Fic: Blink, And Again
Birthday fic for 
inderpal!
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Spencer/Ryan, Brendon/Jon
Word Count: 9’900
Summary: AU. Ryan really just wants a job at Pete Wentz’ publishing house. He doesn’t expect to recognize the personnel manager as his childhood friend Spencer Smith.
Thanks to: softlyforgotten, who was her usual invaluable self; allyndra, who blessed me with just about the fastest edit I’ve ever seen; buildyourwalls, for wonderful thoroughness that makes my heart sing.
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Blink, And Again
_______________
Happy (belated) birthday, inderpal! May it be the beginning of a year
filled with sunshine and happiness.
Pete Wentz’ publishing house has a reputation for two things: great working conditions and a very restrictive employment policy. It also stands for a number of other things, such as strict editors, high standards and a book club that, unlike other book clubs, focuses on quality literature offered in attractive hardback editions, usually including works by young artists just starting out.
Since Ryan isn’t looking for another book, but for a fulltime job, the first two are the ones that matter to him.
He inhales deeply, glances up at the building once more and pushes the door to the lobby open. A receptionist is seated behind a desk at the front. Ryan hesitates for a moment, and shit, the guy’s wearing a fairly casual sweater, hair curling at his shoulders. Maybe Ryan’s just a little overdressed for his interview?
“Can I help you?” the guy asks. The nameplate reads William Beckett.
“Um.” Ryan glances down at his pinstriped pants and the black jacket. “Yes, I guess. I’m here for an appointment with Patrick Stump?”
Beckett looks down at some notes, then back up. His eyes are warm and friendly. “Oh, for the editor position?”
Ryan nods. “Yeah. Yes, that’s the one.”
“A good choice. I think you’d like it.” Beckett grins as he rises to his feet. “I could take you up to Patrick’s office, if you want.”
“Well, I don’t know. I’m a little early, actually.” Ryan left half an hour early just so he wouldn’t be late. Nothing is worse than showing up late and sweaty for a job interview, Brendon told him – or rather, read aloud from that book he bought for Ryan’s sake. Five minutes early is perfect, ten minutes early makes you look nervous, and two minutes late is unacceptable.
Beckett’s smile is blinding as he comes out from behind the desk. His legs seem to go on forever. Also, there’s a bandana wrapped around his knee, and he’s sort of stunningly attractive. “Ah, well. You know what they say about the early bird.”
“It catches the worm?” Ryan suggests.
“Exactly.” Beckett reaches for Ryan’s elbow to steer him towards the stairs, and while Ryan usually isn’t into forced body contact, he doesn’t mind. There’s nothing creepy about the touch, just casual and comfortable. He glances back at the desk to see the book Beckett’s been reading, Theodore Fontane's Effi Briest.
Ryan points his thumb back. “I still haven’t read that. Is it good?”
“Effi Briest?” Beckett cocks his head. “I’m not very far into it, so you’d have to ask me again in a few days. You can remind me when you get back for the second round of interviews.”
Alright, then. A publishing company where the receptionist talks like a professor and employs his time reading 19th century novels. It’s kind of really, really cool. Ryan quickens his steps to keep up with Beckett, taking the stairs two at a time. “That’s assuming I get invited to the second round,” he says.
Hey, dickface, be self-assuredly optimistic, Brendon’s voice pipes up in his head, and okay, what the hell – as if Brendon didn’t already talk enough when he’s actually there.
“I’m assuming, yes. I have a good feeling about you.” Beckett halts in front of a door on the second floor, right beside the staircase. It’s slightly ajar, like most other doors Ryan can see further down the corridor. With an encouraging nod at Ryan, Beckett knocks twice before pushing the door open without waiting for an answer. “Patrick, here’s your two o’clock appointment. Ryan Ross.”
“Thanks, Bill.” A man who appears to be Patrick Stump gets up. He’s short and red-haired, his smile genuine when he offers Ryan his hand. “Patrick. We spoke on the phone.”
“Ryan, yes. Thanks for inviting me.”
“No, thank you for coming. Please, have a seat.” Patrick points at one of the chairs surrounding a round table, giving Ryan a chance to take in the spacious office with large windows facing the inner courtyard, a fancy iMac dominating the desk. He sits down while Patrick adds, “We’re still waiting for our personnel recruiter, I hope you don’t mind.”
Ryan shakes his head with a smile. “No, of course not.”
“Can I offer you anything to drink?” Beckett asks from the door. “Coffee, water, a martini?”
“Seriously, Bill. No alcohol on the job.” Despite his stern tone, Patrick is grinning a little, almost abashed. Some of the nervous tension behind Ryan’s forehead recedes.
“A coffee would be great,” he says. He ignores Brendon’s warning about the effect of coffee on an applicant’s perspiration level.
“Coffee, espresso,” Beckett ticks off his fingers, “ristretto, or cappuccino?”
“An espresso, please?” Ryan says. “Black, no sugar. That’d be great.”
“Good choice.” Beckett’s expression is one of approval. “Coffee with cream for you, Patrick? And I take it Spencer will want his usual espresso.”
Something helpless tightens in Ryan’s stomach, just at the sound of the name. After all this time, he should be over it. He is. Over a decade is enough time to let go.
“Yeah, Spencer does,” a voice says from behind Beckett, and—
Oh God.
“There you are,” Patrick says. Turning to Ryan, he adds, “Our personnel manager, Spencer Smith. I don’t think you’ve met.”
They have.
Ryan turns slowly and bites down on a burst of stupid, hopeless, overwhelmed laughter because Spencer’s eyes are still as blue as they were when he was thirteen. The burning disbelief in them is mildly satisfying.
“No,” Ryan says evenly, as evenly as he manages. “No, I don’t think we have.”
Spencer’s eyes narrow, and then he smiles tightly as he sits down beside Patrick.
--
Ryan doesn’t know how he makes it through the interview, and he’s never been so grateful for Brendon’s insistence and enthusiasm. The last few days of random questions fired at Ryan in unpredictable intervals – what’s your biggest weakness? how would you tell a published author that his most recent draft sucks? – enable him to answer almost on autopilot now.
“How did you end up working at a veterinarian during college?” Spencer asks, his voice different now, older and deeper. Ryan’s CV is in front of him on the table, and he keeps consulting it.
Well, of course. He left Ryan’s life when Ryan was fourteen.
Show initiative, Ryan thinks. “I’ve always loved animals, and it seemed like a job that wouldn’t require working hours that interfered with my classes. So I called a number of veterinarians to ask if they had vacancies. Two of them did, and I arranged an interview with one of them, explained about volunteering at an animal shelter during high school. They hired me.”
Spencer’s nod is brief, sharp. “Do you think you picked up skills there that might help you here?”
Be reliable, Brendon’s voice echoes. And, Jon’s echo chimes in, calm the fuck down. You’ll do great. Shit, Ryan’s going crazy, hearing people that aren’t there. He really should calm the fuck down, though. Running into an asshole in the form of his ex-best friend isn’t going to ruin his chances at a really good job.
He takes a deep breath and smiles, lingering on the curve of Spencer’s eyebrow for only a moment before looking at Patrick. “Well. I guess the connection isn’t obvious, but… I think it taught me a lot about discipline. Animals need to be fed and taken care of, and they can’t just wait another day. They’re hungry if you’re not on time. So, discipline, definitely. Also, reliability. And deciding what to do with a sick animal if the vet isn’t there. So in a way, it also taught me to rely on myself if I have to make a quick decision and no one’s there who could help. Trust my own judgment.” He smiles. “It’s a good job, but I guess I’m ready to move on to something a little closer to my studies, you know?”
Ryan leaves his hands relaxed and open on the table, leaning forward just slightly, meeting Patrick’s gaze.
Brendon would be so proud.
--
Instead of his standard greeting – “Ryan Ross, I love your stupid, precious face” – Brendon picks up with, “Please tell me you used the high quality product line.”
Ryan chuckles despite the lingering heaviness in his bones. “I didn’t.”
“I am heartbroken,” Brendon says sadly. “Seriously. My heart is shattered into a million tiny pieces, and all because of you. It’s like you don’t even love me anymore.”
According to the schedule, the bus should arrive in five minutes. Ryan props his hip against the pole, refusing to look back over his shoulder at the building. “Sorry,” he tells Brendon. “I guess I just don’t love you enough to make a fool out of myself. I’m pretty sure they’d have kicked me out if I said that hey, you produce a high quality product, that’s definitely one thing we got in common.”
“Coward.” Brendon breathes quietly for a moment. “So, really, how was it?”
“It was… Not bad, just.” Ryan sighs. “You get your break at one, right? How about we meet at that Subway around the corner? I’ll ask Jon, too.”
“Sure,” Brendon replies. His tone is just a little too casual, reminding Ryan of Brendon’s furtive glances towards Jon’s room whenever Brendon stops by, and of the way Brendon lights up when he realizes Jon’s there. It mirrors Jon’s oh-so-nonchalant efforts to always be at home when he knows Brendon will come by to visit Ryan.
Ryan smiles. “Okay. Then I’ll see you there.”
--
“Wait.” Brendon lets the straw slide out of his mouth, some coke dripping onto the table. He doesn’t notice. Jon does, though, just a momentary narrowing of his gaze before he looks away from Brendon’s mouth. “Spencer—You mean the Spencer Smith?”
“Who?” Jon asks.
“Yeah,” Ryan tells Brendon, then turns to Jon for a short, “It’s complicated.” He flips his sandwich open for something to do with his hands, placing the upper half of the bread on his napkin because no way is he so much as touching the dirty plastic table that’s a little sticky in the heat of the sun.
“It’s not complicated,” Brendon says, apparently having recovered from his surprise. “Spencer Smith broke Ryan’s heart when Ryan was just a wee confused teenager, and ever since then, Ryan has turned into, like, an emotional stone.”
Ryan stops picking his sandwich apart to give Brendon a quick glare. “Sometimes, I wonder why I keep you around.”
“Because you’re not enough of an emotional stone not to be charmed by me,” Brendon explains. Despite his light tone, his eyes are warm.
“Must be it,” Ryan says flatly. The thing is, Brendon does have a point. It’s not that Ryan turned into a stone; he did date, and he did have friends, just… never ones he considered close. Until he found himself placed in a dorm room with Brendon, and Brendon wormed his way into Ryan’s life so thoroughly that they didn’t lose touch even when Brendon ditched his unloved biology major for hairdressing school.
“Don’t give me the skeptical voice,” Brendon says. Ryan grins at him, but refrains from formulating a reply. His mouth is too full of cucumber anyway.
Jon pulls a face. “Guys, I’m glad you’re having best friend cuddle times here, but I’m still lost.”
“You want cuddles?” Brendon sounds like he’s trying to sound like he’s joking. Also, that thought made more sense in Ryan’s head, it definitely did.
“Cuddles are always cool. But,” Jon shrugs and glances away, slurps down some coke before he continues. “I’d also like to know who Spencer Smith is.”
“He was my best friend when I grew up,” Ryan says before Brendon gets a chance to mess with the facts. “We lived on the same street and all. He moved away when I was fourteen, but only for a year because his dad was sent to Europe by his company.” Ryan picks at a salad leaf, rather listlessly. “And, well. He never called or wrote, and then my dad couldn’t afford the rent for our house anymore, so we moved away. That’s it, really.”
“Except for how Ryan was totally in love with Spencer,” Brendon adds. Ryan frowns, but doesn’t argue. “And Spencer promised he’d call, as soon as he could, but he never did, and he never replied to the thousands of e-mails Ryan sent.”
“Seven,” Ryan corrects.
Brendon waves him off. “Details, Ross.”
“Huh.” Jon knocks his shoulder against Ryan’s as he leans forward to steal half of an oatmeal cookie from Brendon. If Ryan did that, Brendon would slap his fingers. Since it’s Jon, Brendon merely mutters a half-hearted, “Hey!”
“So,” Jon continues once he munched Brendon’s cookie down. “He just… You guys were best friends, and then it’s like he disappears off the face of the earth?”
“Well.” Ryan glances down at his left hand, smeared with mayonnaise. “Well, yeah.”
“Until today,” Brendon puts in.
“Until today,” Ryan echoes. His throat is a little tight with the memory of Spencer’s warm, dry handshake when they said their goodbyes, Spencer’s thumb pressing down on the back of Ryan’s hand just briefly, as if he still remembered the way things were.
Jon drapes an arm over Ryan’s shoulders, casual and solid, and Ryan leans into him while Brendon smiles from the other side of the table. Ryan inhales deeply and smiles back.
--
Ryan is woken by the insistent ringing of the phone in the living room. He waits, half-asleep, for Jon to pick up, until he remembers after the sixth ring that it’s Tuesday. Jon always has the morning shift on Tuesdays, so he must be at the vet’s already.
“You gonna pick up?” Brendon mumbles from the other side of the bed. Like most nights, he crashed at Ryan and Jon’s apartment claiming he was too tired to go home, and besides, he sleeps better surrounded by the general awesomeness of two of his very favorite people. His bedhair is the only thing Ryan can see.
“Your hair’s a fucking mess,” Ryan says, instead of a reply, and then he manages to roll out of bed and land on the floor with a crash.
Brendon lifts his head enough to peer over the edge of the mattress. His gaze is slightly unfocused until he blinks. “Smooth.”
After then ninth ring, the phone falls silent. Ryan sinks onto his back, glaring up at the ceiling and Brendon’s face, just visible on the range of his periphery. “You’re an insult to all hairdressers who ever passed their final examination.”
“And you’re a bitch in the morning,” Brendon replies, unperturbed.
Ryan knows. “Fucking phone,” he mutters, managing to push himself upright. He’s about to crawl back into bed when his cell phone starts ringing. Brendon laughs while Ryan scrambles over to where he dropped his clothes last night, digging the phone out from beneath the pile.
“Yeah?” he says, somewhat curtly.
“Is this Ryan Ross?”
Ryan stiffens. Out of the corners of his eyes, he sees Brendon sitting up with a questioning frown. “Yes. Yes, I’m. Yeah.”
“Congratulations,” Spencer says, and it shouldn’t be so perfectly natural to recognize him right away, after all this time. “You made it into the second round. Uh, this is Spencer, by the way. Spencer Smith.”
“I know,” Ryan says, his voice soft, too soft.
“Okay.” Spencer sounds hesitant, uncertain, and it makes Ryan push a hand through his hair, glaring down at his bare knees.
“Anything else?” he asks roughly. He thinks he should be standing for this, maybe that would make him feel better. He can’t bring himself to get up, though.
“No, I just.” Spencer pauses, and Ryan can hear him exhale in a rush of breath. “Hi. It’s been a long time, huh?”
Ryan’s stomach is trying to crawl up into his chest, or at least that’s what it feels like, aching and painful. “Yeah, well. I’m pretty sure that’s not my fault.” He chuckles dully. “So, anyway. That’s all? I get a callback?”
“No, I mean. Yeah. Next week, but we’ll send you an invitation by letter.” Spencer clears his throat. “Really, though, I just wanted. I wanted to talk to you.”
Oh, great, now Spencer wants to talk? After he ignored Ryan’s e-mails for weeks, after he never replied to the two letters Ryan sent, after never calling and leaving Ryan’s life like it was easy, now he wants to talk? “Fuck off,” Ryan says, very slowly. Right now, he really just doesn’t care if it dashes his hopes for the job.
“Ryan—”
“No,” Ryan interrupts, loudly now. “No, seriously, you fucking walked out on me, and now you suddenly want to talk and, what, meet for coffee? Hug, exchange the secret handshake and just go right back to being best friends, like nothing happened? That’s not how it fucking works.”
Brendon climbs out of the bed. He stands undecided in the middle of the room for a moment, playing with the hem of his worn t-shirt while watching Ryan. Then, after a concerned glance, he leaves the bedroom, quietly closing the door. A moment later, the coffeemaker starts hissing, and Spencer exhales sharply into Ryan’s ear.
“No,” he says. “I actually wanted to ask you out on a date, but. I guess that’s not going to happen, then.”
What?
“What?” Ryan says out loud. He doesn’t mean to sound as shocked as he does.
“Never mind.” Spencer’s tone is clipped, the way it used to get when he was embarrassed and hurt. Ryan wonders why he still knows that, wonders how easy it would be to read Spencer, after all this time.
“No, wait.” Ryan shakes his head and gets to his feet, leaning his forehead against the windowpane. “You… Spencer, that doesn’t make sense. You just, you never. How could you just walk out on me like that? How could you—”
—leave me.
Ryan bites down on his tongue hard enough to draw blood.
“I didn’t,” Spencer protests. Ryan merely snorts, and it makes Spencer rush on, adding, “I didn’t… I was freaking out, okay? You were always… I was so used to you being there, all the time, and then we arrived and the first thing I did was check my mail, and there was something from you and I suddenly noticed I was… How much I.” He breaks off, and Ryan closes his eyes, presses his phone hard against his ear.
“How much you what?”
“Missed you,” Spencer mutters.
“What, and you think I didn’t?” Ryan is sure his voice is loud enough for Brendon to hear every word even on the other side of the door, but he doesn’t care. His stomach is making a valid attempt at crawling out of his bellybutton, he’s pretty sure. “I missed you too, just, just. Fuck you. It didn’t make me ignore you, did it?”
“I didn’t want to,” Spencer says quickly. “I just didn’t know—You were so far away and I fucking missed my best friend, and I thought it might not be the same if I called you, and—”
“No,” Ryan interrupts. “No, Spencer, you don’t get to do that. It’s not fair.”
“I was scared,” Spencer says, as if he didn’t even hear Ryan. “Shitless, really, and I just didn’t know what to write, and I couldn’t even imagine what I could say to you, so I just, I didn’t.”
“You’re such an asshole,” Ryan says. It doesn’t come out furious, though, it comes out scared and too affected.
Spencer swallows audibly. “Yeah. I know.”
“No,” Ryan says. “No, you do not fucking know a damn thing, Spencer. I was, God. It just, you just—It took me fucking years to get over you, and now you just think you can waltz back into my life and—No.”
“You were…”
Ryan’s laugh is thick and humorless. “It doesn’t matter.”
For a moment, neither of them speak. Then Spencer picks the thread back up. “You were gone when we got back. Your house, it was, there were people I’d never seen, and when I finally worked up the courage to send you an e-mail, it bounced.”
“We moved,” Ryan says. “It’s all in my CV, if you had bothered to—Why didn’t you recognize my name?”
“I did.” Spencer sounds a little helpless, frustrated. It should fill Ryan with a sense of triumph, but it doesn’t. “But I had to fill in for Ray – for our other personnel manager, there’s two of us, and I had to fill in for him at the last moment and didn’t have your CV, just the name, and it’s not a totally uncommon name, so I didn’t… I couldn’t believe it’d be you, so.”
“I hate you,” Ryan says. His fingers are tight around the phone. “I really, really hate you.”
Spencer is silent for a long moment. When he speaks again, he sounds hopeful. “Ryan. Meet me for dinner, please?”
Ryan’s throat is dry, and he swallows anyway. “Isn’t there some kind of rule against that, in your company?”
“No, I just helped with the first selection. I’m out of the game now, it’s just Pete and Patrick who’ll do the second round.” Spencer speaks quickly, like he really wants to get his point across. “It’s really just food, okay? We can… It doesn’t have to be a date.”
It’s a stupid idea. They’re entirely different people now, so many years between them; there’s no guarantee they’ll even get along.
“Since when are you gay?” Ryan asks, instead of the Fuck off that should be on the tip of his tongue.
Spencer exhales on a snort. “You have no idea. And I’m bi, actually. I told you, it doesn’t have to be a date. We could just… Just dinner. Dinner’s good.”
“A date’s good too,” Ryan says after a beat. Because he could never hide from Spencer, never felt like he needed to, so his usual defenses are just instinctively disabled. Even now, when he should know better.
Still Ryan can’t work up a healthy sense of regret when he hears Spencer breathe out in what sounds a lot like relief.
--
While Brendon’s reaction is just what Ryan expected – enthusiasm with a dash of let-me-do-your-hair-please – Jon’s first response is a furious, “What the actual fuck, Ryan?”
Ryan nearly drops the towel. Just to be on the safe side, he sets the freshly washed glass down, still wet, and asks carefully, “What do you mean?”
One arm immersed in dishwater, Jon pays an undue amount of attention to cleaning a fork. Soap bubbles are clinging to his hand. “What I mean is… Did you tell Brendon?”
“Uh.” Ryan frowns. “Yes?”
Jon glances over. “And?”
“And he immediately started babbling about wanting to do my hair, and helping me pick an outfit.” Ryan cocks his head. “What do you mean?”
“I…” All of a sudden, Jon looks unsure. “Nothing.”
“Nothing,” Ryan repeats, slowly. Then he almost drops the towel, again. He takes a step back, grin growing as he points at Jon. “You,” he says. “Oh my God. You’re supposed to be the emotionally competent one out of the three of us!”
Jon crosses his arms, ignoring the water that drips down onto his t-shirt and the front of his pants. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t give me the pissed off look, Walker.” Ryan laughs out loud. Jon’s usually too relaxed to be mad at anything or anyone, and now he’s just completely, utterly wrong and Ryan will tease him about this for years, will still tease him when Jon and Brendon are married and have adopted a million babies from China, or whatever.
“Glad at least one of us is having fun,” Jon says tightly.
“Glad at least one of us isn’t being a moron,” Ryan shoots back. “Just for your information, Brendon so totally doesn’t have a thing for me. It’s not even funny how much he doesn’t have a thing for me. Emphasis, by the way, is on me.”
Jon draws himself up to his full height – which is really not that impressive – and then he deflates, just as rapidly. “Oh,” he says, voice small.
Ryan slaps him with the towel. When Jon’s retaliates by splashing dishwater at Ryan, he’s grinning. He doesn’t seem inclined to stop anytime soon.
--
Spencer’s wearing a shirt that’s the precise color of his eyes. His hair is artfully tousled. He also stands with his hips cocked at an angle that makes it hard for Ryan to look anywhere else for a hypnotized second. Then Spencer smiles, and shit, he certainly isn’t the slightly chubby, fumbling teenager Ryan fell in love with anymore.
He’s something else, though.
“Hey,” Ryan says.
Spencer’s smile widens, if that’s even possible. “Ryan. You… Hey.”
When his gaze flickers to Ryan’s throat, Ryan is suddenly grateful Brendon convinced him to wear the brown v-neck that makes people “want to lick your collarbone, I swear, Ross. Spencer Smith won’t be able to deny you a damn thing. He’ll pop a boner just looking at you.” Jon, leaning against the doorframe, was laughing even as he hurried to agree with Brendon.
Ryan feels his own grin widen. “Hey,” he repeats, and this could get embarrassing very fast.
“So, uh.” Spencer blinks and looks away. Ryan tilts his head and tries to figure out if Spencer really is as flushed as Ryan thinks he is, or if it’s just the angle of the light.
“You’re blushing,” Ryan announces, delighted. Then he wonders if maybe he spends too much time with Brendon.
“Shut up,” Spencer mutters, but his cheeks are still round with his smile.
“You shut up,” Ryan says slowly, testing.
Spencer’s gaze focuses back on Ryan’s face. It holds a clear, bright challenge. “Make me.”
There’s a catalog of replies out there, so many new options that Ryan wouldn’t have dared to voice back then, and now they suddenly seem within his reach.
They’re on a date. He’s on a date with Spencer.
He hides the stupidly pleased quirk of his mouth behind his hand, but if the quick flash of exhilaration in Spencer’s eyes is an indication, he caught it anyway.
--
When the waiter leaves with their menus, there’s a moment of awkward silence. Then they both start talking at the same time, Ryan beginning with, “So how come—” while Spencer starts, “Just so you know—”
They both break off at the same time. Spencer chuckles faintly, glancing at Ryan, then at the green-shaded lamp above their table. “Okay, this is kind of weird,” Spencer says.
“It’s just, yeah.” Ryan reaches for the beer coasters in the middle of the table, piles them up in front of him for an excuse to watch his hands instead of the way Spencer’s eyes catch the light. “It’s been a long time, and it’s not. I mean, it’s,” he flicks his gaze up just briefly, “a little different, the situation. You know.”
“Different in that we’re not sure we know each other anymore?” Spencer asks. His voice is low. “Or different in that I’m fully aware that I maybe want to kiss you?”
Ryan covers the hitch in his breath up with a soft laugh. “Both, I guess.”
“Fair enough.” When Spencer reaches over the table, Ryan thinks for a crazy moment it’s to lace their hands together. It’s not, though; Spencer only steadies the base of Ryan’s beer coaster construction so it won’t collapse while Ryan’s builds up the next level.
Ryan exhales, inhales, and his fingers are steady when he balances two more coasters. Then he lets go, and so does Spencer. The construction holds. “Haven’t done that in a while,” Ryan says.
Spencer’s gaze is less hesitant when their eyes meet. “Remember that bar around the corner of your house?”
“God, yeah.” Ryan nods. “Yeah. The bar, and you remember that one waitress, the one who always kept a set of coasters around for us, because… What was it?”
Spencer laughs, quiet and sweet as he splays his hands on the table. Something aches in Ryan’s stomach, twists distantly, just from looking at the way Spencer’s hair falls forward and into his eyes, only to be pushed back with an impatient gesture. “Boys need to play,” Spencer says. “That was her reason. Boys need to play, and it’s better if they play with coasters than their food, yeah. Yeah.” He lifts one shoulder, and then they both glance down at the tower between them, not impressive at all. Ryan remembers how patient Spencer and he used to be, working perfectly in sync to build a tower high enough to reach their waists.
They were much smaller back then, though.
“Shame we let go of that skill.” Ryan realizes belatedly that it’s kind of a non-sequitur, but Spencer’s already nodding.
“Wow, yeah. We built the best coaster constructions ever.”
“We did.” Ryan reaches for another set of coasters, giving Spencer a short look, as confidently challenging as he manages. “So?”
Spencer’s reply consists of picking up two more.
--
“No, it was just… somewhat anti-climatic, you know?” The words are followed by an unhappy frown, Spencer’s mouth twisting for a moment before he lightly shakes his head. “I mean, I spent the first three months in Brighton obsessing over how to call you, what to say, until I decided it’d be easier to just wait until I could talk to you in person. Then,” a chuckle, “I started stalking your LiveJournal.”
“You did?” Ryan raises his head, pausing with his fork halfway to his mouth. “I didn’t… Well.”
“Nice pictures.” Spencer’s smile is pointed, but genuine. “I certainly, uh, enjoyed them.”
Okay. Okay, so… So Spencer looked at pictures of Ryan’s ass, posted when Ryan was fifteen. Okay.
Ryan thinks it would be creepy, kind of, if he hadn’t been begging for some kind of attention back then, and if Spencer hadn’t been fourteen. He wonders how confused Spencer must have been, wonders when Spencer figured out he was bi, also wonders if he looked at the pictures with one hand down his pants.
“Did you, now,” Ryan says carefully. He looks up at Spencer from beneath his lashes and hopes Spencer can still read him well enough to make out the slightly embarrassed delight.
Spencer’s cheeks flush faintly even as his smile widens. “Yeah. Wow, yeah, did I ever. If you know what I mean.”
Ryan holds Spencer’s gaze, deliberately drawing out the pause, before he says, “I’m glad. You know I live to please.” He feels a surge of smug satisfaction when Spencer’s throat moves quite obviously as he swallows and drags his gaze back up from Ryan’s mouth to Ryan’s eyes.
“Stop doing that,” Spencer tells him.
Ryan leans back in his chair. “Doing what?”
“Distracting me from what I’m trying to say.”
“Am I?” Ryan doesn’t even try to keep his lips from curling up.
“You know, smug is still a horrible look on you.” Despite his tone, Spencer looks amused. Then he shakes his head, picking up his knife to unnecessarily cut a slice of zucchini into half. Ryan watches Spencer’s hands before he makes himself look away, keeping his eyes down while Spencer continues. “Also, your LiveJournal. It took me ages to work out all those references to me. I’m actually still not sure it wasn’t just wishful thinking, or whatever. Try being a little less cryptic, Ross.”
“No, they probably were. References, I mean.” Considering how focused Ryan is on his food, it’s funny how he hardly even tastes it.
“Right, I mean. Yeah.” Spencer sounds pleased. “So, anyway. Yeah. Imagine how I spent the last three months obsessing over how to face you, what you’d say, how you’d look at me, and then we get back and some stranger is living in your house and no one knows where you went, and your LiveJournal hadn’t been updated for ages. It was—” He exhales roughly. “Fuck. I kind of hated myself, for a while.”
“I kind of hated you, too,” Ryan mutters.
“I know.” The silence that follows makes the noises around them seem louder, emphasizing conversations at other tables, the clinking of dishes and a knife scraping over porcelain. It’s almost enough to swallow Spencer’s, “I’m sorry,” more a whisper than anything else.
--
“So you declined a job at an established company employing several thousand people to do all sorts of employee related work for Pete Wentz instead? Who employs, what, a good hundred by now, and was just starting out a year ago?” Ryan sips at his coffee. It’s already cooling, the scent strong in his nose when he breathes in.
Dessert came and went, and now he’s trying to drag out the last stage of the evening. Despite a few scattered moments of awkwardness when something hit just a little too close to home, touched at things they might have to talk about eventually, it was easily just about the most fun he’s had on a simple dinner date in ages. Realizing that Spencer’s sense of humor still matches his was a pleasant surprise.
“Yeah, well.” Spencer dips one finger into his coffee, sucking some milk foam off it, and shit, that shouldn’t work. Ryan isn’t even sure it’s deliberate. Then Spencer’s gaze flicks up at him, bright blue over the rim of the cup, and okay, yes, definitely deliberate. “Pete’s conditions are good,” Spencer says.
“Right.” Ryan nods and looks away. “Just, I’d have thought you’d be going for the safe option.”
“Are you calling me a sellout?” Spencer asks.
“No, just.” Ryan smiles wryly as he lifts one shoulder, setting his nearly empty cup down. “You always used to go for the safe option, when we were kids. Vanilla rather than pistachio, and… Ferris wheel instead of the rollercoaster. You know.”
“The safe option,” Spencer repeats. He pauses for a moment, eyes unfocused on a spot on the wall. “Yeah. Look where it got me, though.”
“Which is?”
“Not talking to you for over a decade. It was something like a wake-up call, I guess, when we moved back to Summerlin and you were gone.” Spencer’s eyes regain their focus, bright on Ryan’s face. “Besides, you always talked about books like they were a lifeline or something. Maybe some of that rubbed off, I don’t know. A publishing house just seemed much more appealing than a company producing talk shows and whatnot. Brain cell killers.”
“You’re such a closeted idealist,” Ryan says. He’s smirking, but his tone is entirely too amazed, too affected again, much too soon. It shouldn’t be this easy to fall right back into Spencer.
Spencer laughs. “You’re practically begging for a closet joke here.”
“I haven’t looked at a closet from the inside since I was fourteen. Which you know.” After all, Spencer was there when Ryan dropped a casually unspecific comment in the middle of a video game, a month before Spencer left since it seemed like less of a risk then. Spencer fumbled a move and Ryan managed to kill off his screen character, followed by Spencer calling him a fuckface. And that was that.
“I came out to my parents on my fourteenth birthday,” Spencer says. “Pretty sure I got you beat there, Ross.”
Almost five months after Spencer left. Ryan nods and doesn’t ask. Instead, he sighs. “Yeah, well. My dad never knew, so. Yeah. Guess you win.”
“Oh.” Spencer’s spoon clinks against the cup as he sets it down on the table, studying Ryan’s face for a long, silent moment before he asks, “How is he?”
Ryan looks away. Outside the window, a group of laughing people passes by. The air seems to have cooled considerably since Spencer and Ryan got here three hours ago, because they’re all wearing sweaters or jackets.
“Ryan?” Spencer leans forward just slightly, and Ryan watches him out of the corners of his eyes before he finally replies.
“Dead.”
“Fuck, I’m…” Sorry, of course. Everyone always is. Only Spencer trails off, and when he speaks again, it’s not the usual, sympathetic tone of voice, but something harder, fiercer. “I should have been there.”
There’s really no point in arguing with that. Ryan lifts one shoulder, and then he swallows. “It was… I’m fine, really. It’s okay. It was a few years ago, and I kind of. Brendon came with me to the funeral, and it wasn’t so bad, I mean. I hadn’t seen him since I started college, and…” He blinks away the image of the black, gleaming coffin and the few scattered funeral guests, no more than two vaguely familiar faces. If it weren’t for Brendon steady and unusually quiet by his side, Ryan doesn’t think he’d have managed to stay until the end of the ceremony. “I guess I just wish we’d had more time. We were starting to work things out, you know? Just on the phone, but… Yeah.”
Spencer reaches out, touching Ryan’s wrist for a too-short moment before he withdraws his hand. “I’m sorry,” he says, and Ryan gets it, all the ways in which Spencer’s apologizing.
Ryan quirks his mouth up into a quick, but genuine smile. “I know.” He inhales once, deeply, and then he shakes his head while he picks his cup back up mostly for something to do with his fingers. Spencer is still leaning forward, closer than before. If Ryan stretched, he could— He cuts the thought off. “Anyway. Let’s talk about less depressing things, how about that?”
“Okay,” Spencer agrees easily. “Who’s Brendon, then?” His eyes are sharp and blue, and Ryan is a teenage girl for even noticing.
He pauses, cup touching his bottom lip. “Spencer Smith, are you fishing?”
“Maybe.” Spencer’s gaze doesn’t waver.
Ryan doesn’t bother to hide his amusement. “He’s my best friend. Musical genius and hairdresser extraordinaire.”
“Ah.” Spencer seems to digest the words, and Ryan wonders if there’s still a faint need for revenge inside of him, openly referring to someone else as his best friend, but… They’re both so much older now, and this evening isn’t just two friends getting dinner, not with Spencer clearly labeling it a date, and certainly not with those glances Spencer keeps shooting at Ryan’s bare throat, and the way he was staring at Ryan’s ass when Ryan got up for a trip to the restroom.
Not a casual evening between two old friends.
“So, he’s a hairdresser?” Spencer asks.
Ryan grins, nodding. “Trust me, he’s already heard all the jokes. He takes it in stride.”
“Please tell me he’s gay,” Spencer says, and he might still be fishing a little. “Don’t shatter my world view by proving that cliché wrong.”
This time, Ryan laughs out loud, and he doesn’t miss how Spencer is watching him intently. “He is, yeah. Last thing I saw of him, he and my roommate Jon were making eyes at one another.”
“Jon?” Spencer asks, leaning back in his chair, looking relaxed and really fucking attractive. Ryan’s fingers are twitching a little, and he tightens them around his empty cup.
“Jon’s an assistant at the vet where I worked during college. It’s… He had a room free when his previous roommate moved out, and I moved in, which is how he and Brendon met.” Ryan chuckles faintly. “They’re kind of ridiculous, really. Like a soap opera, with the way they’re slinking around each other.”
“Huh.” Spencer’s smile is secretive. “Well, too bad for them. I don’t like waiting. I mean, not if I can help it.”
“Yeah,” Ryan says, and his mouth is dry. He’s the first to look away.
--
It’s a weeknight, so the streets are quiet when they walk the good mile to Ryan’s place, hands in their pockets and shoulders almost close enough to touch. Ryan thinks about remarking on Spencer treating him like a lady, picking up the bill and walking him home, but he doesn’t feel confident enough. Instead, they idly discuss a book Ryan just finished reading, something like a background to a science fiction novel by the same author, a result of the research that went into creating a perfect apocalypse scenario of ocean life striking out at humanity. Spencer hasn’t read The Swarm, but he did read the scientific counterpart, and they spend a few minutes contemplating the vastness of what they don’t know about submarine life, one of those slightly pretentious, but utterly satisfying conversations that Brendon mostly reserves for music-related topics.
They slow their steps when they draw closer to Ryan’s block, and for a few seconds, their footsteps are the only sound except for a distant hum of cars and the muffled noise of a TV through a window they pass. “Just so you know,” Spencer breaks the silence. “You’re probably going to get the job. You’re everyone’s favorite candidate right now.”
“I only spoke to you and Patrick.” Ryan grins faintly. “Although I’d be offended if you favored someone else over me, I guess.”
“Wouldn’t dare.” Spencer sounds cheerful, but there’s a strange edge of seriousness to his tone. “Anyway, you didn’t just speak to us. Remember William Beckett?”
“The receptionist?” Ryan asks. “He was reading Effi Briest.”
“That’s the one, yes. Only, not so much a receptionist.” Spencer’s teeth flash with his smile, the light of a streetlamp glinting in his hair. Ryan wants to touch. “Bill’s our crash test dummy, or something like that. Pete always said he only wants people in his company who won’t suck up to their superiors while kicking the ones below, and that’s why we always have Bill down at the desk when we got job interviews coming up. He studied psychology.”
Ryan curls his hands in his jeans pockets. It’s a little chilly in just his t-shirt, but he doesn’t want to go upstairs just yet. “So William – Bill? – he does first impressions? That’s a clever idea.”
“We’d like to think so, yeah.” Spencer’s voice is smug.
“You’re so full of yourself,” Ryan says, and he makes sure to tilt his head so Spencer will see his smile.
Spencer shrugs. “I’m good at what I do.”
“Yeah, okay.” Ryan glances up at the second floor, notices the blue flicker of the TV in the living room. So Jon’s at home – meaning that if Ryan asked Spencer to come up, they wouldn’t be alone. That’s probably a good thing, Ryan decides. He’s less certain when his eyes meet Spencer, the undercurrent of tension making the night air seem a lot warmer. Ryan should kiss Spencer now. If he leaned forward just a little—
Spencer jerks his head to the side, nearly imperceptibly, and clears his throat. “I should go, probably.”
“You want to come up?” Ryan offers, too readily, too hopefully.
“No, I mean.” With a frustrated noise, Spencer runs a hand through his hair, shifting his weight. “I do. Just, not today. I mean. Next time, maybe. I want us to… Shouldn’t it be weird to just, uh. Fall back into this so soon?”
“It doesn’t feel weird.” Ryan takes one hand out of his pocket to rub it over his arm, the heat of the previous moment subsiding. He notices Spencer’s gaze drop down to watch the motion as Ryan adds, quietly, not quite sure if he’s making a mistake, “You know I was totally in love with you when your family left for Brighton.” It’s what he hinted at when Spencer called, but putting it on the line like this, deliberately, is different. His lungs feel a little tight, constricted.
Spencer takes a step forward, so close Ryan thinks he can almost feel the ghost of Spencer’s breath on his face. Spencer’s taller than he is, now, just by an inch or so. “You wanna know why I never called?” Spencer asks, voice low. He doesn’t wait for a reply. “Because I freaked the fuck out. Because I realized I was so, so in love with you, and I was young and stupid and didn’t know how to deal.”
Ryan’s heart beats foolishly, wildly in his ears. “What, and you thought running away was the best you could do?”
“No.” Spencer shakes his head, and Ryan almost feels the tickle of his hair. “Told you I was stupid.”
“Yeah,” Ryan says softly. Even in the dim light of the streetlamp, Ryan could count Spencer’s lashes, their tips a little brighter than the bases. For a moment, neither of them move, and Ryan is sure Spencer’s going to kiss him; it’s Spencer who should move first since he’s the one who ran in the first place, and Ryan’s been waiting far too long, even when he wasn’t anymore.
Then Spencer steps back abruptly, putting a clean foot of distance between them. “I should,” he says, followed by the merest hint of a pause, “go.”
Ryan swallows, and his own heartbeat is still too loud in the quiet street. “Okay.”
Spencer nods as if he’s trying to convince both of them. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Okay,” Ryan repeats. He mostly believes it.
“Okay. Yeah.” Spencer shifts his weight, runs a hand through his hair, and then he mutters a soft, “Goodnight,” and turns on his heels, not even waiting for Ryan’s reply. Ryan watches him walk away, feeling rather cold on the sidewalk, and he tries not to drag up bitter thoughts of a déjà vu.
--
Jon and Brendon are sitting on the couch when Ryan makes it through the door, a bowl of popcorn between them and the TV showing a brightly colored game show Brendon claims to watch for the stupidity of some of the candidates, and Jon claims to watch not at all. There’s a careful distance between them, with the popcorn and Jon’s arm stretched out over the back of the couch, knuckles nearly brushing Brendon’s shoulder. Ryan is suddenly tired.
“Hey,” Brendon calls out brightly, turning away from the TV to give Ryan a curious look. He talks right over Jon’s greeting. “How did it go? Was it good?” When he leans forward, sideways over the bowl of popcorn, it brings him very close to Jon even as he continues to study Ryan. “Your hair isn’t mussed. Do you need me to kiss and make it better? Or, like, a pity fuck? You know I’m always up for that, all selfless and such. Willing to make the sacrifice for the sake of a friend”
Kiss, ha. Pity fuck, ha. Ryan didn’t even get a kiss, and he has no idea if Spencer’s going to call tomorrow. Fucking waste of a date, that’s what it was, and it would probably be easier to believe that if Spencer wasn’t still smiling at Ryan from behind his lids.
“Why don’t you ask Jon?” Ryan says flatly, turning towards the kitchen. He’s kind of thirsty. “He might be up for it.”
There’s something like an awkward silence, and Ryan halts his steps, feeling a stitch of guilt as he glances back over his shoulder. It wasn’t that different from the usual innuendo they toss around, though – except for Ryan’s tone. And except for how close Brendon and Jon are when Brendon turns his head, looking up through his lashes. Ryan isn’t attracted to Brendon, not like that, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t aware of Brendon’s mouth, albeit certainly not as much as Jon is
“I don’t know,” Brendon says very carefully, still watching Jon. “I’d rather save myself the embarrassment of rejection. Not sure my fragile little heart could take it, you know?”
“What, you think I’m crazy?” Jon’s voice is near-inaudible from where Ryan’s standing.
Ryan makes himself walk into the kitchen because this is not meant for him; he’s not supposed to see this even if it looks like the culmination of months of unresolved tension. It’s not for him, but he still hears Brendon’s hopeful, “So, hypothetically speaking, if I asked you—”
Brendon stops abruptly, and Ryan’s just curious enough to sneak a quick glance back at the couch, just long enough to find Jon’s fingers tight in Brendon’s hair, Brendon steadying himself with one hand on Jon’s shoulder while they’re kissing. The bowl of popcorn is in a precarious place, wedged between their bodies, and Ryan’s certain it won’t take much longer for it to spill all over the carpet.
Ryan will make Jon vacuum for hours, until even the last crumb has disappeared. Still, he can’t quiet help a small smile as he finally escapes into the kitchen. At least some people are having a good night. It took them long enough.
He tips his head back against the fridge, less thirsty and more tired all of a sudden. The glare of the ceiling light hurts his eyes, even when he closes them.
Fucking Spencer Smith.
Ryan needs a moment to identify the buzzing against his thigh as the vibration of his cell phone. Then he draws it out of his pocket, flipping it open to find a text from an unfamiliar number. Immediately, his stomach clenches. He stares at the display for a full five seconds, vaguely aware of the wet sounds of kissing and harsh, quickened breathing in the living room. Then he opens the message.
‘shouldve kissed u’
Something loosens in him, liquid relief, and it’s for an entirely different reason that his heart is beating high and wild in his throat. ‘Yes,’ he writes back. He’s biting his bottom lip while he sends it off.
In the quiet that follows, it’s impossible not to listen to the soft noises drifting over from the living room, Jon mumbling something that Brendon answers with a short, sharp, “Fuck yes,” and Ryan forces his attention away. The fridge is entirely silent behind him, different from its asthmatic predecessor, which was Jon’s main argument for buying a new one in the first place. Above Ryan’s head, the light bulb hums ominously, as if about to give up, and it corresponds with the sinking feeling in his stomach.
The phone buzzes with a reply.
Ryan nearly drops it in his haste to open the message, fumbling before he presses the right button. ‘if u give me a 2nd (3rd?) chance: am downstairs’
Ryan’s on his way to the door before he finishes re-reading Spencer’s text, passing by the living room without so much as a glance at the couch. He still isn’t wearing more than his thin t-shirt, but he feels warm enough as he rushes down the stairs, taking them two at a time while he steadies himself with one hand on the banister. His heart’s back to beating hard against his ribcage.
When Ryan throws the door open, Spencer is leaning one hip against the wall, eyes narrowed at the phone in his hand. He looks up quickly at the motion, and then a brilliant smile spreads over his face. In the yellow-tinted illumination above the doorstep, he seems achingly familiar and different all at once. Ryan suddenly doesn’t know what to say.
Spencer takes the burden from him by taking a small step closer. “Hi.”
“Again,” Ryan says. His voice sounds a little choked, and he thinks about adding something – Stop running or What made you – only he can’t because Spencer’s mouth swallows any words he might have wanted to say. None of them were important, so Ryan sways closer, presses himself up to Spencer’s chest and doesn’t fight when Spencer walks him back against the door. The glass is cold on Ryan’s back, and there’s a muffled thump when Spencer twists closer still.
“Sorry,” Spencer mutters, cupping Ryan’s skull in his palm. Ryan isn’t sure if he’s apologizing for the rough treatment or for running away earlier, and it doesn’t matter either way. The only thing that matters is that extra inch of height Spencer has on him now, and the way Spencer smells, just faintly, of an expensive cologne he probably spent hours picking out because Spencer’s always been a perfectionist.
Ryan breaks away just long enough to say, “It’s fine,” and then he pulls Spencer back in, spreading his thighs to get one of Spencer’s legs in between them, pushing his hips forward. When Spencer gasps, Ryan licks at the corner of his mouth before he slips his tongue inside. It takes only a moment for Spencer to meet him, tilting his head as their tongues slide together.
Eventually, they have to separate for air, breathing in harshly with their foreheads pressed together. Spencer’s hand is still cupping Ryan’s head, but his thumb is massaging small circles into Ryan’s skull now, slow and lazy. Ryan inhales and thinks that the night smells of summer.
“You know,” Spencer tells him softly, each word ghosting warm over Ryan’s mouth. “I changed my mind. Now that I think about it, I really wouldn’t mind coming up for a cup of coffee.”
The light above the door goes out, leaving them in the semi-darkness of a streetlamp some feet off to the side. Ryan slides his hand lower on Spencer’s back. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” he says, voice pitched low.
Spencer straightens slightly, shifting back. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he protests. “Just, I’d really like to—I mean, it’s been such a long time, and I don’t want to stop talking to you, I didn’t mean to imply—”
“Spencer,” Ryan interrupts.
“I don’t want to rush things,” Spencer continues, his tone serious, earnest. “Really, I didn’t mean—”
Ryan shuts him up by bringing their mouths back together. It doesn’t take long for Spencer to relax back against him, and then Ryan sort of forgets about his original intent and they kiss for another minute or two, just lips this time with the glass door cool behind Ryan and Spencer warm and utterly, perfectly real against his front.
When Ryan turns his head to the side, breaking their kiss, it’s only because he remembers what he actually wanted to say. “Brendon and Jon are probably fucking on our couch right now. I don’t think it’s the right moment to introduce you.”
“Oh.” Spencer pauses, then snickers softly. “And a good night was had by all, I guess.”
“Indeed.” Ryan rocks his hips forward, just a little. It makes Spencer’s shiver slightly, and it’s really fucking awesome, watching that, having that kind of effect on Spencer, so Ryan does it again. Spencer stills him by trapping him against the door, pressing so close there’s no room left to move.
“I meant what I said about not rushing things,” he warns.
Ryan raises his chin, and for a long moment, they’re just staring at each other, unblinking. The game is nearly as old as their friendship, but just this once, Ryan isn’t so intent on winning. He looks away first, going pliant under Spencer’s hands. “Okay,” he says.
“It’s just that we shouldn’t… I mean, we should get to know each other again, first. Which is not to say I’m not tempted.” Spencer sighs and takes a reluctant step back, but he’s smiling, and so is Ryan.
“Fine,” Ryan says. “Guess I can wait a day or two longer.”
“Nympho.” Spencer’s voice is affectionate, and a moment later, he adds, “So, I’m still with the not rushing things policy, but my car’s parked near the restaurant. If you’d rather not interrupt your friends up there, you could stay with me for the night?”
Ryan pulls a face. “Please tell me you have something better than a tiny twin bed by now.”
Spencer’s laugh is clear even over the sound of a car driving by. “Yeah. Some things do change, you know.”
“King-size?” Ryan asks.
“Wouldn’t offer you anything less, Ross,” Spencer says, and his grin is a bright focus point in the darkness. Ryan nods quickly.
He’s not sure who reaches out first, but their fingers tangle easily, almost natural if it weren’t for the quick swoop of excitement in Ryan’s stomach. The walk back to the restaurant seems even shorter than the way over.
--
Ryan wakes up under covers that smell familiar, clad in his t-shirt and boxers. He also wakes up alone.
For a short moment, he blinks up at the ceiling and the foreign lampshade, sleep-confused brain buzzing with a vague question or two, until he remembers Spencer – Spencer and last night, talking about plans and memories and themselves, about vanilla ice cream and flavored coffee and how much they both love to walk over freshly fallen snow, still not used to the sight of a world powdered in white.
The red digits of the bedside clock, the one Spencer already had when they were kids, show shortly before ten. Spencer mentioned something about leaving for work at around eight, most days, and he grumbled about the lack of sleep he’d be suffering from the next day. It was some time after three in the morning, when the breaks in their conversation were getting increasingly longer, interrupted by yawns and slow, drowsy kisses.
Ryan sits up with the beginnings of a smile. He didn’t have much of a chance to take in the room last night, too focused on Spencer, but it’s a nice room, comfortable and not too tidy. A magnetic board is nailed to one wall, beside the desk, displaying a number of photographs – William Beckett, Spencer and an unfamiliar, Latino-looking guy with his arms around the other two; a pretty woman with blonde curls and a dimpled smile in the sunshine, on some kind of terrace; some other people Ryan doesn’t recognize. There’s also one taken shortly before Spencer’s family left for Brighton, Ryan and Spencer with their cheeks pressed together, their smiles sad. Ryan wonders if Spencer always had it there, or if he put it back up just recently.
With a shake of his head, Ryan rolls out of bed and reaches for the sheet on the nightstand.
‘Good morning, sleepyhead. You do know it’s a shitty thing to just sleep on while someone else has to get up and go to work, right? Good thing you just might end up working for Pete too, then we can bitch together. Either way, coffee’s in the kitchen: Green button on the machine, select the icon of a middle-sized cup, that’s cappuccino. Wait. Coffee will be ready in a minute. – I get off work at half past four. Dinner? I even know how to cook. –S.S.’
Spencer’s writing is more mature now, not the childish scrawl from back then. He also seems to enjoy writing longer letters and notes, these days. Ryan grins stupidly at the sheet and thinks he should stop comparing past and present.
--
After a shower and borrowing Spencer’s toothbrush, Ryan closes the door behind himself, leaving only a short note on Spencer’s kitchen table. ‘Dinner sounds great. I’ll bring wine, and I’m holding your Caran d’Ache pen (seriously?!) hostage so you can’t go back on your invitation. –RR’
Spencer’s reply comes just before five, some hours after Ryan got home and made Brendon and Jon squirm through an apology about the couch and about making him flee the apartment – at least until they caught sight of the bitemark at the side of his throat. It’s the second half of Ryan’s shift at the vet when he manages to sneak back to his locker and take a look at his phone. It shows him two new messages, one from Brendon and one from Spencer.
Ryan foregoes what’s probably just another comment about turtlenecks and concealer in favor of reading Spencer’s, ‘wouldnt dream of it, hows 8 and lasagna?’
‘Perfect,’ Ryan replies. Then he stands grinning, stupid and a little breathless, until he hears Victoria call for him to set up the operation table. He stuffs his phone back into his lockers, and still he can’t wipe the grin off his face. He doesn’t really try.
== finis ==