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Spencer is so cold. It’s like minus a trillion degrees outside and his feet are soaked from all the snow because sneakers just aren’t proper winter shoes, especially not on the East Coast. He rolls onto his back, arms splayed out, and moves them again, up and down for perfect angel wings. Over him William is giggling away, a bottle of Tequila in his hand. It’s snowing, thick flakes of white, clinging to Spencer’s lashes, melting on his lips and cheeks.
“You fail, Smith,” William slurs and Spence wants to tell him to fuck off, but he’s suddenly starting to feel warm again, feet and hands buzzing. He’s maybe a little drunk, he has to admit.
“I can’t get up,” he says, and now there’s also snow leaking into his jeans. “And I’m cold.”
William makes a fake-pitying noise and squats down next to him. He reaches over and brushes the hair from Spencer’s forehead and Spence closes his eyes. “Come on,” Bill says a moment later, “come on, get up.” He wedges his hand under Spencer’s neck and grabs his hand and pulls him up. Spence slips a little in the flattened snow, holding onto William’s collar and then stumbles away towards the buses. He falls twice, giggling and climbing to his feet with William’s help, before they finally reach the Academy bus. Spence tries to pull himself up, laughing, shaking already from the cold, and William pushes at his ass until he stumbles inside, finally.
The rest of the guys welcome them with shouts to close the fucking door and Spencer peels off his soaked jacket and, mourning, his Nikes.
“Shit,” William curses, shaking the snow from his hair.
“So cold,” Spence echoes, tugging at his T-shirt. He’s completely soaked, hair, clothes, and there’s water trickling down his back. He ducks into the lounge, rubbing his arms, and is greeted by a wet kiss to his temple.
“Hiii, Spencer Smith,” Jon mouths against his skin, all warm, arm curling around Spencer’s shoulder. “You’re all cold.”
“We made snow angels,” Spence says, a little breathless.
“We tried,” William says and brushes past them, squeezing in between Brendon and the Butcher on the couch. “Spencer sucks,” he continues, evoking catcalls from Siska and Tom.
Jon’s mouth is still pressed to Spencer’s temple, and Spence swallows and feels himself blush a little. “I do not,” he hisses and wrenches free from Jon. Jon makes grabby hands but Spence tilts his hip and takes a sip from one of the numerous bottles on the table. William hollers and Spence flicks him off. The whiskey burns down his throat but he frowns and takes another sip and another until his head feels tipsy turny again.
He sits on the armrest of the couch and lets the Butcher curl his arm around his waist while Brendon and William start a game of Super Mario. It’s a rush of color and people handing Spencer drinks until he talks more freely. He cheers for Brendon, spills whiskey over his jeans and lets Jon pull him into an armchair. Slowly but steadily his skin is growing warm again, with Jon’s arms around his waist and his breath down his neck, and the cheering and the whiskey in his blood.
William wins, despite Spencer’s best efforts, and Tom calls for shots. More whiskey, and suddenly Jon is pressing a warm kiss to Spencer’s neck and whispers, “I have an idea, the best idea.” He slides from the armchair, arms sliding along Spencer’s side and Spence giggles and watches him curiously.
“What are you doing?” Spence asks, feels his skin buzz where Jon touches him, and threads his fingers through Jon’s short hair.
“Body shots,” Jon says, pushing up Spencer’s T-shirt.
Spence blinks, laughs again and then pushes at Jon’s shoulder. “No, no way.” He tugs at Jon’s hair. “Stop it.”
“Never, your belly is made for it.” Jon rubs his skin and Spencer maybe kind of shrieks. William comes up next to him, presses his shoulder down, and it’s not like Spencer couldn’t break away if he really wanted to but there’s a pressure there, and everybody is watching and Tom hands Jon a bottle of Bailey’s.
“Get off,” he says a bit breathlessly but Jon just pushes up his T-shirt past his belly button, fingers splayed out on his skin.
“Dude, are you really gonna do it?” Brendon asks from somewhere behind Spencer and Spence swallows, shivering.
Jon doesn’t reply, just unscrews the bottle and Spence holds his breath, biting his lip, when he pours a bit into Spencer’s navel. It pools there for an endless second, cold, William cheering, before Jon dives down, licking a wet line up to Spencer’s navel, lapping up the liquor pooling there. Jon keeps licking even after the last drop must be gone, and he pushes his fingers into Jon’s hair again, catching his breath.
“Again,” Jon says, pulling back for a moment, preparing another shot. Behind them people are laughing, cheering them on. Jon starts over again, biting at Spencer’s tummy when he’s done, licking the sensitized skin, and Spence reaches down and grabs the Bailey’s bottle to take a mouthful, swallowing carefully. Jon pries himself away from his belly, leaves Spencer’s skin cold and moist and crawls back into the chair, squeezing in. Spence takes another sip, and suddenly Jon’s hand is on his chin, thumbing his mouth open, and Jon is kissing him, licking inside his mouth for the Bailey’s.
Somebody catcalls, but Spencer can’t quite hear it. Jon keeps kissing him like that, chasing every last drop of liquor on Spencer’s tongue, until all Spencer can hear is the rush of blood in his ears, and the pounding of his heart, the small sounds he makes.
“You’re my whiskey boy,” Jon whispers against his mouth when he pulls back, licking the side of his mouth, voice a purr.
“Was that a shot now? Or a kiss?” Spencer asks, turning his head a little so Jon’s mouth slides across his cheek, wet and soft.
Jon’s hands curl around Spencer’s belly more tightly. “I don’t know,” he says, “let’s find out.”
“How?” Spence breathes back, expectantly, but suddenly Tom is calling for Jon, something or other, and Jon is gone from the chair, leaving Spence slightly sticky, cold and with a bottle of Bailey’s. He waits two, three seconds for Jon to return, to curl back around him, but he doesn’t. Spence swallows, puts the bottle down and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. The alcohol is fading slowly, and he’s suddenly painfully aware of his state of relative undress, and how kissed he must look and.
He exhales, climbs to his feet and stumbles to the back of the bus, choosing the least messy bunk to climb into. It smells vaguely of sleep and aftershave, but not bad. Spence inhales, exhales, lets his stomach settle and then reaches for his Sidekick and texts Ryan but there’s no answer. Spence glances at the clock, and yeah okay, it’s three a.m. He can hear the others laughing and cheering outside.
Spence curls up. He’s getting beard burn on his belly from Jon’s stubble, he can feel it, and his lips feel numb from all the alcohol and kisses. He closes his eyes and wakes to rustling outside the curtains, and turns to climb out to make room for the original owner of the bunk, but then Jon is climbing inside, pushing Spencer back against the wall of the bunk.
“Sorry, sorry,” Spencer says. “I just wanted to take a nap.”
“No,” Jon says and pulls him close. “Sleep here.” He smells of whiskey and Bailey’s, more than before maybe. Spence tries to climb over him but Jon kisses him again, licking at his lips carefully, tentatively.
“A kiss,” Jon says, “it was totally a kiss.”
Spence exhales, tilts his head a little and Jon kisses him again, slow and deliberately as if he’s tasting him, licking into his mouth once more, but this time there’s no liquor on Spencer’s tongue, nothing between them, just Jon’s tongue and mouth sliding wetly against his own, his stubble rubbing against Spencer’s cheeks. Jon holds his shoulders still, as if he’s going to run away now.
“Also a kiss,” Jon explains when he pulls back.
“Show me another one,” Spencer says, and Jon does.
***