored eyes of a cold crowd who're waiting for better things. They have moved up in the world.

They're all a little giddy with it, this tour. Ryan catches William stroking one of the posters outside that first venue, with The Academy Is... printed glossy at the top for the first time. Although he tells them all about it later and they take easy shots at William's putative jerk-off material, he doesn't relay it laughingly, or meanly, his voice edged instead with something a little wistful and a lot hungry.

They have a bus, sooner than they'd imagined. They have a fridge and a hotplate and a coffeepot. They have a tv. They have a PlayStation. Best of all, they have bunks, instead of the long narrow seats in the back of the van. They're small and shallow, and Ryan says that they make him feel like a vampire lying in his own coffin.

"You stole that line from My Chemical Romance," Brendon alleges. "Some song or interview or something. Don't front."

"It's my own," Ryan says, and he almost smiles as he says it. He's smiling a little more these days; every time his Sidekick sounds, soft at his hip, the corner of his mouth curls up quietly, like a secret. "Not that it's worth claiming."

Every night, the crowd cheers just a bit louder for them, and every night, William's mouth gets a little bit tighter, harder; and often enough, Brendon ends up on the Academy's bus, hanging out with the guys, drinking and joking like he'd never been able to with his own older brothers.

"I can go and get him this time," Spencer offers tiredly, watching Ryan. Ryan's curled up on the bus couch, his thin arms wound around his knees, tapping something out on his Sidekick.

"Don't bother," he says quietly, but Spencer knows him well enough to know that that means please, so he hauls ass off the couch and lets the door swing shut behind him, shut on Ryan and Brent sitting silent and quiet and utterly focused on their Sidekicks and the television screen.

It's been a bad night. Denver must be cursed. Most nights are better; most nights, they come off stage tired and sweaty and talking, laughing - but some nights, some nights are bad, and tonight Brent's string snapped halfway into their set, and something was wrong with their mixing, and after the buses were loaded up, Mike came over and slung his arm around Brendon's shoulders.

-

" - fuck you, Butcher. For that, I'm going to go back in time and do your mom back when she was still hot - "

On the heels of that comes a bloodcurdling howl and the sounds of scuffling, cheers, whooping. The Academy's bus is never as quiet as theirs can be, even when they're all morose and hungover.

"Hey," Spencer calls from the doorway. "Not to interrupt the vengeance, or anything, but can I have our singer back? We kind of need him."

"Spencer Smith!" William calls delightedly. "Come in. Come in and join us in our revelry."

William's lying across most of one side of the couch, a bottle of something dark dangling loose from his hand, and a pair of enormous sunglasses that make him look like some variety of exotic beetle hanging crookedly from one ear. From the look of things, Spencer's interrupted some sort of cards and dice game; Mike is glaring at a hand of cards, while Sisky looks meek and virtuous and is using the distraction to slide one up his sleeve.

"You know he won't," Tom says. "Spencer Smith doesn't want to play with us."

Spencer smiles, feeling uncomfortable, and wipes his palms against his jeans. "Where's Brendon?"

Butcher stops building a card castle with Jon long enough to shrug in his direction. "There," he says, gesturing. "Passed out in the corner."

Now that he's been pointed out, Spencer can see him, lying prone on his stomach across the floor, head pillowed on one forearm, mouth a little open. Tom and Mike are using him as an armrest.

"Fuck," Spencer says. "How much did he drink?"

As one, the Academy (and Jon) make a disgusted, dismissive noise and wrinkle their collective brows.

"Almost nothing," William says, shaking his head. "I thought that we'd taught him better, but I see now that I've failed in my duty."

"Seriously," Butcher agrees. "He came, he had a beer -"

"One, one single solitary beer - "

"- and hung for a while, and then he hit the floor."

"I tried yelling right in his ear, but he just told me it wasn't time for church and rolled over," Sisky adds helpfully. "It wasn't even one of Mike's special beers, I checked."

"Never mind that," William says. "Come and play. We're playing - what the fuck are we playing?"

"Cee-Lo," Jon says, squinting. "Or maybe Fuck The Dealer? It's like if Cee-Lo and Fuck The Dealer had a mutated baby."

"I'm the dealer," Butcher says, placing another card on top of the card house.

"Tom's good," Sisky tells Spencer ("Tom makes the rules up," Butcher mutters mutinously). "Scary good. But I'm going to beat him hollow, you'll see."

Mike and Jon make noises of deep disagreement, and William shakes his head sadly. "Oh, Siskyphus, Siskyphus." He sighs. "He just keeps trying, and failing."

"It's cool," Spencer says. "I have to take Brendon back."

"Leave him here," Mike suggests. "He'll be fine, I mean, we may return him to you without eyebrows, but essentially he'll be fine."

Jon and Butcher's house of cards - more of a shack, really - wavers on the air (Jon winces in anticipation), then collapses.

"Fuck," Butcher mutters.

"Stay, Spencer Smith," William begs.

Jon looks up from his contemplation of the ruins and smiles at Spencer. "If you can hang tight until the end of the game, I'll help you drag his ass back to your bus."

"Stay," William says, "sit yourself down, have something to drink, take the weight off," and Spencer gives in.

-

is he there or not?!

y, Spencer texts back. ill bring him bck soon, k?

Ryan doesn't text him back for ten minutes, during which time Sisky manages to lose another chunk of his stake to Tom. Finally, whatevr. stay and party with thm. i dont care. im going to bed. dont wake me.

Which is not good, and there's going to be hell to pay in the morning, but Mike deals him a hand of cards, and for once, it can keep.

-

"Fuck, he's heavy."

"He's going to pay me back for this," Spencer grumbles, and Jon grins over at him, warm brown eyes amused.

Jon's actually a decent guy, once you get him away from the unruly Borg of the Academy, the sort of guy who secretly helps little old ladies cross the road and little kittens down from trees and stupid passed-out lead singers back to their own buses. He's always welcome on their bus, which is rare and unusual; they all like a large number of people, but for them all to like the same person, and moreover, be able to tolerate them almost all the time, is - rare. Really, fantastically rare.

"Nrghh."

Brendon is heavy, his arm dragged around Spencer's neck, hanging almost entirely deadweight; Spencer wishes passionately, selfishly, that he'd gone and woken Zack up and gotten him to deal with Brendon.

"Upsy daisy," Jon coaxes Brendon, who's making small grunting noises and stumbling along between, his arms around each of their shoulders. "Ten more feet, c'mon."

They manhandle Brendon across the lot and up the steps, and Jon's about to steer him over onto the couch when Spencer shakes his head. "Bunk, I'm not having him puke on the couches, no fucking way."

"Right," Jon says, pulling Brendon back; Brendon turns his head then, and glares at Spencer, slit-eyed.

"'M not drunk."

"Sure," Spencer says. Arguing with drunk people is stupid.

Brendon glares, and with a force of effort, opens his eyes all the way and stands upright under his own power. Under the thin electric light, the shadows under his eyes are deep purple, loose, like the skin's trying to slough away from his skull.

"I'm just tired," he says. "It was a tough set last night, okay? And last night, and the night before, and it's hard to sleep on the road sometimes, and..." He trails off, looking around the small confines of the front lounge like he's looking for something in particular, and not finding it. "And I had one beer - and dude, don't even front, just as much, probably less than you've had tonight, though I bet you won't be telling Ryan that - and I was so fucking tired I just wiped out, okay?"

"Okay," Spencer says softly. Jon is standing at his side, hands at his sides, looking a little awkward, discomfited.

"Just so we're clear," Brendon says, and sweeps off into the bunks.

-

In the uncomfortable pause after Brendon makes his exit in high dudgeon, Spencer slumps onto the couch and rubs at his eyes. He's tired of this, the whole lot of it; the way his parents and his sisters sound so far away on the other end of the line, the way Brent doesn't talk to them as much as he used to, the way Brendon seems to prefer the Academy's bus after shows, the way Ryan -

"I'm going to head back, 'kay," Jon says, and Spencer looks up.

"What? Sure." He musters up a smile. "Thanks for helping me drag him over here, man. It was really cool of you. And sorry for -" he shrugs, a little helplessly.

"It's cool, Spencer, really." When Jon smiles, the skin at the corners of his eyes creases a little. Not like he has wrinkles, but like his smile's real enough to reach all the way up into his eyes. "Are you guys doing okay?"

"Yeah," Spencer says, but Jon just keeps looking at him, and then he sits down beside him.

Spencer - he's tired, and maybe he had a little to drink, because it was part of the game and everyone was watching, because Ryan's not his keeper and he's eighteen and he's curious, so he tells Jon some of it, a little.

Jon listens to him, actually listens, and tells him about his cat and his college friends and the things he misses, and it's not okay, but it's better.

They talk for a while, the tv soft white noise in the background; someone's left it tuned to cartoons. Jon keeps his eyes on Spencer's face, never looking away, nodding, and it's nice, it's really fucking neat to have someone pay attention to him like this, Spencer thinks, the warmth in his stomach intensifying.

He's smiling at Jon's impression of William - he has it perfect and absolutely hilarious, the tilt of William's chin and the way he pushes hair back from his eyes, even the way he holds his shoulders - smiling properly, when Jon stops mid-airy William pronouncement, blinking a little.

"What?" Spencer asks.

"Nothing," Jon says, looking away, and tosses his imaginary hair back, William-like.

"Okay, give me the remote," Spencer orders, when something aggressively pastel comes onto the tv. "What the hell - are those Care Bears - this is Brendon's fault, I know it is."

Jon grins. "He cursed the tv?"

"Something like that. Pass the remote?"

"Come and get it," Jon says, just to be an asshole. "Maybe I like Care Bears."

"Maybe you're weird and perverted," Spencer suggests, leaning over him, and Jon leans back further, grinning, and holds it out over his head.

Spencer strains over him, trying to reach it, and Jon uses his free hand to fend him off, laughing. "Nuh-uh."

"Whose bus is this?" Spencer demands, blocking him, and straddles his waist, pinning him to the couch. "Fuck you, give me that."

He gets one of Jon's arms pinned, but the other is still holding the remote out of reach, and Spencer can't get to it without releasing the first. "Fucker," he says, almost giggling - he's been laughing stupidly for the past few minutes, they both have - and tries to jab him in the ribs, tickle him.

Jon throws his head back and laughs, but keeps the remote just out of reach, and Spencer shifts a little, laughing down into his face. "You're enjoying this."

"Yeah," Jon says, and somehow he manages to shrug nonchalantly even with one wrist pinned to his side and his other arm stretched above his head. "You're funny when you're mad."

"I'm not mad," Spencer says. His cheeks hurt a little from grinning so hard.

"You are, you can't hide it." Jon leans up a little, and Spencer hadn't even noticed how close they were. Suddenly he can't see all of Jon's face at once, just bits of it. Half-closed eyes and the sweep of his lashes, too much of his nose; the sudden shock of his mouth, warm and soft and right fucking there, against his own.

Spencer's surprised enough, tired enough, a little drunk enough, still loose and warm from laughter, that he doesn't react immediately.

Jon seems to take that, and the small surprised sound he makes, as encouragement (or at least not a rebuff); he keeps kissing him, almost nuzzling, gentle and a little wet. It's just a succession of soft, pressing kisses against his mouth, and it's almost like his brain and his mind have nothing to do with his body, because he finds himself responding - it's so slow and incremental and it feels weird, but nice, not all up in his face.

He should be stopping this right the fuck now, asking Jon what the hell he thinks he's doing. He doesn't really want to, but he's going to, just in - just in a few seconds.

Jon tastes like the cheap as hell beer that the Academy all drink, and something heavier, sharper; bourbon, maybe, and they're still kissing wetter and deeper now, and Spencer should - stop, or something, this is insane.

"This is - what," he says, still on the edge of laughter, and Jon laughs back, grinning. His eyes are dark with pupil, irises worn to thin golden brown rings.

"Shh," he says, nuzzling at Spencer's jaw, and then bending his head a little lower and mouthing wetly at the side of his neck, burning-hot.

"Dude," Spencer says, and he's actually giggling a little now under his breath. "That's really - dude, what," and Jon blows air at the soft skin under his jaw and makes him laugh harder.

Then they're kissing again, more urgently, and it's hard to think about what he should be doing when this feels so fucking awesome, when Jon's back under his t-shirt is hot and flushed and silk-soft against his fingers, when they're pushing and sliding against each other through their jeans.

And maybe if he doesn't look at Jon he doesn't have to think about this too hard, he can just focus on Jon's open mouth against his collarbone and Jon's hands sliding past the waistband of his jeans, the friction of Jon's hip against his cock; the sounds Jon makes against his neck when he's close and wound tight, small and deep, tuned in D.

-

He wakes up with Jon draped against his side, breathing slow and even, his mouth a little open and one arm hanging down from the couch.

They still have most of their clothes on; his jeans are unbuttoned and stuck to him unpleasantly, and Jon's shirt is somewhere on the floor. He twists away from Jon enough to work his phone out from his pocket. Six twenty. Thank god, no one's up yet.

"Jon," he hisses. "Jon, wake up." He shakes his shoulder a little, and finally, Jon cracks open one eye, his face still screwed up with sleep.

"Mmph?"

"You have to go," Spencer says urgently. "Come on, up."

"What?" Jon sits up slowly, much too slowly for Spencer's liking, and blinks dazedly. "Fuck, what time is it?"

"We're on the road in half an hour, maybe," Spencer says, picking up Jon's abandoned shirt, and handing it to him. "Come on, you have to go, the others are going to be up and out here soon."

Jon stands up stiffly, holding his shirt in a crumpled ball squashed into one hand. "Okay, I -" He runs one hand through his hair, looking awkward, and when he tilts his head, Spencer can see faint red marks on his throat, which he is not going to think about too hard.

"Come on, Jon," he repeats, shifting his gaze nervously over to the bunkroom doorway.

"Okay," Jon says again. Spencer holds the bus door open for him. Beyond them, the lot is lightening with morning, the sky warming softly into blue. There's thin, uncertain light beginning to gild the trailers, Jon's hair as he stumbles down onto the asphalt, and the air smells of dew and oxgen.

He stops when he gets to the bottom of the steps and turns around to squint up at Spencer. Somewhere, cicadas sound, irritable and distant like the faraway hum of someone's lawnmower in summer.

Spencer really needs to shower.

"We're good, right?" Jon asks.

"Sure," Spencer agrees, and shuts the door.

-

It's pretty easy to avoid Jon after that, and to be fair, it's not like he actually tries to hassle Spencer about it, or anything. After he sees Spencer double back in the opposite direction when he sees him coming a couple of times, or dart behind the bus (Spencer refuses to describe this as 'running away', even in his head), he stops trying to hang out like before, and is even pretty good at diminished contact and conversation when they're all hanging out and Spencer can't strategically extricate himself (or run away, as the case may be).

There was one scary moment the day after the - the day after, when Spencer was watching the Academy play from the left side of the stage. Jon had suddenly appeared at his side, when he should, he should have been on the right side of the stage, like usual. Spencer had shot him a startled sideways look, and Jon smiled at him crookedly.

"Hey, Spence," he said.

Spencer nodded back (nodding was fine, nodding was suitably non-committal, as long as Jon said nothing else) and they stood there for a while, watching. Spencer could hear, over-aware, the faint hitch and sigh of Jon's even breathing, feel the faint half-imagined warmth transferring through the brush of Jon's shoulders against his. He had to concentrate on breathing calmly, on not running away, or - something. He didn't know what to do with his hands, and he found himself curling them awkwardly at his sides, rubbing at his forearm; finally he folded his arms across his chest and viciously clamped down on the impulse to look sidelong at Jon again.

William moved smoothly into the next song, and Spencer could almost feel Jon's eyes staring at the side of his face. He tried to keep his eyes fixed on William sliding around the stage, one hand pressed flat against his heart; succeeded until Jon cleared his throat.

"Spencer, I've been hoping I could talk to you," he said quietly, and Spencer's gaze skittered over to him against his will. Jon was just looking at him, his brown eyes warm and serious, his mouth faintly curved in a tentative smile.

"Uh-"

On the stage, William dragged the mic across the stage until the wire went taut, leaning in to whisper something into Tom's ear, his arm slung around his shoulder. Butcher's sticks were almost blurred, something Spencer could admire.

"I don't," Spencer managed before he stopped. The floor was marked with tape and gum, and there was a faded cigarette butt right by his foot. He could still feel Jon looking at him, and instead of finishing his sentence - he hadn't even been sure where he was going with that - he shrugged hard, angrily, with real feeling.

There'd been another short silence, and then Spencer had made a strategic exit; and after that, Jon had gotten sort of terrifyingly good at fading into the background like wallpaper and Spencer could relax, even joke with him a little. The tour didn't have much longer to go, even if it was being followed by another shared tour in Europe.

-

They're all grateful for the tour ending, because Brent's acting weirder, gelling less, somehow, into the group, and a couple of times he misses sound check and doesn't show up until right before they go on. Spencer's jaw has started to hurt from grinding his teeth, and Brendon nearly wears a hole in the floor walking back and forth and back again, talking nervously, while Ryan's knuckles go more and more waxen-yellow.

-

Europe isn't much better; it's unfamiliar food brands and familiar hotel ceilings and crowded venues, iffy kebabs bought from little places that stay open until all hours. Ryan's knuckles are almost permanently white and his Sidekick is almost utterly abandoned and he stops smiling sweet and silent. Spencer would totally punch her, if she wasn't a girl.

He's not sleeping enough and Spencer worries about him, because he's Ryan, and Spencer can never, could never not, even though he doesn't know what to do about it, apart from bringing Ryan juice sometimes and bumping his knee with his own and telling him to fucking go to his bunk now, dickhead, that's totally an order, I can too ground you if I want to.

In Europe, they're headlining for the first time, the Academy supporting, and William's a little quieter too, maybe, quieter than he'd been back in the States.

Even on another continent, Brent manages to find an elsewhere to be that has him turning up just before they go on.

-

They're scheduled to play a festival nearly a week after they get home; Brent doesn't show, and doesn't show, and doesn't show. It turns out, finally, after a frantic game of texting-tag and calls to his mother and his girlfriend, that he never even got on his flight.

"We can't - " Spencer stops and clears his throat. He really, really doesn't want to be the one to say it, but Ryan's picking at his nails and Brendon's staring at his feet, silent for once. They have to go on in less than five hours and counting, and no one else is going to.

He says, "We can't keep doing this, he can't keep doing this," and when Ryan and Brendon nod curtly, he straightens up and says, "After this, this is it."

Ryan looks up at that, although Brendon keeps his head down, eyes focused somewhere on his lap. "Yeah," Ryan says, slow and hesitant, a little wavery, but essentially affirmative.

Somehow Spencer expected him to argue, expected to have to fight this out. He's both grateful for and somehow deflated by the agreement, because once Ryan's agreed, that's it, that's over, and all three of them know it. They're quiet for a few seconds; no one looks any one else in the eye.

"Yeah," Brendon echoes.

"Right," Spencer says, and that's that, that's it, they've made the decision. It's a relief, it's the end of uncertainty - and at the same time, he has no fucking idea what to do now, and they've essentially just fired someone he can still remember practicing kickflips with when they were kids, and it feels - it feels pretty final.

Ryan squares his thin shoulders, pushing hair out of his eyes. "Okay," he says, stronger and more clearly than before. "Are we cancelling, or can we get someone to fill in?"

"I could go kidnap Taking Back Sunday's bassist." Brendon offers. "Or one of the other bands'. Slip him a roofie, or knock him out with sand in a sock or something, then take advantage of the brain trauma and make him play for us."

Spencer actually laughs at that, and so, after a second, does Ryan; it's not even that funny, but the tension eases, a little.

"Hey," Brendon says. "What about Jon? He can play bass."

"That would be great," Ryan says. "Only Jon's in Chicago. Small hitch."

"Do you have a better idea?"

"Do you have an idea that actually might work?"

Spencer ignores the squabbling and tries to calculate flight times. He's going to have to call Pete and set this up.

He's going to have to call Jon.

-

"Jon," he says. Jon looks like he's stuck somewhere between excitement and full-out panic. Spencer can empathize. They don't have enough time before they go on to run through the whole set.

"Jon Walker!" Brendon raises his eyebrows and widens his eyes until the white shows all around his eyes. "Jon Walker, did you come here to save the day?"

"On my shining white horse," Jon agrees, and Brendon holds his fist out to bump against Jon's in solidarity.

Ryan looks up, pushing hair out of his eyes. "Hey."

"Can you play?" Brendon asks. "I mean, obviously you can play, but can you play our stuff?"

"I used to watch you guys on tour," Jon says. "From sidestage. So I can limp my way through it, I guess, and I listened to the basslines on my iPod on the flight..."

He looks uncomfortable, fingering his shirt collar, and Spencer tries to smile. "Look, dude, you're still way ahead of any other option on the table, it's cool."

"You're our hero," Brendon says. "Really, you are."

"We have time to run through a few songs, and then we should get the fuck backstage," Ryan says.

-

It's not even awkward at first, because Spencer's so fucking relieved, watching Brendon move over the stage to hang on Ryan, sing at Jon; Jon spends most of the set looking down at his fingers, counting out the notes, but a couple of times Spencer can see his head go up to exchange glances with Brendon, with Ryan. Once or twice, Jon looks back over his shoulder and shoots him a bright smile, wide-eyed, like he can't believe this is actually happening.

Spencer can't believe that it's actually happening either.

When they finish up, he has to make a phone call. He already knows that he's the one who's going to be making the calls. It's easier this way; Spencer's not going to put that on Ryan, and Brendon's - Brendon. He can deal.

-

"We have a whole month before our tour starts," Spencer says stubbornly. "We'll find someone."

"We have someone," Brendon counters. "Someone awesome."

"Ryan," Spencer appeals, "this is something that needs serious thinking about, right? It's not just like picking the first pair of jeans off the rack. At least you can return the jeans if they don't fit properly."

Brendon looks mutinous. "And I say, if it's not broken, don't fix it."

Ryan steeples his fingers. "What if we lay-by him?"

Brendon and Spencer both stare at him, and he rolls his eyes impatiently.

"Put him on trial basis, I mean. See how it works out, because he's still the best option we've got right now, and this way we can return him if we don't like him."

"...fine," Spencer mutters, and "...fine," Brendon echoes.

-

"So," Jon says, staring. "Wow, I -"

"This is the lounge," Brendon says, "and this bench is the 'kitchen', and through here are the bunks. That bunk is mine, and that bunk is Spencer's, and that bunk is Ryan's, and you can have that bunk, that bunk, or that bunk. The bunks you don't choose will be duly designated as Random Crap bunks."

"Brendon, you don't need to give him a tour," Ryan says. "He knows what tour buses are like. Fuck, we had this bus for Truck Stops, he knows what this bus is like."

"But now it's his," Brendon says patiently.

"Right," Spencer says. Jon looks over at him, head cocked, and Spencer summons up a smile.

"Can I take this bunk?" Jon asks, pointing at one of the empty bunks, and Brendon nods formally, head jerking like a marionette.

"Yes. Yes you can."

It's the bunk above Spencer; he always takes the bottom bunk across the aisle from Ryan, who prefers the cave-like dark of a bottom bunk.

Jon's going to be sleeping maybe three feet above him. Fantastic.

"Awesome," Brendon pronounces, dusting off his hands. "Do you have much stuff? Do you want help carrying it in? You can stick your gear in the other trailer, but all your personal stuff, I can totally help with that." He clears his throat meaningfully.

"Oh," Ryan says belatedly. "Me too."

"Me too," Spencer echoes.

Jon doesn't have a lot of personal stuff, once his bass has been carried off to the trailer; one full duffel bag, which Brendon seizes and carries into the bus like it's a trophy, one half-full one, which Spencer shoulders, and a camera case, which Ryan offers to take in, an offer Jon refuses with a smile.

"Ha," Ryan says, smirking at Spencer, then quickens his pace, catching up to Brendon.

"Thanks," Jon says gravely, when Ryan's nearly out of earshot.

Spencer shrugs. "It's not heavy or anything."

-

Jon's still pretty good at going quiet, at picking up on when Spencer would rather not talk to him. The whole thing's not as completely awkward as he feared, not really; when he doesn't feel like talking, Jon's good at not pushing it beyond a first and failed conversational gambit. He gives Spencer space, as much as he can, and Spencer can even pretend to himself that Jon's just Jon, the Jon who used to come over to their bus and hang out on their bus watching old cartoons and cheesy sitcoms and bad sci-fi.

It's even okay onstage. Spencer doesn't have to interact too much, safe behind his kit (his drums light up, they're basically the most awesome thing in the world, ever), but he watches them all, and Jon manages to fit in; quite a feat, since Ryan's bright and brilliant in his new rose-covered vest, eyes dark with eyeliner, and Brendon struts around in his brocaded coats and lacy jabots and ruffled shirts.

Jon is relatively simply dressed, in comparison, but somehow he still just fits, and there's more movement and energy onstage than there ever has been before. It's got something to do with the fact that they play a full set, now, and something again to do with Roger and Dusty and Katie, their swords and hats, glitter confetti and mustachios; but it's also got something to do with Jon himself, the new ease and energy.

Offstage, the ease doesn't really transfer, and a little bit of Spencer even knows that that's kind of his fault, and wants to fix it. Mostly, though, he plays friendly with Jon - is friendly with Jon - when the others are around, and makes himself scarce and silent when they're not. It's a functional arrangement.

-

"No, yeah," Brendon says, frowning. "Not that I remember? I've kissed guys, but like, on the cheek, but not actually on the mouth. Like, lip to lip."

"It's not a big deal," Ryan says. He stares intently at the screen, thumb moving frantically across the controls, then lets the controller drop slackly into his lap as he makes fists and pumps them into the air in silent triumph.

"You didn't answer the question," Brendon says, sing-song.

"What? Oh, yeah. I've kissed guys, once or twice. No tongue. Well, maybe a little bit of tongue, when Pete - shut up - when Pete - I mean. I think he was trying to gross me out on purpose, like, hazing. The first time -" Ryan starts to smirk, and Spencer groans and kicks him, futilely. "The first time, it was Spencer."

Brendon whoops, Jon cocks his head interestedly ("Spencer, really,"), and Spencer wants to die a little bit. Ryan grins at him, his stupid eyes squinting a little shut; Spencer glares back, trying to convey the unfathomable depths of his black, black hate, but somehow Ryan opens his mouth again and words, horrible words, just keep coming out in his best inflection-free monotone.

"One day we were up in my bedroom, and we were really bored - we were sixteen at the time -"

"You were sixteen, I was fifteen and so, totally not to blame -"

" - and we were just talking, like this, and I was like, have you ever kissed a guy? And he hadn't, and I hadn't, and then there was like this awkward silence -"

"Those are killer," Brendon interjects, nodding sagely.

" - and so, like, I kissed him. As an experiment."

Spencer doesn't know why he's so fucking embarrassed; he should be laughing like Brendon, like Ryan (who is so dead, seriously, so dead), and normally, he would be, but Jon's still sort of looking calm and amused, sitting with his legs crossed and his palms flat on his knees, open bottle in his lap - like guys generally segue conversationally from arguments over PlayStation games into moments of bromance past. Maybe they do; Spencer's still mostly used to Ryan, and Brent, and Trevor, and then Brendon.

"What was it like?" Jon asks.

"Was it good?" Brendon asks on top of that, eyes dramatically wide, "was it like being touched for the very first time, did your souls touch -"

Spencer mentally adds another name to his list, in bright shrieking red, just under Ryan's. "No," he says, rolling his eyes ("Fuck, no," Ryan adds), "it was like sucking face with my brother. What do you think?"

Brendon and Jon, both possessed of brothers in the plural, visibly blanch.

There is a distinct, uncomfortable pause.

"So is that all your store of manly experience, Spencer?" Brendon asks brightly, after a few seconds, and Spencer mentally underlines his name twice on the list. Then he adds '!!!' for good measure. "Ryan? Because that's a pretty unfortunate manly experience, just Ryan -"

"Fuck you," Ryan says, "you don't even have any manly experience -"

"Well, yeah, it's not like tongue-fucking Pete Wentz's tonsils is anything to be proud of -"

"Fuck you -"

Brendon and Ryan are intent on each other, not him, but Spencer can still feel heat prickling along his neck, his ears, his face. He's probably bright red or something.

"I've made out with guys a few times," Jon says meditatively (mediating, because the argument between Brendon and Ryan has turned into shoving, is on the brink of turning into wrestling, and no one wants to explain to their manager why the tv is broken again). He shrugs and takes a sip of beer, utterly casual, like he's saying that he's played a few games of hockey, or played a little guitar in his time.

Brendon stops poking Ryan in the arm and says "Really? You don't seem like the type."

Jon lifts his shoulders nonchalantly again. "You know how it goes. College, the Academy, the Chicago scene -" They all nod understandingly. "I mean, not the hardcore scene, or not the hardcore assholes, but beyond that, you know, it happens. No big deal, some making out between friends. It's all in fun."

Ryan looks triumphantly at Brendon, who shrugs, his mouth twisted. "Cool," he says. "You'll have to share your magic with me, Jon Walker, I totally want to follow in Ross's footsteps and get Pete Wentz to stick his tongue down my throat. Who knows what might rub off -"

Ryan punches him in the shoulder, only half jokingly, and another brief, fierce wrestling match breaks out.

"You okay?" Jon asks, quietly, as Brendon and Ryan roll across the floor in an awkward, flailing, noisy pile of limbs, seeking traction and getting in some good jabs. "You're looking a little spooked."

"It's just really fucking hot tonight," Spencer says, after a second. "They call this air-conditioning, but this is not it." In the summer night, the bus holds heat like a terrarium, even with the skylight in the roof propped open.

"Want some water?"

"Do we have any ice left in the cooler?" Spencer asks. "Because then, yes, I do want water."

"I'll go check."

Jon gets up and pads away, and Spencer busies himself with scrolling through the messages on his Sidekick, occasionally looking up to say "For fuck's sake, Ryan, no biting," and "Brendon, you're going to kick over the - never mind, fuck, you guys."

"Here," Jon says, right behind him, ice clinking, and Spencer says "Oh," says "Thank you."

Jon hands him the cup carefully, ice cubes clinking faintly against each other; it's shockingly cold against his heated palm. Jon's hands must be hot, too, because when their fingertips brush around the cup, they're dull thick warmth against the chill plastic.

Brendon stops trying to make Ryan eat carpet long enough to call out "Hey, where's my refreshing beverage of choice?"

"Get off your own ass," Spencer says, and Jon laughs, just as Ryan twists out of Brendon's grasp and tries to put him in a headlock.

-

There are more girls on this tour that any Spencer's ever been on before.

There's Amanda, who he's actually kind of afraid of; she's not as tall as him, which should make him less intimidated, but somehow it makes it worse that she's a little shorter, and sharp and bright and barb-tongued. She's really cool - it's not that he doesn't like her, it's that she scares him a little. She's so intense about things, in a way not at all like Ryan. They seem to understand each other, though; Spencer's heard them talking about classic rock and philosophy, seen Ryan sitting with his legs crossed and his chin cupped in his hand, listening while Amanda talks about something, her hands making shapes in the air and her voice rough and rising, eyes shining.

Greta seems sweet and good-natured, but under the surface, Spencer knows, beats a heart of utter and total evil. She beats them all at Scattergories without remorse, and when they try to prank the Hush Sounds' van - it's a tradition, practically a rite of passage, to prank the warm-up band, and the fireworks were nothing on what Pete did to them - the Hushies get them back, and get them back harder.

Stealing a man's gummi bears, his juice and Red Bull, his deodorant, and all his clean underwear is just low. From the glitter-pen, flourish-y Plan of Just And Righteous Revenge that Zack confiscates from Chris and Darren's persons when they're apprehended, Spencer knows that Greta had a key hand in the planning, if not the execution of the raid. He's torn between biding his time and getting his own revenge and letting matters rest, because the Hushies might escalate things again, and Spencer really, really doesn't want to share the bus with a bunch of guys with no deodorant. Things are bad enough as it is.

Compared to Amanda and Greta, Dusty and Katie Kay should be cake. They are, in a way; they're giggling and laughter and the smell of baby powder in the dressing room, fighting with Ryan over power outlets for their hair irons; lace ruffs and corsets and glitter, paper fans and striped stockings. They're both cheerful people; it's like having benign older sisters on tour with them, making sure Ryan's eyeliner isn't smudged and that Brendon does his vocal warm-ups properly.

Spencer's sitting in the dressing room one day - later, he tries to remember where, and he can't; Santa Barbara, maybe. They have a decent dressing room at this venue, with multiple benchtops and cushy seats and wide shining mirrors. This headlining thing is kind of awesome.

Brendon's stalking around like an offending cat with its tail lashing, bellowing out songs along with his iPod, his earbuds in. Over in the corner, Ryan's trying to persuade Jon to let him put some eyeliner on him, come on, please, it's for the aesthetic -

Spencer watches them wrangle behind him in the mirror, smiling a little fondly despite himself as irresistible pleading is applied to an immovable object.

He misses the look the girls exchange, and the slight hitch of Katie's breath, but he manages to hear Dusty say "Wow," right by his ear.

"I didn't think you even liked Jon," Katie says quietly, tugging at one of her garters. Her wide dark eyes are fixed on him; it's an attack from an unexpected direction, like being mauled by a butterfly. "You're so cold to him sometimes, we thought -"

Dusty smiles, flicking red curls out of her eyes. "But that was a smile, an actual smile, Spencer Smith -"

"What?" Spencer asks blankly. "I don't hate Jon, but I don't - fuck, we're on soon, are you ready?"

-

"Die, you fucker, die," Spencer hisses, thumbs moving frantically on the controller.

"Oh, you wish," Brendon says, and his avatar tries to pin Spencer's down and pummel him. There's a hushed, breathless silence, filled with frantic clicking and faint grunting, until Spencer manages to make his avatar flip Brendon off him and onto his back.

"Ha!"

"You're going down," Brendon promises. "Down, down, down," and Spencer rolls his eyes and pounds more frenetically on the controller. His arms ache from that night's show, and there's a tightness across his shoulders; he shouldn't be doing this, but he's way too wound up to stop, to sleep, adrenaline still humming through his veins.

"Brendon's going to beat you," Ryan puts in. "He got the bigger body with the better moves, yours doesn't have the same overarm attack."

Jon nods, but doesn't say anything.

"Mine's aerodynamic," Spencer defends his avatar, and aims a flying kick at Brendon's.

They play on, and Spencer tries to ignore the twinges in his arms and back, but he can feel Ryan watching him. Ryan knows him too well.

When he looks up, briefly, as the next round starts, Jon's watching him too, considering.

"Time to turn that off," Ryan says authoritatively when the round ends. "I want to watch a movie."

"Fuck off," Brendon says. "Spencer, you want to go again?"

"Do I want to kick your ass again? Yes, I do."

"Ha, ha, yeah, right."

"I'd kind of like to watch a movie, too," Jon says mildly, and Brendon stops where he's changing the disc, looking conflicted.

It's a fucking conspiracy.

-

Onstage, sometimes it feels like his pulse is thumping in his ears in 3/4 time. He's focused on his kit, on keeping the beat going, but beyond it he can see the kaleidoscopic blur of the distant crowd, hear their faint rushing roar over the drums, see Brendon stalk across the stage to sing into Ryan's mic, their heads close together. Even across the stage, Spencer can see their smiles, the grins they flash each other that say we're up here, we're doing this, this is our life.

He can see Jon slowly start to move around more onstage as the tour continues, when he gets comfortable enough with the songs to stop watching his fingers all the time, when he's okay with playing at Ryan or having Brendon all up in his face. Sometimes Jon turns around to grin at him, and Spencer's not sure what it means; I'm up here, this is my life, maybe, or I'm doing okay, I'm doing this, or even just hi there, isn't this awesome.

-

"We're supposed to be in soundcheck, and you're late." He tries not to tap his foot, or shout, but it's a near thing.

"We've been to Starbucks," Ryan volunteers; he's in a good mood today, a good post-Jac mood. Jon's been distracting him, and for that, Spencer's grateful, but they're late. It's also patently obvious that they've been to Starbucks, given the large cardboard cups they're clutching. It's just - they don't have time for this.

(He's not doing this again).

Spencer's about to open his mouth and tell them this when Jon smiles at him. "I got you a mocha, Spence, no whip, shot of vanilla."

"I - thank you," Spencer says.

How does he know that? Seriously, how does he know that? He shoots Ryan a dark look, and Ryan stares back at him, dark eyes completely blank. Asshole. It's not like Spencer's coffee preferences are classified information or anything, but still. Principles.

"Forget Spencer," Brendon says, rolling his eyes, "what did you get me?"

"Um."

Jon bites his lip guiltily while Brendon's face alters slowly by degrees into a pathic Greek mask of utter tragedy, mouth curving down, eyebrows twisting towards each other.

"For fuck's sake," Ryan says, "you're not allowed dairy before a show, you know that, you know it fucks your voice up. I told Jon he wasn't allowed to get you anything."

"I hate you," Brendon says, conversationally, "I hope you die and that worms feast on your skinny body and maggots wriggle in your eye sockets." He wiggles his fingers illustratively as he says that last line, and Ryan just shakes his head.

"Whatever," he says shortly, "I'm going to go get started on make up. Feel free -" he raises his voice slightly "- to come along and get ready whenever, you guys."

They watch him walk off, his slender shoulders squared, and when he turns out of sight Jon brings out a paper bag from somewhere in the depths of his hoodie, the top rolled over tightly like a kid's school lunch.

"For you," he tells Brendon, "cinnamon roll," and Brendon's face lights up.

"Dude," he says, "dude, I fucking love you, you have to stay with us and be our monkey butler forever, Jonathan Walker. We're committed now. Spence, tell him that he's not allowed to leave us ever."

Spencer takes a long slow drag on his mocha, and smiles a little at Jon around the straw.

-

Bob can be kind of an ass sometimes, but Chris and Darren are pretty cool. Spencer wanders off with them when the buses stop - at an actual small town, this time, not just a truck stop in the back of beyond - and they play pool for a while, in a small smoky room in the back of a bar that Bob bluffs them into.

"Where's Ryan?" Darren asks, leaning on his cue.

Spencer shrugs, lining up his shot, and manages to sink one of the balls cleanly, which is better than he's done before. "He didn't feel like getting off the bus. He's in his bunk."

"Ah," Chris says wisely, stroking his chin, then manages to sink one of Spencer's balls by accident, and blinks his round dark eyes in startlement like a baby owl. "Fuck."

"Greta's abandoned us, too," Darren says sadly. "She's gone off with Katie, and they're braiding daisies into garlands to adorn their flowing hair."

"No, no," Chris breaks in, shaking his head. "You lie, sir, and you know you lie. They're practicing the sinuous serpentine arts of belly-dancing, sure to turn a man's bones to jelly."

"The arts," Bob agrees, wiggling his eyebrows.

Darren nods sagely. "The strange and alluring arts."

"You're all totally insane," Spencer tells them, then sinks the eight ball by mistake.

-

When he gets back to the bus, there's no sign of Ryan; Jon and Brendon, though, are sitting in the front lounge, sprawled across the couches, eating cherry popsicles and watching MTV.

"Hey," Jon says, looking up. His mouth is surprisingly, shockingly red, wet and stained. Spencer can't help looking at it.

And looking at it.

And looking at it.

Thank fuck, Brendon's talking, covering over Spencer's sudden inability to speak (or breathe), obliviously explaining the set-up of the show that's playing.

"Seriously, like, he has to take the mothers on dates, right, bowling and ballet and shit? And then he has to choose the daughter blind, like, from the mom. And it's really hilarious - creepy, but hilarious - because the guy says that he wants to date the daughter of the hot mom, who's a total MILF. So the other mothers get snooty and introduce him to their daughters, who are totally hot, and then the MILF's daughter comes out and she's, well, not, and the look on his face, seriously, the look on his face -"

"Wow," Spencer says, tearing his eyes away from the curve of Jon's lower lip. His gaze jerks up a little, and fuck, Jon's looking straight at him. "That sounds completely awesome."

"Are you being sarcastic?" Brendon asks suspiciously, tilting his head.

"I don't even know anymore," Spencer confesses, and Brendon grins and says "Me neither, man, me neither," and pats the empty patch of couch beside him.

-

Brendon pads off to bed soon after Date My Mom is followed by something even worse (and possibly even more awesome), and from the furtive way he nonchalantly slouches out, Spencer knows that he's gone to take advantage of the fact that Ryan's asleep and the bunks are as uninhabited as they get to go and beat off.

He wishes that he didn't know that sort of thing about his bandmates, but some things are pretty hard to miss out on picking up on.

Jon's still new, though, so he smiles when Brendon's gone and says "He must be pretty beat, to miss out on this show. They're going to turn that guy's car into a bedazzled Pollock painting with unironic flared spoilers."

"Yeah," Spencer agrees, trying not to smirk, "pretty beat."

They watch tv for a while, mostly in silence but occasionally passing comment; it's nice, it's companionate, and every time Spencer gets Jon to laugh, not just politely but really, unabashedly laugh, he feels warm and happy. It's more comfortable than they've been since - for a while, anyway.

"The guy's face," Jon says, grabbing Spencer's arm, his fingers curling around his forearm. "I can't even -" He's laughing, his face bright and open, and his hand is really warm.

Spencer grins back. "I know, look, can you see that vein on his forehead? It's totally throbbing, I think he's going to stroke out -"

They just sort of keep smiling stupidly at each other, until it goes on a little too long and Spencer doesn't know what to say, what to do. Jon's hand is still on his arm, and he doesn't know whether to draw attention to it; doing anything will shatter it, this soft easy moment, Jon's eyes crinkled a little at the corners and his mouth sweet and stained red and smiling.

He doesn't know if he wants to shatter it or to make it draw on and out; almost without consulting his brain, he leans in and kisses Jon, quickly and hesitantly, stupidly. He's barely grazing Jon's mouth with his own before he's pulling back, barely long enough to take in the harsh clean scent of his aftershave up close.

Jon reels back like he's been burnt, back across the couch.

"Sorry," Spencer says quickly, before he can say anything. "Sorry, Jon, I'm sorry -"

Jon puts his glass down on the coffee table carefully. "Just - I thought that we weren't -"

"No, no, right."

Somehow this is even more awkward than after that first time; his tongue feels thick and clumsy in his mouth and he can hear his own pulse sounding loudly in his ears.

"It's just - I'm part of the band now, Spencer, and I don't want things to get weird because that would really, really suck -"

"No, yeah -"

There's a moth circling the light fitting above their heads; it must have got in via the open skylight, and its small shadow makes the light flicker a little, every time it flies into the glass with a tiny dry noise. There's a thick scrape on the lino just by his feet, too, and he stares at it, at the moth, instead of looking at Jon. He knows how Jon must look right now, sort of pitying or patient or worse, amused, grossed out.

"And, I mean, we're friends, as well, and -"

Spencer says "I know," and then, desperately, "I'm not even - I'm just - I'm not."

There's a pause, a hush, broken only by the faint pinging noise of the moth divebombing the glass-covered light again.

"Look," Jon says, "It's just that I'm in the band -"

"Can we stop talking about this already? I get it."

"You don't," Jon says. "Look, I said, I've made out with friends before, Spencer, it's really not a big deal. It's not like I mind, okay? I just don't want stuff to get weird, that's all."

"Fine." Why won't Jon stop talking and just let him quietly die of shame?

"And you're, what, eighteen -"

"Nineteen in September, and it's not like you can legally drink either."

Jon holds up his hands, and he's grinning, the asshole. "Yeah, but I can soon. Okay. You're eighteen going on nineteen, you want to try some stuff, dude, that's okay. That's pretty normal, that's college."

"Yeah," Spencer said after a second, seizing upon this. "Yeah, I guess." He's grateful for the out - if it is an out, because it's not like he knows what the fuck else that was. It could be the truth.

Jon's hand is on his shoulder, heavy and warm through his thin t-shirt, and for the first time since this incredibly embarrassing thing, Spencer looks at him. Jon smiles at him, reassuringly (his mouth is still too red), and Spencer manages to smile back.

"I'd rather you were curious with me than, like, a groupie," Jon says, very seriously. "If I wasn't in the band -"

"Jesus," Spencer says, breaking the eye contact. "I've got it. If you weren't in the band, you'd what, volunteer to be my pet science experiment? Great. Excuse me, I'm going to bed."

He pushes past Jon, and is stopped mid-stomp - it's not like he's stomping on purpose, that's kind of babyish, but he can't help it right this second - by Jon's hand on his shoulder, pulling him back.

He says "What?" just as Jon says "Spencer, seriously," and then Jon's kissing him, sweet and shallow, just the warm firm press of his mouth and the curl of his hand around Spencer's shoulder, fingertips making indentations through fabric.

It's really. It's kind of really nice, even if the scrape of Jon's jaw against his face is weird - weird, and familiar at the same time. Once Spencer thinks that, all he can remember is Denver, and he feels hot and flushed all over. After a second, Spencer stops thinking about pulling away and even stops thinking about that other time; he leans in, opening his mouth enough to suck on Jon's lower lip.

Jon makes a deep startled noise, and goes utterly still; Spencer's about to pull the fuck away (oh my god, he did it again) before Jon's hand clenches tighter on his shoulder and he says "Hey," and then they're kissing properly, and okay, it's still kissing a guy, still weird to be kissing someone that fits differently against him, their chests pressing flush together and Jon's shoulders broad and steady under his hands.

Finally, finally, Jon pulls away, slick-lipped, and all Spencer can hear is the sound of his own ragged breathing. Jon's feet are bare, he didn't notice that before, bare and solid and tan.

"Okay," Jon says, finally, like he's making his mind up about something. "If you're - if you're still curious, we can. We can try some stuff, maybe. Just this tour, I - I don't want to fuck this up, Spencer."

Spencer swallows, running the tip of his tongue along his lips. They're tingling, still slightly nerve-raw, missing the stimulation. "Yeah," he manages. "If you want, I mean. That could be cool."

"Cool," Jon says, clasping his shoulder. "Not tonight, though. You should go get some rest."

"It's too fucking hot," Spencer complains, but Jon just looks at him, and. Rest it is.

-

He waits until Jon's settled and breathing rhythmically in the bunks, like the others, and then he slips out to the tiny bathroom and jerks off perfunctorily with the water running loud into the sink.

After that, he can sleep.

-

"Right," Jon says. "Pizza seems to be the order of the day. What do we want?"

Brendon's on a vegetarian kick - again - and Ryan's okay with anything, as long as it's not olives, anchovies, pineapple, capers or shrimp.

"Why not pineapple?" Jon asks, and Brendon and Spencer grimace at each other, because this question can never lead to good.

Ryan's mouth goes thin. "It's wrong," he says, and Spencer can hear the capital in Wrong. "Wrong. I mean, it's a fruit -"

"Tomatoes are fruit," Brendon says, and Spencer sighs.

"There's a special law classifying them as vegetables," Ryan insists stubbornly. "Therefore, they belong on pizza. Pineapple does not."

Brendon thrusts his chin out. "That's bullshit, though. Biologically, they're still fruit."

"He learned that just to piss Ryan off," Spencer tells Jon sotto voce. "Never fails."

"Huh," Jon says, leaning against his shoulder.

"But they belong on pizza," Ryan says, "and technically, in the States, at least, they're a vegetable."

"Yeah, but not really -"

"Legally -"

"Suck it-"

"Your mom -"

"Whoa," Jon says, straightening up, "no pineapple. Got it. Spencer, what do you want?"

"Pepperoni," Ryan answers for him. "Lots of meat." He bares his teeth.

Brendon growls.

Jon waits for Spencer's nod, then makes industrious little notes of the toppings in Sharpie on the back of his hand. "Okay, I'm going to go tell Zack. No more fighting, or I'll eat it all myself."

"Wrong," Ryan grumbles under his breath as Jon disappears.

Brendon makes a pfft noise at him and waves him away. "Smith," he says. "Spencer."

"What?" Spencer's sure it can't be good, given the mood Brendon's in, but when he looks over at him Brendon's face is strangely serious.

"Hey," he says. "I'm glad you're getting on with Jon better, dude. That makes me - I'm really glad, you know."

"I was getting on with him before," Spencer protests. "I've always got on with Jon."

Brendon just looks at him. "Whatever, dude. Anyway, it just - I'm happy, anyway. He's a good guy. I don't think we could get used to anyone else. He fits, doesn't he?"

"Yeah," Spencer says quietly. "Okay, I'll tell Pete it's permanent."

"Awesome." Brendon's grin reaches his eyes, and bares an astonishing amount of shining white teeth. "Can I be the one to tell Jon?"

-

Onstage, Brendon leans against Ryan and sings into his mouth, their foreheads pressed together and their faces slick with sweat. Performing in summer, even at night, is kind of a bitch.

Onstage, Jon turns around to smile at Spencer between the songs, and Spencer flicks damp hair out of his eyes and grins back.

Dusty and Katie bring out fluttering, painted paper fans, their steps calculated and deliberate, when Brendon moves to sit at his white piano; he sings with his eyes closed, his fingers moving with horrifying, beautiful precision over the keys. Spencer isn't supposed to play during this part, so he lets the sticks go lax in his hands and watches sweat slide along Brendon's throat, watches Ryan finger a loose rosebud on his silk glove, watches the shape of Jon's shoulders and the way they move against his shirt, newly bedecked with roses.

-

They get to Orlando with time and change to spare; Amanda whisks Ryan off into town to look for some special club someone had told her was worth a pilgrimage. After a little while, Brendon starts to look forlorn at being left behind, and makes himself scarce - "I'm going to go somewhere and do something, anything you may or may not hear is total libel, or maybe slander" - which even Jon can translate now as 'I'm going to go bother the techs until they smack me' or possibly "I'm going to go and subvert and/or be subverted by the Hush Sound.'

"Can you wear dvds out?" Spencer asks interestedly. "Because if so, you're going to have to replace those pretty soon."

"Sshhh," Jon shushes him. "Seth and Summer are breaking up."

"This show is stupid."

Jon shushes him again. "Blasphemy. And Rachel Bilson is hot. C'mon, sit down."

Against his better judgment, Spencer does, and Jon throws an arm around his shoulders casually. It should be a move, but it's not; Jon doesn't follow it up with anything, and it just sort of sits there, warm and comforting and still.

Spencer endures the show for a while, looking at Jon's intent profile slantwise, and occasionally licking his lips; a couple of times he catches Jon sneaking looks back at him. The air is faintly charged, and yet - no moves are being made, even though they're sitting thigh to thigh now.

Spencer leans his head against Jon's shoulder (which totally counts as a move). Jon doesn't shift at all, but after a few minutes, Spencer startles at the soft tug on his hair and fuck, Jon's petting his hair, just a little; slowly, abstracted, like you'd pet a cat. He seems content with that, though.

Onscreen, Marissa has a screaming fight with her mother, then drinks morosely in her bedroom, before looking out of her window and admiring the guy doing the yard. Then she does the guy doing the yard. Offscreen, nothing is happening. Nothing at all.

"Do you not want to do this?" Spencer asks finally; he can feel his face flushing as he does so.

Jon looks at him sideways, inscrutable. "I thought maybe you changed your mind."

"No," Spencer says a little too vehemently, and flushes redder; by his side, Jon doesn't say anything, although his hand is still lazily carding through Spencer's hair. Spencer clears his throat. "I mean, unless you changed yours."

"No," Jon says. "No, I didn't," his thumb sliding softly over Spencer's jaw, and then he leans in and kisses him.

His mouth is warm, and it's hot enough, the air heavy and thick, that Spencer should be recoiling at the contact; but instead, he kisses back, leaning in closer. It's slower and more careful than before, like they're both holding back, but when he makes a small noise in the back of his throat, Jon's hands come up and wrap around his biceps, and that's better, that's so much fucking better, even if it's still slow and considering, testing.

"Come here," Jon says, breaking away for a second. His lips are a little swollen - they've been kissing for a while, Spencer realizes suddenly.

"Come where?" he asks, grinning. "I can't get much closer, Walker," and Jon laughs.

"No, like this," he says, pulling Spencer forward until he's practically in his lap - until he is in his lap, thighs straddling Jon's, and this is - this is close, this is way closer.

"Breathe," Jon says right into his ear, and Spencer says "Breathing, I'm breathing."

"If you're not okay with it-"

"I'm okay," Spencer says fierce and quick. "I'm more than okay." He kisses him again to prove his point, and when Jon makes a questioning little sound Spencer hums back, and this is good, close is good, close is great.

He doesn't let himself think of anything while they're making out; for the first time in a while, he lets himself forget the everyday small stresses of the tour, the larger stresses, the bigger existential problems that he's not been letting himself consider. Instead, there's the short softness of Jon's hair through his fingers, the faint bristle of his cheeks and chin, the silky inside of his mouth and the slide of his tongue, and that's enough.

He doesn't even really register that they've slid back along the couch until Jon's hands settle on his hips, and, fuck, he's lying on top of Jon, moving in faint incremental waves against Jon's hip.

"Sorry," Spencer says, "I'm. Am I squashing you? Am I -"

"In the good way," Jon assures him gravely, and leans in to suck on Spencer's lower lip. "This is okay, right? You're good?"

Spencer nods, and he'd kind of forgotten the experimental aspect of all this with Jon warm and close and under him. "Is-" fuck, he's turning red again, what's wrong with him? "Is the - is that okay?"

Jon blinks at him, almost sleepily. "What?"

"You know."

Jon blinks again, so Spencer sighs in frustration and grinds against his hip in earnest, biting his lower lip.

"No," Jon says, and Spencer bites his lip harder, trying to control himself. "No, it would be better if you moved over here a little - there -" His hands steer Spencer's hips over a little, until their hips line up properly, and that's - fuck, that's Jon's dick, he can feel it through their jeans, through the stiff denim and against his own. He bites his lip hard.

"Spencer?" Jon's looking at him, and Spencer opens his eyes - when did he close them? - and looks back at him. "You okay?"

He's not okay. It's like an ache, an itch that demanded scratching, has finally been eased, and at the same time, like it's been increased a thousandfold; he wants to move, wants skin, wants more.

"Yes," Spencer breathes, then louder, "yes," and Jon smiles, heavy-lidded, and that's all the permission Spencer needs to lean down and kiss him again, grind down against him while Jon rocks up, making noises that Spencer vaguely remembers and which makes something go molten in his stomach.

"Come here," Jon mutters against his neck, but there's nowhere to go, so Spencer just lifts his arms when Jon's hands start pushing at his t-shirt; they get his shoulders free, but it ends up and hanging loose and disregarded around his neck while Jon mouths at the curve of his neck and shoulder, his collarbone, his hands sliding across Spencer's back, still rocking together through the denim.

He's breathing hard through his mouth, half-laughing, when he comes; he doesn't mean to yet, he could lie here forever rolling lazily against Jon in their jeans, he could, but the pace had picked up and before he even knows he's that close, that's it.

"Spence," Jon breathes, and Spencer doesn't know what to do so he kisses along Jon's jaw, licking at his neck, until Jon arches against him a last time and comes against his hip.

They lie there breathing for a few seconds, a few minutes; Spencer can feel himself getting traitorously sleepy. It's hot, and sweat's cooling across his back; his skin feels tighter and his joints looser, and at his ear Jon's breathing thick and ragged.

"Are you okay?"

Spencer rolls his eyes before realizing that Jon can't see him doing it.

"Fine," he says. "I just got off, what do you think?"

Jon laughs quietly against his neck. "Yeah, well."

"Fuck," Spencer continues. "We're both - we're going to need to do so much laundry," and while it's not even funny somehow they're both laughing, half-muffled and unselfconscious, and it's - it's very different from Denver. Better.

-

That's how it works out, over the next week; humping against each other through their clothes in the bunks or the back lounge, depending. They do a lot of laundry; Spencer actually gets down to his last pair of clean jeans before he caves and spends one precious morning off in Boston in a laundromat with Jon (Zack leaves them to their own devices, preferring to keep an eye on Ryan and Brendon, who've been talking wistfully about paintball), sitting in front of the machines watching the spinners go round and round.

"I think I'm going to die of boredom," Spencer says out loud. The other patrons ignore him; one middle-aged lady sends him a withering look that takes in his green and blue sneakers and his lavender t-shirt.

"Really?" Jon says, looking at him sideways. "I keep thinking about using the spin cycle for evil. Evil and vibrations," and dammit, Jon Walker is supposed to be a nice guy, not the sort of guy who can look that diabolically suggestive and at the same time, to the casual observer, utterly benign; sort of quirky, maybe, given the angle of his eyebrows, but deceptively innocent.

"Fuck you," Spencer says, under his breath. The ball-crushing lady probably hears him anyway. "This is my last clean pair of jeans, you -"

Jon smiles at him, slow and pleasant and filthy, then pulls his iPod out and passes him an earbud. They listen to Jon's iPod together, thighs brushing against each other on the bench, and wait.

Spencer really does think he's going to die, or maybe put his pants back on and walk out, the first time Jon actually touches him when they're doing what they do. At first it's just through his boxers, and then the next time Jon's pushing them down and wrapping his hand around him, jerking him off slow and steady, and no, really, this is the best thing ever, better than s'more-flavored poptarts and double bass pedals and August and Everything After.

He touches Jon back after that; it's weird and familiar at the same time. His hand knows what to do with a dick in it, it's not at all like the first (or even the third) time he had his hand in a girl's panties, and there was slickness and strangeness, terra incognita. This is just as awesome in utterly the opposite way, and he gets to watch Jon's face, watch it change when he moves his thumb like that.

They're at the venue in Columbus when Jon grins at him like that. They wait until Brendon's off on a tangent about something and distracting Zack with questions and the occasional segue into monologue, and until Ryan's texting someone back and forth on his 'kick, abstracted. It's kind of amazing how many dark corners and promising nooks you can find backstage if you know where to look.

Spencer's already working Jon's jeans open when Jon stops him.

"You first," Jon says, and then he's going to his knees and unzipping his fly, pushing down his boxers, and Spencer looks down at him and. Oh my fucking god.

It's insanely surreal; Jonathan Walker is going down on him in a cupboard backstage, a small cramped space that smells like old shoes with a door doesn't lock. He bites his lip so hard it nearly bleeds, trying to keep quiet while Jon does that, with the wet slide of his mouth on him and the maddening way he uses his tongue.

"Are you okay with this?" Jon pulls off to ask solicitously, and Spencer fists his hand in his hair and says, quiet and vehement, "Yes, god, yes, just -"

Afterwards, Jon straightens up, an odd expression on his face, and Spencer kind of wants to kiss him. He has to stop himself leaning forward and doing it, because Jon just - it'd be weird, maybe. Spencer doesn't know how this is supposed to work.

He's pulling Jon's dick out of his jeans when Jon tilts his head and says, low and lazy, "Next time, we'll do that in a hotel, and you can make all the noise you want. If you want to, I mean."

"Yeah," Spencer says, throat a little dry, "yeah, I want," and jerks him off, torn between drawing it out and speeding it up, one eye on the door and another on the time, and settles in the end for neither.

-

Somewhere around the Michigan-Ohio border, Ryan wins a couple of hundred dollars off Brendon at Cee-Lo. Brendon walks around with his mouth open for a few hours before challenging him to a rematch.

"Fuck you, no," Ryan says. "These are my ill-gotten gains, and I'm keeping them."

"Turning down a challenge?" Spencer asks, raising his eyebrows, and Brendon chimes in eagerly.

"Yeah, man, don't be a pussy."

"Don't make me slap you with my glove," Ryan says. "I'll do it, I mean, but we need you to keep the little boys and girls happy, and they won't be happy if you're not pretty."

"Fuck you," Brendon says, rubbing his face against Ryan's shoulder. His legs are slung out over Jon's lap, making the most of the small cramped lounge. "I'm always pretty."

"I think you should accept," Jon counsels gravely. "Maybe later you can slap him with your glove."

"With pleasure," Ryan says.

"Kinky."

Spencer laughs helplessly as Ryan eyes Brendon with jaundice, at the way Brendon pouts exaggeratedly and the way it just makes Ryan look even more annoyed, the way Jon watches them both trade practiced insults through their laughter like a sleepy, satisfied cat.

It's better than they've all ever been, and something in Spencer that he didn't even know was tensed up loosens, relaxes.

-

The bus stops at a truck stop late one night to refuel, and Jon shakes Spencer awake and pulls him outside, then away across the road into a field, night-black.

The air is chill after the thick heat of the bus, but it's still a summer night, the moon half-full and faintly golden. They're far enough into the country that he can see the stars properly, a scattered blur of brilliance.

"What are we doing out here?" Spencer asks. "If this is some genius plan to make out, I have to take points off your grade because of the very real possibility that we might get left behind when they drive off."

"I told the driver I was coming out to take some photos," Jon says absently, pulling his hoodie up over his head.

"You get extra credit for the lying skills," Spencer concedes, and he laughs quietly.

"No, I do want to take some photos, dude. It's a beautiful night."

"Why wake me up, then?"

He shrugs. "Would you want to sleep through this?"

"I've seen plenty of truck stops," Spencer assures him. "Tons of grass, tons of moons, and tons of mosquitoes."

"They're fireflies, I think. There must be water nearby."

"Oh. They're pretty." They are, kind of, tiny specks of phosphorescence in the night, darting and drifting through the dark.

Jon's arm is around his shoulders. "They don't live long," he says softly. "A summer day or two."

"They're pretty," Spencer says again, because he doesn't know what else to say, and when Jon kisses him, he thinks about firefly summers and fleeting points of light.

-

Ryan joins The Dresden Dolls' set and covers Imagine one day.

("It's mostly just so we can fuck with the teenies' heads," Amanda explains, face alight. "I mean, they're all 'who are these mimes, get them offstage', and then we bring out Ryan and throw them a bone."

"Mostly the headfucking," Ryan shrugs. "Am I bait?"

Amanda pats his shoulder. "Think of yourself as more of a lure. You know, those bright feathery fishing things, hiding the hook." She stops, looking pained. "Oh my god, what if they've never heard of Imagine? Is that possible? I don't put anything past some of them, but that's just - I can't even.")

Spencer watches sidestage as Ryan stands there in his scarlet vest under the summer sun, hair brushed into a faint crest and face painted in red and lavender and sparkling with glitter. He looks like some fabulous, awkward, exotic bird of paradise, squinting into the sun, a contrast to Amanda in her death-mask white paint and smudged eyeliner, her black Pixies shirt and striped stockings.

-

In Montreal they get hotel rooms.

"Don't make me room with Brendon," Ryan begs. "He's had three Cokes and a couple of Red Bulls, come on. Have a heart."

Spencer looks at him. It's hard for him not to do things to make life easier for Ryan, but - he really wants to room with Jon tonight. Ryan stares at him pleadingly, eyes wide and dark and sad, and yeah. It's hard.

"Hey," Jon says. "Ryan, I'll play paper scissors rock with you for him. Best of three?"

"Okay," Ryan says, his eyes going narrow and calculating. Ryan's good at paper scissors rock, and he always plays to win.

Jon loses the first game, and wins the second and third, which is more than Spencer ever managed to do against Ryan as a kid.

"Damn you, Jon Walker," Ryan says, but he's laughing, and he bumps his fist against Jon's in good-natured defeat.

"I didn't want you either," Brendon says, glaring, and Ryan sticks his tongue out at him.

"We're wasting valuable hotel time in the lobby," Spencer points out, shouldering his bag.

He laughs at Jon and Brendon's jokes and tries to slow his pace, keep smiling, not to hurry along the hallway.

When they get the door shut, Jon sits down on one of the twin beds and takes his shoes off. "Come on, Spencer," he says, grinning, "I won you fair and square."

"Free man, free country," Spencer retorts, but he pulls off his shirt and tosses his duffel onto the other bed, and stands there in his jeans and sneakers, watching Jon.

"Come here," Jon says, and Spencer helps him pull off his own shirt, and they lie together on the bed for a while, the door safely locked, making out slow and lazy, like they've got plenty of time. Spencer runs his hands over Jon's back, his sides, his shoulders, and feels almost drugged in the thick summer heat, skin-stupid; like he never wants to move, even when Jon slides down and unbuttons his jeans and sucks him off like he promised, leisurely, his square hands keeping Spencer's hips flat against the mattress and unable to thrust forward too far.

Jon is kind of an enormous cocktease. Spencer never thought he'd know that about him.

"You are such an asshole," Spencer tells him, hoarse and breathless, when Jon stretches, rolling his head about on his shoulders, and crawls back up to lie by his side. "Fuck you."

Jon smiles, and runs his hand through Spencer's damp hair, pushing it away from where it's stuck against his forehead, his fingers gentle against Spencer's cheek. "You don't get to complain here. I just blew you."

"I can complain if I want," Spencer says, but he gets Jon's jeans open and eases his hand in, watching Jon's face, and that's almost an apology.

"Mm," Jon says, leaning back against the headboard, eyes following the movement of his hand. "A guy could get used to this."

"Damn straight," Spencer agrees, then laughs under his breath. "I mean."

Jon strokes his cheek again. "Yeah, funny."

"It may be lame, but you're laughing," Spencer says. Then, before he can stop himself, he says, rushed, "I could go down on you. If you want."

Jon's fingers still. "I'm not asking you to."

"I know," Spencer says. His cheeks feel heated, and he concentrates on jerking Jon off, making him gasp. "I want to."

"You should maybe stop doing that, then," Jon breathes. Spencer swallows.

"Yeah, right. Okay."

He slides down; Jon lifts his hips obediently when Spencer drags his jeans off further, down to his knees ("This would probably go better if we got rid of them totally," he suggests mildly, and they end up somewhere over by the door). This would probably go better if Jon wasn't watching him so closely.

It's weird at first, definitely. It's not as weird as he might have thought it would be - at the end of the day, it's just skin, and it's not like it tastes fantastically disgusting, either. He can do this.

Jon makes a strangled-back little sound when Spencer stops cautiously mouthing at him and takes him into his mouth properly, and okay. He can definitely do this.

"It helps if you relax," Jon offers. "Just take your time, do what you're comfortable with. You can use your hands at the same time, you know."

Spencer pulls away, and smacks his thigh lightly. "You're a total backseat driver, aren't you? I know how blowjobs work," he says. "Okay, from the other end, but the point is, I've got this. It's not rocket science."

"I think I'm supposed to be making a joke about torpedoes here," Jon says thoughtfully, then draws his breath in a little. Spencer laughs, he can't help it, even with Jon's cock in his mouth, and that makes Jon gasp again.

Jon's hands settle on his head; not in a pressuring fashion, but loose and light, stroking his hair. Looking up, Spencer can see him bite his lip, feel the tremor in his thighs, the way he's straining not to thrust forward into his mouth too much. It makes him feel a little bit like a god, gratification and smugness and a little awe at being able to do that to him, the empirical process of doing something and watching him, hearing him, feeling him respond.

He's almost surprised when Jon stiffens and then, fuck, he's coming. Spencer pulls away hastily, and. Sex is really fucking messy.

He sits there between Jon's legs, watching him catch his breath and feeling uncomfortable.

"Sorry," Jon pants. "You totally don't have to swallow, it's nasty, I know. Go ahead and spit."

Spencer nods gratefully at him. The bathroom tiles are cold and shockingly chill under his feet, and he spits into the sink, wiping at his mouth and chin (throat, what the fuck) with a wash cloth.

"Sorry," Jon says, behind him. He looks a little sheepish, his eyes heavy. "You're not scarred for life, are you?"

"It washes off." Spencer throws the washcloth at him (it hits Jon square in the center of his chest, and Spencer mentally awards himself ten points). "The patient'll make a full recovery."

"Glad to hear it," Jon laughs, and his hands settle on Spencer's hips. He twists around to kiss him, and Jon's kissing back before Spencer thinks about the potential grossness, and then it's patently okay.

-

In Indianapolis, Spencer leans against Ryan on the couch and watches Brendon and Jon try to school each other at Guitar Hero.

"I think my brains are going to bleed out my ears if I have to hear that song one. more. time," Ryan says sleepily, and Spencer pats his shoulder.

"Want to bet on the winner?"

Ryan smiles at him. "That's a sucker's bet. Do I look like a sucker?"

"Do you want me to answer that?" Spencer says, face utterly innocent, and Ryan laughs.

"I totally walked into that one."

"You totally did."

They're quiet a while, watching, until "Ha!" Brendon yelps. "Ha, ha ha!" and punches the air in victory.

"Huh."

"I didn't see that coming," Spencer says honestly.

"Me neither."

"Fuck you both," Brendon says, grinning, running his hands through his hair. "I owned that. I owned it. Jon, I own you."

"As long as you get me a shiny collar," Jon says, "I'm cool with it."

Spencer thinks, I'm not, as Brendon whoops and demands to be carried around piggyback whenever he so chooses.

-

He gets better at sucking Jon off, and he gets better at staying quiet and throttling down sound deep in his throat. One night Jon climbs into his bunk, says "sshh," warningly and very, very, quietly, and Spencer lies there with his eyes shut and hands curled into fists, trying to remember how to breathe, acutely conscious of Brendon and Ryan asleep across the aisle and almost at the point of not caring, of just -

-

In Denver, the Hush Sound kidnaps Brendon, and it cannot, under any circumstances, end well.

"This city is cursed," Spencer states flatly. It really is.

"Is there a note?" Jon asks over his shoulder.

"Yup. It says 'Don't look for me. I am running away to sail the wine-dark sea. Or maybe I'm going to fulfill my life-long dream of becoming a hot-air balloon instructor and sailing through cerulean skies. I could go to Canada and drive dogsleds!' (Maybe, added in another hand, 'I'm going to sell my ass for pin money on the mean streets of New York. You just can't know. You just can't ever know.')

Ryan rolls the paper into a scroll and taps it against his knee. "I see Greta and Chris's hands at work here. Maybe traces of Bob."

"It's written in hot pink," Spencer says. "It could be Brendon. He likes dogs. And balloons."

"It's scented marker," Ryan says disgustedly. "Strawberry, come on."

"I'm still just saying."

Jon nods.

Ryan sets his jaw. "They can't have him. He's ours. We have a show tonight. I need him- am I the only one taking this seriously?"

"Yup."

"Yeah, pretty much."

"I'm going to talk to Zack," Ryan says. "He understands."

Jon laces his fingers through Spencer's when Ryan disappears. "Want to make out on the couch?"

Spencer just looks at him. "Uh, duh?"

-

Brendon's back in time for soundcheck. "They used me cruelly," he says, pressing his shaking hands against his eyes. "They played Neutral Milk Hotel at me. Then the poetry - oh my god, the poetry. There was John Donne. There was Dylan Thomas. There was - there was iambic pentameter. Nothing sounds right anymore without it. I need the rhythm, I need the metaphor, I need -"

"The world is truly a vale of tears," Ryan says, rolling his eyes, and Brendon brightens.

"Yeah, Ryan Ross," he says. "Just like that. Talk flowery to me."

"Wow, I actually didn't think this bus could get any more ridiculous," Spencer says, as Ryan starts to read from The Picture of Dorian Gray, with Brendon curled up against his side, whimpering. "I mean."

"There could be llamas," Jon says, shrugging. "I figure as long as there are no llamas, we're good."

-

When they get a hotel again, Spencer gets the room key from Zack and he and Jon make a break for the elevator before Brendon or Ryan can try and bargain for a trade. They get in and frantically punch the buttons; it's a near miss, but the doors slide shut before the others can get in, and as the elevator climbs, they send them taunting text messages.

darwin kicks you off the island, Spencer sends to Brendon. since you're too slow to make the break.

They're laughing when they get into their room (Ryan and Brendon are hilarious in defeat, their texted threats and blackmail patently desperate and useless).

They get off rubbing against each other, but for the first time, they're fully naked when they do it. It's weird, maybe, that Spencer's got used to giving head, and that he's not used to being naked with Jon, and it's undeniably different than grinding at each other through their clothes. Better, definitely, slick and smooth and skin everywhere, and better still when his dick slides between the press of Jon's thighs, and he gets off like that, sliding frantically between them with Jon hard against his stomach, mouth open against his throat.

-

They have lunch at Port Of Subs one afternoon; the air is sweet with summer and it seems totally stupid to eat it inside.

"We should have a picnic," Jon says. "Instead of going to the mall, we should find a park and hang out there."

"We could go to the beach," Brendon offers. "I wish we could go to the beach."

Ryan clears his throat. "Um, we're in Oregon."

"Why must you crush my dreams, Ross?"

Brendon and Jon band together and woo the driver into finding and driving them all to a lake somewhere in the area. They find one after about half an hour and a lot of poking at the mapbook, and it's obviously not their idea alone; the lakeside is full of people, families and children, sandcastles. Somewhere, along the shore, a child is flying a yellow and crimson kite, bright against the sky like a second sun.

"Actually," Ryan says, pushing his obnoxiously large sunglasses up on the bridge of his nose and sipping from his bottle of Coke, "actually, this was a pretty good idea, Brendon."

"All my ideas are good ones."

Spencer looks at Jon and then at Ryan; Jon smirks back, and Ryan - well, it's hard to tell, so much of his face is covered by the sunglasses, but he seems to have the same expression. As one, they burst into loud and raucous laughter, visibly frightening small children and a few birds, which scatter into the air in offended flight.

"Fuck you all very much," Brendon sighs, adjusting his own sunglasses. "Nice to know you've got my back."

"Dude, you were asking for that one," Spencer tells him, shaking his head. They continue to walk along the lake edge and the sand is soft and rough together against his bare feet, Jon's hand heavy on his shoulder.

Ryan flicks the back of Brendon's head, half-gentle, and laughs.

-

Spencer should know before Ryan tells him. He's known Ryan since he was five and Ryan was six; he knows Ryan better than he knows anybody else, even if they don't talk much about it, even if Brendon's more spontaneously handsy than either of them ever will be.

He doesn't, though. They have a show tonight, in Seattle, but they don't have soundcheck for another hour; they're just sitting on the couch, something stupid on the tv (Die Hard, even; no, Spencer doesn't know why) and then there's a buzzing noise, and Ryan's hand goes to his pocket, over the bulge of the Sidekick.

"Who the hell even calls anymore?" Brendon asks from the floor. "Like, actually calls you on the phone? That's obsolete technology. People who call instead of texting make me sad."

Ryan laughs. "Fuck if I know," and moves off a little to take the call, out of the direct range of the speakers. He doesn't get too far; he stops in the bunkroom doorway, phone at his ear, his back to them. There's something odd about the set of his shoulders; but even then, Spencer doesn't know, not until Ryan turns around, slowly, eyes blank and shocked, his mouth drawn thin and taut. For a second, Spencer can't breathe, just looks at him.

Ryan draws a shallow little breath. "I think. I think I need - we're going to have to cancel tonight. I need to go home."

-

Spencer goes with him, lends him his iPod on the plane and helps him fend off relatives. He doesn't think there's anything smaller in the world than Ryan when he's standing apart from everyone, next to the coffin, tall and slender and huge-eyed, his head bent so that his hair falls into his eyes.

Jon and Brendon text what seems like every hour; Zack, too, Pete, everyone. Ryan only answers a few of them and ignores the rest, so it's Spencer's job to run interference, reassure people. Ryan doesn't let him see him cry, if he does cry, but when Spencer hugs him (like they're nine and ten again) he breathes hard and shakily and silent, hot-eyed, in his arms.

-

Dusty accosts him after their first show back (the have only one show to go, and that's it, tour over). To be entirely factual, she accosts him ten minutes after they wound their set up and retired to shower and change. She's out of her stage clothes already and wearing jeans and a loose, button-up white shirt, her red hair pulled back in a ponytail.

It looks weird, because she still has most of her make up on. Her skin is still painted eggshell white, aces and hearts still spangling her cheeks, like she's two people at once, one laid atop the other; a painted china doll in drab, a normal girl who's secretly a harlequin. "Is he okay? He walked out of there so fast -"

"He's fine," Spencer says shortly. "He just wanted to get some air."

Dusty's thin eyebrows rise, and Spencer shrugs. "Amanda went after him. She's taking him for a walk, I guess. It'll be okay."

"Hmm," Dusty says, a considering, disbelieving hmmm, and Spencer shrugs again, helplessly.

When Ryan gets in that night, hours after, he goes straight to his bunk and pulls his curtain right across.

Spencer gives him ten minutes, then crawls out of his bunk and knocks lightly against the wall right by Ryan's.

"I'm asleep, Spencer," Ryan says, and the curtain remains closed.

Spencer wants to push past it and - hug him, something. "Sleeping people don't answer, asshole," he says instead. Then, quieter, "Look, if you want to talk -"

A pause. "I've talked enough tonight," Ryan says. "I'm okay, Spencer. I just want to get some sleep."

"Are you sure?" The bus is quiet enough that he can hear the faint sound of Ryan turning up his iPod, over the soft background of Brendon snoring. That's a yes, or at least, the semblance of a yes. He stands there uselessly for a few minutes, unable to push past the curtain and make Ryan talk to him; he's learnt, their whole life, to give Ryan the dignity of his own space when he needs it, but sometimes it's hard, and tonight, it's harder than ever.

He climbs up into Jon's bunk, not his own; Jon's curtain is half-open, and he's awake, Spencer knows, by the sound of his breathing. He knows how Jon breathes when he's really asleep, and the rhythm's wrong for that.

"Hey," he breathes, and Jon blinks at him in the dark.

"Hey," he whispers back, just as quietly, and rolls onto his side to make room for Spencer. It's a tight fit, tight enough that they're pressed together, Jon's arms curling around him. He presses his face into Jon's neck and Jon goes still. "Uh, you want...?"

"No," Spencer says, and starts to pull away, but Jon reaches out for him and drags him back against his chest.

"Hey," he says soothingly. "It's alright, it's okay," and it's selfish, maybe, but the way Jon holds him is deeply comforting, comforting enough that he can let out a couple of jagged breaths while Jon holds him tighter.

"It's not okay," Spencer says softly, and Jon hushes him, rubbing circles on his back. "It's not me, I'm not upset," he tries to clarify, "not for me."

"I know, Spence, it's okay," Jon says. "I know," and finally Spencer believes him just enough to fall asleep there, Jon still talking low and rubbing his back.

-

There's a Polaroid on his bunk, the next night; it's a starry night and a thin slice of pale honey moon, and on the back is scrawled there are always a couple of fireflies that live through the winter.

Spencer studies it for a while, fingers curling pink around its edges, then sets it down again.

-

They play Los Angeles, and that's it, tour over; summer over.

"It's not really," Brendon says, "we have Lollapalooza the day after tomorrow, cheer the fuck up."

"Woo," Spencer says listlessly, and waves his paper napkin like an indifferent flag. Jon smiles at him across the table, a little sadly, a lot questioningly.

Spencer is really fucking sick of eating at IHOP. It may be convenient, but he feels like the same plate of congealed eggs has been following him all over the country.

"What's wrong with you?" Ryan asks. "Come on, I'm planning the winter tour. We need to go one better with it. We need to step it up."

Brendon sits up. "Can I have a lion?"

"Dude, did you learn nothing from Siegfried and Roy?"

"What about a fire-breather?" Jon amends. "If we're going with circuses."

"What about a pole-dancer?" Brendon says, eyes wide. "It could be a hot firewoman pole-dancer. You know, the fire-breather comes onstage, does his thing, and then the sirens go off, and the sexy firewoman comes sliding down her pole and fights the fire."

"Wow. That's the stupidest idea I've ever heard," Ryan says. "I think my band sounds better only partially charred. No, I was thinking ballerinas -"

"Ballerinas, what, are you kidding me -"

-

Lollapalooza is bright and blisteringly hot, for Chicago. Ryan's make up starts to run and Spencer's white shirt sticks to him like a second skin sometime during their set; it feels wrong to be playing a festival, without the Hush Sound on first, without the Dolls, without Roger and Dusty and Katie Kay.

But it's still a last summer show, a stay of execution. And finally it's over - when he tosses his sticks into the seething crowd; when they're backstage, after, fighting over the showers; when they're in t-shirts and jeans again; when they get to their hotel for the night and Jon sucks him off twice 'for the road'; when they're cleaning their stuff off the bus and suddenly there are planes to catch home and cabs to call and they're actually at the airport.

"You didn't have to come with," Brendon tells Jon. "We can get ourselves on our flight okay."

"Uh-huh. Sure you can."

"Spencer and I can, and we can watch him," Ryan amends.

"Do we hug?" Brendon asks. "I mean, we're off to Europe in two weeks, are we supposed to hug?"

Jon looks thoughtful. "We could clap each other manfully on the back, I guess. But I'd rather hug."

Brendon hugs him first, and then Jon hugs Ryan in due turn, who looks both pleased and a little uncomfortable at the formality of it. Then Jon's standing in front of him and Spencer tries to smile.

"It's not even two weeks," Jon says.

"I know," Spencer says, "I have the itinerary." He helped write it.

"You have to hug," Brendon says. "Stop trying to pussy out of it, Spencer. If I'm man enough to hug, you're man enough to hug."

Spencer glares at him, then hugs Jon pointedly. He lets go after a few seconds.

When he steps back; Jon's looking at him, and the way he's doing it is a question, hanging on the air. Spencer looks at the ground; if he knew the answer, he'd give it, but -

Over their heads, the loudspeaker crackles with announcements.

"Well, that's it," Ryan says. "Summer over. We have to plan for the winter tour, seriously. I want things set in stone before Europe."

"It's been a good tour," Brendon says.

"Yeah," Jon echoes.

Spencer just nods.

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