![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
stuffitmod.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
bandomstuffsitTitle: Better Days
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cloudlessclimes
Pairing(s): Brendon/Spencer
Rating: R
Warnings: frank discussion of drug use.
Word count: 9025
Summary: Spencer's fine. Really he is. He just needs a little something to take the edge off. Until Brendon finds out.
No one worries about Spencer. He's the fine one; rock steady and reliable. While the internet buzzes with photos of Ryan and plates of cocaine, and everyone wonders exactly how many times a day Brendon smokes up, and people smirk knowingly when Jon professes to Billboard magazine that he'd 'rather have a drink than not have a drink,' not a single person says a word when Spencer gets something to help him sleep. Nobody blinks an eye when he stops at a walk in clinic somewhere in Iowa to get a prescription for something to help him wake up. That's all it is, just a little help. Touring fucks with his system and he'll be fine, in a little while. He just needs something to get him through.
That's all it is, just touring. Haley leaving him has nothing to do with it. Even if she takes his god damn dogs all the way to fucking middle of nowhere Illinois. Having to play tambourine and shaker and cowbell at approximately six hundred and fifty-two in-stores has nothing to do with it.
Just tired, that's it.
And then, Spencer's not on tour any more and that's always a big fucking adjustment, right? Who doesn't need a little help getting back to 'normal'? Not a big deal at all. Not even when Ryan sits him down and explains slowly and carefully (only Spencer, having spent a lifetime in friendship with Ryan can actually tell the difference between Ryan's normal every day speaking voice and the way he's talking now) that he feels what they're doing now 'isn't working' and he and Jon have a 'different vision' for the direction of the band, and that it's best they 'part ways'.
Ryan and Jon even have songs for an album.
Ryan and Jon have enough songs for an album.
That's not Panic at the Disco. That's not Ryan and Jon and Brendon and Spencer.
When it finally works it's way into Spencer's mind that this is it; that the end that's been lapping at the shore for months now has finally crested, Spencer blinks slowly, swallows, then nods. "Okay," is all he says, reaching into his back pocket and taking out his wallet. He throws a few bills on the table to cover the shitty coffee and questionable waffles because he's pretty sure Ryan wouldn't ever concern himself with something like paying his own bill. "Okay," he says again, standing and walking out of the restaurant and not looking back as he heads to his car.
He has to tell Brendon.
He just needs something to get him through, that's all.
No one should worry, it's fine. He's fine. Just fine. Everything would be fine. He'll make sure of that.
Spencer flicks open the glove compartment and shuffles around in the squirrel's nest of fast food napkins and gas station receipts and pieces of paper covered in lyrics and beats he'd dreamed up and never shown anyone. He mentally fist pumps when his fingers curl around the familiar plastic bottle of his emergency stash. Tilting his head back he pops a couple of pills into his mouth, swallowing them with the dregs of an iced tea that's been sitting in the cup holder for too long. Spencer breaths in and out, turns the key in the ignition, and heads out of the lot.
He has to tell Brendon.
In person.
Spencer drives from Vegas to Brendon's new place in L.A. It gives him time to think. He needs to figure out exactly how he's going to break the news to him. Spencer's been waiting for this, for months. By the end of their last tour, the distance between them was no longer just geography, but he's sure that in Brendon's need for everyone to be happy and together and just fine, thank you very much, he'd never even considered the fact that Ryan and Jon might just up and leave. Just thinking about it hurts Spencer's head. As he peels through the endless stretch of desert road, Spencer flicks his sunglasses down from his forehead and over his eyes and thinks about how much better he'll feel when he can stop and get something to eat and drink, so he can down a couple of atavan and maybe be less of an anxious mess by the time he gets to Long Beach.
"Hey!" Brendon's greeting is bright and cheerful as ever and Spencer tries to shift his expression into something as genuine. Instead he hangs on to Brendon for just a little longer than is usual, breathing him in and trying to figure out how to tell him that the reason Spencer joined the band was for Ryan but the reason he stayed is for Brendon. It was just a stupid crush, really. Most people either thought Brendon was the most annoying human being they'd ever met, or fell head over heels in the first five minutes they know him. Ryan Ross is the only person Spencer has ever met whose feelings on the matter changed hourly. Spencer pets Bogart, who is dancing around his ankles, as Brendon motions for him to come in. "So, this is a surprise. I thought your drum convention was next week end?" Brendon yells from the kitchen where he's getting beer and a bag of Doritos.
Nervously rubbing his palms over the flat of his thighs, Spencer sniffles and says, "Yeah, well. I thought I'd come out early and..."
"Sweet! Hangs are awesome. We can surf in the morning if you want," Brendon pops the cap off of a Corona and hands it to Spencer, then doing the same to his own.
"Yeah, um, B we need to talk, okay?" Spencer sets his beer on the coffee table, patting his legs until Bogart jumps up for a thorough ear scratching.
Brendon tilts his head to one side and narrows his eyes a little, studying the nervous, serious expression on Spencer's face. "Okay," he shrugs his shoulders in deference.
Borgart whines and squirms when Spencer squeezes him a little harder than he means to, "So, I had lunch with Ryan."
"Cool. Shit, I haven't talked to him since..."
"South Africa," Spencer finishes, keeping his voice carefully neutral.
Brendon's eyebrows raise to his hairline in shock, "Shit, really? That was," he pauses and licks his lips, giggling nervously as he takes a swallow from his beer, "That was a while ago, huh? I didn't realize. That was some fight we had..."
Spencer's shoulders tense and slowly inch towards his ears, "Yeah," he says nodding slowly. Spencer had realized. Spencer is the peace keeper, always the one working out the wrinkles and snares, whether it was between Brendon and Ryan, or his Mom and Dad before they got divorced, even his little sisters' fights over who gets to play with the Pretty In Pink Barbie were always mediated by Spencer. "Ryan says he's done with Panic. Jon and Ryan started their own band. They start recording next week." He blurts out.
There is a tiny window of sharp, shocked silence and then Brendon leaps to his feet. "What?" he yelps. He stands there, inches away from where Spencer's still seated on the sofa, and Spencer watches the rise and fall and rise and fall of his chest and the color climbing high on his cheeks. "No, seriously Spencer. What the actual fuck are you saying to me right now?"
Spencer closes his eyes and focuses on letting his own breath out of his lungs before it strangles beneath the force of the metal bands around his heart, "Um, that's why he--Ryan--that's why he wanted to have lunch. Bren, things, they haven't been good for a while. Even you must know that, right? And it's like, they've already made up their minds, okay?" Spencer holds out a hand, palm up and imploring.
The news goes over about as well as expected. Brendon vacillates between yelling obscenities mostly aimed at Ryan and Jon and any future generations of Rosses and Walkers, and deflated sadness. The yelling and wild arm gestures combined with Brendon's non-stop pacing as he rants has Bogart leaping from Spencer's lap and barking and snapping around Brendon's heels, wanting to join in the game. Spencer doesn't move to pick up the agitated terrier. He doesn't try to calm Brendon down. He can't. He knows if he just sits and waits and lets them go they'll eventually both wind down. Almost like he can hear Spencer's thoughts, Brendon lets out one last "Fuck!", scoops Bogart up into his arms and flops back down beside Spencer. "Shit, what's gonna happen now? There are gigs booked and bills to pay and just...fuck." Brendon swipes his cheek across the warm fur at Bogarts neck. Then, kissing him on the top of the head, Brendon sets him down and stares at Spencer. His eyes are so wide and sad Spencer wishes he could conjure up the words to fix things. But the words are all jumbled up in his brain and stuck in his throat and damn it, he left his bag in the car.
"We have a manager. I guess we let him manage. Those fuckers can call Bob, if they already haven't, and sort their own shit out. We have enough to worry about." Spencer smiles a little, proud that he managed to make sense and sound sincere. He salutes Brendon with his beer bottle and then finishes what's left in one smooth swallow.
Blinking and licking his lips, Brendon says, "We?" in a very small, uncertain voice. He bites his bottom lip between his teeth and picks at a stray thread at the hem of his t-shirt.
"Yeah, B. We. I joined Panic at the Disco. Since I've actually, you know, heard of the Beatles, I don't actually see the point of trying to sound like them. I'd rather sound like something new...sound like us, you know?" Until this moment, Spencer hadn't realized that buried beneath layers of carefully calculated nothing, he's very angry. He's covered for Ryan for years. Made up bullshit excuses for Ryan's bullshit behavior, but he's had enough. This feels like the worst kind of betrayal and definitely slamming a big fuck you! door on whatever had been left of their friendship. "I'm not going anywhere."
Slowly tipping until his face is mashed into Spencer's shoulder, Brendon mumbles, "Dude, thank you!" and wraps his arms around Spencer in a fierce hug. "Ryan's your best friend. I mean I never thought that he'd ever leave the band, but like, I guess I figured you'd, you know...You're his best friend." Brendon sits up awkwardly and scrubs his fingers through his hair, making it stand up in a million different directions.
Unaware, Spencer threads his fingers through Brendon's hair smoothing the wayward strands down and then absently petting over and over. "I think," he starts slowly, hoping if he takes his time the words will appear, "I think that we were best friends. I think we'll always be friends. I'm just not sure what that friendship involves, right now." Brendon wriggles into Spencer's petting and looks up with him, dark eyes shining in the growing darkness as night spreads through his unlit living room.
"Okay," Brendon answers, like he's decided something big. "Well, just so you know, you're my best friend. And I am totally keeping you." He smacks a kiss to Spencer's cheek, making Spencer laugh and scratch at the spot. "And, I think we should deal with this crisis like all good men do, and get completely and totatly baked." Brendon rolls nimbly to his feet and heads into what he likes to call his office but is really just a landing spot for all the shit he hasn't found a place for yet.
Spencer's fingers itch with the loss of Brendon beneath them. He stares at his fingers briefly, before retuning them to his cheek and tracing the spot whe Brendon's lips had connected. He thinks about that time, that one time, when he'd let his guard down and kissed Brendon in the back of the bus somewhere between where they were and where they were going. They'd all gotten high and laughed and laughed and it felt like the most natural thing in the world to lean in a press a kiss to Brendon's wide, grinning mouth. Brendon had laughed harder, and kissed back.
They never talked about it again.
The next day Spencer had gone to a clinic in Lincoln, or maybe it was the Land of Lincoln, what is that--Illinois?--anyway, he'd gone somewhere rural enough to accomodate his request for something to help with his anxiety. Buy the next town he'd gotten something to sleep.
And now here he is on Brendon's couch, one half of the band they used to be and not sure what they can salvage. But he wants to try. He can't leave Brendon; he won't lose him. "Hey! I'm just gonna go out to my car and get my stuff!" He yells before spending a few fuitle minutes trying to get Bogart to sit and stay. He gives it up and, tucking the little dog under his arm like he was going for the game winning touchdown, heads out to Brendon's driveway. Bogart flings himself out of Spencer's hold and sets about investigation the interior of Spencer's Mercedes, which makes Spencer laugh and roll his eyes.
He takes his phone out of his hip pocket and thumbs through his contacts until he finds Ryan's number. He's sitting half in, half out of the car and his leg is going a mile a minute and he taps the fingers of his free hand against the steering wheel, wondering how many times the fucking phone has to ring before it goes to voice mai or Ryan answers the phone. Eight, as it turns out, is the answer to the latter. "Hey," Ryan says like their conversation at the diner hadn't really happened.
"So, I told Brendon. Next time you want to break his fucking heart, you do your own dirty work." Spencer's voice is as flat and dull as Ryan's. Once he's said what he has to say, he ends the call and re-pockets it. He doesn't answer when he feels the buzz of an incoming call through the denim.
He reaches over into the passenger seat and picks up his small backpack as well as a shopping back full of odds and ends he'd picked up in his rush out the door in Vegas. Pretending he doesn't notice how much his hands are shaking, Spencer fumbles through the grocery bag until he finds what he's looking for; the small bag he keeps his 'medicine' in. Making sure he's got something to just calm him down enough to get through the weirdness of the night that's yawning out ahead of him. Just as he pops off the lid, Bogart comes flying out of the back seat, into Spencer's lap. And everything in the bag, pills included, goes flying all over the front seats of the car.
"Shit! Bogart!" the dog has the grace to look abashed as Spencer shoves him over the console and into the back seat. Grumbling in exasperation, Spencer scoops up the strewn mess and dumps it all back into the shopping bag. He looks into the back seat, at Bogart with his ears back and whining a little. "Sorry, sorry buddy. C'mon." He slaps at his thigh and the two of them head back into the house.
"Thought you'd left me!" Brendon snorts at his own bad joke. "But, you could never leave good ol' Betty here, right?" he waggles the delicate glass bong they'd bought at a cheesey store in Amsterdam's red light district.
Spencer plasters on a smile and says "Ah, nah. Just went to go get my stuff." He holds up the bags, waggling them in Brendon's direction before setting them on the kitchen island and heading to the fridge for another beer.
"Dude, how long are you staying?" Brendon eyes the small pack in confusion.
Spencer, head inside the fridge as he weeds through the dozen cartons of take out left overs, shrugs and says, "Not sure, but like, shorts and tees don't take up much room right?"
His question is cut off by Brendon's laughter. When Spencer emerges from the fridge, 2 bottles of beer held aloft in triumph, he sees Brendon poking at the shopping bag and the bottom drops out of his stomach. "Bro, did you like, rob a hobo in West Hollywood for his luggage? Hand made with love my Monsieur Trader Joe?"
Brendon's amusement fades when Spencer sets the beer down on the kitchen island with a thunk and speeds across the kitchen, wrestling the bag from Brendon's hands. "Hey!" Brendon yells, trying to step back. There's the sound of ripping paper and then the contents of the bag are spilling all over the tiled floor. "Shit, dude, that sucks. Sorry. Let me help." Brendon squats down and starts to scoop up the various items from Spencer's shaving kit, a paper back novel and a wide variety of white capped pharmacy bottles. "No! That's okay, I'll just..." Spencer tries to hip check Brendon out of the way, wildy scooping at the drug bottles.
"Spencer. Spence...what the...?" Brendon falls over onto his ass, staring at the collection in his hand. Spencer grabs at the bottles and shoves it all back into the bag and then folds the bag under his arm, backing out of the room. "Nothing, it's nothing okay. Not a problem. Don't worry about it."
"Spencer," Brendon's voice is quiet with concern. "Are you, are you, you know; sick?"
Stopping his less than stealthy retreat in the living room entry way, Spencer raises an eyebrow in confusion, "Sick? What?"
Brendon is walking slowly towards Spencer, hands held out in front, like he's trying to soothe a scared animal. "Yeah, Spencer. Sick. Like, this drug? He takes a mashed box of fentanyl patches out of Spencer's clenched fist, "Is what they gave my grandpa to help with the pain when he had bone cancer." Brendon's voice breaks then and he swallows heavily before saying in a hushed whisper, "You can tell me. This isn't something you have to keep a secret."
Spencer makes a snorting sound of disdain in the back of his throat, "No, Brendon, I don't have cancer."
"Oh. Okay. So, like are these for your dad? I know he's been in a lot of pain lately..." Brendon takes the paper bag from Spencer and kicks it across the kitchen where it skids to a stop in front of the pantry door, Spencer tracking its every move.
"Just...it's no big deal, okay?" Spencer doesn't resist when Brendon steers him back to the sofa, bong and beer forgotten in the kitchen. He doesn't want to talk about his dad. Doesn't want to think about the fact that he's twenty-one years old and his father made him promise to not tell his mother or his sisters that in a couple of years they won't have a dad anymore. Brendon gives Spencer's belly a little shove and they both plonk down into the same positions they'd occupied earlier.
"It is a big deal, Spencer. It's huge...that shit can kill you. Can you please just man up and tell me what the actual fuck is going on?" Brendon's voice wavers with anger and concern. He stops Bogart from jumping onto the couch, instead picking him up and carrying him to the kitchen, shutting the French doors, and returns to his seat, where they both sit in silence, listening to Bogart scratch at the glass and whine pitifully.
Spencer can't say he doesn't sympathize. When he does speak, he focuses all of his attention at the scratched edge of Brendon's coffee table and measures out breaths as beats. "I just...I was tired." Even he knows that is possibly the lamest explanation in the history of explanations.
"So you're taking all of that?" Brendon gestures sharply towards the kitchen. He's gaping at Spencer in undisguised confusion and concern and Spencer is stealing glances at him out of the corner of his eye. "Spence. Spencer, what are you doing?" Brendon reaches across the space between them and takes Spencer's hand in his own.
Exhaling through his nose, Spencer shrugs, the cotton of his t-shirt bunching across his shoulders, "Nothing...it's... "
"Don't tell me it's nothing. Spence, that shit can kill you!" Spencer's head snaps up then and they stare at each other for several long awkward seconds.
Reaching out with his free hand to brush his hair out of his eyes, Spencer shakes his head and says, "Jesus Brendon, I'm not a fucking drug addict. You're looking at me like I shot heroin in your living room!"
"Have you?" Brendon squeezes Spencer's fingers painfully and his voice is edging its way from confusion to anger.
"Have I what?" Spencer can't stop looking at their joined hands.
"Shot heroin?"
"No! Jesus! What the fuck, Brendon? Of course not!" Spencer jerks his hand away from Brendon's like he's been burned. "I just started having more problems, you know getting through interviews and shit. I tried what you told me, you know, focus on my breathing and all that stuff. But just...everything...it helps."
Brendon nods to himself and stands, once more crossing the room to the kitchen, and carefully opening the doors, pushing Bogart back with his foot. When he comes back he has the grocery sack he'd tossed and he up ends it in Spencer's lap. "This helps?" He picks up a vial and gives it a shake, tossing it onto the sofa beside Spencer. It takes almost everything Spencer has to not reach across and pop the lid, dry swallowing a couple of pills right there. "Or this?" he does the same with the next bottle and the next. "Spencer, where did you get this shit? Who'd give it to you?"
"Doctors, mostly," Spencer feels his cheeks flush with embarrassment.
"Mostly? They gave prescriptions to Jon Smith and Ross Smith and Ryan Smith and holy fucking shit, Spencer Bogart--you used my dog's name? Don't you see how fucked this is? It helps all right, it helps you get high!" Brendon's voice trembles and he sits down again, breathing hard.
"It helps me get...normal." Spencer leans forward, his elbows braced on his knees and digging his thumbs into the lids of his closed eyes. "And you're one to be giving me this lecture. How many bowls have you smoked since we've been home? How many today? You're probably baked right now." He's trying to put the no-nonsense bite of anger back into his voice, but even to his own ears he sound pathetic.
Shoving the mess of pill bottles and prescription boxes on to the floor, Brendon says quietly, "That's not the same thing and you know it."
"We all deal or don't deal with life in our own way." Spencer feels a hollow since of pride that he'd managed to deliver that with at least a little bitchiness.
Brendon clasps and unclasps his hands in his lap, and moves his legs up onto the sofa, curling into the corner and fixing Spencer with a look Spencer can honestly say he's never seen in Brendon's eyes before. "You have friends, dumb ass. We're here for you, if you let us be. We want to help. We fucking love you, okay man?"
"It's just...hard," Spencer breaths out and leans back, resting his head on the back of couch and gazing up at the ceiling. "Everyone always expects me to know, like, stuff. And make decisions and I have no idea how the fuck I got to be the responsible one," Spencer actually pauses to make air quotes, "but it sucks and I don't want to bug anyone with my bullshit, so." He shrugs his shoulders. Not that he thinks being in love with Brendon is bullshit but it wasn't exactly an ideal life choice and there was never a good time to talk about it with anyone except Ryan who made him promise to never bring it up again because it could ruin the band. Had things been going differently at this exact moment Spencer would probably be laughing his ass off at that last part.
Uncurling from his perch, Brendon nuzzles into Spencer's side, looping an arm across his shoulders in a loose hug. "Whether you like it or not, you're my best friend. And dude, you picked me in this stupid band break up or whatever the fuck it is, so you better know you can lay your shit on me, any time. Your bullshit is my bullshit."
"Lay my shit on you? Are you like, channeling Snoop Dog or something?" Brendon snickers and Spencer smiles, feeling better than he has since before they finished touring.
"Soooo," Brendon starts in a funny little voice, waggling his eyebrows, "If you're so very not addicted to this shit, you can just stop taking it, right?"
The thought makes Spencer's mouth go dry and he immediately does some mental calculations of how hard it would be to get a new Rx. "Uh, sure. Anytime." He smiles bright and wide and so very very fake but Brendon returns it and his smile is so very full of hope and trust that Spencer immediately drops his gaze and resumes studying the ceiling. There's a cobweb in the corner, over by the dining room table and it's wafting in the breeze from the air conditioning.
"So, do it. For me. Right now. Promise me. No more of this stuff. Cause if you die, dude, Ryan Ross will fucking kill me. Imagine that. You: dead. Me: dead. Ryan: in jail for killing me. Jon: driven to become a crazy catlady. Everyone ends in tragedy." Brendon is nodding his head and smiling, trying to make light of the situation.
Snickering, Spencer says, "Okay," and then his eyes widen in shock when he realizes what he's agreed to. But who is he kidding? He could never refuse Brendon anything.
"Right, okay!" Brendon bounces to his feet and starts pacing, "So Kara would know a good program to get you into out here..."
"What? No! I don't need a program, and if I did I certainly wouldn't be asking your sister! Are you nuts?" Spencer sits up and crosses his arms over his chest. "I can just, you know, not take any more."
Ceasing his pacing mid-step, Brendon bites his lip and says, "That's like, some serious shit. Kara did a bunch of addictions counseling courses, so she'd be really helpful, are you sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure. You're parents already sort of hate me because of the whole stealing you away to be in a band thing, I'd like to not confirm their suspicions that we've lead you down the road to ruin. And I don't need counseling. Like I said, I can just stop."
Brendon gives him a doubtful glance, "Yeah, sure. But should I call Ryan or something?"
Spencer tugs at the hem of Brendon's shirt, bringing him down beside him, "You're being annoying as fuck. Why would you call Ryan? Besides he's probably snorting blow off of Z Berg's ass or something."
Brendon barks out a laugh and says, "Oh, right. Okay, so we're gonna do this."
"We're not doing anything. Well, we might play some X-box, drink some beers, maybe surf in the morning." Spencer gets up and, more to have something to do than feeling sorry for him, he opens the door letting Bogart bound back into the living room. Brendon picks him up and swings him around, raining kisses on him like they haven't seen each other in years, and making Spencer laugh.
"So, when was the last time you got high?" Brendon sets the dog down and takes out his iPhone, poised to take down some notes.
Spencer rolls his eyes at the ridiculousness of his life and says, "With you, the last night of tour. Epically hot boxing in Jon's hotel room."
"Wait. What? No no, not weed. Like, your shit." Brendon waves a hand at the sofa.
"I told you, I don't get high," Spencer stalks past Brendon and into the kitchen, retrieving their now room temperature beers. He takes a long drink and then returns to the living room, cocking his hip against the door frame and swishes the beer around in his mouth before saying, "This morning, before I headed out."
Brendon takes his beer bottle when Spencer offers it and says, "You drove on that shit?"
"Yes, look, it just helps me be..."
"Normal, I know, you said. I don't really get it, Spencer. But if you say that you can stop, then I'll believe you. Now, come on, it's time for me to kick your ass at mario kart." Brendon stands in front of Spencer, hands on his hips, face smug.
Spencer snorts and pushes his hand into Brendon's face. "Whatever," he laughs, but he follows Brendon back to the couch and doesn't complain too much when it takes Brendon forever to set things up.
* * *
"I didn't know this was strip Rock Band," Brendon laughs obnoxiously, stuffing chips into his mouth and giving Spencer and exaggerated once over. He'd taken off his jeans and socks and was giving serious consideration to whipping his shirt over his head when Brendon had made his comment. Instead he reaches for another beer and wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist. "So this would be a lot more fun if you could actually, you know, pay attention. I know I like to win, but I actually like to play someone who tries."
Lifting the strap over his head, Spencer sets the guitar down against the coffee table and says, "Fuck this, you wanna go play some real drums?" He doesn't wait for Brendon to answer before he's stalking off to the music room at the back of the house. Brendon's almost shy when he pulls out his laptop and shows Spencer some of the songs he's been working on since he got home. He was always noodling around with bits and pieces of melody or harmony or just random runs that didn't go anywhere and only a handful of lyrics, so Spencer realizes what it's taken him to actually show anyone this stuff. "Yeah, yeah. These are good, B. Really good. And they sound like us, not like us trying to be someone else." Brendon beams at him and Spencer's heart does a painful, hopeful lurch inside his ribcage.
"So, drums!" Brendon sits down behind one kit and Spencer takes the practice kit and they proceed to bash the shit out of them for the next half hour. Spencer feels good when they break, shoulders finally loose and arms thrumming, even if his fingers are starting to blister. At one point he'd given up and whipped his t-shirt over his head and towards the wall, where it landed on the accordions Brendon had stacked neatly. "You are so hardcore!" Brendon giggles.
"What the fuck ever, it's hot in here," Spencer grouses and gets up, picking up his shirt and using it to wipe the sweat from his face.
Brendon fixes him with what Spencer thinks can only be called a Mother Hen look and clucks his tongue. "Dude, it's really not. You know me, I sweat buckets and I'm fine. Are you okay?"
"Fine," Spencer says and that's the end of the conversation. He doesn't mention that his hands are still shaking and his head still hurts and every few breaths his vision goes a little blurry. "Lets take Bogart to the beach." He says, hoping to distract Brendon. He has a secret fear (or hope) that Brendon's going to come over and feel his forehead and take his temperature or some bullshit.
Pointing a drumstick at Spencer, Brendon narrows his eyes to a squint and says, "That is a mighty fine idea, son." He gets up from the stool and whistles for Bogart, who happily trots down the hall and flings himself at Spencer. "You go get his leash." Brendon says.
"And what exactly will you be doing?" Spencer scoops up Bogart and then follows Brendon through to the living room, shimmying into his jeans and ignoring his socks to jam his bare feet into his sneakers. He'd intended to go out to the hall and see if Brendon had actually remembered to return Bogart's leash to its peg by the front door the last time they'd come back from a walk but instead he stops and stares at Brendon. "What are you doing?"
Brendon had stopped to scoop up all the pill vials and bottles and boxes that were on the sofa, before going into the kitchen and stuffing them into the paper bag Spencer had brought from Vegas. "Well, I was gonna flush these," Brendon pauses but doesn't say anything when Spencer winces, "But that shit is totally bad for the environment, so there's a pharmacy on the way to the dog park that has an old pill disposal thing, so..."
"Okay," Spencer's says quietly. He notices Bogart's leash over the back of a kitchen chair, so he takes it and clips it to the dog's collar. They're quiet as they head to the car and Spencer doesn't even yell when Brendon swerves erratically trying find something decent on the radio. He just hugs Bogart tight and burries his face in his fur. He doesn't make any move to get out of the car when Brendon pulls it into a spot outside the drug store, so Brendon heaves an exasperated sigh and reaches to grab the bag out of the back seat.
By the time Brendon gets back, Spencer is shivering so hard his teeth are chattering and Bogart, sensing his distress is licking worried stripes across his face with his long wet tongue. Brendon frowns when he puts the car in gear, reaching behind him and snagging his 'emergency hoodie and dropping it on top of Spencer and the dog. "Thanks," Spencer manages and fumbles into the sweater. It's too small and too tight so Spencer hunches up into a ball, rocking a little trying to stay warm.
"Are you gonna tell me you're not okay, now?" Brendon doesn't take his eyes off the road and Spencer reaches over to the console and turns the air conditioning off.
"It's just coming from the hot house into the cold car, that's all." Spencer rubs his cheek back and forth across the top of Bogart's head.
Brendon doesn't even dignify that with a reply, he just shoves his sun glasses over up his nose, his lips thinning in displeasure. "Whatever, Spence," is all he says. The rest of their trip is conducted in silence and Spencer feels the ball of ice in his stomach grow as he watches Brendon.
He hates upsetting people.
Hates disappointing them more.
They all tumble from the car and Spencer unbuckle Bogart's leash, allowing the little terrier to speed across the grass towards his doggy friends. He laughs when Brendon runs after him yelling and whooping and generally agitating the other dogs and annoying their owners. He stuffs his hands in the pockets of Brendon's too small hoodie so he won't have to watch them shake, and decides to sit on one of the benches rather than join the chase and find out his fine motor co-ordination has temporarily abandoned him. Brendon briefly looks back, quirking an eyebrow at Spencer, before producing a tennis ball from his pocket and throwing it into the fray.
"Summer colds are terrible," the woman sitting beside Spencer on the bench says as she hands him a packet of tissues. Staring at the offered tissues in perplexion Spencer shrugs and smiles his thanks. It only then that he realizes his nose is dripping and his sniffling must be annoying as hell.
"Thanks," he says, carefully extracting a tissue and blowing his nose. He pockets the crumpled up tissue and his eyes roam from the group of playing dogs, to the tree line, to the shore.
"Which one is yours?" The woman returns the package to her purse and Spencer silently curses his bad luck for choosing the spot beside the chattiest woman in Los Angeles.
He thinks about it for a minute; thinks mine as he watches Brendon playfully taunt a beagle with Bogart's slobber soaked ball. "That one, Jack Russell. His name's Bogart. He's one." Spencer blinks and wonders if chattiness is contagious.
"Oh he's adorable. They're a little too high energy for me. She's mine--Erma." The woman reels in some of the retractable leash in her hand and a chubby basset hound, muzzle gray with age, lifts her head from where she's smelling some dandelions.
Spencer smiles and holds his hand out to the dog, "Hey pretty girl," he says, leaning over. He runs his fingers along her velvety ears and laughs when she snuffles against his hand and then says, "Well, it was nice to meet you!" as he stands up and starts a slow jog towards where Brendon and Bogart are in a tug of war with a tree branch bigger than both of them. The risk of falling on his face is worth it when faced with trying to formulate polite conversation over the roaring headache battering his skull like a funnel cloud.
Brendon stops cold when he sees Spencer, running over to him and placing a hand at Spencer's elbow, "Hey, you okay?" Bogart is barking and leaping at their feet.
"Yeah, yeah. Thought I'd just come join the fun?" Spencer sniffles obnoxiously loud and wipes his nose across the sleeve of the hoodie he's wearing just as soon as Brendon lets him go. "What?" Spencer looks at the face Brendon is making and down to the shining wet mark on the material. "Oops?" he laughs, "like you do your own laundry anyway!" he shouts, taking off and encouraging Bogart to follow him. It doesn't take more than ten minutes of running around before he's too exhausted to do much more than fold himself down onto the grass, becoming an object of interest for all the dogs running in the park.
"C'mon, dog whisperer, let's take Boges down to the beach to cool off." Brendon extends a hand and helps Spencer up. And if Spencer clings too tightly for just a second too long, well, neither of them say anything about it.
By the time they get to the beach, Spencer's eyelids are heavy and he can barely stand he's so tired. He huddles into a ball, hoping to absorb some of the warmth of the sand as he watches Bogart do his favorite thing; try and bite the waves. Brendon's been considering taking Bogart out on his long board one day, but Spencer isn't so sure that the dog will stand still long enough to not fall off and drown. He thinks he might have drifted off a bit, because when he opens his eyes, Brendon is shaking him. "Shit dude, what the fuck?" Brendon's voice is high and breathy, the way it gets when he's excited or scared.
Blinking stupidly, Spencer says, "Guess I fell asleep." and then stands, brushing sand off the ass of his jeans and whistling for Bogart who is mere inches away from tearing into a rotting fish. "That's all, Brendon. I just fell asleep, okay?" He squeezes Brendon's shoulder reassuringly.
Brendon exhales loudly and says, "Shit, okay. Sorry. I'm fucking starving. Wanna get take out and go home?"
Spencer not so secretly refers to Brendon's condo as home and it makes him smile. "Sure. Haven't had good General Tso's in a while!" Buy the time they get to the restaurant, Spencer's headache is threatening to split his head in two and he's pretty sure he's failing at this being okay thing. "I'll stay here with the dog," he offers, licking perspiration off his top lip.
"Okay," Brendon is distractedly searching his wallet for cash or his credit card. "Just the General Tso's or you want anything else?"
"Maybe an egg roll?" Spencer leans his head against the window and can feel beads of sweat rolling from his hairline and down his neck. He dozes a little and before he knows it, Bogart is yipping excitedly in his lap, heralding Brendon's return. The car door opens and the smell of Chinese food hits Spencer in a wave that would usually have his stomach growling. But now, he's hit with a wave of nausea so strong it's all he can do to shove Bogart off his lap and get the door open before he spills his guts all over the cracked asphalt of the strip mall's parking lot.
"Shit, dude!" Brendon tosses the paper bag into the back seat of the car, making sure that Bogart's attention is on Spencer and not on the food before he hustles around the car. Spencer is panting, palms braced on his knees as he continues to heave. "Man, you're green. Here have some water." He hands Spencer the bottle he'd purchased in the store. Spencer flaps his hand weakly. He hates puking and he hates having an audience when he's puking even more. When he's finally sure all that's left is dry heaves, Spencer sits up, grabs the bottle from Brendon and swills a mouthful around before spitting that onto the pavement as well. "Can you put that in the trunk?" he asks pitifully, inclining his head to where the food is.
Brendon runs his hand comfortingly across the top of Spencer's head, "Sure." By the time Brendon's got the food secured in the trunk and Bogart secured in the back seat, Spencer has himself squared away in the passenger seat. With a cautious glance in his direction, Brendon steers the car towards home. Brendon settles his palm at the crook of Spencer's elbow and keeps it there. "If you need to stop, just say so, okay?" It's all Spencer can do to nod.
The make it back to the condo without any stops and Spencer is proud that he manages to get up and on his own two feet without assistance. Everything hurts and everything is blurry and he's shaky and panicky and just wants everything to stop. "Where ya going?" Spencer stops, key poised in mid-air as he leans against the door of his car.
"Uh, nowhere? I just, I need..." his distracted mumble trails off as he plunks himself down in his own passenger seat and starts to shuffle through the glove box.
"Need what, Spencer?" Before he realizes it, Brendon is right up on him, hovering over the door and staring with disappointed disapproval at what Spencer's got gripped tightly in his fist. "There's more? Spencer how much of that shit have you got stashed?"
Spencer sighs and feels like the time his mom caught him showing Crystal and Jackie where she hides their Christmas presents; caught and guilty and the reason for disappointment. "Um...not much? It's just I thought maybe one or two would make it easier..."
"Easier?" Brendon's voice is loud and close and makes the pain vibrate through Spencer's forehead from the top of his spine to his forehead. "Spencer, are you going to keep lying to yourself, and me, or can we finally just admit that you're addicted to that crap and you need to stop to get clean so you don't fucking die?"
Setting the pills on the dash beside his Lilo and Stitch hula girls, Spencer swallows and stares at his hands, "Okay. Okay. I need help. Are you happy?" He turns his gaze, bright blue and more frightened than he's ever been in his life, meeting Brendon's look of concern full on. "Please Bren, please help me."
Brendon makes a choked, sobbing noise and drops to his knees, flinging his arms around Spencer's waist and pulling him into a fierce hug. "Yeah Spence. Of course. You've got me, you've always got me. I'm scared shitless but I'm more scared of what will happen if we don't do this." He's whispering into Spencer's shoulder and Spencer is holding on to him so tightly his fingertips are digging divots into Brendon's shoulders. "You sure you don't want to go to the hospital?"
"No!" Spencer sniffles emphatically. "No fucking hospital." He shakes his head and then winces from the pain. Brendon helps him get to his feet and they make it into the living room and Spencer lands in a heap on the sofa.
"You want to go to bed? No fucking way would I make you sleep on that stupid air mattress, you can totally have my king." Brendon ruffles Spencer's hair and he manages to smile. It feels nice; soothing.
Struggling up onto his elbows, Spencer croaks, "No, I think I'll just hang out here, for while if that's okay?" Spencer closes his eyes. Brendon goes back out to the driveway, getting Bogart and the food. He lets Bogart into the backyard and puts the food in the fridge. He's just about to drop his keys onto the counter when he has a thought. He goes back out to the driveway and opens Spencer's unlocked driver side door. He sits there, looking around at the dark leather and wood, and then grabs the glove compartment release.
The pills aren't hard find. By the time he's dumped out all the paper and bits and pieces there are five pill bottles, all different medications, all from different pharmacies, all under different names. Brendon lines them up with the bottle Spencer had placed on the dash earlier. He flicks at one with his finger nail, spinning it a little "Oh, Spencer," he whispers.
* * *
"Hey," Brendon nudges Spencer's shoulder. Spencer opens his eyes and looks up, trying to smile. Brendon is laden with water, tissues, tylenol and the bucket he uses for mopping up after Bogart.
"Hey," Spencer says back, trying to sit up. Brendon still his movement and instead pulls the blanket off the back of the sofa and wraps it around Spencer's long legs. "Take these," he says holding out the water and the tylenol.
"Yes, mother," Spencer mutters, but he's smiling and he's grateful for Brendon's concern. He swallows the pills and takes a long pull from the water bottle before making a face and grabbing the bucket from Brendon and spewing the water back into it almost as soon as it hits his stomach. "Sorry," he says sheepishly, his voice raspy.
Brendon just makes a face and grabs the bucket back, "Yeah, okay. You're sorry. I got that. Stop apologizing, Jesus. Just, rest, okay? I put Bogart in the yard so he won't bug you." Brendon gets bitchy when he's worried. Everyone who knows him knows this, but it doesn't make Spencer feel less shitty about the whole thing.
Spencer pulls the blanket up higher and sinks into the cushions. "You didn't have to do that, I like having the little guy around. He doesn't bug me." Spencer really fucking misses his dogs.
When he wakes again it's full dark and Bogart is sprawled over his feet and Spencer is fucking freezing. His teeth are chattering and his stomach hurts and he's just pathetically miserable enough to call out, "Bren?"
"Hey, hey, buddy. I'm right here, it's okay." Quick as a flash Brendon is out of the recliner and kneeling in front of Spencer, smoothing down his hair and settling the blanket back around him. "I think you should go to bed, Spence. Think you can make it upstairs?"
"Guess so," Spencer mumbles, rubbing his eye with his fist. Brendon gets one shoulder beneath Spencer's arm and manages to get him to his feet. The struggle and stumble and Spencer has to stop to throw up twice (thank god for the bucket) before they reach Brendon's bedroom, but they make it. Spencer collapses on top of the duvet and Brendon undoes his shoes and helps him get under the covers. "Night, night," Spencer mumbles and face plants into the pillows.
Brendon laughs and helps Spencer get under the covers. "Yeah, g'night." He flicks off the overhead light, leaving only the soft yellow glow of the bedside lamps. Taking his own shoes, socks and t-shirt off Brendon climbs into the bed beside Spencer, and slaps at the covers, inviting Bogart ot get comfortable.
"What?" Spencer starts to sit up, makes it as far as leaning on his elbows before everything starts swimming in front of him and , "Brendon what are you doing?"
Laughing harder, Brendon says, "Going to bed. You don't think I'm gonna sleep on that fucking air mattress, do you? Besides, you might, you know, need me?" He bats his eyelashes and Spencer chuckles, settling back down under the covers.
Spencer doesn't really sleep. He goes in and out of consciousness, and every time he awakens is worse than the last. It feels like his bones have been replaced with red hot shards of glass that are trying to burst through his skin. He whimpers and thrashes and every time Brendon is there to soothe him. He brings water, that Spencer still can't keep down. And when Spencer feels like he's burning up Brendon's there with a cool cloth. When he's so cold he can't stop shaking, Brendon pulls him close, using his body heat and the soft assurance of the nonsense he whispers to calm Spencer back into sleep.
He has no idea what time it is. But when he wakes again, he's not too hot, not too cold, and he feels clarity for the first time since he left Las Vegas. "Spence, you awake?" Brendon whispers across the wide expanse of bed.
"Yeah," Spencer answers, rolling onto his back and staring at the ceiling.
"You okay?" Brendon's voice is soft with concern.
Spencer is so very very sick of that question. He just nods and hopes Brendon sees it. "How come you're awake?" He asks. He feels the covers shift as Brendon turns to face him, sheets bunching around his leg.
"Just thinking, about, like stuff. You know, with the band or whatever." Spencer feels awful for his stupid pills overshadowing the fact that Spencer had crash landed huge news on Brendon and then hadn't even allowed him the chance to process it.
"Yeah," Spencer says, and damn it, he's shivering again. Brendon pulls the sheets up over both of them and moves in close. He radiates heat like a furnace and Spencer usually finds it annoying as shit but at the moment he couldn't be happier for Brendon's crazy metabolism. "We're still Panic at the Disco. Fuck Ryan Ross. And double fuck Jon Walker." Spencer turns towards Brendon and finds his hand in the dark, just holding it lightly in his.
"I hope," Brendon swallows, "I hope that we are way more successful than Ryan Ross ever dreamed. That's what I hope. That probably means I'm a horrible person."
Giving Brendon's hand a squeeze, Spencer says, "I think that means you're human."
There's a small moment so quiet the only noise in the room is Brendon's breathing and the sound of Spencer's teeth chattering. "Spence, do you remember that time, when we were really really drunk, or like, baked or maybe both..."
"You'll have to be a little more specific, that pretty much describes every day of tour." Spencer is impressed he has the mental energy to make a joke.
Brendon doesn't laugh. "You kissed me."
"Oh," Spencer's stomach twists in a particularly vicious knot that has nothing to do with withdrawl. "Yeah."
"I wanted you to keep kissing me" Brendon confides into the darkness.
Before he can say anything in reply, Spencer rolls away, heaving bile and stomach acid into the bucket Brendon had thoughtfully placed on the night stand. Gasping and heaving he sits up, the sheets wreathing his hips. "Jesus fucking Christ, Urie. You have A plus timing, you know that?"
Brendon picks at the duvet cover and finally says, "I talked about it, to Ryan. You know back when we were actually talking. He said he thought it was a bad idea, that it could ruin the band."
Spencer reaches out and traces the shape of Brendon's frown. "What would be a bad idea, B?"
"Kissing you." The dim light is reflected in the wide honesty of Brendon's dark stare. "Dating you." He untangles his fingers from Spencer's and traces them up Spencer's arm, curling around his bicep. "Loving you," he finishes with a whisper.
"Fuck. Fuck him. Fuck Ryan," Spencer is so mad he doesn't care that he's sweating and shaking and his head is about to explode off his neck, the pain is so bad. "Jesus, Brendon. He said the same thing to me."
Brendon sits up, facing Spencer where he's done the same. "What? You mean you... Really?"
"Really. I really fucking love you Brendon. And if I wasn't a giant dumb ass who had to decide this was the day to fucking ween myself off all that bullshit medication, I would be like tripping through daises and kissing the fuck out of you, right now. All night."
"Really?" Brendon has raised his hands to his mouth and is giggling, eyes shining with delight.
"Yeah, because fuck Ross. He bailed on us so what we do to the band or with the band or with each other is none of his fucking concern." Spencer reaches for Brendon and hugs him tight.
Brendon returns the embrace and whispers, "We wasted so much time."
"Not wasted. Got to spend it with you." Spencer is trembling and Brendon runs a hand along the gooseflesh on his chest and shoulder. "Big night, Spence. Not only did you admit you love me, you pretty much admitted you've got a drug problem."
"Miracles never cease. Pretty much." Spencer snickers and allows himself to be tucked back under the covers. He smile widens when Brendon wriggles his way to Spencer's side of the bed and flings his arms around him, burying his face in Spencer's neck. "Hurry up and get sober, Spencer Smith, because I really really want to get to the kissing."
"Okay," Spencer closes his eyes.
Author:
cloudlessclimesPairing(s): Brendon/Spencer
Rating: R
Warnings: frank discussion of drug use.
Word count: 9025
Summary: Spencer's fine. Really he is. He just needs a little something to take the edge off. Until Brendon finds out.
No one worries about Spencer. He's the fine one; rock steady and reliable. While the internet buzzes with photos of Ryan and plates of cocaine, and everyone wonders exactly how many times a day Brendon smokes up, and people smirk knowingly when Jon professes to Billboard magazine that he'd 'rather have a drink than not have a drink,' not a single person says a word when Spencer gets something to help him sleep. Nobody blinks an eye when he stops at a walk in clinic somewhere in Iowa to get a prescription for something to help him wake up. That's all it is, just a little help. Touring fucks with his system and he'll be fine, in a little while. He just needs something to get him through.
That's all it is, just touring. Haley leaving him has nothing to do with it. Even if she takes his god damn dogs all the way to fucking middle of nowhere Illinois. Having to play tambourine and shaker and cowbell at approximately six hundred and fifty-two in-stores has nothing to do with it.
Just tired, that's it.
And then, Spencer's not on tour any more and that's always a big fucking adjustment, right? Who doesn't need a little help getting back to 'normal'? Not a big deal at all. Not even when Ryan sits him down and explains slowly and carefully (only Spencer, having spent a lifetime in friendship with Ryan can actually tell the difference between Ryan's normal every day speaking voice and the way he's talking now) that he feels what they're doing now 'isn't working' and he and Jon have a 'different vision' for the direction of the band, and that it's best they 'part ways'.
Ryan and Jon even have songs for an album.
Ryan and Jon have enough songs for an album.
That's not Panic at the Disco. That's not Ryan and Jon and Brendon and Spencer.
When it finally works it's way into Spencer's mind that this is it; that the end that's been lapping at the shore for months now has finally crested, Spencer blinks slowly, swallows, then nods. "Okay," is all he says, reaching into his back pocket and taking out his wallet. He throws a few bills on the table to cover the shitty coffee and questionable waffles because he's pretty sure Ryan wouldn't ever concern himself with something like paying his own bill. "Okay," he says again, standing and walking out of the restaurant and not looking back as he heads to his car.
He has to tell Brendon.
He just needs something to get him through, that's all.
No one should worry, it's fine. He's fine. Just fine. Everything would be fine. He'll make sure of that.
Spencer flicks open the glove compartment and shuffles around in the squirrel's nest of fast food napkins and gas station receipts and pieces of paper covered in lyrics and beats he'd dreamed up and never shown anyone. He mentally fist pumps when his fingers curl around the familiar plastic bottle of his emergency stash. Tilting his head back he pops a couple of pills into his mouth, swallowing them with the dregs of an iced tea that's been sitting in the cup holder for too long. Spencer breaths in and out, turns the key in the ignition, and heads out of the lot.
He has to tell Brendon.
In person.
Spencer drives from Vegas to Brendon's new place in L.A. It gives him time to think. He needs to figure out exactly how he's going to break the news to him. Spencer's been waiting for this, for months. By the end of their last tour, the distance between them was no longer just geography, but he's sure that in Brendon's need for everyone to be happy and together and just fine, thank you very much, he'd never even considered the fact that Ryan and Jon might just up and leave. Just thinking about it hurts Spencer's head. As he peels through the endless stretch of desert road, Spencer flicks his sunglasses down from his forehead and over his eyes and thinks about how much better he'll feel when he can stop and get something to eat and drink, so he can down a couple of atavan and maybe be less of an anxious mess by the time he gets to Long Beach.
"Hey!" Brendon's greeting is bright and cheerful as ever and Spencer tries to shift his expression into something as genuine. Instead he hangs on to Brendon for just a little longer than is usual, breathing him in and trying to figure out how to tell him that the reason Spencer joined the band was for Ryan but the reason he stayed is for Brendon. It was just a stupid crush, really. Most people either thought Brendon was the most annoying human being they'd ever met, or fell head over heels in the first five minutes they know him. Ryan Ross is the only person Spencer has ever met whose feelings on the matter changed hourly. Spencer pets Bogart, who is dancing around his ankles, as Brendon motions for him to come in. "So, this is a surprise. I thought your drum convention was next week end?" Brendon yells from the kitchen where he's getting beer and a bag of Doritos.
Nervously rubbing his palms over the flat of his thighs, Spencer sniffles and says, "Yeah, well. I thought I'd come out early and..."
"Sweet! Hangs are awesome. We can surf in the morning if you want," Brendon pops the cap off of a Corona and hands it to Spencer, then doing the same to his own.
"Yeah, um, B we need to talk, okay?" Spencer sets his beer on the coffee table, patting his legs until Bogart jumps up for a thorough ear scratching.
Brendon tilts his head to one side and narrows his eyes a little, studying the nervous, serious expression on Spencer's face. "Okay," he shrugs his shoulders in deference.
Borgart whines and squirms when Spencer squeezes him a little harder than he means to, "So, I had lunch with Ryan."
"Cool. Shit, I haven't talked to him since..."
"South Africa," Spencer finishes, keeping his voice carefully neutral.
Brendon's eyebrows raise to his hairline in shock, "Shit, really? That was," he pauses and licks his lips, giggling nervously as he takes a swallow from his beer, "That was a while ago, huh? I didn't realize. That was some fight we had..."
Spencer's shoulders tense and slowly inch towards his ears, "Yeah," he says nodding slowly. Spencer had realized. Spencer is the peace keeper, always the one working out the wrinkles and snares, whether it was between Brendon and Ryan, or his Mom and Dad before they got divorced, even his little sisters' fights over who gets to play with the Pretty In Pink Barbie were always mediated by Spencer. "Ryan says he's done with Panic. Jon and Ryan started their own band. They start recording next week." He blurts out.
There is a tiny window of sharp, shocked silence and then Brendon leaps to his feet. "What?" he yelps. He stands there, inches away from where Spencer's still seated on the sofa, and Spencer watches the rise and fall and rise and fall of his chest and the color climbing high on his cheeks. "No, seriously Spencer. What the actual fuck are you saying to me right now?"
Spencer closes his eyes and focuses on letting his own breath out of his lungs before it strangles beneath the force of the metal bands around his heart, "Um, that's why he--Ryan--that's why he wanted to have lunch. Bren, things, they haven't been good for a while. Even you must know that, right? And it's like, they've already made up their minds, okay?" Spencer holds out a hand, palm up and imploring.
The news goes over about as well as expected. Brendon vacillates between yelling obscenities mostly aimed at Ryan and Jon and any future generations of Rosses and Walkers, and deflated sadness. The yelling and wild arm gestures combined with Brendon's non-stop pacing as he rants has Bogart leaping from Spencer's lap and barking and snapping around Brendon's heels, wanting to join in the game. Spencer doesn't move to pick up the agitated terrier. He doesn't try to calm Brendon down. He can't. He knows if he just sits and waits and lets them go they'll eventually both wind down. Almost like he can hear Spencer's thoughts, Brendon lets out one last "Fuck!", scoops Bogart up into his arms and flops back down beside Spencer. "Shit, what's gonna happen now? There are gigs booked and bills to pay and just...fuck." Brendon swipes his cheek across the warm fur at Bogarts neck. Then, kissing him on the top of the head, Brendon sets him down and stares at Spencer. His eyes are so wide and sad Spencer wishes he could conjure up the words to fix things. But the words are all jumbled up in his brain and stuck in his throat and damn it, he left his bag in the car.
"We have a manager. I guess we let him manage. Those fuckers can call Bob, if they already haven't, and sort their own shit out. We have enough to worry about." Spencer smiles a little, proud that he managed to make sense and sound sincere. He salutes Brendon with his beer bottle and then finishes what's left in one smooth swallow.
Blinking and licking his lips, Brendon says, "We?" in a very small, uncertain voice. He bites his bottom lip between his teeth and picks at a stray thread at the hem of his t-shirt.
"Yeah, B. We. I joined Panic at the Disco. Since I've actually, you know, heard of the Beatles, I don't actually see the point of trying to sound like them. I'd rather sound like something new...sound like us, you know?" Until this moment, Spencer hadn't realized that buried beneath layers of carefully calculated nothing, he's very angry. He's covered for Ryan for years. Made up bullshit excuses for Ryan's bullshit behavior, but he's had enough. This feels like the worst kind of betrayal and definitely slamming a big fuck you! door on whatever had been left of their friendship. "I'm not going anywhere."
Slowly tipping until his face is mashed into Spencer's shoulder, Brendon mumbles, "Dude, thank you!" and wraps his arms around Spencer in a fierce hug. "Ryan's your best friend. I mean I never thought that he'd ever leave the band, but like, I guess I figured you'd, you know...You're his best friend." Brendon sits up awkwardly and scrubs his fingers through his hair, making it stand up in a million different directions.
Unaware, Spencer threads his fingers through Brendon's hair smoothing the wayward strands down and then absently petting over and over. "I think," he starts slowly, hoping if he takes his time the words will appear, "I think that we were best friends. I think we'll always be friends. I'm just not sure what that friendship involves, right now." Brendon wriggles into Spencer's petting and looks up with him, dark eyes shining in the growing darkness as night spreads through his unlit living room.
"Okay," Brendon answers, like he's decided something big. "Well, just so you know, you're my best friend. And I am totally keeping you." He smacks a kiss to Spencer's cheek, making Spencer laugh and scratch at the spot. "And, I think we should deal with this crisis like all good men do, and get completely and totatly baked." Brendon rolls nimbly to his feet and heads into what he likes to call his office but is really just a landing spot for all the shit he hasn't found a place for yet.
Spencer's fingers itch with the loss of Brendon beneath them. He stares at his fingers briefly, before retuning them to his cheek and tracing the spot whe Brendon's lips had connected. He thinks about that time, that one time, when he'd let his guard down and kissed Brendon in the back of the bus somewhere between where they were and where they were going. They'd all gotten high and laughed and laughed and it felt like the most natural thing in the world to lean in a press a kiss to Brendon's wide, grinning mouth. Brendon had laughed harder, and kissed back.
They never talked about it again.
The next day Spencer had gone to a clinic in Lincoln, or maybe it was the Land of Lincoln, what is that--Illinois?--anyway, he'd gone somewhere rural enough to accomodate his request for something to help with his anxiety. Buy the next town he'd gotten something to sleep.
And now here he is on Brendon's couch, one half of the band they used to be and not sure what they can salvage. But he wants to try. He can't leave Brendon; he won't lose him. "Hey! I'm just gonna go out to my car and get my stuff!" He yells before spending a few fuitle minutes trying to get Bogart to sit and stay. He gives it up and, tucking the little dog under his arm like he was going for the game winning touchdown, heads out to Brendon's driveway. Bogart flings himself out of Spencer's hold and sets about investigation the interior of Spencer's Mercedes, which makes Spencer laugh and roll his eyes.
He takes his phone out of his hip pocket and thumbs through his contacts until he finds Ryan's number. He's sitting half in, half out of the car and his leg is going a mile a minute and he taps the fingers of his free hand against the steering wheel, wondering how many times the fucking phone has to ring before it goes to voice mai or Ryan answers the phone. Eight, as it turns out, is the answer to the latter. "Hey," Ryan says like their conversation at the diner hadn't really happened.
"So, I told Brendon. Next time you want to break his fucking heart, you do your own dirty work." Spencer's voice is as flat and dull as Ryan's. Once he's said what he has to say, he ends the call and re-pockets it. He doesn't answer when he feels the buzz of an incoming call through the denim.
He reaches over into the passenger seat and picks up his small backpack as well as a shopping back full of odds and ends he'd picked up in his rush out the door in Vegas. Pretending he doesn't notice how much his hands are shaking, Spencer fumbles through the grocery bag until he finds what he's looking for; the small bag he keeps his 'medicine' in. Making sure he's got something to just calm him down enough to get through the weirdness of the night that's yawning out ahead of him. Just as he pops off the lid, Bogart comes flying out of the back seat, into Spencer's lap. And everything in the bag, pills included, goes flying all over the front seats of the car.
"Shit! Bogart!" the dog has the grace to look abashed as Spencer shoves him over the console and into the back seat. Grumbling in exasperation, Spencer scoops up the strewn mess and dumps it all back into the shopping bag. He looks into the back seat, at Bogart with his ears back and whining a little. "Sorry, sorry buddy. C'mon." He slaps at his thigh and the two of them head back into the house.
"Thought you'd left me!" Brendon snorts at his own bad joke. "But, you could never leave good ol' Betty here, right?" he waggles the delicate glass bong they'd bought at a cheesey store in Amsterdam's red light district.
Spencer plasters on a smile and says "Ah, nah. Just went to go get my stuff." He holds up the bags, waggling them in Brendon's direction before setting them on the kitchen island and heading to the fridge for another beer.
"Dude, how long are you staying?" Brendon eyes the small pack in confusion.
Spencer, head inside the fridge as he weeds through the dozen cartons of take out left overs, shrugs and says, "Not sure, but like, shorts and tees don't take up much room right?"
His question is cut off by Brendon's laughter. When Spencer emerges from the fridge, 2 bottles of beer held aloft in triumph, he sees Brendon poking at the shopping bag and the bottom drops out of his stomach. "Bro, did you like, rob a hobo in West Hollywood for his luggage? Hand made with love my Monsieur Trader Joe?"
Brendon's amusement fades when Spencer sets the beer down on the kitchen island with a thunk and speeds across the kitchen, wrestling the bag from Brendon's hands. "Hey!" Brendon yells, trying to step back. There's the sound of ripping paper and then the contents of the bag are spilling all over the tiled floor. "Shit, dude, that sucks. Sorry. Let me help." Brendon squats down and starts to scoop up the various items from Spencer's shaving kit, a paper back novel and a wide variety of white capped pharmacy bottles. "No! That's okay, I'll just..." Spencer tries to hip check Brendon out of the way, wildy scooping at the drug bottles.
"Spencer. Spence...what the...?" Brendon falls over onto his ass, staring at the collection in his hand. Spencer grabs at the bottles and shoves it all back into the bag and then folds the bag under his arm, backing out of the room. "Nothing, it's nothing okay. Not a problem. Don't worry about it."
"Spencer," Brendon's voice is quiet with concern. "Are you, are you, you know; sick?"
Stopping his less than stealthy retreat in the living room entry way, Spencer raises an eyebrow in confusion, "Sick? What?"
Brendon is walking slowly towards Spencer, hands held out in front, like he's trying to soothe a scared animal. "Yeah, Spencer. Sick. Like, this drug? He takes a mashed box of fentanyl patches out of Spencer's clenched fist, "Is what they gave my grandpa to help with the pain when he had bone cancer." Brendon's voice breaks then and he swallows heavily before saying in a hushed whisper, "You can tell me. This isn't something you have to keep a secret."
Spencer makes a snorting sound of disdain in the back of his throat, "No, Brendon, I don't have cancer."
"Oh. Okay. So, like are these for your dad? I know he's been in a lot of pain lately..." Brendon takes the paper bag from Spencer and kicks it across the kitchen where it skids to a stop in front of the pantry door, Spencer tracking its every move.
"Just...it's no big deal, okay?" Spencer doesn't resist when Brendon steers him back to the sofa, bong and beer forgotten in the kitchen. He doesn't want to talk about his dad. Doesn't want to think about the fact that he's twenty-one years old and his father made him promise to not tell his mother or his sisters that in a couple of years they won't have a dad anymore. Brendon gives Spencer's belly a little shove and they both plonk down into the same positions they'd occupied earlier.
"It is a big deal, Spencer. It's huge...that shit can kill you. Can you please just man up and tell me what the actual fuck is going on?" Brendon's voice wavers with anger and concern. He stops Bogart from jumping onto the couch, instead picking him up and carrying him to the kitchen, shutting the French doors, and returns to his seat, where they both sit in silence, listening to Bogart scratch at the glass and whine pitifully.
Spencer can't say he doesn't sympathize. When he does speak, he focuses all of his attention at the scratched edge of Brendon's coffee table and measures out breaths as beats. "I just...I was tired." Even he knows that is possibly the lamest explanation in the history of explanations.
"So you're taking all of that?" Brendon gestures sharply towards the kitchen. He's gaping at Spencer in undisguised confusion and concern and Spencer is stealing glances at him out of the corner of his eye. "Spence. Spencer, what are you doing?" Brendon reaches across the space between them and takes Spencer's hand in his own.
Exhaling through his nose, Spencer shrugs, the cotton of his t-shirt bunching across his shoulders, "Nothing...it's... "
"Don't tell me it's nothing. Spence, that shit can kill you!" Spencer's head snaps up then and they stare at each other for several long awkward seconds.
Reaching out with his free hand to brush his hair out of his eyes, Spencer shakes his head and says, "Jesus Brendon, I'm not a fucking drug addict. You're looking at me like I shot heroin in your living room!"
"Have you?" Brendon squeezes Spencer's fingers painfully and his voice is edging its way from confusion to anger.
"Have I what?" Spencer can't stop looking at their joined hands.
"Shot heroin?"
"No! Jesus! What the fuck, Brendon? Of course not!" Spencer jerks his hand away from Brendon's like he's been burned. "I just started having more problems, you know getting through interviews and shit. I tried what you told me, you know, focus on my breathing and all that stuff. But just...everything...it helps."
Brendon nods to himself and stands, once more crossing the room to the kitchen, and carefully opening the doors, pushing Bogart back with his foot. When he comes back he has the grocery sack he'd tossed and he up ends it in Spencer's lap. "This helps?" He picks up a vial and gives it a shake, tossing it onto the sofa beside Spencer. It takes almost everything Spencer has to not reach across and pop the lid, dry swallowing a couple of pills right there. "Or this?" he does the same with the next bottle and the next. "Spencer, where did you get this shit? Who'd give it to you?"
"Doctors, mostly," Spencer feels his cheeks flush with embarrassment.
"Mostly? They gave prescriptions to Jon Smith and Ross Smith and Ryan Smith and holy fucking shit, Spencer Bogart--you used my dog's name? Don't you see how fucked this is? It helps all right, it helps you get high!" Brendon's voice trembles and he sits down again, breathing hard.
"It helps me get...normal." Spencer leans forward, his elbows braced on his knees and digging his thumbs into the lids of his closed eyes. "And you're one to be giving me this lecture. How many bowls have you smoked since we've been home? How many today? You're probably baked right now." He's trying to put the no-nonsense bite of anger back into his voice, but even to his own ears he sound pathetic.
Shoving the mess of pill bottles and prescription boxes on to the floor, Brendon says quietly, "That's not the same thing and you know it."
"We all deal or don't deal with life in our own way." Spencer feels a hollow since of pride that he'd managed to deliver that with at least a little bitchiness.
Brendon clasps and unclasps his hands in his lap, and moves his legs up onto the sofa, curling into the corner and fixing Spencer with a look Spencer can honestly say he's never seen in Brendon's eyes before. "You have friends, dumb ass. We're here for you, if you let us be. We want to help. We fucking love you, okay man?"
"It's just...hard," Spencer breaths out and leans back, resting his head on the back of couch and gazing up at the ceiling. "Everyone always expects me to know, like, stuff. And make decisions and I have no idea how the fuck I got to be the responsible one," Spencer actually pauses to make air quotes, "but it sucks and I don't want to bug anyone with my bullshit, so." He shrugs his shoulders. Not that he thinks being in love with Brendon is bullshit but it wasn't exactly an ideal life choice and there was never a good time to talk about it with anyone except Ryan who made him promise to never bring it up again because it could ruin the band. Had things been going differently at this exact moment Spencer would probably be laughing his ass off at that last part.
Uncurling from his perch, Brendon nuzzles into Spencer's side, looping an arm across his shoulders in a loose hug. "Whether you like it or not, you're my best friend. And dude, you picked me in this stupid band break up or whatever the fuck it is, so you better know you can lay your shit on me, any time. Your bullshit is my bullshit."
"Lay my shit on you? Are you like, channeling Snoop Dog or something?" Brendon snickers and Spencer smiles, feeling better than he has since before they finished touring.
"Soooo," Brendon starts in a funny little voice, waggling his eyebrows, "If you're so very not addicted to this shit, you can just stop taking it, right?"
The thought makes Spencer's mouth go dry and he immediately does some mental calculations of how hard it would be to get a new Rx. "Uh, sure. Anytime." He smiles bright and wide and so very very fake but Brendon returns it and his smile is so very full of hope and trust that Spencer immediately drops his gaze and resumes studying the ceiling. There's a cobweb in the corner, over by the dining room table and it's wafting in the breeze from the air conditioning.
"So, do it. For me. Right now. Promise me. No more of this stuff. Cause if you die, dude, Ryan Ross will fucking kill me. Imagine that. You: dead. Me: dead. Ryan: in jail for killing me. Jon: driven to become a crazy catlady. Everyone ends in tragedy." Brendon is nodding his head and smiling, trying to make light of the situation.
Snickering, Spencer says, "Okay," and then his eyes widen in shock when he realizes what he's agreed to. But who is he kidding? He could never refuse Brendon anything.
"Right, okay!" Brendon bounces to his feet and starts pacing, "So Kara would know a good program to get you into out here..."
"What? No! I don't need a program, and if I did I certainly wouldn't be asking your sister! Are you nuts?" Spencer sits up and crosses his arms over his chest. "I can just, you know, not take any more."
Ceasing his pacing mid-step, Brendon bites his lip and says, "That's like, some serious shit. Kara did a bunch of addictions counseling courses, so she'd be really helpful, are you sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure. You're parents already sort of hate me because of the whole stealing you away to be in a band thing, I'd like to not confirm their suspicions that we've lead you down the road to ruin. And I don't need counseling. Like I said, I can just stop."
Brendon gives him a doubtful glance, "Yeah, sure. But should I call Ryan or something?"
Spencer tugs at the hem of Brendon's shirt, bringing him down beside him, "You're being annoying as fuck. Why would you call Ryan? Besides he's probably snorting blow off of Z Berg's ass or something."
Brendon barks out a laugh and says, "Oh, right. Okay, so we're gonna do this."
"We're not doing anything. Well, we might play some X-box, drink some beers, maybe surf in the morning." Spencer gets up and, more to have something to do than feeling sorry for him, he opens the door letting Bogart bound back into the living room. Brendon picks him up and swings him around, raining kisses on him like they haven't seen each other in years, and making Spencer laugh.
"So, when was the last time you got high?" Brendon sets the dog down and takes out his iPhone, poised to take down some notes.
Spencer rolls his eyes at the ridiculousness of his life and says, "With you, the last night of tour. Epically hot boxing in Jon's hotel room."
"Wait. What? No no, not weed. Like, your shit." Brendon waves a hand at the sofa.
"I told you, I don't get high," Spencer stalks past Brendon and into the kitchen, retrieving their now room temperature beers. He takes a long drink and then returns to the living room, cocking his hip against the door frame and swishes the beer around in his mouth before saying, "This morning, before I headed out."
Brendon takes his beer bottle when Spencer offers it and says, "You drove on that shit?"
"Yes, look, it just helps me be..."
"Normal, I know, you said. I don't really get it, Spencer. But if you say that you can stop, then I'll believe you. Now, come on, it's time for me to kick your ass at mario kart." Brendon stands in front of Spencer, hands on his hips, face smug.
Spencer snorts and pushes his hand into Brendon's face. "Whatever," he laughs, but he follows Brendon back to the couch and doesn't complain too much when it takes Brendon forever to set things up.
* * *
"I didn't know this was strip Rock Band," Brendon laughs obnoxiously, stuffing chips into his mouth and giving Spencer and exaggerated once over. He'd taken off his jeans and socks and was giving serious consideration to whipping his shirt over his head when Brendon had made his comment. Instead he reaches for another beer and wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist. "So this would be a lot more fun if you could actually, you know, pay attention. I know I like to win, but I actually like to play someone who tries."
Lifting the strap over his head, Spencer sets the guitar down against the coffee table and says, "Fuck this, you wanna go play some real drums?" He doesn't wait for Brendon to answer before he's stalking off to the music room at the back of the house. Brendon's almost shy when he pulls out his laptop and shows Spencer some of the songs he's been working on since he got home. He was always noodling around with bits and pieces of melody or harmony or just random runs that didn't go anywhere and only a handful of lyrics, so Spencer realizes what it's taken him to actually show anyone this stuff. "Yeah, yeah. These are good, B. Really good. And they sound like us, not like us trying to be someone else." Brendon beams at him and Spencer's heart does a painful, hopeful lurch inside his ribcage.
"So, drums!" Brendon sits down behind one kit and Spencer takes the practice kit and they proceed to bash the shit out of them for the next half hour. Spencer feels good when they break, shoulders finally loose and arms thrumming, even if his fingers are starting to blister. At one point he'd given up and whipped his t-shirt over his head and towards the wall, where it landed on the accordions Brendon had stacked neatly. "You are so hardcore!" Brendon giggles.
"What the fuck ever, it's hot in here," Spencer grouses and gets up, picking up his shirt and using it to wipe the sweat from his face.
Brendon fixes him with what Spencer thinks can only be called a Mother Hen look and clucks his tongue. "Dude, it's really not. You know me, I sweat buckets and I'm fine. Are you okay?"
"Fine," Spencer says and that's the end of the conversation. He doesn't mention that his hands are still shaking and his head still hurts and every few breaths his vision goes a little blurry. "Lets take Bogart to the beach." He says, hoping to distract Brendon. He has a secret fear (or hope) that Brendon's going to come over and feel his forehead and take his temperature or some bullshit.
Pointing a drumstick at Spencer, Brendon narrows his eyes to a squint and says, "That is a mighty fine idea, son." He gets up from the stool and whistles for Bogart, who happily trots down the hall and flings himself at Spencer. "You go get his leash." Brendon says.
"And what exactly will you be doing?" Spencer scoops up Bogart and then follows Brendon through to the living room, shimmying into his jeans and ignoring his socks to jam his bare feet into his sneakers. He'd intended to go out to the hall and see if Brendon had actually remembered to return Bogart's leash to its peg by the front door the last time they'd come back from a walk but instead he stops and stares at Brendon. "What are you doing?"
Brendon had stopped to scoop up all the pill vials and bottles and boxes that were on the sofa, before going into the kitchen and stuffing them into the paper bag Spencer had brought from Vegas. "Well, I was gonna flush these," Brendon pauses but doesn't say anything when Spencer winces, "But that shit is totally bad for the environment, so there's a pharmacy on the way to the dog park that has an old pill disposal thing, so..."
"Okay," Spencer's says quietly. He notices Bogart's leash over the back of a kitchen chair, so he takes it and clips it to the dog's collar. They're quiet as they head to the car and Spencer doesn't even yell when Brendon swerves erratically trying find something decent on the radio. He just hugs Bogart tight and burries his face in his fur. He doesn't make any move to get out of the car when Brendon pulls it into a spot outside the drug store, so Brendon heaves an exasperated sigh and reaches to grab the bag out of the back seat.
By the time Brendon gets back, Spencer is shivering so hard his teeth are chattering and Bogart, sensing his distress is licking worried stripes across his face with his long wet tongue. Brendon frowns when he puts the car in gear, reaching behind him and snagging his 'emergency hoodie and dropping it on top of Spencer and the dog. "Thanks," Spencer manages and fumbles into the sweater. It's too small and too tight so Spencer hunches up into a ball, rocking a little trying to stay warm.
"Are you gonna tell me you're not okay, now?" Brendon doesn't take his eyes off the road and Spencer reaches over to the console and turns the air conditioning off.
"It's just coming from the hot house into the cold car, that's all." Spencer rubs his cheek back and forth across the top of Bogart's head.
Brendon doesn't even dignify that with a reply, he just shoves his sun glasses over up his nose, his lips thinning in displeasure. "Whatever, Spence," is all he says. The rest of their trip is conducted in silence and Spencer feels the ball of ice in his stomach grow as he watches Brendon.
He hates upsetting people.
Hates disappointing them more.
They all tumble from the car and Spencer unbuckle Bogart's leash, allowing the little terrier to speed across the grass towards his doggy friends. He laughs when Brendon runs after him yelling and whooping and generally agitating the other dogs and annoying their owners. He stuffs his hands in the pockets of Brendon's too small hoodie so he won't have to watch them shake, and decides to sit on one of the benches rather than join the chase and find out his fine motor co-ordination has temporarily abandoned him. Brendon briefly looks back, quirking an eyebrow at Spencer, before producing a tennis ball from his pocket and throwing it into the fray.
"Summer colds are terrible," the woman sitting beside Spencer on the bench says as she hands him a packet of tissues. Staring at the offered tissues in perplexion Spencer shrugs and smiles his thanks. It only then that he realizes his nose is dripping and his sniffling must be annoying as hell.
"Thanks," he says, carefully extracting a tissue and blowing his nose. He pockets the crumpled up tissue and his eyes roam from the group of playing dogs, to the tree line, to the shore.
"Which one is yours?" The woman returns the package to her purse and Spencer silently curses his bad luck for choosing the spot beside the chattiest woman in Los Angeles.
He thinks about it for a minute; thinks mine as he watches Brendon playfully taunt a beagle with Bogart's slobber soaked ball. "That one, Jack Russell. His name's Bogart. He's one." Spencer blinks and wonders if chattiness is contagious.
"Oh he's adorable. They're a little too high energy for me. She's mine--Erma." The woman reels in some of the retractable leash in her hand and a chubby basset hound, muzzle gray with age, lifts her head from where she's smelling some dandelions.
Spencer smiles and holds his hand out to the dog, "Hey pretty girl," he says, leaning over. He runs his fingers along her velvety ears and laughs when she snuffles against his hand and then says, "Well, it was nice to meet you!" as he stands up and starts a slow jog towards where Brendon and Bogart are in a tug of war with a tree branch bigger than both of them. The risk of falling on his face is worth it when faced with trying to formulate polite conversation over the roaring headache battering his skull like a funnel cloud.
Brendon stops cold when he sees Spencer, running over to him and placing a hand at Spencer's elbow, "Hey, you okay?" Bogart is barking and leaping at their feet.
"Yeah, yeah. Thought I'd just come join the fun?" Spencer sniffles obnoxiously loud and wipes his nose across the sleeve of the hoodie he's wearing just as soon as Brendon lets him go. "What?" Spencer looks at the face Brendon is making and down to the shining wet mark on the material. "Oops?" he laughs, "like you do your own laundry anyway!" he shouts, taking off and encouraging Bogart to follow him. It doesn't take more than ten minutes of running around before he's too exhausted to do much more than fold himself down onto the grass, becoming an object of interest for all the dogs running in the park.
"C'mon, dog whisperer, let's take Boges down to the beach to cool off." Brendon extends a hand and helps Spencer up. And if Spencer clings too tightly for just a second too long, well, neither of them say anything about it.
By the time they get to the beach, Spencer's eyelids are heavy and he can barely stand he's so tired. He huddles into a ball, hoping to absorb some of the warmth of the sand as he watches Bogart do his favorite thing; try and bite the waves. Brendon's been considering taking Bogart out on his long board one day, but Spencer isn't so sure that the dog will stand still long enough to not fall off and drown. He thinks he might have drifted off a bit, because when he opens his eyes, Brendon is shaking him. "Shit dude, what the fuck?" Brendon's voice is high and breathy, the way it gets when he's excited or scared.
Blinking stupidly, Spencer says, "Guess I fell asleep." and then stands, brushing sand off the ass of his jeans and whistling for Bogart who is mere inches away from tearing into a rotting fish. "That's all, Brendon. I just fell asleep, okay?" He squeezes Brendon's shoulder reassuringly.
Brendon exhales loudly and says, "Shit, okay. Sorry. I'm fucking starving. Wanna get take out and go home?"
Spencer not so secretly refers to Brendon's condo as home and it makes him smile. "Sure. Haven't had good General Tso's in a while!" Buy the time they get to the restaurant, Spencer's headache is threatening to split his head in two and he's pretty sure he's failing at this being okay thing. "I'll stay here with the dog," he offers, licking perspiration off his top lip.
"Okay," Brendon is distractedly searching his wallet for cash or his credit card. "Just the General Tso's or you want anything else?"
"Maybe an egg roll?" Spencer leans his head against the window and can feel beads of sweat rolling from his hairline and down his neck. He dozes a little and before he knows it, Bogart is yipping excitedly in his lap, heralding Brendon's return. The car door opens and the smell of Chinese food hits Spencer in a wave that would usually have his stomach growling. But now, he's hit with a wave of nausea so strong it's all he can do to shove Bogart off his lap and get the door open before he spills his guts all over the cracked asphalt of the strip mall's parking lot.
"Shit, dude!" Brendon tosses the paper bag into the back seat of the car, making sure that Bogart's attention is on Spencer and not on the food before he hustles around the car. Spencer is panting, palms braced on his knees as he continues to heave. "Man, you're green. Here have some water." He hands Spencer the bottle he'd purchased in the store. Spencer flaps his hand weakly. He hates puking and he hates having an audience when he's puking even more. When he's finally sure all that's left is dry heaves, Spencer sits up, grabs the bottle from Brendon and swills a mouthful around before spitting that onto the pavement as well. "Can you put that in the trunk?" he asks pitifully, inclining his head to where the food is.
Brendon runs his hand comfortingly across the top of Spencer's head, "Sure." By the time Brendon's got the food secured in the trunk and Bogart secured in the back seat, Spencer has himself squared away in the passenger seat. With a cautious glance in his direction, Brendon steers the car towards home. Brendon settles his palm at the crook of Spencer's elbow and keeps it there. "If you need to stop, just say so, okay?" It's all Spencer can do to nod.
The make it back to the condo without any stops and Spencer is proud that he manages to get up and on his own two feet without assistance. Everything hurts and everything is blurry and he's shaky and panicky and just wants everything to stop. "Where ya going?" Spencer stops, key poised in mid-air as he leans against the door of his car.
"Uh, nowhere? I just, I need..." his distracted mumble trails off as he plunks himself down in his own passenger seat and starts to shuffle through the glove box.
"Need what, Spencer?" Before he realizes it, Brendon is right up on him, hovering over the door and staring with disappointed disapproval at what Spencer's got gripped tightly in his fist. "There's more? Spencer how much of that shit have you got stashed?"
Spencer sighs and feels like the time his mom caught him showing Crystal and Jackie where she hides their Christmas presents; caught and guilty and the reason for disappointment. "Um...not much? It's just I thought maybe one or two would make it easier..."
"Easier?" Brendon's voice is loud and close and makes the pain vibrate through Spencer's forehead from the top of his spine to his forehead. "Spencer, are you going to keep lying to yourself, and me, or can we finally just admit that you're addicted to that crap and you need to stop to get clean so you don't fucking die?"
Setting the pills on the dash beside his Lilo and Stitch hula girls, Spencer swallows and stares at his hands, "Okay. Okay. I need help. Are you happy?" He turns his gaze, bright blue and more frightened than he's ever been in his life, meeting Brendon's look of concern full on. "Please Bren, please help me."
Brendon makes a choked, sobbing noise and drops to his knees, flinging his arms around Spencer's waist and pulling him into a fierce hug. "Yeah Spence. Of course. You've got me, you've always got me. I'm scared shitless but I'm more scared of what will happen if we don't do this." He's whispering into Spencer's shoulder and Spencer is holding on to him so tightly his fingertips are digging divots into Brendon's shoulders. "You sure you don't want to go to the hospital?"
"No!" Spencer sniffles emphatically. "No fucking hospital." He shakes his head and then winces from the pain. Brendon helps him get to his feet and they make it into the living room and Spencer lands in a heap on the sofa.
"You want to go to bed? No fucking way would I make you sleep on that stupid air mattress, you can totally have my king." Brendon ruffles Spencer's hair and he manages to smile. It feels nice; soothing.
Struggling up onto his elbows, Spencer croaks, "No, I think I'll just hang out here, for while if that's okay?" Spencer closes his eyes. Brendon goes back out to the driveway, getting Bogart and the food. He lets Bogart into the backyard and puts the food in the fridge. He's just about to drop his keys onto the counter when he has a thought. He goes back out to the driveway and opens Spencer's unlocked driver side door. He sits there, looking around at the dark leather and wood, and then grabs the glove compartment release.
The pills aren't hard find. By the time he's dumped out all the paper and bits and pieces there are five pill bottles, all different medications, all from different pharmacies, all under different names. Brendon lines them up with the bottle Spencer had placed on the dash earlier. He flicks at one with his finger nail, spinning it a little "Oh, Spencer," he whispers.
* * *
"Hey," Brendon nudges Spencer's shoulder. Spencer opens his eyes and looks up, trying to smile. Brendon is laden with water, tissues, tylenol and the bucket he uses for mopping up after Bogart.
"Hey," Spencer says back, trying to sit up. Brendon still his movement and instead pulls the blanket off the back of the sofa and wraps it around Spencer's long legs. "Take these," he says holding out the water and the tylenol.
"Yes, mother," Spencer mutters, but he's smiling and he's grateful for Brendon's concern. He swallows the pills and takes a long pull from the water bottle before making a face and grabbing the bucket from Brendon and spewing the water back into it almost as soon as it hits his stomach. "Sorry," he says sheepishly, his voice raspy.
Brendon just makes a face and grabs the bucket back, "Yeah, okay. You're sorry. I got that. Stop apologizing, Jesus. Just, rest, okay? I put Bogart in the yard so he won't bug you." Brendon gets bitchy when he's worried. Everyone who knows him knows this, but it doesn't make Spencer feel less shitty about the whole thing.
Spencer pulls the blanket up higher and sinks into the cushions. "You didn't have to do that, I like having the little guy around. He doesn't bug me." Spencer really fucking misses his dogs.
When he wakes again it's full dark and Bogart is sprawled over his feet and Spencer is fucking freezing. His teeth are chattering and his stomach hurts and he's just pathetically miserable enough to call out, "Bren?"
"Hey, hey, buddy. I'm right here, it's okay." Quick as a flash Brendon is out of the recliner and kneeling in front of Spencer, smoothing down his hair and settling the blanket back around him. "I think you should go to bed, Spence. Think you can make it upstairs?"
"Guess so," Spencer mumbles, rubbing his eye with his fist. Brendon gets one shoulder beneath Spencer's arm and manages to get him to his feet. The struggle and stumble and Spencer has to stop to throw up twice (thank god for the bucket) before they reach Brendon's bedroom, but they make it. Spencer collapses on top of the duvet and Brendon undoes his shoes and helps him get under the covers. "Night, night," Spencer mumbles and face plants into the pillows.
Brendon laughs and helps Spencer get under the covers. "Yeah, g'night." He flicks off the overhead light, leaving only the soft yellow glow of the bedside lamps. Taking his own shoes, socks and t-shirt off Brendon climbs into the bed beside Spencer, and slaps at the covers, inviting Bogart ot get comfortable.
"What?" Spencer starts to sit up, makes it as far as leaning on his elbows before everything starts swimming in front of him and , "Brendon what are you doing?"
Laughing harder, Brendon says, "Going to bed. You don't think I'm gonna sleep on that fucking air mattress, do you? Besides, you might, you know, need me?" He bats his eyelashes and Spencer chuckles, settling back down under the covers.
Spencer doesn't really sleep. He goes in and out of consciousness, and every time he awakens is worse than the last. It feels like his bones have been replaced with red hot shards of glass that are trying to burst through his skin. He whimpers and thrashes and every time Brendon is there to soothe him. He brings water, that Spencer still can't keep down. And when Spencer feels like he's burning up Brendon's there with a cool cloth. When he's so cold he can't stop shaking, Brendon pulls him close, using his body heat and the soft assurance of the nonsense he whispers to calm Spencer back into sleep.
He has no idea what time it is. But when he wakes again, he's not too hot, not too cold, and he feels clarity for the first time since he left Las Vegas. "Spence, you awake?" Brendon whispers across the wide expanse of bed.
"Yeah," Spencer answers, rolling onto his back and staring at the ceiling.
"You okay?" Brendon's voice is soft with concern.
Spencer is so very very sick of that question. He just nods and hopes Brendon sees it. "How come you're awake?" He asks. He feels the covers shift as Brendon turns to face him, sheets bunching around his leg.
"Just thinking, about, like stuff. You know, with the band or whatever." Spencer feels awful for his stupid pills overshadowing the fact that Spencer had crash landed huge news on Brendon and then hadn't even allowed him the chance to process it.
"Yeah," Spencer says, and damn it, he's shivering again. Brendon pulls the sheets up over both of them and moves in close. He radiates heat like a furnace and Spencer usually finds it annoying as shit but at the moment he couldn't be happier for Brendon's crazy metabolism. "We're still Panic at the Disco. Fuck Ryan Ross. And double fuck Jon Walker." Spencer turns towards Brendon and finds his hand in the dark, just holding it lightly in his.
"I hope," Brendon swallows, "I hope that we are way more successful than Ryan Ross ever dreamed. That's what I hope. That probably means I'm a horrible person."
Giving Brendon's hand a squeeze, Spencer says, "I think that means you're human."
There's a small moment so quiet the only noise in the room is Brendon's breathing and the sound of Spencer's teeth chattering. "Spence, do you remember that time, when we were really really drunk, or like, baked or maybe both..."
"You'll have to be a little more specific, that pretty much describes every day of tour." Spencer is impressed he has the mental energy to make a joke.
Brendon doesn't laugh. "You kissed me."
"Oh," Spencer's stomach twists in a particularly vicious knot that has nothing to do with withdrawl. "Yeah."
"I wanted you to keep kissing me" Brendon confides into the darkness.
Before he can say anything in reply, Spencer rolls away, heaving bile and stomach acid into the bucket Brendon had thoughtfully placed on the night stand. Gasping and heaving he sits up, the sheets wreathing his hips. "Jesus fucking Christ, Urie. You have A plus timing, you know that?"
Brendon picks at the duvet cover and finally says, "I talked about it, to Ryan. You know back when we were actually talking. He said he thought it was a bad idea, that it could ruin the band."
Spencer reaches out and traces the shape of Brendon's frown. "What would be a bad idea, B?"
"Kissing you." The dim light is reflected in the wide honesty of Brendon's dark stare. "Dating you." He untangles his fingers from Spencer's and traces them up Spencer's arm, curling around his bicep. "Loving you," he finishes with a whisper.
"Fuck. Fuck him. Fuck Ryan," Spencer is so mad he doesn't care that he's sweating and shaking and his head is about to explode off his neck, the pain is so bad. "Jesus, Brendon. He said the same thing to me."
Brendon sits up, facing Spencer where he's done the same. "What? You mean you... Really?"
"Really. I really fucking love you Brendon. And if I wasn't a giant dumb ass who had to decide this was the day to fucking ween myself off all that bullshit medication, I would be like tripping through daises and kissing the fuck out of you, right now. All night."
"Really?" Brendon has raised his hands to his mouth and is giggling, eyes shining with delight.
"Yeah, because fuck Ross. He bailed on us so what we do to the band or with the band or with each other is none of his fucking concern." Spencer reaches for Brendon and hugs him tight.
Brendon returns the embrace and whispers, "We wasted so much time."
"Not wasted. Got to spend it with you." Spencer is trembling and Brendon runs a hand along the gooseflesh on his chest and shoulder. "Big night, Spence. Not only did you admit you love me, you pretty much admitted you've got a drug problem."
"Miracles never cease. Pretty much." Spencer snickers and allows himself to be tucked back under the covers. He smile widens when Brendon wriggles his way to Spencer's side of the bed and flings his arms around him, burying his face in Spencer's neck. "Hurry up and get sober, Spencer Smith, because I really really want to get to the kissing."
"Okay," Spencer closes his eyes.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2012-01-01 03:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-08 02:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-01 07:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-08 02:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-01 12:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-08 02:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-01 12:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-01 12:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-08 03:01 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-08 10:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-01 08:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-08 03:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-01 10:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-08 03:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-01 10:09 pm (UTC)lovely.
no subject
Date: 2012-01-08 03:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-02 05:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-08 03:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-03 05:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-08 03:06 am (UTC)