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Back to Part One

Brendon manages to make it out of the party without actually talking to Spencer. Nick didn’t seem to get why Brendon was rushing out of there, but he didn’t seem particularly put out, either. He got Brendon’s cell number before he let him go, though, so that’s something.

Dallon’s out when Brendon gets back to the dorm, and Brendon collapses on his bed, face-down. He’s still humming from the flogging, but his brain is weirder than his back right now, fuzzy and slow. He remembers, vividly, the way it had felt to lie on the mats and have Nick pet him, and this is like the tail end of that. Everything's still slow and quiet, but now he's more aware, thoughts starting to buzz the way they usually do, one on top of the next.

If Spencer had just not been there, Brendon could have stayed quiet longer, he's pretty sure. Even upstairs in the living room, eating M&Ms, Brendon's pretty sure he could have kept that feeling going for a while. But not after seeing Spencer watching him, not after knowing that Spencer could have been watching from the beginning, seen the way Brendon responded to Nick. Seen how much he wanted it.

Of course—Spencer was at that party, too. Spencer had been at an invite-only BDSM party; he'd been down in the basement, watching someone get flogged, watching someone jerk off. That's not something Brendon would have guessed, from the admittedly short time Brendon's spent in Spencer's presence. Then again, if people could guess that stuff about Brendon, he wouldn't have managed to stay in his parents' good graces, or get through a day of high school, probably.

Brendon wishes Nick could just be here, rubbing his muscles again. All of this weirdness, not to mention the bumping shuttle ride, has him tense, and the rub of his sore back against his shirt isn't helping much. He sighs and kneels up enough that he can pull his shirt over his head and toss it on the floor. The collar's rolled up in his pants pocket, and he digs it out and throws it in the general direction of his dresser. He'll get it later, and if Dallon comes in and sees it, Brendon can just say it's a memento of a family pet or something.

Brendon's about to lie back down when he decides that a shower would be better, to warm and loosen his muscles before he goes to bed. If he still wakes up stiff and sore—and thinking about all the weird ways he's injured himself over the years, he's thinking that's pretty likely—at least he won't have to shower before class.

The bathroom's empty, and Brendon lets himself luxuriate in the warm water. The spray is harsh on his back, but he likes it, sort of like the way Nick's fingers had felt digging in. He'd lost his erection pretty fast on the walk away from the party, but now he's got time to remember the way Nick had talked to him, the way he'd jerked off next to him. The parts he can remember are dirty-hot, just right, and Brendon turns his back to the spray and lets it pound onto his sore skin while he wraps a hand around his cock.

It doesn't take long, not the way he's primed, and he's gasping as much from the pain in his back as the pleasure in his dick when he comes, all of it adding up to one gorgeous feeling. Brendon wonders how long his back will feel like this, and how often he can jerk off before it stops being this good. Maybe he can rub one out in bed, if Dallon's still gone, and rub his back against the mattress.

He lingers in the shower, and it's hard to make himself finally turn the spray off. The towel feels good on his skin, though, and he wraps it around his waist to trek back down the hallway to his room.

Spencer's standing just outside the door, hand raised as though he's been knocking.

"Uh," Brendon says. "Hey." He's vividly aware that he's only wearing a towel, that he's dripping all over the carpet. That if he turned around, the marks on his back would be impossible to miss.

Spencer's eyes are wide. "Uh," he says. "I'll just—I'll come back. When you're. Wearing clothes."

Brendon stops himself from asking if Spencer really needs to come back at all. "Just—wait here a second," he says, and lets himself into the room. One more scrub-over with the towel and he's dry enough to throw on pajama pants and a t-shirt, which don't feel like quite enough clothing for dealing with this, but they're at least easy. "Okay," he says, opening the door. "You can come in, I guess."

Spencer looks as awkward as Brendon feels, which is at least some consolation. "So—I just thought that I should, uh. Apologize. For—I didn't realize it was you, at the party."

"Right," Brendon says. Right. Of course. Spencer wasn't watching Brendon, he was just watching some guy. "I understand."

"I don't want you to feel uncomfortable with me as your RA, now that—uh. After this." Brendon's mostly not looking at Spencer, but he glances up long enough to see that Spencer's literally wringing his hands. It's almost endearing.

"It's fine," Brendon says, because there's nothing to be done about it, anyway. Spencer's his RA, and Spencer's seen—what Spencer's seen. End of story.

"Also—" Spencer hesitates. "I thought maybe—okay, look, I'm an RA. It's sort of my job to counsel and, uh, educate new students. And this is, uh, this isn't usually the area that I counsel and educate in, but it's an area that I do, you know, know stuff about. And if—if you had any questions, I could, um. Help."

Brendon has never had quite so strong an urge to cover his eyes with his hands. "That's—okay," he says. "I've got, uh, resources. Thank you."

"Right," Spencer says. "Yeah. Of course. Sorry, I—right." He turns and grasps the door handle, starts to turn it, and then he stops and turns back around. "Okay, here's the thing. That's not exactly what I wanted to—" He stops, runs a hand through his hair. "Look, Nick is kind of a—not an ideal top."

Brendon's paying attention now. "Hey, look, I think I can handle my own—"

"It's not—look, just, I've been where you are, okay? New to the scene, new to the city. And Nick—there are a lot of Nicks, and they’re hot and they give good headspace, but they don't have your best interests at heart." He pauses for a second, and Brendon starts to respond, but Spencer isn't quite done. "God, I sound like my dad."

That gets a laugh out of Brendon, at least. "You sound like mine, too," he says. He doesn't like what Spencer's saying, but he can’t quite bring himself to be angry about it. "I—he seems like a pretty great guy," Brendon points out. "What are you saying he does?"

Spencer bites his lip. "I don't mean he's like a predator or anything. I mean, he's okay, I see him at parties a lot. People like him. Just, he's—new guys don't know their limits. You don't know if—have you ever practiced using your safeword?"

Brendon doesn't even have a safeword. He shakes his head.

"And did you guys talk about what your limits are?" Brendon shakes his head again, and Spencer winces. "It's not, like. You don't have to do a full checklist with every guy at a party or anything—" Brendon's confusion must show on his face, because Spencer stops, tries the sentence again. "You don't have to negotiate for an hour with every guy at a party, but you're—new, and that means maybe you don't know where your lines are, or how it feels when someone gets too close to them. And Nick doesn't, um. He's sort of not interested in the details." Spencer tips his head back and forth, like he's trying to find the right words. "Okay, basically, he's in the scene to get laid. I mean, kinky laid, headspace laid, but—laid. And you're, um."

"I got it," Brendon says. His head is swimming. He doesn't know Spencer, but Spencer's got no reason to lie, as far as Brendon knows. "Did you and Nick—?"

"Oh," Spencer says. "Uh, once. Nothing bad happened."

"Okay, well," Brendon says. "Thanks for letting me know. I'll, you know, keep my wits about me."

"Uh—right," Spencer says. "Okay. Yeah." He doesn't move toward the door. "Listen, you—you know the basics, right? SSC and, like, no suspension from the wrists? No hitting over the kidneys? Safe sex?"

Brendon leans back far enough to fish his brand-new copy of How to Be Kinky out of the drawer and waves it at Spencer. Admittedly he hasn’t actually read much of it since he picked it off Sarah’s list at the big bookstore on Main, but Spencer doesn’t need to know that. Brendon totally plans to, sometime when he isn’t, like, studying or practicing or watching porn. "Okay," Spencer says. "Right. Well. I'm—down the hall, if, you know. Yeah."

"Okay," Brendon agrees, and then he's finally alone again.

***

It’s strange, going to class on Monday morning. This is Brendon’s regular life, his real life, but it feels like a black-and-white movie, while all his memories of the party are in stark color.

Spencer would probably have a lecture about that, too, but Brendon isn’t going to tell him.

His music classes are still great, at least. Brendon’s been working on his middling clarinet skills, because the jazz band he’s joined already has its fair share of pianists and drummers. The bandleader, Vicky, had said he might be able to sub in on songs once in a while, at least, and anyway the clarinet parts on the songs she gave him to practice are pretty awesome.

He's a little late for the first practice, scurrying out of his awful Bio class with his map in hand, looking for the right building. They practice in the basement of one of the classroom buildings, where they can lock the bigger instruments in between sessions, and Brendon hasn't been out to it yet. When he reaches the building he can already hear the sounds of tune-ups and warm-ups, the cacophony that makes him think about going to the Philharmonic with his mom, and he wants to stop and listen for a moment. He doesn't, because he's late, but he wants to.

When he walks in, clarinet case in hand, a dozen faces look up at him. "Hey," Vicky says. "Guys, this is Brendon. Clarinet. He's great."

Everyone waves and smiles, and behind the drum kit, a brunet head comes up, eyes wide. Spencer. Motherfuck. Brendon nods at him, shrugs a "what can you do?" and starts putting his clarinet together.

Practice goes okay. Brendon's glad he put in the extra hours on these songs, because a couple of the new guys haven't, and Vicky is pretty peeved about it. While he's working with them, Brendon watches everyone else. There's a kid on double bass who's almost too short to maintain the fingerings, but he's good, seriously excellent, kind of wasted on the bass lines they're using. Brendon wonders if he plays anything else. And the trombone guy is killer, even if his jock humor reminds Brendon unpleasantly of the guys who beat him up in high school.

Spencer, naturally, is fantastic. Brendon wishes he were surprised. It's possible that this is some kind of cosmic punishment for disobeying his parents and not going on mission: everywhere he goes, he has to deal with this gorgeous drummer who just thinks Brendon's a kid in need of protection.

Spencer's not being weird, at least. When Brendon gets bored of watching everyone wait for Vicky to finish up with the two unpracticed trumpeters, he gives up and wanders over to Spencer's kit, waves his clarinet at him. "Didn't know you were in this group," Brendon says.

"Good drum parts," Spencer says. "Most of the bands, you barely need two brain cells to play what they want. You know, one kick-drum beat every four measures, that kind of thing."

Brendon nods. "Been there, dude. I played cello in high school. Not as bad as bass, but a lot of, like 'duhhhhhh, daaaaa, duhhhhh, daaaaa.'" Spencer laughs, nodding.

"Totally," Spencer says. "But this stuff is pretty good, and sometimes they let me freestyle. Get my Carter Beauford on, you know?"

"Dude, I love him. My parents never let me get a kit but there was a crappy one at school I used to play with all the time. I wanted to drum for this but Vicky said they already had someone, which I guess means you."

"Sorry," Spencer says, grinning. "Well, I graduate in a couple of years, maybe you can take over after I'm out."

Vicky's voice interrupts them. "Okay, guys, let's just break for today. Next practice is Thursday, and seriously, learn your parts. End lecture, go home."

Spencer leans over his kit. "I’ll lock up, Vicky. I'm gonna mess around for a little while longer." Vicky nods absentmindedly. She's already focusing on making sure everything's put away properly.

"Can I stay, too?" Brendon directs his question to Spencer. "Would that be okay? I don't want to bug my roommate, and the practice rooms are on the other side of—well, you know."

"Sure," Spencer says. "We can run some stuff if you want. Duet for clarinet and drums, that could be funny."

"Or piano," Brendon says. "If you want. I don't mind doing that part."

Spencer blinks at him. "You play piano, too?" He looks, Brendon thinks, like he might actually be impressed.

"Sure," Brendon says. "And guitar, some bass. Flute if I had a gun to my head. Pretty much most things, with a little bit of time to get used to them."

"Huh," Spencer says. "Okay, piano, then." The room's pretty empty by now, and Brendon rolls the baby grand closer, glad of the school's obsession with piano portability. "You want to run the songs and then just mess around for a while?"

Brendon swallows. Obviously Spencer means messing around with music. "Yeah," he says, after a beat too long. "Yeah, that sounds great."

The piano parts are new to Brendon, and he's embarrassed by every fumble, every missed note. Spencer doesn't comment, though, and Brendon pushes through, the way he would if he fucked up at a recital. Better to pretend you meant it—it had taken his piano teacher ages to convince him of that, because Brendon's instinct was always to do something big and showy and self-deprecating instead, to make sure the audience knew he was better than the mistake.

They don't talk about it when the last song comes to its final bars; they just keep playing, Spencer changing up the beat a little, adding some flourishes, and Brendon playing something fun and vaguely melodic to match it. He hasn't had much experience with jazz improvisation, but Spencer's taking it easy on him, nothing too rushed or experimental. By the time they stop, it's almost eleven, and Brendon's fingers are aching.

"That was great," Spencer says, quiet in the comparative hush of the room. "You're really—uh, you're really good at that. Piano."

"Lessons," Brendon mumbles, glancing down at his fingers on the keys. "You too."

"So—I should get back," Spencer says, and Brendon nods agreement, rolls the piano back into its usual spot. "I guess we're going the same way?"

"Oh," Brendon says. "Uh, yeah." He waits for Spencer to tidy up his kit, pack up his sticks. Spencer's bag looks heavy, textbook-laden. "You taking a lot of Monday stuff?"

Spencer glances down at the bag. "Nah," he says. "Junior thesis. I did a library run after dinner." He locks the door behind them with one of the keys on his overcrowded keyring, and leads them out into the crisp night air.

"What're you—it's not a performance thesis?" Brendon's nervous, now. He'd been sure that performance could fill the requirement.

"That too," Spencer says. "But I'm double-majored with music theory, so I have to do a research paper, too. It's kind of interesting, actually. I'm still tying down the exact topic—" He pauses, and Brendon sees that he's blushing, just a little. "Um, so to speak."

Brendon snorts. "It's okay," he says. "It's not—you know, whatever. We're both—yeah." It’s kind of stupid to be embarrassed when they’re both into the same stuff.

"Yeah," Spencer says. "Um, so I'm still picking my exact topic. Hence, like, the thirty pounds of books."

"Cool," Brendon says. The campus is quiet, this late on a Monday; Brendon can only see a few people, and no one nearby. Even though they were alone in the practice room, he feels much more isolated now, just him and Spencer and the dim evening light, the glow of the almost-full moon.

They walk in silence the rest of the way, and it's weirdly comfortable. Brendon's clarinet case bounces against his leg, and Spencer readjusts his bag every once in a while, and Brendon watches a raccoon wandering away from them, the glow of the streetlamps giving it a terrifying shadow. "Well," Spencer says, when they're back in the dorm. "See you Thursday, I guess."

"Yeah," Brendon agrees. "Um, thanks. I had fun."

"Me too," Spencer says, and he's a hair's breadth too close. Brendon realizes he's staring at Spencer's mouth, and then Spencer's stepping back, and Brendon's blinking, scrubbing at his face. "Um, later."

"Yeah," Brendon manages, and then he escapes to his room.

***

Nick calls on Tuesday.

“Hey,” Brendon says, as nonchalantly as he can manage. It probably isn’t very nonchalant, because he started sweating as soon as he saw the unfamiliar number come up on the screen. Whatever Spencer says, Nick is a hot dom who wants Brendon, and that’s not something he’s planning to walk away from.

“Brendon,” Nick says. “How’s your back?”

Brendon twists in his chair, testing. It’s healed enough that he has to really try to get any extra feeling out of it, and he misses just being able to lean back against something and gasp from the pain. “Almost fully recovered,” he says. Maybe Nick wants to lay into it again. Brendon’s hand slips down to his lap, and he’s newly glad that Dallon never seems to be around anymore. He likes his roommate fine, but he likes the privacy more.

“Good,” Nick says. “Listen, there’s a party coming up. Similar group of people, new location. I want you to come.”

Fuck, yeah, Brendon’s definitely gonna come. He rubs a little harder through his jeans, glances at the door and thinks about unzipping them. He’d probably have a few seconds’ notice if Dallon started to come in. “Okay,” Brendon agrees. “That sounds cool.”

Nick’s quiet for a second, and then he laughs, low and dirty. “You’re jacking off,” he says. “Fuck, you really are eighteen.”

“Uh,” Brendon says, and Nick doesn’t give him time to apologize or explain.

“Stop,” he says. “Hand on your thigh.”

It’s easy, somehow, to let go of his dick when Nick’s telling him to. "Okay," he says, and waits. He's so hard now, just from the order, from obeying it, that it's hurting him to still be in his jeans. But the discomfort is a physical reminder that he's following Nick's instructions, that he's being good.

"You're alone," Nick says, and it's not a question. "Are you fully dressed?"

"Yeah," Brendon says. "My roommate could come back any minute."

"Then he'll have a show, won't he?" Nick gives Brendon a second to process that, maybe giving him a chance to object, but Brendon's not going to. "Take your shirt off."

Brendon tosses his shirt on the bed, sits back in the chair with his hand back on his thigh. "Now you're going to tell me how you get off," Nick says. "When you're really alone, when no one's going to burst in on you."

Brendon swallows. "I don't know what you—"

"Yes, you do," Nick interrupts. "You didn't just spontaneously decide you wanted to join the scene. You've been doing this for a while, on your own. Getting off on it. And you can't top yourself, but you can hurt yourself. Tell me how you do it."

"I—" Brendon can't contradict him, but it's embarrassing, it's strange. "You'll think—"

"I'll think it's fucking hot," Nick says, and it's almost a growl. "I'll think you're a good little masochist. And I think that if you don't tell me, I'm going to start thinking you're disobedient."

Brendon sucks in a breath. "Okay," he says. "Okay." It's still hard to get the words out, despite how much he wants Nick to think he's behaving. "I—I have some hair clips I stole from my sisters," he says. "And a hairbrush I bought, and—and those heavy rubber bands from the morning paper, you know?"

"Get them," Nick says.

Brendon scrambles up and digs everything out of the drawer he's hidden them in. He doesn't throw them on the bed, because Dallon really could come back; he drops them on top of some t-shirts in a higher drawer, ready to be slammed shut if he hears a key in the lock. "Okay," he says.

"Where do you put the hair clips?" Nick asks. "How many are there?"

"My—nipples," Brendon manages. "Sometimes other places. I only have four, but one of them is, uh. Stronger."

"That one," Nick says. "Put that one on your left nipple. No easing into it."

The tiny claw shape of the hair clip digs into Brendon's skin, punishingly tight, and Brendon's breathing faster now, pressing the phone into his ear. "Okay," he says, and puts his hand back on his thigh.

"Good." Nick's quiet for a moment, and Brendon hears rustling in the background. "I'm jerking off," he says. "Just thinking about that one little thing you're doing for me, the way you just obeyed me. It feels good, doesn't it? Just doing what you're told?"

"Feels—amazing," Brendon gasps. He's so fucking close, just from this.

"Sir," Nick says.

"Sir," Brendon manages. "Feels amazing, sir."

"Twist it," Nick says. "As far as you can, once in each direction and then stop."

The pull of the clip when Brendon twists it between his fingers makes him choke out a strangled noise. "Fuck," he manages, and then goes back the other way. "Okay."

"Good." Nick's voice is lower, breathing a little harsher, and Brendon wishes he could see him, see his cock in his hand. "Flick it with your finger."

Brendon knows before he does it that this won't feel like much, and he isn't surprised. "Okay," he says, hoping the next instruction will be better.

"Tell me what you do with the hairbrush," Nick says.

Brendon glances at it, swallows. "I—I've hit myself with it," he says. "But mostly it's, uh. For—scratching. Um. Sir."

"Abrasion," Nick fills in. "Where?"

"Every—everywhere," Brendon says, and oh fuck, he wants Nick to tell him to scratch the rough bristles over his skin. "Anywhere, sir."

"No," Nick says, and Brendon blinks, not getting it.

"What?"

"No," Nick repeats. "You don't get to goad me."

"I wasn't—"

"You were," Nick says, and Brendon groans, because there’s something so fucking hot about Nick knowing that, shutting Brendon down. It’s like the mental equivalent of Nick fighting Brendon down to the ground. "Twist the clip again. Harder."

Brendon does, and this time he doesn't try to stifle the moan. "Again," Nick says, and Brendon obeys. "Are you going to come from this?" Nick asks. "Have you ever done that?"

"Not—yet," Brendon gasps.

"Then not today, either. Not while I can't see you." Nick's breathing is heavy and harsh. "Pull your cock out and stroke it—one stroke for every twist, when I tell you. One. Two." He keeps counting, slow and steady, and Brendon wishes he were in bed, able to writhe around without fear he'll overturn the chair, because this is exquisite. "Keep going," Nick says. "You're close, aren't you?"

"Yessir," Brendon gasps.

"Go on, then," Nick says. "Come."

Brendon strokes tighter, twists harder, and his hips buck out of the chair with the force of his orgasm, ringing in his ears and shaking all his muscles. Through the phone he hears a grunt and a long sigh, and he thinks maybe Nick has just come, too.

"Can—can I take the clip off?"

"Wait," Nick says, and Brendon's hand hovers in place, waiting. "I want you to focus on it. You know how much it's going to hurt, don't you?"

"Yes," Brendon says. "I can take it." The pain from this clip is strong, but it isn't that bad.

"You can," Nick agrees. "You can take way more than that, can't you?"

Brendon's nodding, even though Nick can't see him. "Yeah. Yes, I can—way more."

"Eager," Nick says. "You’re such a good sub. Do it now."

Brendon almost fumbles the clip, the wash of pain is so sudden and sharp. It's always a surprise; he can never quite hold the memory of the feeling in his head. It's gone in an instant, and Brendon sighs and drops the clip into the drawer, tucks himself back into his pants.

"Um. Thanks," he says, and Nick hums an acceptance.

Nick gives him the address and the date of the party, and Brendon manages to scribble them out on his music theory notes. “And Brendon,” Nick says, and Brendon swallows.

“Yeah?”

“There’s something I need you to do before the party.” Brendon licks his lips. Jesus, he could almost get it up again, just from that.

“Okay,” he says, because “anything” seems a little desperate.

“I need you to shave yourself, very carefully. Not a hair left.”

Shave … himself. “You, uh. You don’t mean my face, right?”

Nick makes a sound, one that’s hardly anything at all but still makes Brendon want to—something, drop to his knees and show Nick how willing he is to follow instructions. Brendon shivers. “No,” Nick says. “I mean your cock and your balls. Your inner thighs, too. And do your belly, so I have a warm-up area.”

“Uh,” Brendon says, and licks his lips. “Warm-up for what?”

“You’ll see,” Nick laughs, and hangs up.

***

Wednesday’s classes go by in a haze of distraction. Brendon doesn’t mean to daydream in class, but he just has so much to think about—Nick’s shaving instructions, Spencer’s warnings about Nick, the way it felt to obey Nick’s orders. Brendon has been getting off thinking about this stuff for so long, and he’s realizing now he hadn’t had come close to what it really feels like. Like Nick had said, he can do the pain on his own, but not the submission, and the combination is like nothing he could have imagined.

His music theory teacher isn’t pleased with Brendon’s level of distraction, and Brendon ends up slinking out of the class with his eyes on his shoes, just to avoid Professor Stumph’s disapproval.

When he gets to the dining hall, a couple of the guys he met at a capella tryouts are ahead of him, and they wave him over to their table. One of them is the short double-bass player from jazz band, who turns out to be named Ian. The other is the guy who was running the tryouts, Ryan. He’s a little standoffish, but Brendon’s pretty sure it’s just because he’s trying to seem cool.

“So you’re a frosh, right?” Ian asks, stuffing a couple of fries into his mouth.

“Yeah,” Brendon says. “You, too?” Ian nods and gestures to Ryan.

“He’s a junior,” he says, and Ryan lifts his eyebrows in acknowledgment.

“So you must know everything around here,” Brendon says, smiling, and Ryan shrugs.

“Mostly only the music department, and English lit. Well, and my best friend’s in student government, so a bit about that.”

“Oh, yeah,” Ian says. “He’s the favorite to be class president, I hear.”

“Sorry,” Brendon says. “Who are we talking about?”

“Spencer Smith,” Ian says. “He’s gonna be class president next year.”

“You can’t even vote for our class president,” Ryan points out.

Brendon pokes his fork into a lima bean. “He’s my RA,” he says, because saying “he saw me getting flogged this one time” seems like a bad idea.

“Oh, yeah,” Ian says. “You’re upstairs, right? Third floor?”

“Jesus,” Ryan says. “Did you memorize the directory or something?”

Ian shrugs. “People tell me stuff. I’ve got a good memory.”

“That’s true,” Brendon says, snapping his fingers. “I remember, you were doing that guitar party trick at the orientation picnic. The jukebox thing.”

“Yeah,” Ian agrees. “Killer way to get girls, man.”

Ryan snorts. “I don’t think Brendon’s in that market.” Brendon looks up, startled. No way has he told Ryan that, so—? “Spencer said something about the queer music kid on his hall,” Ryan says. “I put two and two together. Also, you’re wearing girl jeans.”

“Everyone wears girl jeans,” Brendon says. “And isn’t Spencer supposed to have, like, confidentiality?”

Ryan shrugs. “Is it really a secret?”

Ian’s glancing back and forth between them, and Brendon watches him for a second. He doesn’t seem freaked out or anything, and Dallon was so— “No,” he says. “No, I guess it isn’t.”

Ryan nods. “Okay. So, you picked up the sheet music, right?”

“Right,” Brendon agrees, and he can’t quite stop smiling.

***

By the time Brendon’s done talking to Ryan and Ian, he’s late for his hall meeting. He slides in the door while Spencer’s starting, finds a spot on the floor next to Dallon.

“Hey,” Brendon says, nudging Dallon. “Where’ve you been hiding?”

Dallon blushes, actually blushes. “Oh, um. Studying a lot.”

Brendon’s not the best at telling when people are lying, but wow, that was blatant. But fine, Dallon doesn’t have to tell Brendon about whatever awesome shenanigans he’s getting up to.

Spencer’s still talking, anyway, and Brendon should probably pay attention. “—not supposed to tell you this, but there’s always a fire alarm in the first month, usually in the evening. Don’t think you can just stay in your room, because I will have to come around and I will catch you and you will get in trouble. And it’s a lot of annoying work for me, so. Just go out front and find me and we’ll roll call and it’ll be over.”

Brendon zones back out; Dallon will make sure he doesn’t miss anything important. He’d rather think about how two more people know he’s gay, and they don’t seem to care. More than just them, too, because the whole munch had been a queer event, and he’s pretty sure the play party had been, too. So—lots of people know about Brendon, now. He feels like maybe that should be scary, but it feels good, instead. His parents are nowhere near here; they aren’t going to just show up uninvited. Brendon could start wearing a rainbow-flag cape every day, if he wanted to, and they probably wouldn’t find out.

He’s pretty sure he’d look stupid in a cape, though.

“—heard that the University of Michigan banned jerking off in the showers, so, you know, be glad you go here, I guess.” Spencer’s grinning around at everyone, and Brendon grins back at him despite himself, watches the way Spencer’s eyes catch on him. Spencer’s okay, really, for—whatever, for the guy who thinks Brendon can’t handle himself. The really hot guy who thinks Brendon can’t handle himself.

“Okay,” Spencer says. “Any questions?” He doesn’t get any, and people start picking themselves up off the couches and the floor, disappearing in twos and threes. “Brendon.” Spencer catches his elbow as he’s about to follow Dallon out. “Can I talk to you? In my room?”

“Uh,” Brendon says, and tries not to think about that as a come-on. Spencer probably isn’t even a top, if he messed around with Nick once upon a time. “Sure.”

Spencer’s room is unexpectedly awesome. He gets a single because he’s an RA, and he’s practically plastered it with band posters, really cool ones, some of them for bands Brendon’s never heard of. “You must go to a lot of shows,” Brendon says, and Spencer lights up.

“Shit, yeah. Me and Ryan—he’s a friend of mine from, like, kindergarten—we came here partly ‘cause the music scene is so vibrant, you know? We wanted to be able to see everybody.” Spencer’s different, talking about this; it’s like he’s younger, more irresponsible. Brendon wonders when he started going to shows, if he’s letting himself regress back into those early memories.

“I haven’t even thought about getting out to see shows yet,” Brendon says. “It’s all—there’s so much to do, you know? With jazz band and my a capella group and—uh.” He stutters to a stop.

Spencer bites his lip, sits down on the bed and gestures toward his desk chair until Brendon pulls it out and sits down. “So, hey, um. I think I might have come on a little strong with the safety lecture last time, and I wanted to apologize.”

Brendon shrugs. He’s cool with them just never talking about it. “‘S’okay.”

“Just—you know, you’re sort of out on the scene all alone, it seems like. And I know what that’s like, and it’s not that easy. I feel like you could maybe use some guidance.”

Spencer’s nice and all, but Brendon likes him a lot better when they’re talking about music instead of kink. “I’m fine,” he says. “Thanks.”

“Just, I feel like you could use a mentor. Someone you could talk to about stuff. You can learn a lot like that, and also, honestly, it’ll get you into better parties.”

“Fine,” Brendon says, and he’s a little pissed now. “Whatever, you can mentor me, okay? It’s fine. You practically already are.”

“Uh,” Spencer says. “No, it shouldn’t be me.”

Brendon frowns. Spencer’s already right here and he won’t stop talking to Brendon about this stuff, so— “Why not?”

Spencer looks down at his hands, over at the wall, up at the ceiling. “Because—because your mentor should be someone with your orientation,” he says, and then nods. “Yeah. That’s—it’s better that way.”

“You’re gay,” Brendon points out. “I don’t—”

“Kink orientation,” Spencer corrects. “And—I’m bi. But you, you’re, um. A masochist?” Brendon tries not to blush, nods. “And a sub? So—I have a friend who’s, who’d be good. I think. He’s—Shane, his name is Shane, he’s great.”

“I met him,” Brendon says. “At this, um, munch, the other week. And he was at the party.”

“Oh,” Spencer says. “Right. Well—good.”

Brendon shouldn’t ask this, should just let the implication be enough, but he wants to hear Spencer say it. “So then you’re—what, then? If you can’t mentor me because of—orientation.”

Spencer scrubs a hand through his hair. “Uh. Sadist, switch. I lean top, mostly.”

Maybe Brendon shouldn’t have asked. It’s bad enough that Spencer’s perfect in every other damned way. “Oh,” he manages. “That’s. So Nick was, like. An exception?”

Spencer shrugs. “He’s pretty convincing. And, uh, we didn’t do any painplay.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Brendon smirks, and thank fuck, Spencer laughs with him.

“Yeah, man,” Spencer agrees. “Well, like I said, it was only the once.”

Brendon’s cheeks are burning. “Right, so. Practice tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Spencer agrees. “Hope the trumpets will be up to speed this time and we can get some real run-throughs in.”

Brendon nods, standing up. “Uh, thanks.”

“I’ll—I can give Shane your number? Or your campus email, if you’d rather.”

“Phone is fine,” Brendon says, and pulls a Post-It off Spencer’s stack. Spencer’s desk is weirdly neat and tidy. “Here.”

Spencer takes it from him, stares at it for a second. “Right,” he says. “Okay. I’ll—pass that on to Shane, then.”

“Okay,” Brendon says, and leaves before Spencer can get any weirder.

***

Shane, it turns out, is a recent graduate living just off-campus. He's thrilled to come back to "the old alma mater" for lunch, and Brendon finds himself making fun of Shane right off the bat. "You sound like you're a thousand years old and graduated in, like, 1874."

To Shane's credit, he doesn't seem to think it's weird that Brendon is messing with him even though they don't know each other. He just says, "Dude, the class of 1874 could kick your year's ass."

"Them's fighting words," Brendon replies, and manages to lose several minutes in back-and-forth ridiculousness before Shane finally says, "Okay, then. Meet you at one."

Brendon makes sure to stake out a table with some privacy, but Shane, when he arrives, shakes his head. "Can we take our trays up to your room? Trust me, I get—" He flings his arms out "—very Italian, when I talk about what it is that we do."

Brendon shrugs, leads Shane up the stairs. "My roommate's never around anymore, but in theory he could come back anytime," he warns.

"No worries," Shane says. "I figure we'll wait another session or two before getting you naked." He waits a beat, then adds, "Kidding."

"I—yeah, I probably would have just gone with it," Brendon admits.

"That's kind of why you should have someone to talk to," Shane says. "Someone who doesn't want into your pants. I mean, don't get me wrong, you really rock those jeans, but I don't think we're compatible."

Brendon shrugs. "Not unless that thing you were doing at the party was an aberration."

"Saw that, did you?" Shane grins. "Really, in a lot of ways I'm more into voyeurism and exhibitionism than BDSM per se. But there's something much more exposed about combining the two, you know? It's not the same as someone just watching you get a blowjob."

"I guess," Brendon says.

"Anyway," Shane says. "Vibe I get from Spencer is you know the basics, and you know what you're into, mostly, but not so much the culture, the vocabulary, the—the ways we talk about consent and limits and negotiation."

Brendon swirls his fork through his pasta. "The vocabulary's a problem," he admits. "It's all so much jargon, you know? You guys were all talking at the munch and it was like the adults in Charlie Brown to me."

"Sorry," Shane says, grinning. "We were getting a little too into it, I guess."

"Safe touches?" Brendon sort of remembers now. "And—titles? And a bunch of stuff I don't remember at all because I didn't understand any of it."

Shane's lighting up, dropping his spoon into his mashed potatoes. "Oh, man, yeah," he says. "You know safewords?" He waits for Brendon's nod. "So if you can't talk—if you're gagged, or mashed face-first into the bed, or sucking cock, or even if you're doing really deep roleplay, you gotta have another way to communicate, right?"

Brendon tries to convince his dick that this conversation is clinical and unsexy. It doesn't really work. "Sure."

"So you gotta have something else, you gotta think outside the box. You can hold something in your hand that will make a lot of noise when you drop it, like keys. Or throw a ball against the wall—I don't like that one so much, it's sort of, I don't know. Too fun? Like, if I'm safewording out, I'm not thinking play-catch thoughts, you know? Anyway, you can also do gestures, like peace signs or whatever, or you can do touches, usually like squeezing a couple of times. Or once I had a guy say that if I wanted him to stop I should punch him really hard in the face. I think he was joking, though."

Brendon swallows the broccoli he's been chewing. "It's all kind of obvious when you explain it."

"Well, that's why it's easier to talk to me than to try to figure it all out yourself," Shane says. "Even with books and stuff."

"And titles?" Brendon prompts.

"Oh, don't get me started," Shane says. "Nah, it's—I take a hard line, but whatever. Basically, if some guy at a party tells you that because you sub you have to call him the Grand High Poobah of Cabbagetown—you don't. Tell him to fuck off. He may be the Grand King whatever to somebody, but not to you, right? Unless or until you guys agree to that between yourselves."

"But if he's, you know, a dom—"

"Nuh-uh," Shane says. "Fuck that shit. I mean, okay, I'm kind of a hard-liner on this issue, so make up your own mind, yada yada, but nobody's really a dom like that. You're only a dom in relation to other people, you know what I mean? Like, out on the street I'm not a sub, I'm a guy. And you're a guy, and the Grand whatever is a guy. Unless you're playing with him—on whatever level, even if it's just bringing him drinks because you both want for you to bring him drinks—he's just a guy to you. And you're just a guy to him, and you're fucking equals."

Shane's hands are waving so much in the air that it's making Brendon a little dizzy. "Okay," he says. Shane does seem to kind of have a point. "Oh, hey—Nick asked me to this party on Saturday. Are you going to that one?"

"Think so," Shane says, and pulls out his phone. "Yeah, at Steve's."

"Oh, I met Steve," Brendon says. "I think. If it's the same Steve."

"It's the same Steve. There's just Steve. He's great, and his play space is kind of epic. He's some kind of investment banker or something, so he's loaded, and it's really tricked out."

"But does it have spinning rims?" Brendon grins. "It's not a really good dungeon if it doesn't have chrome-plated spinning rims."

"Hey dawg," Shane mimics, "I put a spanking bench in your spanking bench so you can spank while you spank."

"Loser," Brendon laughs. "Oh my god, Spencer totally signed me up to be mentored by a loser."

Shane laughs, kicks his foot out in Brendon's general direction and doesn't reach him. "You can't hold my old fogey ways against me, newbie. I hold all the knowledge and power you seek."

"Help me, Obi-Shane," Brendon says, voice as Leia-like as he can muster. "You're my only hope!"

By the time they finally stop joking long enough to take the trays back down, Brendon is pretty sure he wants Shane to be his best friend and possibly his semi-platonic life partner. "I'll see you at the party," Shane says, and puts his arms out.

"Uh," Brendon says, and steps into them, lets Shane hug him. "That was weird, dude."

Shane shrugs. "No touching without consent," he says. "Good habit to get into."

"Oh," Brendon suddenly remembers the other thing he'd wanted to ask, and he looks around to make sure no one's in hearing distance. "Um. Nick asked me to shave, like. Down there, for the party. Do you know what that's about?"

"Could be a lot of things," Shane says. "Could just be he likes it. I don't know him that well, sorry. Maybe CBT?"

Brendon shakes his head, not getting it. "Cock and ball torture," Shane says. "Way awesomer than it sounds."

"Uh, okay," Brendon says, and Shane steps in closer.

"Dude," he says. "If you don't want to do whatever it is, tell him, okay? And if you're having trouble with that, I'll be there, and so will Spencer."

"He will?" Brendon asks before he thinks better of it.

"Sure," Shane says. "He goes to all the parties. Popular guy, our Spencer."

"Yeah," Brendon says, weakly. The idea of Spencer seeing Nick—whatever, torture Brendon's balls—makes heat rise in his belly, and on his face. "See you there, then."

"Later, man." Shane grins and waves, and then Brendon's alone, and late for Bio.

***

Brendon’s glad when it’s time for jazz band practice again. He’d had so much fun at the last one, and even though he likes his classes, it’s nice to turn off all the theory and just play. Theory and composition and his individual lessons are hard work, but Brendon’s never had any problem just playing, and it’s refreshing to be good at something after a long day of wrapping his head around the whys of it all.

Spencer grins at him from behind the kit when Brendon comes in and starts unpacking his clarinet. “Hey,” Brendon mouths, not wanting to shout over the tune-up cacophony, and Spencer waves a stick at him in answer, twirls it showily. It’s funny, and Brendon wonders if Spencer would show him how to do that. Brendon’s pretty good with stuff like that, though he’s always stuck more to full-body tricks like skateboarding and backflips. It’d be cool to have some smaller-scale ones. Maybe he could learn to flip a poker chip over his knuckles like in Ocean’s Eleven or whatever.

Vicky taps her music stand to get everyone’s attention. “All right,” she says. “We’re gonna run parts quickly to prevent a repeat of last time. Horns, you’re up.”

Brendon sneaks back to Spencer’s kit, leans against the wall with his clarinet dangling from his fingers. “They practiced,” he whispers.

“Not enough,” Spencer whispers back. On the other side of the room, Vicky’s got her hands on her hips, glaring at the trumpeters.

“Was it like this last year? I mean. Does my class just suck?”

Spencer shakes his head. “It’s always like this. I think my year it was worse—they’d lost a ton of seniors, and all the frosh were useless, me included. They didn’t even have me on a kit, I was fill-in with a tom on some songs.”

Brendon can’t imagine someone other than Spencer being the drummer. “Really?”

“Yeah, but she went abroad second semester and I got the gig. It was—”

“Ahem,” Vicky says, much too close. Brendon’s head swings up, guilty, and he realizes he’s crouching close to Spencer’s drum throne, practically hidden behind the kit. Not quite hidden enough to escape Vicky’s wrath, though. “Gentlemen, if you’d like to focus?”

“Sorry, Vicky,” they chorus, and Brendon grins up at Spencer. For once, at least, they’re both the dumb kid who needs a lecture.

***

Brendon holds the razor up to the light and stares at it. Right. He can totally do this. Maybe.

He's glad that he discovered this bathroom during his first-week excursions; it's kind of grody, but it's single capacity and has a lock on the door, and no one ever comes up to the third floor of this library anyway. He can take his time in here. The light's good, too; it's mid-afternoon and the sun is streaming in through the big blurred-glass window.

He bought a cheap beard trimmer to start, because the internet had suggested it would speed everything up. Get it down to stubble first, and then shave—that's the plan.

Maybe he can practice on his thighs and his belly before he gets to the tricky stuff.

It's weird, getting naked in what's technically a public bathroom. Of course, every bathroom on this campus is a public bathroom, so Brendon's just going to have to hope that no one suddenly decides they're desperate for a piss while perusing the Engineering History stacks.

The trimming is okay; it's not exactly a good trimmer, but it mostly does the job after a few passes. Brendon's inner thighs look weird like this, and he does his belly next. He's getting hard, which probably won't interfere, but is definitely making him feel funny about this whole process.

"Okay," Brendon mutters, and draws the trimmer across the hair at the base of his cock, lets the curls fall to the floor. He tries to run it over his balls, but the shape and the loose skin are a seriously bad combination, and he abandons that as a bad plan. Still, step one is a check. Just step two to go.

He takes his time warming everything up, hot washcloth on his skin. It's kind of nice, especially when he presses the hot towel to the base of his cock, lets it drape over him. If it weren't rough terrycloth, Brendon would seriously consider jerking off like this sometime. Now, though, he has a job to do.

Applying the shaving cream to one inner thigh, foot carefully propped on the lid of the toilet, is easy. Setting the razor against it takes a little more strength of will. "Right," he says, and carefully draws the razor up towards his hip.

It works beautifully. Brendon shouldn't be surprised—he's been using this brand of razors on his face for a while now—but he is. Maybe this won't be so scary after all.

Both inner thighs go well, and Brendon moves up to his belly, starts at his bellybutton and drags the razor down. The hair here is a little harsher, or bigger, or something, and Brendon has to do another stripe to get the stubble to disappear entirely.

He warms the washcloth again, wraps it around his junk. Better safe than sorry, and anyway it does feel pretty great. He wonders if Nick will want Brendon to tell him how it went, how he did it. If Nick is thinking about Brendon's skin right now.

Wielding the razor closer to the base of his cock is nerve-wracking. Brendon works as slowly as he can, humming to himself, trying to stay angled into the light. He has to hold his dick out of the way, and he's still pretty tempted to just jerk off, but the party's in a few hours and he'd rather wait. He wants to know what Nick's planning. Although maybe if he jerks off now, he'll last longer for that. He doesn't really want to embarrass himself in front of Nick, or in front of Spencer.

Probably Spencer won't watch, of course. Probably he won't want to.

It takes a series of tiny strokes before Brendon's sure he's cleared the stubble from around his dick, and then he's left only with his balls. He's been putting this part off for a reason. "Try not to bleed out," he tells them, and then he pulls the skin taut and sets the razor to it.

It takes a ridiculous amount of time to carefully pull the skin, carefully drag the razor, carefully clean off and reapply the shaving cream, but at the end of it, Brendon's pretty sure he hasn't missed so much as a hair, and he hasn't nicked himself. He whistles Hail to the Chief as he cleans up and gets dressed, sweeping the hair off the floor with his hands and dumping it in the trashcan. He's pretty sure Nick's going to be impressed with his efforts. Hopefully he's in for something awesome.

***

Part Three