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The first time Spencer kisses Brendon, Brendon bursts into his room somewhere after five in the morning, still in the clothes he'd been wearing during the day. He throws the door open with enough force that a few flakes of plaster detach from the ceiling, and one of the guys in the next room thumps on the wall.
"Dude, I got up to work on this paper," Spencer warns. "This had better be really, really good."
"Guess who I just caught doing the walk of shame out of Pete's room?" Brendon asks gleefully, waiting approximately one-eighth of a second before caroling "Ashlee motherfucking Simpson!" before Spencer even has time to hazard a guess.
"Ashlee Simpson?" Spencer asks. "Ashlee president-of-Delta-Xi Simpson? With Pete?"
"I know!" Brendon grins broadly. "I said 'oh, hey, what are you doing here? Did you get lost on the way to the Sigma Nu? I didn't know Alpha Kai was approved of for mixers with the Delta Xis', and she said 'Fuck, I should have gone out the window, I knew it!' and then she said, um, that if I told anyone she'd totally cut me and use my balls as pompoms in the next cheer competition." His smile fades fractionally.
"Your secret's safe with me," Spencer says dryly, leaning back and tilting his chair onto two legs. "Plus, I'm sure they just had, uh, presidential business to discuss, one house to another."
"Only in the Monica Lewinsky sense," Brendon scoffs, then tilts his head. "Man, Pete would totally rock a beret. I think he could pull it off."
"He did work the go-go boots that one time."
"And the coconut bikini."
"And the - Brendon, why are you still up? Go to bed."
"I don't see Brother Twiggy," Brendon says, magnificently ignoring him and peering around the room instead. "His bed's slept in, though. Where are you hiding him?"
"Dude, you know that Ryan said he wasn't answering to his pledge name anymore as soon as he became an active," Spencer says. "He's gone over to the Theta Nu house for their dawn yogalates class."
"Nice," Brendon hums. "Half-naked girls in salacious poses. Why can't we get in on that?"
"I don't know," Spencer sighs. "Girls have, like, a sixth sense for that shit. Ryan can go to girls-only yogalates because somehow they can tell that he's really into the yoga itself, but if you or I try it? Charlotte will boot us out so fast our head spins, and she kind of scares me."
"Like Ryan's not looking."
"Life is unfair."
"It is," Brendon says soulfully. "It really, really is. And girls are the very worst of it, man." He says it with heavy emphasis, trailing out portentously into the silence, and looks sideways at Spencer with damp limpid eyes that beg him to ask.
Spencer sighs. "Fine, tell me whatever you're waiting for me to ask about."
"This girl," Brendon says, and leans against the doorframe, sighing lustily. "One of the new Delta Xi pledges, you know, the one with the dark hair? I was talking to her at the party last week, and she was really into it, I thought, you know? I thought I was in. And I saw her again at the bar tonight, with some other girls, and I sidled up to their table and hung out for a while, bought them a few rounds, and seriously, I should've been in. But when the bar closed and I was all, hey, you want to come back to mine - I mean, I didn't even say it like that, I was smooth, I was all 'It's been really great talking to you, you want to continue this conversation somewhere else?' I was totally letting her know that I valued her mind, jesus - anyway. Anyway, she kind of laughed, and squeezed my arm, and said no, but thanks, I was sweet. Sweet.." He spits the last word out with a sort of unutterable disgust, and broods darkly on his wrongs, eyebrows twisted together.
"Ouch."
"What did I say?" Brendon says, plaintive. "I mean, I did everything right! And she really was into me at the party, I know she was. They were laughing, Spencer, her and the other girls, when they left, I heard them. Is something going on?"
"Um." Spencer fiddles with his pen, tapping the tip staccato against his textbook. "I haven't heard anything, man. Bad luck."
Brendon's eyes narrow. "You have," he accuses. "You can't lie to me, Brother Wookiee. You know something. Come on, tell me."
"It's nothing," Spencer says. "Forget it, okay? Go to bed, sleep it off. I have to start this paper."
"I'm not drunk, dude. It was just beer, and I'm a Alpha Kai, I'm not going to get drunk from a couple of beers. That's like, shit, getting wasted after just one shot. Doesn't happen, and if it does, you're a pussy. Come on, man. Tell me. Brothers don't keep important shit from brothers."
"Fine, but don't blame me if you don't like it." He takes a breath, and looks sideways at Brendon, who has a hand curled tight around the doorframe, fingertips pressed against the plaster, and is swinging back and forth a little, using his grip as a hinge.
"Come on."
"You're a bad kisser," Spencer says, a little too fast, and Brendon blinks at him owlishly, eyes black and confused, and doesn't say anything. His mouth is a little open. "I mean, that's just what I've heard, it's not like I have personal experience, or anything. It's going round the sororities. Did you piss a girl off recently?"
"I am not a bad kisser," Brendon splutters, finally. His colour is high, flushed over his cheekbones. "Where did you even - who would even - I've never had any complaints. I'm an awesome kisser. I'm fantastic, my tongue is elastic -"
"Yeah, I gather that's the problem," Spencer says sotto voce, because he can't help himself, and Brendon cuts off mid-rant.
"Shit," he says, shaking his head. "That’s why they were laughing, isn't it? Fuck, Spencer, this is so not good. So, so not good."
"It definitely sucks," Spencer agrees. "Anyway, dude, I have to work. Go get some sleep."
"But what am I going to do? What can I do about this? I'm the victim of a vicious smear campaign here. My reputation's at stake. I could - I could end up not getting laid for the rest of college, Spencer." His voice hushes.
"It's not that big a deal. Kiss a girl at this next party, really use your moves, and she'll correct the rumour. No big."
"Right," Brendon nods. "Right. I bet it was that nasty Tri Delt chick, man. I was drunk, you can't hold stuff against a dude when he's drunk, right? I mean, that's just not fair. It's not like you can control that kind of thing. And I said I was sorry about her stupid dress, and her stupid coffee table, and her stupid face -"
"Wow, stop there," Spencer interrupts. "Shut up. Go away. Please."
"Next party," Brendon muses, ignoring him. "Find a girl, make with the make outs. Do you think I should just, hm. I could sweep into the room, just walk up to some likely lass - get it, 'likely lass'? Man, I crack myself up, I totally sounded Scottish when I said that, right? - and just, like, sweep her back and go for the big Hollywood style kiss? So everyone in the room would be looking, and would know that I'm like, the Frank Sinatra of kissing, Ol' Blue Eyes, smooth as fuck?" He takes a breath, and bites his lip.
"What if I don't have any moves? What if they're right? Spencer, what if I'm a shitty kisser, and no one's ever told me? I mean, you'd think someone would just let you know that sort of thing, but I guess no one likes to say 'dude, you're a shitty kisser,' and what if I am, and I just don't know it? What if I try out my moves on this hypothetical girl, and it just makes it worse? What if-"
"Jesus," Spencer says. "Stop. If I teach you how to kiss, will you shut up?"
Brendon stops mid-flow, mouth still open around a speech he's forgotten. It closes and opens again in 'o' shapes, distinctly piscine. He looks kind of like he walked into the doorframe, headfirst; like he's struggling to form words while suffering minor head trauma.
"I guess that's a yes," Spencer says. "Or at least it's working so far." He sighs, kind of regretting it already. "In or out, but make a decision, I've got to study."
Brendon gulps, still slightly swaying in the doorway. Spencer can actually hear it, like the drunken watery hiccup of a frog. "In," he says, voice rising in a question. "I mean, yeah. In."
It's really not what Spencer had been expecting. He'd mostly said it to make Brendon go away, but Brendon stands up straighter and squares his shoulders, and then he shuts the door behind him.
"I can't keep striking out, Spence. It's very damaging to my sense of self."
"You've been hanging out with Travie, haven't you," Spencer sighs, because the sincerity is always a bad sign. "Dude, you know that his philosophy-major-babble is very damaging to your sense of making sense."
"Brother McCoy says some very interesting things," Brendon says serenely, taking a seat on the edge of Spencer's bed and gesturing with his hands. "I find conversation with him opens up my third eye and makes me more receptive to the quiet harmonies of the universe. Also, he has the really good weed."
"Hah, third eye."
"What?"
"Never mind."
"You need to focus better, Spencer," Brendon tells him. "Focus is essential to cohesive sense of self. Also, I really need you to focus now, because the situation is totally desperate. And desperate times, my friend, they call for desperate measures. And isn't this what a brother is for? Helping you in your time of need? Now that the idea has been brought up, I'm kind of wondering why I didn't think of it sooner. It's genius, man, it makes so much sense. Why should we have struggle forth in self-doubt and uncertainty when we can call upon our brethren to set our minds at ease? No homo, or anything."
"I hate my life," Spencer says quietly, and then he saves his work, closes his laptop screen gently, and gets up. Despite the bravado, Brendon totally flinches a little when Spencer sits down next to him on the bed.
"Oh, come on, I'm not going to bite you."
"Oh," Brendon says. "I thought the honeys liked that. Is that where I'm going wrong?"
Spencer shuts his eyes for a second. "Biting's the advanced class."
"Okay," Brendon says, nodding very seriously. "I hear you, I'm listening. Show me your moves, Spencer Smith. I need to steal them." The red tip of his tongue comes out and flickers briefly over the part of his lips, a nervous little movement Spencer would bet money is totally unconscious, and it's crazy; Spencer's just doing this because he's a good friend and a good frat brother, and because he wants Brendon to shut up, and knows him well enough to know that the most efficient way to do that is to give him whatever the fuck he wants.
He's not looking at Brendon's mouth with interest, because this is just routine, and he doesn't think about other guys in the fraternity that way, because that way lies madness. He's just as into girls, if not more, and while he's in the frat - it makes sense, just to forget about guys for the meanwhile.
"You want to start slow," he says calmly. "You can always pick things up later, but you have to start more carefully."
Brendon nods like he's taking notes in his head, thrumming with faint energy. "So no biting. What about tongue? Leading with tongue is a good way to impress, right?"
"Oh my god," Spencer says faintly. "Okay, I'm going to show you."
"You could show me on the pillow," Brendon offers. "Or the mirror."
"Dude, you're one more strike-out away from being officially declared a no-go zone by the entire female contingent of Greek Row."
"Desperate times indeed," Brendon mutters. "Fine, hit me."
"I'm the one taking the hit here," Spencer points out. "Given what I've heard."
Okay, what he'd actually heard was that Brendon drooled like a great Dane with a bile duct problem, but well, that was a little harsh, and the girl had been a little drunk.
"Seriously, tell me," Brendon says. "Stop sugar-coating it, let me have it."
"Things," Spencer says evasively. "I, on the other hand, am pretty well-rated."
"What your mom tells you doesn't count," Brendon says. "Oh, burn."
"Holy fuck, shut up." He clears his throat. "If you're kissing someone for the first time, it's a good idea to touch their shoulder, or the side of their face, or their neck; it helps if you're not aiming blind. Let them know you're going to kiss them, even if you don't say it, so you don't lean in just as they move away or something. Shitty aim is fatal."
He cups the side of Brendon's face, fairly lightly. The tips of his fingers are in Brendon's hair, and Brendon's looking at him with his eyes wide and dark, like some sort of cartoon woodland animal. Spencer's close enough to see the grain of his skin and the faint flaring of his nostrils as he breathes in and out.
"Okay," Brendon says, with approximately twenty-five percent less bravado. Spencer hears the faint clicking sound of him swallowing. "And then what?"
"And then you make your move," Spencer says. "No teeth."
Brendon nods, the tight skin over his cheekbone pulling a little with the movement underneath Spencer's palm. "Right."
"I'm going to show you." Spencer licks his own lips, which suddenly feel dry and cracked, and Brendon's gaze shifts to follow the movement. Spencer's hand is starting to feel hot and damp, curved around Brendon's face. "Is that okay?"
"I'm not a makeout virgin," Brendon scoffs. "Or actually any kind of virgin. Otherwise we wouldn't be having this problem. Lay it on me, dude, I can take it."
"I really hate you," Spencer says. "Okay. Then you move in slow, being careful not to misjudge the angle or smack into her nose or anything. There are ways of recovering from that, but we'll just stick to basics. You just lean in, no tongue, and kiss her." His voice has been getting lower, softer. At 'ways of recovering', he started leaning closer, slow enough that Brendon could get away if he wants to. He doesn't move, though, and Spencer finishes the little speech about an inch away, close and intimate enough that it feels as transgressive as actually kissing. If he tilted his head down a little, his forehead would knock against Brendon's; up, and they'd be kissing.
"Come on," Brendon says, very softly this time; lower than his usual approximations of whispering, which get them thrown out of the library and given the stink-eye by professors in class all the time. It's almost just a breath.
"Right," Spencer breathes back, tilting his head, and leans forward the rest of the way. Brendon's lips are parted, and Spencer brushes them with his mouth. "See?" he asks, pulling back a little. "Slow."
"Slow," Brendon echoes. His eyes are possibly even more pupil than before, and he looks steadily back at Spencer, then looks down, blinking, like he can't hold eye contact any longer. His lashes are dark and very fine, like thin curled strokes of a calligrapher's pen. "Okay. And again?"
"And again," Spencer agrees; Brendon kisses him this time, light and deliberate, brushing touches that are almost moth-like. He's pretty sure Brendon has no idea how distracting it really is, but it's driving Spencer crazy, the way it's almost dry and chaste, but their lips are just open enough that there's a little slickness, smearing and sliding when their lips drag against each other. It gets wetter, the longer they kiss like that, until Spencer can feel the silky insides of Brendon's lips when Brendon sucks on his lip a little too deeply, can feel the heatdamp of his mouth and the tip of his tongue and the smooth of his teeth beyond it.
"Shit," he says, pulling away. His mouth is buzzing, all sensation, like the skin over his lips is unbearably thin, even though all they've done is pretty much close-mouthed. "Okay. You good?"
Brendon swallows, and he's not looking back at Spencer at all now. "Great," he says; it sounds kind of husky.
"You learnt enough? You want to stop? I've got to tell you," Spencer says, swallowing, "I think you’re definitely, uh, I think you don't really need much more of a lesson."
"Just, uh, tell me if I'm doing okay," Brendon says. "With my tongue, I mean. I don't want to suck at the best part of kissing. That would suck." He hesitates, the tip of his tongue flicking along the part of his mouth again, and holy shit, Spencer is so glad Brendon's totally oblivious to the effect that has on him. "Should I, um. Should I touch you?"
"What?"
"For guiding? Like you were doing, with your hand?"
"Right, yeah." Spencer swallows again, and rests his hand against Brendon's cheek again. "Like that."
"Yeah." They're sitting at a weird angle now, still side-by-side on Spencer's shitty bed that's seen half a dozen frat brothers come and go ("It's an antique," Pete told him when he became an active, "and you should think of the stains as badges of honour,"), heads and shoulders twisting to face each other; even their knees are pointing at each other, now, their hips now further apart like a sharp-angled triangle. Brendon reaches over, and slides his hand around the side of Spencer's neck, the heated curve under his too-long hair. His thumb rests just under Spencer's jaw, brushing lightly through the stubble there.
"Oh jesus," Spencer says, and bites his lip, trying to keep calm, smooth and collected; he can do it. "Okay. And now I'm going to kiss you again, except."
Brendon nods. "I know the theory. The practical."
"Yeah." His top lip fits softly between Brendon's when he sucks very gently on Brendon's lower lip, kind of like he's been wanting to since Rush Week last year.
Brendon makes a noise, faint and quickly stifled, but it makes something unfold in Spencer's belly, hot and twisting, and holy shit, he's not allowed to get hard here, like this. Brendon's mouth opens, a fraction, and Brendon's tongue flickers out against his, and holy, holy shit.
Brendon kisses back hesitantly, carefully, which is kind of weird, because Spencer's seen him make out with girls at parties, what feels like millions of times, and Brendon's modus operandi usually seems to involve enthusiastic face-eating. He's not sure if it's because he's a guy, because he's him, because Brendon's self-conscious about his technique now. He catches Brendon's lower lip in his teeth again, light but insistent, and Brendon's hand tightens around the back of his neck, fingertips pressing into the hair under the curve of his skull.
They kiss like that for a few minutes, Spencer's not counting or anything, and then Brendon bumps his forehead against his and pulls away. His hand stays in Spencer's hair.
"How am I doing?" he asks, a little breathily. "What do you condition with, man? Your hair is crazy soft."
"Shut up," Spencer says, ducking his head, shaking with faint laughter and incredulity, and Brendon's laughing too, silent and formlessly. "You're doing good. I think you're holding back, though."
"I thought that was the point," Brendon says, a little confusedly, and Spencer pauses, because yeah, it kind of was. He's about to concede when Brendon's face gets the crazed, gleeful look Spencer hasn't seen since they smoke-bombed the Sigma Nu house last week that had landed those smug fuckers with the extortionate firetruck call-out fee, and he says "Okay, then," and lunges forward.
"Ow, my nose-"
"True Spartans don't feel pain," Brendon mutters, and then he's kissing Spencer, hard enough to force his head back a little, make him grab onto Brendon for balance, and this is what missing before, the real essential Brendon, the kind of dude who's not very good at sitting still and letting Spencer take charge when it comes to anything, madly competitive, kinetic, both of his hands framing Spencer's face, fingers sliding into his hair.
His tongue is definitely, um. Definitely present, and maybe elastic wasn't totally exaggerating, but neither was the girl who made the Great Dane comparison, because whoa, that's a lot of tongue, and it's wet and messy and Brendon's teeth clink against his almost painfully (Spartan, Spencer reminds himself, Spartan) and then catch on his lip.
"Slow down," he says, when Brendon eases up enough for him to breathe, "dude -"
"Hah, who's holding back now," Brendon says smugly, "I'm just too much man for you, Spencer Smith," and this time Spencer kisses him, not holding back this time, either, and Brendon makes that throat-caught little noise again and this time, it works, both of them sliding into a rhythm, and after a few minutes, Spencer lets himself get pushed back onto one elbow, Brendon leaning down almost on top of him, hands sliding and tightening in his hair and one thumb rubbing through the stubble along Spencer's jaw.
Spencer's not really thinking at this point, not about anything but the silk-slick of Brendon's mouth and the push of his tongue and the irregular little gushes of air against his face where Brendon's breathing shortly through his nose, so he grazes his hands up under Brendon's shirt, like he would with a regular hook-up, up over the skimming feeling of his ribs and across the smoothness of his back, and tries to pull him forward more, between his thighs, because any second one of them is going to slide off the bed with the sort of echoing elephantine thump that's sure to wake up the guys next door.
Brendon jerks his head back. "Whoa," he says, "dude, what are we doing?"
It's like a slap in the face when you're drowsing half-asleep, the words and motion both. The only thing that doesn't make that the worst thing Spencer's ever heard is the we; it's not accusatory like what are you doing would be, but it makes him feel the same way. Caught, horribly, horribly open and exposed and scaldingly embarrassed, unforgivably stupid, after the past two years of being really fucking careful and telling himself that it's not a big deal, that he can totally live without hooking up with guys, forever, if he has to. It hasn't been a big deal, until now.
Brendon's staring at him, his face flushed and too close and his eyes shiny, and he doesn't look angry or anything, but Spencer wants him to stop looking while he feels as defenseless as he does right now, which he hates.
"Nothing," he says shortly, struggling to sit up properly, which means pushing Brendon roughly off him. "Dude, you're flattening me."
"Yeah, I work out," Brendon says lightly, like this is normal, like Spencer couldn't benchpress his scrawny ass, which is such an unfortunate thing to think right now, fuck. "What-"
"Habit," Spencer says. "I was totally about to go for your bra clasp, shit."
Brendon grins, almost as insouciant as always. "What do you have to say about my technique now, huh? I'm hypnotizing."
"Yeah, like imagining you're a chick is such a stretch," Spencer gibes, then pauses. Maybe not the smartest rejoinder.
"Some of us don't need to grow full beards to underline our masculinity. Some of us are man enough -"
"Some of us couldn't grow a beard if we tried," Spencer says. "And that some of us is not me."
"Yeah, some of us have noticed that," Brendon admits a little ruefully, rubbing a hand over his jaw; it's pink and rough-looking, and so is the skin around his mouth, and it's probably kind of sadistic or something, but it turns Spencer on more than it embarrasses him. "Shit, I'm going to have to moisturise."
"Sorry."
"Hey, I asked for it."
"Yeah." Spencer nods. "Well, you're fine most of the time, dude. You just have to work up to the tongue, and not lead with it, and not come on so strong straight away. Everything in its time."
"Great. Operation Publicly Mack On A Lady is a go."
"You might want to rethink the dip," Spencer suggests. "There's a lot of potential for screwing up there."
"I wouldn't drop a lady on her head," Brendon says, sounding amused and affronted. "But you might be right, dude." He pauses, looking at him consideringly, and it's stupid, but for a second Spencer thinks Brendon's going to kiss him again; he's frowning a little, still rubbing absently at his jaw, mouth pursed like he's thinking something over, and his eyes are on Spencer's face but not meeting his gaze.
Instead, he pulls back all the way, until even their thighs aren't touching any more, and the loss of his body heat makes Spencer feel a lot colder than it really warrants. "Thanks, man."
"No problem."
Brendon gets to his feet, his hands swinging emptily by his thighs. "I should, uh, I should let you get back to that test, huh?"
"Paper," Spencer says. "Okay."
Brendon nods and turns to go, and Spencer's rubbing a hand through his hair, trying to get it back into some sort of order when Brendon turns back, lingering in the doorway. He bounces a little on the balls of his feet, mouth twisting to one side.
"Hey, this is just between you and me, right? The kissing, and, uh. Everything. The brothers don't need to know."
"Fuck, no. Silent as the grave."
"I appreciate it," Brendon says. "Everything." His mouth twists again, and there are patches of warm colour over his cheekbones now, too.
"Hey, I'm here to help," Spencer says. "Anytime." He wonders if Brendon hears the promise there; he can't tell, because Brendon just nods again, eyes down, and says "Good luck with your test," and closes the door behind himself so quietly and carefully that even the faint snick of the handle is barely audible.