BDSM 201: Practical Applications (Part Three): gift for <user site="livejournal.com" user="fictional

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It's easier, this time, to buckle the collar around his neck on the sidewalk, take the steps up to the house. Steve's house is way bigger than Mark's, and Brendon checks the number against his phone twice just to be sure he isn't about to disturb some random rich guy. The doorknob turns under his hand, though, and right behind it is a dude with a cash box, so yeah. Right house.

"Do you know Nick?" Brendon asks the guy, as he's handing his $20 over. "Or Shane or—" He stops himself. Finding Spencer is probably not a good idea. That would be—awkward. "Um, either of them."

"Shane came through already," the guy says. "Haven't seen Nick."

"Thanks," Brendon says, and introduces himself before he moves on into the house.

It's even bigger on the inside, or seems that way. Where Mark's living room was stuffed with people, Steve's barely looks like there's anyone here, especially with the way the ceiling is practically taller than Brendon's whole family home.

Shane's standing by a table with a bowl of M&Ms, chatting with some people, and when he sees Brendon he waves him over. "Hey," Brendon says, and tries to memorize the names as Shane introduces him around.

They're all talking about people they know, the kind of fun gossip shit Brendon would totally dig if he actually knew anyone they were talking about. He tunes out, instead, keeping an eye on the door for Nick.

All the way from his dorm, he's been able to feel how he's shaved down there. It's weird, and not all good—he's pretty sure he's discovered that the hair on his balls is there not just for warmth but to reduce friction—but it's also left him half-hard, because all he can think about is how Nick told him to shave, and he did. Nick's going to see, and know that Brendon did what he was told.

It makes him swallow just thinking about how Nick might—tell him he did a good job, maybe. Reward him. Brendon likes the idea of that, of getting whatever the BDSM equivalent of a gold star is.

He tunes back in just in time to hear Shane mention the dungeon here. Shane says "dungeon" with such a straight face, like it's just totally reasonable for Steve to have a dungeon in his house. "You want to see it?" Shane says, nodding at Brendon. "He's gonna dim the lights in twenty, so if you want to actually see stuff, now's the time."

Brendon casts one more glance at the front hallway and then nods. "Sure."

They cut through the kitchen, a big gleaming room full of chrome and marble and all kinds of stuff that would make Brendon's sister, who never stops talking about Anthony Bourdain, salivate. The back room—Brendon can't quite call it the dungeon, even in his head, especially when it isn't even underground—is windowless and big, like it might have been an indoor pool if someone else had bought this house.

It's got dark wood walls and a painted concrete floor, and it's the first place Brendon's seen that actually sort of looks like the porn he watches. It has all the equipment—the big cross thing, and the X thing, and the benches and pillars and hooks all over the walls seven or eight feet up, so you could hang someone's arms above their head. Even like this—lit up and almost clinical, instead of dim and sexy—it makes Brendon suck in a deep breath. This room makes him want.

"Uh," Brendon says, and swallows. "Steve hosts a lot of these things?"

Shane laughs, goes and straddles one of the padded leather-covered benches. "It's something else, right? Like someone's fucking fantasy."

Like Steve's fantasies, Brendon supposes. "Makes me kind of want to become an investment banker," he says. "Well. Not really."

"Yeah," Shane says. "I know what you mean. And I've seen his toy closet, too—it's something else. He's got paddles in woods I don't think you're even allowed to bring into the US anymore, like crazy exotic stuff."

It makes Brendon feel a little disloyal, but suddenly he's sort of wishing Steve wanted to play with him. "So you saw his toy closet, huh?" Brendon waggles his eyebrows until Shane laughs.

"Not like—well, sort of like that. More a voyeurism thing. I was photographing Steve with—anyway. I couldn't stop taking photos of the toy closet. It's gorgeous. They practically had to drag me away to do the actual action shots."

Brendon leans against a pillar. "You do that a lot? Photograph people doing, uh. Stuff?"

"Sure," Shane says. "It's how I fund my kink, basically. Some months it pays my rent, even. I don't do a lot of standard fetish-model photography stuff, but I'll record scenes for people. Still or video."

Brendon wants to ask what "standard fetish-model photography stuff" is, but suddenly the lights go down and the thought disappears from his brain.

If the room had been sexy before, it's devastating now. There are red-tinged spotlights over every bench and piece of equipment, and at intervals along each wall. Things Brendon hadn't noticed before are suddenly picked out by the lights, and some of them are—"Is that—?" Brendon points, and Shane turns to look. Brendon's pretty sure he's seen one of those in porn, but—

"Fucking machine," Shane says. "Seriously nice one, too. You watch, there'll be someone in front of it pretty much all night. I think Steve sometimes thinks it gets more attention than he does."

Brendon attempts, valiantly, not to whimper. Just. He kind of didn't think people really owned those, outside of porn, or that he was ever going to be in a room with one, at a party where people actually wanted to use them. At a party where someone might want to use on on Brendon.

Well—probably not tonight. Brendon can't think of a reason Nick would want him to shave just for that. But fuck, just getting to see it in action, in person, is gonna be amazing. "Ever film that?" Brendon asks, and his voice is raspy, giving him away.

Shane snorts. "You're one of the groupies, huh? Yeah, a couple of times."

A couple of guys come in behind Brendon, and Brendon turns just in time to see one hook his finger into the collar of the other's shirt, drag him down onto his knees between two of the wall spotlights. It's not padded, and Brendon can see the way the kneeling guy is wincing. Brendon wants someone to make him wince like that. Nick—he wants Nick to make him wince like that. Obviously, Nick.

"You want to watch?" Shane's come closer so he can whisper, not disturb them.

"Maybe," Brendon says. "Do you know what they're gonna do?"

Shane shrugs, leans his shoulder into the side of the pillar. "Nah."

They aren't doing much right now, and it feels—intimate, the way it's just the four of them in this big room. Brendon shakes his head, tilts his chin at the door, and Shane follows him out.

He spots Nick almost before they get through the kitchen. He's lounging on one of the sofas, legs spread, looking—Brendon doesn't even know. Like it's his fucking house. Like it might be his planet, even, the way he's all calm and in charge.

"Careful you don't start drooling," Shane says lightly, and Brendon blinks out of his stare.

"Right," Brendon says. "Um."

Shane laughs. "Very convincing, Urie. Well—I'll be around, if, you know. You need anything."

"Yeah," Brendon says vaguely, and then he's moving into the room and Nick's looking up at him and fuck, Brendon hasn't been this hard in a room full of people since middle school, he's pretty sure.

Nick gets up off the couch and walks over, which is good because Brendon's not exactly moving very fast. "Hey," he says. "How's it going?"

"Good." Brendon's voice cracks, and yeah, definitely middle school. Those really weren't Brendon's best years. "So, um—sir—"

Nick laughs. "Eager," he says, and Brendon can't really deny it. "The party's barely started."

"Means there's room in the back?" Brendon tries to smile convincingly, but Nick shakes his head.

"I'll tell you when I'm ready. You go—mingle or whatever."

Brendon feels more teenage-pathetic by the second, but he doesn't want to go hang out with random people when he could at least be talking to Nick. "I could mingle with you?"

Nick’s brows draw together, like he’s not understanding Brendon. "Fine." He looks away, and then back at Brendon, lips curving into a smile. "Actually—you can go get me a drink,” he says. “Coke, tall glass, just a couple big pieces of ice.”

“Uh—sure,” Brendon says. Is this supposed to be hot? Maybe it’s supposed to be hot. Maybe if he’d told Brendon to crawl or something. Though how he’d carry a glass in his teeth, Brendon’s not exactly sure.

The kitchen’s easy to navigate, and there’s a fleet of soda cans on one sideboard. Steve’s fridge has an ice dispenser on the door, so Brendon doesn’t even have to get invasive and poke around in the freezer. He gets himself a Coke, too, since he’s there anyway.

Nick’s talking to some guys when Brendon comes back out into the living room, and he recognizes Steve in the group, looking comfortable in tight dark jeans and a leather vest.

Nick nods at Brendon, plucks the Coke out of his hand and turns back to the conversation. "So what did you do?" Nick asks, and Steve huffs a laugh.

"What could I do? I ended the scene, got him a blanket, you know. But damn, as soon as I got him settled I went and jerked off in the bathroom. Fucking gorgeous. Too bad he wasn't up for it."

"That's why I like my type," Nick says, grinning. He reaches back to Brendon, hauls him a little closer to the group with a finger through Brendon's belt loop. "You're easy for anything I've got in mind, aren't you, Brendon?"

Brendon blinks at him, hyper-aware of the way Steve and his friends are watching for Brendon's response. "Uh—I—sure," Brendon says.

One of the other guys snorts. "Sure," he says, raising an eyebrow at Nick. "I don't know, give me an experienced sub any day. A guy who knows that he wants hard stuff, instead of just not knowing that he doesn't."

"Hey," Nick says, and he drops Brendon's beltloop, turning towards the argument. "That's not how I play."

"No," the guy agrees. "Okay, fine. But I want a sub who begs for the extremes, specifically. You know?"

"Nick doesn't play as hard as you do," Steve points out. "It's not the same."

Brendon pushes his free hand in his pocket, sips his Coke and pretends he's effectively hiding himself behind it. He didn't think—he didn't expect to be talked about like this, right in front of him. It's making his stomach churn.

"The subs I play with maybe don't know exactly what they want," Nick says, and tips his head back towards Brendon. "But they sure as fuck know they want it."

The guy shrugs, and Nick turns towards Brendon again, gets an arm around Brendon's bicep. "Hey, you don't believe me? Come and watch."

Brendon bites his lip. There's no obvious way to pull Nick aside and tell him that maybe he doesn't want these guys watching, after all that talk about how Brendon doesn't know what he wants. Or at least, he doesn't want to know they're watching, like last time.

Steve's watching Brendon, though, and he shakes his head at Nick. "You have fun," he says. "Maybe we'll swing by later."

"Suit yourself," Nick shrugs, and strides off through the living room. Brendon has to double-step to catch up with him.

"So, uh," Brendon sets his empty glass next to Nick's when they pause in the kitchen. "They'll, um. They'll learn to like me, right?"

Nick waves the question off, and Brendon bites back a frown. "Who cares what they think," he says. "If you're not playing with them, it doesn't matter. Although you might like Rob, actually. He's got a great style. He's big into Florentine flogging, you'd like it."

Brendon's already off-kilter, here, but he's pretty sure something's wrong with that sentence. "You—would let me do that?" He swallows. Maybe Nick wants to, like. Pass Brendon around to his friends. That's hot in porn, but it feels weird to contemplate for real.

Nick looks as confused as Brendon is. "Let you?"

Brendon shoves his hands back in his pockets, tight denim digging into the skin. "I mean, um. You would—that wouldn't be like, um. Like cheating?"

Nick winces, and Brendon suddenly knows what’s coming, takes his own step backwards.

"Look, Brendon," Nick says, and Brendon already kind of wants to throw up, just from those two words. "You know we're just playing, right? Like, this isn't a relationship or whatever. You can do whatever you want. And—so can I."

Brendon swallows again. His throat feels like there's something caught in it. It's not like he thought they were engaged or something, just that—that they were starting something, from the way Nick kept seeking Brendon out and inviting him to stuff. "Right," Brendon says, and he's proud of how steady his voice is. "No, sure, of course."

"Brendon," Nick says, and steps back toward him. His expression is pitying, and Brendon steps away from him, back and back until he's turning at the kitchen threshold and walking through the living room, not looking back. He doesn't see Shane, and he just keeps walking, past the surprised guy with the cash box, down to the sidewalk and towards the bus stop.

He's pretty sure Nick didn't follow him through any of it, but he still keeps his strides long until he's halfway to the bus stop, pulling the forgotten collar off his neck and shoving it into his pocket.

"Hey," a voice says behind him, and Brendon swings around to see Spencer, half-jogging behind him. "Brendon. You okay?"

Brendon forces his feet to slow down, lets Spencer catch up to him. "Sure," he says, but it doesn't come out believable. "I mean—you know. Not my favorite party."

Spencer opens his mouth and then closes it. "You heading back?" Spencer asks, and Brendon's sure that isn't the question he wanted to ask.

"Yeah," Brendon says. "I have a bunch of work for Composition, anyway."

"You're in Comp?" Spencer falls into step beside him. "Who've you got teaching?"

"Uh, Wentz," Brendon says.

"He's cool. There's a rumor he's got it bad for Professor Stumph, you know. They're, like, attached at the hip."

"I've got Stumph for Music Theory," Brendon says. "He doesn't really—I don't really get gay vibes from him."

Spencer shrugs. "You never know, though."

They're almost to the bus stop, the line that will take Brendon back to the campus shuttle, and Brendon rubs the back of his neck, doesn't look at Spencer. "So, uh. You don't have to walk me the whole way, or anything."

"Oh," Spencer says. "Nah, I'm gonna go back, too."

"Okay," Brendon says. "Did—were you not having a good time?"

"Not really," Spencer says. "No one, um. No one I was interested in."

"Sure," Brendon says, and lets the conversation lapse.

They ride the bus mostly in silence, Brendon looking out the window and trying to remember not to hum. People hate it when he hums, and the bus is full of people in their Sunday best, and people with shopping bags and strollers.

The shuttle, by comparison, is empty. It's so empty that Brendon feels awkward about where he's supposed to sit, when Spencer slides into one of the back booths. He settles for picking the seat across from Spencer; close enough to talk, but not so close that it's weird.

They’re silent for the first few blocks, and then Brendon breaks.

"Um," he says. "Can I—can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Spencer says.

Brendon looks down at his hands. “Just, uh. Nick—” Spencer makes a pity face, and Brendon winces. Whatever Spencer’s figured out about Brendon leaving the party early, Brendon doesn’t want to know about it. “He wanted me to, um. Shave. Like—”

“Yeah,” Spencer says.

“Do you know what that was—for? Just, um. It’s stupid, I don’t know. Like, I want to know what I missed out on.”

“Hey,” Spencer says. “You didn’t—whatever happened between you guys, you made the right call to leave if you were uncomfortable or unhappy. That was really brave, Brendon.”

Brendon would like to accept the compliment, but he’s a little too busy still being totally fucking embarrassed. “So, um—”

“Right,” Spencer says. “I mean, I don’t know what he was planning. Like, we didn’t talk about it or anything.”

“But if you’d—if you asked someone to do that, what would it be for?” Brendon’s pretty sure that if Spencer doesn’t answer this time, he’s just going to die in a humiliation-related implosion.

Spencer bites his lip, and Brendon carefully looks away. “I guess I’d—for rope play, maybe, lower-body harness stuff where you might catch hairs in the knots. But Nick doesn’t do much rope stuff. There’s—” Spencer’s eyes look unfocused, and he’s breathing a little heavier. Brendon wonders what he’s picturing, if he’s running through a bunch of scenarios in his mind’s eye. “Play piercing, maybe, that could—but I don’t think he does that, either.”

There’s a long pause, and Brendon’s about to tell Spencer it’s okay when Spencer suddenly says, “Wax. I bet—if it was for a reason, and not just for looks, I bet he was gonna play with wax. He’d want—and he could rub you with baby oil, so it would hurt more. It makes the heat spread, that way, and you’d go all still and tense, trying not to move, but I’d—”

Spencer’s teeth clack closed, suddenly, and he sits up straight, crosses his legs away from Brendon. “I, um. Probably wax play, that’s my—if I had to guess.”

Brendon manages a strangled “thanks.” He’s pretty sure that the way he’s draping his forearm over his crotch is neither casual nor an effective boner disguise. He’s grateful for the screech of the shuttle’s brakes—they should probably get those looked at—that signals they’re back on campus.

“I’ll, um. I’ll see you later,” Brendon says, and gets off the bus as fast as he can.

***

Brendon skips his Monday classes. He doesn’t want to be that student, but he doesn’t think he can focus enough. He managed to get some work done, and some practice in, on Sunday, but mostly all he’s thinking about is how embarrassed he still is. The idea that Nick had to tell him that they weren’t dating—and that he had to do it in front of people, because Brendon had, like, basically badgered him in the living room of the play party—ugh. It just keeps running through Brendon’s brain again and again, like instant replay he can’t shut off.

He’s thinking about more than that—about talking to Spencer afterward, about his classes, about the jazz-band performance that’s creeping closer in his calendar—but mostly it’s just that.

Well, Brendon knows how to deal with that kind of vicious-thought cycle. He’s alone, and Dallon has his long individual session on Mondays, so Brendon checks the lock on the door, strips, and lies back with his laptop propped on his chest.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, already anticipating. Brendon’s got kind of a lot of porn—he hopes his mom never wonders why Brendon insisted on getting the bigger laptop when he’s usually pretty good about not asking for expensive stuff. He’s got to have something that can make him forget about Nick, or at least distract him for a while.

He skips the humiliation folder entirely, because he’s pretty sure sexy humiliation is not the right cure for the completely unsexy version. He taps his finger over the watersports file, but no, he’s looking for something more—yeah. Yeah, okay. Fisting.

There are only a couple of movies in this folder, and a few short scenes, but it doesn’t matter, because Brendon only ever watches one of them. It gets him a little squirmy just thinking about it, and he runs his fingernails across his chest as the video starts, the age certification and the production company’s logo flashing across the screen. He’s already half-hard, and he’s not thinking about Nick at all, really. Mostly.

Onscreen, a guy in like twenty pounds of leather is scowling at a skinny kid—well, 18 at least, Brendon’s just seen the age certification, but he’s twink-youthful, pale and wide-eyed. Trent—his name’s in the title of the video, “Cal fists Trent.” Brendon can dig a straightforward title like that.

“You ready, boy?” Cal’s voice is a deep growl, and it always brings up goosebumps on Brendon’s thighs, the way really good harmonies do. Nick’s voice wasn’t like that, but they both have that, like, sexy arrogance thing going. But Brendon’s not thinking about Nick. He’s thinking about Cal and Trent. Just them.

Cal and Trent probably have, like, employment contracts. They know exactly what they’re here for. They don’t have to talk about it. Cal probably never had to tell Trent that there’s been a misunderstanding about the nature of their relationship.

Brendon shakes his head, tries to get back into the video. He’s usually halfway to coming just from this part, the way Cal shoves Trent down on the bed and strips him, but instead Brendon’s barely half-hard. “C’mon,” he mutters, and gives up on teasing himself, goes ahead and wraps a hand around his cock.

That helps, and so does the way the camera focuses on Trent’s face, twisting up every time Cal smacks him for moving too much. He looks like he likes the spanking more than the fingering, even, and fuck, Brendon can always put himself in Trent’s place during this part. The way Cal’s all gruff and commanding, telling Trent what he’s going to do, like—like Spencer, his voice cracking as he tells Brendon about hot wax and baby oil.

Spencer’s nothing like Cal, but he’d—Trent would still want him, anyone would. Spencer would push Trent down onto the bed, but he’d lean in closer than Cal does, stroke Trent’s sides and whisper dirty things into his skin. Spencer would kiss and bite and suck, and his eyelashes would flutter down to his cheek as he pushed his fingers into Brendon’s ass, and—and he’d—Spencer would—

Brendon doesn’t drop the laptop when he comes, but it’s only because he’s had years of practice. Jesus fuck, it feels like he practically knocked himself out, coming that hard. Thinking about Spencer.

At least he isn’t thinking about Nick anymore.

***

Ian’s the only person in the room when Brendon arrives for a capella practice, and Brendon drops into the chair next to him. “Hey.”

“Hey, man!” Ian’s as cheery as ever, and Brendon tries to muster up a convincing smile. “Dude, what’s up with you? Fail a test or something?”

Brendon shrugs. “Weird weekend.”

“That must be going around,” Ian says. “Ryan fell asleep in our Ren Lit class this morning, said he was up half of Saturday night talking about—what did he say, he has the weirdest phrasing—I don’t remember, but about his buddy’s ridiculous crush on a freshman or something. He’s napping now, I’m supposed to pretend he’s super sick if anyone asks. Well, not you, obviously.”

Brendon’s used to being bowled over by Ian’s monologues, but this one— “Uh, so who was he talking about that with?”

“Spencer Smith,” Ian says, “you know, the guy everyone thinks is gonna be—oh, hey, he’s your RA, right?”

“Right.” Brendon’s heart is beating so hard, he’s not sure how Ian doesn’t hear it. “He has a crush on a freshman, huh? That’s, uh. That’s funny.”

“Ryan says he’s pretty messed up about it. Like, abuse of authority or some shit. I think maybe he TAs for something, and the kid’s a student? Something like that, I dunno.” Ian taps out a rhythm with his toes, hums one of the songs they’re working on. “So you gonna go for that solo?”

“Oh, um. Maybe,” Brendon says. Shit, solo tryouts are after rehearsal today. There’s no way Brendon can manage that if he doesn’t get his brain slowed down to something approaching normal. “Maybe I’ll wait and go for one later in the semester. You know, I don’t want to be that frosh gunning for everything, right?”

Ian shrugs. “Dunno, man. I’m going for it. Can’t hurt, right?”

Brendon’s glad when a few more guys filter in, exchanging greetings and a couple of high-fives. Travie’s high-fives always leave Brendon’s palm stinging, here and when they meet up on the hall, but Brendon’s glad when Travie settles on Brendon’s other side. “Hey, man. Hall thing tonight, yeah? You going?”

“Oh, right,” Brendon says. “It’s—what, it’s that food thing?”

“Hall-kitchen survival skills,” Travie agrees. “Could be fun. Anyway, I hear Spencer’s a kickin’ chef or whatever. If he’s making us food, I’m in.”

“You’re always in for food,” Gabe says from across the room, and Travie grins and flips him off.

“I guess,” Brendon says. “Yeah, I’ll—that sounds good.”

“Awesome.” Travie high-fives him again, and then the seniors come in and everybody shuts up and gets down to business.

***

Brendon’s walk back to the dorms is uncomfortably itchy. It’s not like he doesn’t know what it feels like to grow out hair, but stubble on his face is nothing like stubble on his junk. Everything’s rubbing and itching, and Brendon’s trying to focus on Travie’s chit-chat but he’s mostly wondering how many times he can scratch his balls before Travie starts thinking he’s weird.

Probably he’s already passed that number.

“Hey, man, I’m gonna drop my clarinet and stuff in my room. I’ll catch up with you in the kitchen?”

“Sure,” Travie says, and gives him one more stinging high-five before he strides off in the direction of his own room.

Dallon’s out, again, and Brendon drops everything on his bed and pushes his pants down far enough that he can scratch everywhere. “Jesus,” he mutters, and wonders if there’s an anti-itch cream that would work for this. Maybe he could just shave again, but he’s pretty sure spending twenty minutes a day in that one bathroom would get suspicious eventually.

He gives up on scratching after a long, blissful minute and gets back into his pants, just as Dallon’s key turns in the lock. “Hey,” Brendon says, turning to meet him. “You coming to the thing?”

“Thing?” Dallon asks. His shirt is wrinkled, and his hair is a mess, but he’s clean-shaven, and the combination makes Brendon blink.

“You okay, man?”

“Oh—yeah, totally,” Dallon says, changing into a clean shirt. “I’m awesome.”

Brendon decides to let that one go. Dallon’s hygiene or whatever is none of his business. “Spencer’s running a session on cooking in the hall kitchenette. Travie thinks he’s gonna feed us, maybe.”

“Sounds good,” Dallon nods. “I’m always up for food.”

“Aren’t we all,” Brendon agrees, and grabs his key before they shuffle out the door.

Spencer’s already in the kitchen, with a couple of guys Brendon only sort of knows from the hall. He’s got them washing dishes, and Brendon can’t pretend he isn’t glad there’s not more room at the sink. “Hey,” Brendon says, and his heartbeat is speeding up again. There’s still—there’s still the chance Spencer wasn’t talking about him, or that Ian misunderstood something, but. Brendon thinks maybe he gets it, now, a lot of the weird stuff Spencer’s said.

“Hey,” Spencer says, and Brendon doesn’t miss the way his gaze drops to Brendon’s mouth for a second before he looks up at Dallon. Brendon bites the insides of his cheeks to keep from grinning too much, leans back against the wall. He feels like—sort of like he felt when Nick called, the moment after Brendon realized who was on the line. Nervous about why he was calling, but happy.

This time, Brendon’s not going to let things stay unclear.

Spencer’s little class is kind of fun—Brendon beats eggs in a soup bowl from the cafeteria, Dallon grates lemon peels, and somehow everyone’s ingredients turn into one very large lemon square done in the banged-up cookie sheet that lives over the fridge. “Don’t do this in a cookie sheet that doesn’t have sides,” Spencer warns, and pours the lemon stuff in very carefully over the crust, watching to make sure it doesn’t rise over the low sides.

Spencer doesn’t cook them anything else, to the group’s disappointment, but he gives them a bunch of tips on getting the most out of the kitchenette and its meagre collection of pots and pans. “Oh, and if you steel-wool any of them, I’ll steel-wool you. Just a heads-up.” Brendon leans back harder into the wall and thinks about whether Spencer would follow through on that, if he’d scrape the steel wool over Brendon’s skin. Probably that’s dangerous or something, but all Brendon can think about is the way Spencer would look, doing it—intent and focused, watching Brendon’s every reaction.

The lemon squares, when they’re ready and cut, are warm and sticky and delicious, and Brendon grins around his at Spencer, watches Spencer grin back. “Okay,” Spencer says. “Last pieces go to whoever scrubs the cookie sheet.” A couple of guys shrug and pick up sponges, and Brendon watches Spencer wrapping a couple of other pieces up in a napkin. He hangs back, nudges Spencer’s arm as he’s coming out of the kitchen.

“You get special privileges, huh?” Brendon asks, tipping his chin at the napkin-wrapped squares.

“Hell, yes, I do,” Spencer agrees. He’s glancing at Brendon’s face as they walk, and when they reach the door to Spencer’s room Brendon stops with him.

“Thanks,” Brendon says, and stays close, stays—in range. “That was great.”

“Uh, here,” Spencer says, and fishes a square out of the napkins. “You looked like you enjoyed it.”

Brendon plucks it from Spencer’s fingers, switches hands and licks the sticky sweetness off his thumb. Spencer’s eyes track the movement. “I really did,” Brendon says, and he feels invincible.

***

Brendon likes the way Shane answers his phone. “B-dog! I missed you after we split at the party. How’s it hanging?”

“Great,” Brendon says. “Hey, you want to come eat some caf food with me?”

“Always,” Shane says. “Give me an hour?”

“Meet you at my room,” Brendon agrees, and hangs up.

Shane’s faster than promised, and they swing down to the dining hall before the lunch rush really starts, get their pick of seats. “So I gather the big scene didn’t go down,” Shane says, gently.

Brendon’s almost—not forgotten, definitely, but Nick feels so last week. “Nah,” he says. “We, you know. Different wavelengths.”

“That happens.” Shane bites into his burger, makes a happy noise. “God, there’s nothing like these.”

Brendon’s got egg salad with awesome dark-green lettuce on soft brown bread; Shane can keep the dead cow. “So, you’ve known Spencer a while, right?”

Shane’s eyes come up to meet Brendon’s. “Yeah?”

“He’s—did you guys get into it together, or did you meet after?” Brendon suspects Shane’s not going to answer any really personal questions about Spencer, but maybe he can skirt around the outside. “I’m curious about how, like, guys like me get started. You know.”

“Oh,” Shane says, looking relieved. “Yeah, we met at school, but we were just acquaintances, you know? I don’t think he knew my name for sure. But then we were both at this munch and it was kind of embarrassing but it was cool, too. So we did, like, the requisite hook-up and the chemistry wasn’t there, but we kept hanging out. It’s good to have a buddy.”

Brendon tries to look more interested in the sandwich than the conversation. “You guys hooked up?”

“Well, like, we scened or whatever. But it was pretty—it was mostly just funny. Spencer wasn’t that confident back then, and I was—I dunno, I still thought anyone who wasn’t growling and throwing you across the room wasn’t a real dom. Bad combination.” Shane smiles at the memory. “And then this pushy guy started trying to tell Spencer what he was doing wrong, and oh man—Spencer just laid into him. It was hotter than anything he’d been doing to me. That was pretty much when I figured we’d be better off as friends.”

Brendon can picture it, Spencer in lecture mode, standing up to some dickbag interrupting them. “So he’s more confident now?”

Shane narrows his eyes at Brendon. “You’re asking a lot of questions about Spencer,” he points out. “Something you want to tell me?”

“Nah,” Brendon says, and bites into his sandwich to buy himself some time.

“Uh-huh,” Shane says, but the corner of his mouth is twitching. “You’ve got a little crush, don’t you?”

“I’m not twelve,” Brendon says, through his mouthful of egg salad. Shane makes a disgusted face.

“Gross. And whatever, everyone’s twelve when they have a crush. Or—a slightly less icky age. Sixteen, maybe.”

“Shit, I was a mess at sixteen,” Brendon says.

Shane shrugs. “Everyone was.”

“Did you know?” As much as Brendon wants to talk about Spencer for, like, a week, there’s still so much other stuff he can learn from Shane. “In high school, did you already—did you know?”

“Yeah,” Shane says. “Some of it, anyway. I mean, anyone our age who’s in it, we knew, right? Nobody just shows up at a munch on a whim, I don’t think.”

“So you’d, like. Watched porn?”

“Some. I mean, okay, yeah, lots. But mostly I was on message boards and stuff, trying to, like—connect. You know? I wanted to know that I wasn’t alone.”

Brendon flushes. He’d planned out his munch-attending schedule, and stuff, but he was definitely thinking more about getting laid than anything else. Shane was just kind of an unexpected bonus.

“Oh, hey,” Shane says. “I’m not saying it was noble or anything. And anyway, you’re making friends. Sarah asked about you the other day. You hang out in the scene a while, you’ll know everybody, whether you want to or not.”

Brendon smiles. “That sounds good. I liked—everyone at the munch, they were all cool.”

“It’s a good group,” Shane says. “They’ll like you, too.”

Brendon looks down at his plate. That’s probably enough emotions and shit for now. “So,” he says instead. “What kind of porn did teenage Shane watch, exactly?”

Shane laughs and throws part of his hamburger bun at Brendon, and they don’t stop talking until Brendon has to run to his next class.

***

This time, Brendon's the first person in the jazz band room.

He leaves his clarinet case by his usual spot, dumps his backpack in the corner, and settles himself behind Spencer's kit. When Spencer comes in, early as always so he can warm up his muscles, Brendon's well into it, sweating and enjoying himself.

"Hey," Spencer calls, and his eyebrow is raised. Brendon misses a couple of beats grinning back at him. He's not quite as good at playing without looking as Spencer is.

"Hey," Brendon says. "Maybe you should play clarinet today."

"Maybe you should get off my throne," Spencer says, and Brendon just smirks back at him.

"I'm just warming it up for you," he says. "Anyway, your drums like me. They think I'm totally cute."

"They have good taste," Spencer says, and then he bites his lip. "Um."

Brendon gets up, walks into Spencer's personal space and hands him the sticks back. "Yeah, they totally do," he says. "They like it when you hit them, after all."

It's hardly subtle or witty—it's nothing Brendon would ever want anyone to score him on—but it does the trick, anyway. "Brendon," Spencer says, and he's leaning in, close enough for Brendon to count his freckles. "You know I—"

The door opens, and Spencer jumps back, dropping the sticks and crouching to pick them up.

"Hey," Vicky says. "Good, you guys are early. I like that kind of initiative. You've been doing good work, Brendon—I hope you'll keep that up."

Brendon's glad to have an excuse to blush. "Thanks," he says, and busies himself with his clarinet case. He waits until Vicky's on the other side of the room, flipping through her music folder, before he glances back at Spencer.

Spencer's watching him, sticks forgotten in one hand. "Later?" Brendon mouths, and Spencer shakes his head. Brendon takes another look over at where Vicky's absorbed in the music, walks the few steps to Spencer's kit and leans over it.

"I've got a safety meeting," Spencer says. "And I'm slammed tomorrow. But we should—talk."

"Saturday," Brendon says. "There's—Shane says there's a party at Steve's, are you—?"

"Yeah," Spencer says. "His—no one misses his parties. But that's not really the best place for a, um. For a conversation."

"Shuttle, then," Brendon presses. He wants something concrete to hold onto, because he's so sure they're on the same page, and he wants them to stay there. "On the way over."

Spencer bites his lip, glances over at Vicky. "Okay," he says. "Yeah. We'll meet at three?"

Brendon nods, and swipes his tongue over his dry lips. "Three," he says, and gets back to his spot as horn players start to crowd into the room.

***

Part Four