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They're sitting squeezed four abreast in Jon's pickup truck, as Jon pulls into a parking spot at the grocery store.
Jon shuts the engine off, the driver side door creaking loudly as he opens it. "I'm just gonna run in, grab some milk, another bottle of syrup. Shouldn't be more'n five minutes. You're welcome to come with, if you want."
Spencer's clothes are spattered with mud and muck, stiff where they've dried and uncomfortably damp where they haven't. The last thing he wants is to go inside where people he doesn't know can see him. Brendon's already half way across the seat to slide out behind Jon, and Ryan looks poised to follow. Spencer says quietly, "I will wait here."
Ryan stops his subtle scooting toward the door, looking back at Spencer. Then he turns back to the other two and says, "I too will wait."
Brendon pauses, one foot on the ground, and nods. "We will be here then, Jon, when you have finished."
Spencer huffs, because he didn't mean they shouldn't go. "No, you should go, you have not been inside the store. You should see it. I am dirty, so I will wait here."
"And we will wait with you," Ryan says stubbornly, his chin set in that pointed way he gets when his mind is made up.
Jon tries to dispel the sudden tension with a "Hey, no sweat, I'll be quick-" But Spencer doesn't want to be the one who ruins their fun. And he does want to know what the inside of the store looks like, too. He pulls at the door handle, pushing the door on his side open. He looks at them all with an arched eyebrow. "What are you all waiting for? The food will not purchase itself."
Inside, Jon heads to the dairy section, and they all follow docilely behind him. Spencer's skin crawls as he tries not to feel like everyone is staring at him. The English always stare at them anyway, when they are out. They are different, he remembers the curiosity of their classmates at the school, about the way they dressed, the way they live. Lived. That's probably why they're staring now, not because he is muddy and bedraggled, he tries to convince himself as they near the large glass cases. Ryan is staring at row upon row of milk, and Spencer knows without asking that he is marveling at a life lived without milking cows each dawn. The horses may have hated Ryan the most, but the cows had run a close second. He turns around to make a joke about it to Brendon, only to realize there isn't anyone behind him.
His heart stops. They've been gone less than a day, and already he's lost Brendon. A million horrible things run through his head, the horror stories he's heard about the things that happen amongst the English: he could have been robbed or murdered or abducted for torture. Spencer's maybe been awake for twenty-four hours and not entirely thinking clearly. He turns on his heel, leaving Jon and Ryan behind to discuss milk fat content and expiration dates, and all but runs down the length of the store, searching frantically down each aisle.
It's the second-to-last row before Spencer finds him, and the dread is such a solid presence in his gut by then, he almost doesn't see him. But there, halfway down the aisle, staring at the brightly colored boxes in awe, is a skinny boy in plain farm clothes. Spencer lets out the breath he's been holding, and walks toward him, calling his name.
"Spencer." Brendon's eyes are wide as he trails fingers over the boxes, tracing letters that form odd words: Cheerios, Frosted Flakes, Cocoa Puffs, Fruity Pebbles. Who would want to eat rocks, even if they tasted of fruit? Spencer frowns. Brendon doesn't seem worried by this, just excited, so much so that Spencer can see he's trying not to bounce. Bouncing has always been frowned upon at home. "Spencer, they're so. They're alive. All the colors, and this bee... and there's a tiger on this one, who thinks Frosted Flakes are GRRREAT! And they have toy surprises inside them! Isn't it amazing?"
"Amazing," Spencer echoes softly, trying to find his equilibrium again, his heart still thumping in his chest with the adrenaline.
Brendon picks up a box with a bright rainbow and a short man dressed all in green on it, that proclaims in bright yellow letters 'Lucky Charms.' "This one has hearts and stars and moons and diamonds in it. I wonder what they taste like? Have you ever had cereal, Spencer?"
Spencer shakes his head. He hasn't. He doesn't know anyone who has. There's so much out here he doesn't know, and he's starting to wonder how they're going to do this, where they will go, what they will do. Where they'll sleep at night. Brendon keeps on talking, excited about marshmallows and temporary tattoos and pots of gold, oblivious to the panic rising in Spencer's heart, the fear that feels like it's going to swell his throat shut. He looks underneath the row of boxes, to the tag affixed there that says 3.79. That must be the cost of the cereal that Brendon's currently waving about, and Spencer's stomach clenches. He doesn't have four dollars, doesn't have one dollar. What if they break the cereal? They can't pay for it, they can't pay for anything, and they're going to starve, or be arrested, or-
"Hey, there you guys are." Jon's laconic drawl cuts into the midst of Spencer's internal panic attack. Ryan is trailing behind him, pretending not to be staring at all the boxes too. "We thought we'd lost you. Oh, cool, Lucky Charms! Those are awesome."
"They look awesome," Brendon nods, grinning. Spencer still wants to tell him to put the box down before they have to go to jail, but he just manages to hold it in. Brendon points to the bottom of box, explaining earnestly, "They have tattoos inside them, and marshmallow stars that you can eat."
"Well, we better get them, then," Jon laughs, tucking a gallon of milk under one arm and taking the box from Brendon. Spencer almost melts into a puddle of relief - if it gets broken now, Jon will be responsible. "I love a good rainbow tattoo."
~*~
Spencer's nearly calmed himself back down by the time they pull onto the dirt lane that leads to Jon's aunt and uncle's home, a large two-story farmhouse in the distance. Ryan keeps throwing small, worried glances his way as Brendon and Jon manage to have a twenty minute conversation about the pros and cons of different types of cereal - "It turns the milk chocolate?!" - and Spencer knows that he's in for a serious discussion and possibly an awkward hug as soon as Ryan can corner him alone.
That's not going to happen anytime soon though, Spencer realizes as they walk up the steps of the wraparound porch and Jon throws open the screen door. Inside, it's chaos.
Three children under the age of ten are sliding down a gleaming banister, then running up the stairs to do it again, laughing and shouting. A teenage girl wanders through talking to herself - "Clara said that Mike said that Matt said he likes Anna, but I think Clara's just making that up. Justin told me that Matt likes Marissa-" - before wandering through another doorway. Spencer wonders if she's demented. He's read about multiple personality disorder, knows they often name each separate identity. A woman's voice rises above the din. "Jonathan Jacob Walker, is that you? Where've you been? Did you get the milk?"
"Yes, Aunt Meg!" Jon shouts back and then shrugs to the three boys staring wide-eyed at the circus around them. "C'mon, meet my aunt. She's cool. I come down here every summer, watch the place while they take the kids on a trip."
"Cool," Brendon echoes, looking for once just as lost as Spencer feels. It makes him feel oddly better, not to be the only one overwhelmed by the... the sheer noise. It's not that he's unused to being around children - he has two sisters of his own, Brendon's the youngest of five, Amish families tend to be big and Ryan is the sole only child he's ever known - but they're all so boisterous, he's used to children who know they are meant to be seen but not heard. He follows Jon down a hallway, Ryan and Brendon at his back, the smell of food growing stronger as they go, and Spencer feels the hollowness of his own stomach. He hasn't eaten since dinner last night, over twelve hours ago. A buzzer sounds as they walk into the kitchen, and Spencer jumps, startled.
There's a forty-something woman standing behind an island cabinet, shoulder-length graying hair pulled back into a pony-tail, wearing jeans and a battered t-shirt with 'The Clash' emblazoned across the front. Spencer wonders what clash it references. Maybe one of those wars they'd learned about in the sixth grade. She looks up, gray-blue eyes sharp as she takes in the young men clustered behind her nephew, her eyebrows arched in surprise as she grabs potholders. "Company, Jon?" She doesn't wait for an answer as she turns to pull the oven door open and take out a pan of cinnamon rolls. Brendon's eyes go dark with want, and for one crazy moment, Spencer wishes he were a cinnamon roll. Obviously, he needs more sleep. Jon's aunt sets the rolls down on a pad. "Or was there a three-for-one special at the store?"
"They were giving them away in the parking lot, Free to Good Home," Jon grins at his aunt, plunking the gallon of milk down on the counter. "Nah, I accidentally splashed them on the way into town, figured a hot meal and a shower was the least I could offer in return. Aunt Meg, this is Brendon, Spencer, and Ryan. Guys, this is my Aunt Meg, best cook east of the Mississippi."
"Flattery will get you nowhere," Aunt Meg warns, with a fond smile on her face that totally belies that statement. Two teenage boys streak through the kitchen, dribbling a basketball, and Meg frowns, bellowing "NOT IN THE HOUSE! Take it outside, you heathens." They laugh, and one of the boys snags a piece of bacon off a plate on the counter as they disappear out the back door. Meg calls after them. "And breakfast is in fifteen minutes, you snooze, you lose!"
She grins at the boys in front of her, looking out of place and frankly frightened. "Welcome to our zoo. Born in a barn, every last one of them. And I should know, I'm their mother. Right, so you'll want to freshen up," She says it kindly, as if Spencer isn't standing in her kitchen with caked-on mud drying on his clothes, as if they haven't all been walking on dusty roads all night, like they just need to wash their hands. "Jon, show them to the bathrooms, ours upstairs should be free, and the kids' as well if you can pry your cousin away from the mirror."
Getting Jon's cousin out of the bathroom turns out not to be a problem, since she was apparently the one talking on the telephone downstairs. Spencer files away the knowledge that most people, even children, have portable phones now and that they are even smaller than they were six years ago and that there are ear pieces that don't need wires to work with them. He puts that on his growing list of things to think about when he's not dirty and tired and hungry (which currently includes but is not limited to: cereal, kitchen appliances, his reaction to losing Brendon, worrying about Ryan and his father, and Spencer's entire life changing in one night) and follows after Jon, farther down the hallway, leaving Brendon and Ryan to get cleaned up.
"So the bathroom's in here," Jon says as he leads the way into a small room off the largest sleeping room Spencer's ever seen. "I'll go raid my cousin's closet, I think his clothes will fit you. I'd give you mine, but let's face it, I'm vertically-challenged. They'd be high-water on you. Soap's here, shampoo. And, uh." He breaks off, looking uncertain for the first time as he grabs a towel out of a cabinet and sets it on top of the closed toilet lid and gestures toward the shower. "Don't take this the wrong way, but do you know how to work this thing?"
Spencer leans in, looking over the unfamiliar knobs in the shower stall. He frowns, shaking his head. "We had them for gym class, when we went to the school. But it did not look like this, it had a lever, I think?"
"Ah, yeah, that's an option," Jon nods, yanking the curtain back farther so they can both have a good look. "This is easy enough though - hot on the left, cold on the right, turn them left to turn 'em on, right is off. And once you have the temperature right, you yank up on this little thing here and the shower will come on. Just watch your clearance, taking water-spray to the face is no fun."
Easy enough, Spencer thinks with a disbelieving laugh to himself. Still, he has to admit it's more efficient than heating water in buckets to take a bath. He nods, running the instructions over to himself.
"Okay, so don't drown, and I'll see you downstairs. Oh, and don't take too long," Jon warns with a sheepish smile. "My cousins really are animals, and they leave nothing behind come feeding time."
~*~
Jon bops down into the kitchen after he gets them all settled in. His aunt is pouring perfectly-shaped pancakes on a hot griddle. He wonders how she does that, his always look like Dali-esque Easter eggs. She glances over her shoulder at him as he slides onto a nearby stool. "So what's the story?"
"I'm not entirely sure," Jon shrugs, then props his elbows up on the counter. "Like I said, I hit a puddle when I passed by, splashed the hell out of Spencer, so I stopped to apologize. I don't think they have anywhere to go, and they just looked. Shell-shocked. I couldn't just leave them on the side of the road."
"Hmm." She flips the pancakes over, one by one, then takes a sip of coffee, looking thoughtful. "You did the right thing. Nearest Amish community is twenty miles away. If they were on foot, they must have walked all night to get here."
Jon raises his eyebrows, makes a face. He's a city boy, he's never walked twenty miles anywhere in his life and he can't really imagine wanting to. "They don't even seem that tired. I wonder why they're... they don't come into town often, or maybe at all. They'd never been to the store. Brendon's in love with cereal now, I thought he was going to take up residence in the breakfast foods aisle."
"Ah, that explains the random box of Lucky Charms sitting on my counter then," Meg huffs out a laugh, smacking his hand with the spatula as he reaches in to snag one of silver-dollar pancakes she's just flipped. "And maybe they'll tell us why they're here and maybe they won't. The Amish... they keep themselves to themselves. There used to be a couple in the middle school a few years back, and I remember their teachers complaining that they could barely get one of them to talk. So don't push. And hide those Lucky Charms, if you want there to be any left for Brendon to try."
~*~
It's not that they don't fit, exactly. He tugs at the heavy denim, trying to pull it away from his skin. It's more that they fit too well, too closely. The soft jersey of the t-shirt stretches tight across his chest, and the trousers fit like a second skin. They must be the clothes of the taller boy that had the ball in the kitchen, Spencer surmises, and while he'd thought they'd been the same size, the boy must be thinner than he looks. He combs his fingers through his wet hair, slicking it back behind his ears as he steps off the last stair.
Spencer finds his way to the dining room by sound. There's laughter and talking, and when he walks around the corner, the table is piled high with food and surrounded by people passing plates and chatting about their plans for the day. There's one empty seat left, next to Jon and across from Brendon and Ryan, and Spencer slides into quickly before anyone can see that he's indecently dressed.
Brendon notices though, and breaks off mid-sentence of his conversation with Jon's girl cousin to stare at Spencer. Almost like he's a cinnamon roll. Spencer feels his face heat up, and he lowers his eyes, studying the empty plate in front of him. Meg comes to the rescue though. "Spencer, isn't it? Here, have some pancakes."
"Thank you, ma'am," He gives her a half-hearted smile as she slides three pancakes onto his plate. "It is kind of you to share your meal with us."
"Pshaw, you're welcome here, any friend of Jon's," She says with a warm smile that Spencer realizes looks like Jon's.
"It's always nice to have new faces around." She looks at him speculatively, like she's trying to remember something. "Spencer? That's an unusual name."
"It was my mother's maiden name," Spencer explains as he squeezes syrup out onto his pancakes. The unfamiliar bottle reminds him of lunchtimes at school, and Brendon's pre-teen giggles at the rude noises they made. "She had no brothers, and she wanted her family name to continue."
"That's sweet," She smiles at him, passing him a tray of bacon. "I'd swear I've heard it before, is all. Are y'all from around here?"
"We are from Cavendish County," Brendon answers, looking up from the syrupy mound he's making out of pancakes and scrambled eggs. Ryan rolls his eyes at the mess, and Spencer fights back a smile.
"Oh! We used to have some students from over that way," Meg nods, taking a sip of her coffee. "A few years back, in the younger grades."
"Aunt Meg teaches chemistry at the high school," Jon interjects, as he watches Brendon cut his egg mountain in half, the corners of his mouth twitching against turning into a smile.
"That was us," Brendon shovels a fork-full of food into his mouth, chewing and swallowing quickly before continuing, his voice tinged with a bit of oft-forbidden pride. "We are the only ones from our district to attend English school."
"Really?" Meg turns considering eyes on Spencer again. It makes him want to duck his head or blush, but he holds steady. "You won the science fair, didn't you? I remember that, something about the ecology of pond water."
"He did!" Brendon nods enthusiastically, pride unmistakable. "It was called 'The Hidden Life of Amoebas and Other Creatures from Your Own Lagoon.' Ryan named it, and it took us three pieces of poster paper to make the sign."
Ryan does duck his head, and Spencer laughs. "I can't believe you remember that, Brendon. That was so long ago."
"Of course I remember," Brendon replies. He looks into Spencer's eyes, and for a second, Spencer thinks he sees something new there, but then Brendon looks away, looks at Meg. "We had to make thousands upon thousands of trips to ponds to gather samples. Ryan got chased by a bull, I got poison ivy, Spencer got an A. It's not something you forget."
"No, definitely not," Meg laughs. She angles her head at Spencer. "I remember the exhibit, though. It was very advanced work for your age. I was looking forward to having you in my classes."
"Truly?" Spencer does blush at that, and beams at her. A high school teacher had noticed his work, and been impressed. It makes him miss school again, miss learning like it's a hole in his stomach, and he tries to explain. "I wanted to- I was- we were needed at home."
"Of course," Meg nods quickly, sensing that it's a sensitive subject and trying to change it, inadvertently to an even more sensitive subject. "Are you boys just passing through or are you staying for a while?"
"We-" Spencer stops, looking uncertainly across the table at Ryan, silent on the other side of the table, eyes on his food, and Spencer isn't sure how much he should say. He decides on the simplest explanation he can offer. "We have left our home."
"You left?" Meg asks, and she can't quite contain the surprise in her voice. She's heard of a few Amish leaving their religion, but she's never known it to happen around here.
"No." Ryan's voice is quiet, and if they didn't already have the rapt attention of the whole table, Spencer thinks no one would have heard it. Ryan shakes his head, raising his eyes to meet Meg's. "They are here because of me. I am shunned."
"Oh." Meg swallows hard at that, because that she has heard of, if only through Hallmark movies-of-the-week. The silence that brings is broken by her youngest son, asking "What's shunned?"
"It means disowned, moron," His sister answers, then looks abashed and stares at her plate. "Um, sorry."
Ryan shrugs, his thin shoulders hunched in a way that makes Spencer want to give the hug he was expecting to get earlier in the truck, awkward or not. He watches as his friend continues to explain, his voice flat. "I was disrespectful to my father-"
"You weren't-" Brendon starts, then cuts himself off, his eyes meeting Spencer's, frustration written across his face. They will not argue in front of strangers, but Spencer agrees with Brendon. Ryan continues, "I spoke against him in public, and he. He." Ryan swallows hard, unwilling or unable to share that part. "Brendon and Spencer were foolish enough to come with me."
"Not foolish," Spencer says softly, holding Ryan's gaze.
Meg looks down the table, at her children who look completely shocked by the idea of someone's parents kicking them out for talking back. If this family operated that way, her kids would have been on the streets by the age of five. She tries to think of something soothing to say, but words are failing her, and she kind of wants to cry.
"Jon, I'm going to try to get that winter wheat straw baled up by noon," Jon's uncle, who's been the only quiet person at the table all this time, speaks up, calmly changing the subject. "I could use a hand, storms're s'posed to be coming in tonight. You boys need to come straight home after school, lend a hand."
"Aw, Dad, I've got track-"
"We could help." Spencer hears the offer, and it takes a second to realize that he's the one who made it. He looks across the table at Brendon and Ryan apologetically, because he probably should have asked before volunteering them for labor, but they're both nodding, even Ryan who hates working in the field.
Brendon adds, "It's the least we could do in return for such a wonderful meal."
Jon watches as his aunt and uncle exchange a look, the kind of communication that he's only ever seen long-married couples do, and he thinks he sees an edge of 'can we keep them?' in his aunt's eyes. His uncle nods after a moment, looking down the table at their guests. "Much obliged to you, then."
~*~
They've been at the farm for eight days, eight days filled from waking to sleep with noise and new experiences. Somehow, in between helping out before heading out on their own that first day and coming down for breakfast the next morning, everyone else decided that they should all stay - Spencer's not really sure how that happened, he just knows that every time they tried to leave, Jon or one of his relatives had come up with another reason why they should just stay put. And honestly, he's not arguing. It's not like they had their own plan any way.
So they've stayed. They've hauled hay, fixed fence, chased cattle from one pasture to the next. He's helped with dishes, and tilled the garden, and done anything else he can think of, because he's grateful. Grateful for the room over their heads, for the food that they're given, for the distractions that make him too tired to think by the time his head touches the pillow of the air-filled plastic mattress he shares with Ryan and Brendon every night.
He lumbers down the stairs, hair still wet from the shower, the muscles in his legs and back soothed to a dull ache from the hot water. The denim jeans still feel too tight, too heavy, but at least now they are his own. A quick trip into town, a visit to the local Goodwill shop, and outwardly they have shed the Plain life. Like a snake's skin, Spencer thinks dully. Like it was easy. So now they don't look Amish, although privately Spencer isn't sure it's an improvement: Meg and her daughter hadn't been able to convince Brendon that there was a difference between the boys' and girls' sections, and Ryan nearly had a duel to the death with an octogenarian for a paisley vest.
He walks down the hallway, joining Ryan where he's leaning on the doorway to the family room.
"What is Brendon doing?" Spencer stares at the couch, where Brendon sits wrapped in the lavender hoodie that's quickly become his favorite, white earbuds jammed in as he nods along to the beat of whatever's playing on Jon's iPod, flipping through the channels on the television that he can't even hear.
"I think he's succumbed to the false gods of technology they warned us about in church," Ryan deadpans, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorjamb to observe Brendon like he's a science experiment. "Also, I was reading this article on Jon's computer about Attention Deficit Disorder. I think we may have a textbook case."
"Spencer!" Brendon hasn't even looked up, his eyes glazed over, so Spencer's not even sure how he knows they're there. "Spencer, there's eighty-seven channels on this. And they all have something different on them. All the time. And these advertisements, they are insane, you have to watch."
Spencer shares an amused look with Ryan, before he heads toward the couch. He sits down, and maybe he sits just a hair closer to Brendon than space warrants, maybe he does. Temptation is a difficult thing, and Spencer's been so good this week, he tells himself. Working shirtless in the fields, lying three feet away at night, smiling over the breakfast table, and Spencer hasn't so much as let his thoughts linger on the forbidden.
Brendon beams, slumping against Spencer's side just a little, just enough so he can feel his warmth through layers of clothing. He pulls one earbud out, offers it up. "You have to try this, it's so cool."
"Cool, is it?" Spencer grins at Brendon's slang - he always was faster to pick up on that when they were in school. He takes the headphone, rolling it in his fingertips. "Doesn't feel cool."
"Shut up," Brendon shoves at him, used to the teasing. "There's like, five thousand different songs on this. I haven't heard the same one twice yet."
Spencer puts it up to his ear, listening as the music turns from a tinny echo to full-blown sound. It's a riot of horns and a cacophony of voices telling him that all he needs is love, and it's nothing like the hymns they sang in church, but somehow, as he sits there quietly listening, it moves his soul more. He looks up as the song ends, and Ryan's gone from the doorway. Spencer frowns at the tiny machine, poking at it with one finger, careful not to touch Brendon's hand. "I still don't understand how they get the music in here."
"With a wire, somehow," Brendon shrugs, as if to say it's beyond comprehension. "I think it may actually be magic."
"A magic music machine. What a world this is we've run away to," Spencer smiles wryly, half sarcasm and half serious. The next song comes on, an earthy number with a wailing sound. "Is that a guitar?"
"One that runs on electricity! Jon plays the guitar. He said next week, when everybody else leaves for their vacation, he'd show me how to play it," Brendon shares, excited. "And he says they make pianos that are electric too, and small enough to carry around. I'm going to save up to buy one, I think. Meg said one of my old customers called today, they heard we were here and they want me to make chairs for their kitchen table. Meg said they'd loan me the money, she called it a 'start-up' loan for my business."
Brendon finally runs out of air with a small gasp and Spencer laughs. "That's great, Bren!" And he knows the smile he gives Brendon is too tender, too bright, shows too much, but he can never hold back in the face of Brendon's enthusiasm. "You'll have a piano in no time. Your furniture is beautiful."
Brendon beams at him, and Spencer swallows hard. Brendon doesn't notice, just leans closer and rests his head on Spencer's shoulder. "I'm glad we came here."
The music changes, shifts into something more melancholy, wistful, with words about fire and sadness and the stupidity of falling for someone you can't have. Spencer shuts his eyes, just for a moment, before he answers. "Me too."
He can feel Brendon smile again, feel the movement against his arm, and they sit there quietly until Meg calls everybody in for dinner.
After dinner, Brendon joins Jon and the kids, gathered around the television to watch a baseball game. Spencer tries to watch for a moment, but he can't make himself care enough to learn the rules, to figure out why it's so important for men in long underwear to run in a circle. Ryan's on the porch, rocking slowly on the swing, watching the sun set as he occasionally scribbles words down into a borrowed notebook, and he smiles at Spencer when he joins him. They rock in silence, listening to the distant whoosh of cars passing by on the road down the lane. After a few minutes, Spencer finally gets up his nerve, asks, "How are you doing?"
"Me?" Ryan shrugs, wrapping thin arms around bony knees and leaning his chin atop them. "I'm doing okay. It's different, being here. Like. Like I'm not quite where I belong, but I'm closer."
Spencer nods, although he's not exactly sure he knows what Ryan means. It's not like it's the first time that's ever happened, and he's grown used to Ryan answering simple questions with complex answers. Behind them, the television blares suddenly louder, and he can hear Jon and Brendon yelling at whatever's happening on screen. He smiles faintly, looking over at Ryan. "I'd forgotten how loud the rest of the world is, you know?"
"We have been leading a quiet life... a closed life," Ryan muses, eyes following the horizon for a moment, watching the sun sink low. He looks back at Spencer, looking more at peace than Spencer thinks he's ever seen in all the time he's known Ryan. "Now there's a whole world of possibilities in front of us. A host of doors that once were closed swinging open. I think this must be what freedom feels like, Spencer."
"I can't quite grasp it," Spencer admits, rocking the swing with one long leg, the other tucked up under him. He's nearly gotten used to the tight denim that all the kids assure him is the latest fashion. "Meg talked to me last night about finishing school. She said I could." He stops, trying to push back how overwhelming the idea is, how the things he's always wanted aren't quite so forbidden any more. "If I got a GED, I could go to college."
"Spencer Smith, college graduate," Ryan smiles, leaning his head against the chain of the swing. "Dr. Spencer Smith. You could do it, Spence, I know you could."
"You think?" Spencer smiles, hope tinged with nerves. "It seems so big. Something that was just a dream, turning into something I'm allowed."
"We could do it together, then maybe it wouldn't seem so big." Ryan looks down at his knees, tracing the pattern of the plaid pants he'd picked out on their trip to the charity shop. He purses his lips in the way that Spencer knows means he's choosing his words carefully. "There are other things, things you couldn't have before that you can now."
Spencer considers playing dumb, but he's too tired, tired to the bone, for pretense. He shrugs, looking away, looking at the world spread out before them from the safety of the front porch. "And there are still things I can't have. Not everything has changed because we have walked out of one door, Ryan."
"What hasn't changed? What holds us to what we were before?" Ryan challenges, and Spencer can hear the anger in his friend's tone.
"God hasn't changed," Spencer says quietly. And he does believe that, because the faith that they've been raised in, it's good and true, and he isn't ready to renounce every tenet he's framed his world around.
"Maybe God hasn't changed," Ryan muses, and he falls silent for a moment, before raising determined eyes to meet Spencer's. "But if our view of the world was narrowed before, who is to say our view of Him wasn't narrowed as well?"
Spencer doesn't have an answer for that, doesn't know if there is an answer.
~*~
"I'm trying, Brendon," Spencer grumps, crossing his arms protectively over his chest. "It tickles. And it feels weird. Like being licked."
"Well, if you would sit still, it would feel weird for less long." Brendon reasons, rubbing his thumb across the wet paper backing of the leprechaun tattoo he's pressing against Spencer's cheekbone before carefully peeling it away. "There!" His grin is bright and satisfied, and he leans in and licks a quick stripe across the skin between the little green gentleman and Spencer's beard.
"Ew!" Spencer squirms, shoving at Brendon, but not very hard. He's blushing, Jon notices, and trying not to smile. Jon can kind of see how that would be the default response to Brendon. It's hard, the trying not to encourage him. Jon fails at it mostly. Which is why they're all sitting in his aunt's living room, getting covered in temporary tattoos and watching Disney movies over and over, and smoking their way through the carefully-hoarded stash he'd brought with him from Chicago.
Ryan's on his stomach, a stack of papers in front of him. He looks up in time to see the licking and Jon watches as his lips twitch in amusement. He doesn't laugh though, probably because Spencer gives the bitchiest death glares Jon's ever seen. They're awesome, and hilarious, but only when they're aimed at recalcitrant farm animals and not you, so Jon doesn't blame him in the least. He meets Jon's eyes, gives him a crooked smile that hints at just how baked he is, and Jon giggles. He can't not, he's sitting Indian-style on his aunt's floor rolling another joint, smiling at an Amish guy with a pot-of-gold tattoo on the center of his forehead. It's funny, and not how he thought he'd be spending his summer. Ryan laughs too, although maybe not the same thing. He looks back at Brendon, who's trying without much success to get Spencer to sing along to 'Under the Sea.' "Brendon, where were you born?"
"It's always better, down where it's wetter, under - Pennsylvania," Brendon sings, answering without changing beat. Spencer snorts, and Ryan fills in another box on the form in front of him.
"What city?"
"No city. I was born at home," Brendon plops down, leaning against Spencer. He's still humming the tune, and Jon watches as Spencer shifts, making himself into a more comfy leaning post.
"I need a city, though," Ryan frowns. "The form says fill out all the boxes. Meg said we need Social Security numbers so we can get enrolled in the GED program or get jobs."
Brendon shrugs. "Silverton, I guess, then. It was the closest place."
Ryan dutifully pencils it into the box. "Zip code?"
"Dude, I don't know!" Jon giggles again, because Brendon sounds exactly like his thirteen year old cousin, who he's obviously been spending too much time with. "I was like, ten, I don't remember it."
"You can Google it," Jon says, flicking the lighter and inhaling another lungful. He passes them both to Ryan, who takes a toke before sending it in Spencer's direction. Spencer looks at it just as dubiously as he had the first one, but he takes another hit, coughing as he tries to hold in the smoke the way Jon had shown them.
"Don't booger it," Brendon chides, making grabby hands, and Jon loses it.
"Bogart, Bogart," He corrects through his giggles, then gives in and rolls on the floor laughing til he cries. Then he sits up, looks at Brendon and laughs some more til he has to pee. He wanders off to the bathroom, and when he comes out, Brendon's sprawled out in the middle of the hallway, watching the ceiling fan in the foyer spin. Jon can tell, because Brendon's watching it spin with his whole head, not just his eyes. Jon nudges at Brendon's ribs with his toes, and Brendon grins. "S'up?"
"We need another movie," Brendon sits up, swaying a little. "Spencer says no more Disney. He said he wants adult entertainment."
"He said what?" Jon stares down at Brendon, his tone a little shocked. Little innocent Amish, how quickly they grow up.
"He said he's tired of children's movies, and he wants to watch something for adults," Brendon explains, looking confused when Jon starts laughing at him. "I think I'm more... high?... than I think, because I don't know why that's funny."
"C'mon," Jon reaches down, grabbing Brendon's hand and pulling him to his feet. "I'll show you why it's funny."
Upstairs, in Jon's room, Brendon plops down on the bed while Jon digs around underneath it, pulling out the duffle bag he'd kept the pot in. He pulls out a couple of DVD cases, tosses them in Brendon's lap. "That's adult entertainment, that's what that means."
Brendon stares wide-eyed at the colorful pictures on the front and back of the cases, naked people with their naughty bits barely covered by stars, tilting his head to look at the images, reading the titles out loud. "Shane: Big Man on Campus, College Coeds Gone Crazy... this is. They're. OH." His eyes go even bigger. "Oh, you thought? I was asking- That Spencer wanted-"
He starts laughing, giggling really, and Jon grins mischievously. "Want to go pop them in and watch Spencer splutter?"
Brendon's still looking at the cases though, and he's stopped laughing. "So there are really people on these... having?" He cuts off with a wave, leaving Jon to fill in the blank.
"Hot hardcore sex? Yep." Jon nods. "Naked and everything."
"And everything," Brendon echoes softly, and then he looks up, meeting Jon's eyes curiously. "Have you had hot hardcore sex, Jon Walker?"
"I don't know about hardcore," Jon shrugs. "But yeah, I've gotten laid. Not recently, sadly." And it hits him that Brendon hasn't. Of course Brendon hasn't, and neither have Ryan or Spencer. He's suddenly not sure if that makes showing them porn a better or worse idea. "I've got a girl back home."
"I was supposed to get betrothed this year," Brendon confides, biting at his lip. "To Spencer's sister. That's why my family moved here, for me to get married."
"I thought you moved here when you were a kid?" Jon scrunches up his nose in confusion, and Brendon nods.
"We did, so that when I married, any children would be less likely to have... " He breaks off, searching for the words. "Less sickness and death? Because the communities have been so separate for so many years, too close in the bloodlines? My father was making the arrangements. I don't think Spencer knew. But I've never touched her, it's not allowed."
"Did you want her?" Jon asks. Brendon looks unsure, so Jon clarifies. "When you looked at her, did it make your palms sweat, did it make your heart race? Did it make your-" He waves a hand in the general direction of Brendon's lap. "You know?"
Brendon laughs at that, but he shakes his head. "No, not her. She's Spencer's sister, it was odd."
Jon catches the 'not her' though, and presses on. "But there was someone you wanted? Like that?"
Brendon looks away, then nods. Jon asks, "Then why didn't you ask to marry her?"
The expression on Brendon's face when he turns back to look at Jon is more bitter, more cynical, more bleak than he'd ever imagined he could see there. Brendon, who is so open and never acts like he has a care in the world. "Because it wasn't a her. And that's even more forbidden in our- in the Amish world than it is in yours."
Jon's got tons of gay friends - he's going to art school, how could he not? - and he's heard them all talk about how hard it can be to come out, remembers listening to his friend Pete talk about the terror of the first crush he'd ever had, how he was afraid the guy would punch him instead of kissing back. He's guessing that would be terror times ten if you're gay and fucking Amish. "The guy, did he know? That you?"
Brendon lets out a breath Jon hadn't realized he was holding, like he'd been expecting to get slapped down for his confession, and shakes his head. "No, I don't think so. It wouldn't matter, he never would have- There was nothing to be done."
"Who- oh, fuck, Spencer!" Jon exclaims, and Brendon looks toward the door, panicked. Jon shakes his head, it all makes sense now. The way they look at each other without actually looking sometimes. "No, it's Spencer, isn't it? You guys said there was no one else your age, that's why it was just the three of you at school."
Brendon doesn't say anything, just shrugs and looks away, fingers twisting idly in the folds of quilt on the bed.
"And you were going to marry his sister instead? Dude, that's fucked up. That's like, Jerry Springer levels of fucked up." Jon leans his head against the bed, as Brendon nods in agreement, even though he probably has no idea who Jerry Springer is. "But that's good, isn't it? He's here, you're here. You can find out, you know? If there's anything to find out."
Brendon shakes his head, looking sad. "He's not... he's so upset, haven't you noticed?" Jon nods, because of course he's noticed the strain around Spencer's eyes, how tightly he holds himself. Even the pot hadn't loosened him up as much as the others. It had to be mind-blowing, your whole world changing like that, and Jon thought Spencer was due a gigantic flip-out. Last week, Meg had threatened to hog-tie him to something if he didn't stop being so fucking helpful all the time. "He doesn't need me... crushing on him."
"Okay, A - you've got to stop talking to my cousin, you sound like a thirteen-year-old girl," Jon punches him lightly on the arm, and Brendon smiles. "And B - I don't think you should be so quick to assume... I don't know, it's just, he looks at you sometimes, you know? I don't think he knows what he needs."
Brendon looks away for a second and then back, tucking his chin against one shoulder. "Maybe, I don't know. Sometimes I think I see it, but maybe I'm just seeing what I want to see. I just." He frowns, his face downturned. "It's a rough time for him, for all of us. Everything's so uncertain, and Spencer hates uncertainty. He's so brittle... I don't want to be the thing that breaks him."
Jon doesn't know what to say to that, can't think of anything to say to convince Brendon he's wrong, because... well, because he's probably not. They spend a moment in silence, the words hanging in the air, before Brendon continues.
"I've waited... it's not a new feeling, wanting him. I can wait a little longer." He shrugs, looking down for a moment, then composing himself and meeting Jon's eyes. "This however? This cannot wait." He gets up, plucking one of the DVDs off the comforter with a devilish gleam in his eyes, back to the Brendon Jon's gotten to know over the last few weeks. He yells as he walks out the bedroom door, "Spencer! I have found an adult movie for you!"
~*~
He stares up at the ceiling, grateful for having his own room, grateful for the solitude, grateful that it isn't last week, that he isn't crammed onto an air mattress with Ryan and Brendon.
Especially with Brendon.
He squeezes his eyes shut tight, trying to will himself to sleep, but it doesn't help. It makes things worse, actually. He may definitely be scarred for life, because every time he closes his eyes, all he can see is that stupid movie. Stupid fucking movie, he thinks. Jon uses that word all the time, especially now that everyone is out of the house but them, and it's a good word, Spencer thinks. Except apparently it has more than one meaning, which makes it not just a stupid fucking movie, but a stupid movie about fucking, and Spencer can't stop sing-songing it through his head as he flips over onto his stomach with a huff.
He is against smoking pot, if this is what comes of it.
This, this... feeling, this itch under his skin, this heated desire that makes him want to alternatively smother himself in the pillow until he passes out and dies. Or. Or want to... There'd just been so much skin on display, more than he's ever seen before, and they all looked like they were having such a good time. It was shocking, and titillating, and the longest hour of his life, sitting on the couch trying not to look at anyone. Out of fear they could tell, could tell he was aroused, could tell he wanted. Could tell it wasn't the girls he was looking at.
He's hard, still hard, his hips hitching against the mattress almost against his will. He can't stop himself, knows it's the only way he's ever going to fall asleep and fuck does he need the oblivion of sleep tonight. It's so clear, so easy to replay the scenes in his mind as he slides one hand between his body and the sheets, working his way under his pajamas. At the first touch, the relief of it all, he groans softly. Slowly at first, then gradually working faster, he thrusts into the circle of his fist.
He rolls over on his back, pushing his clothes out of the way, biting down on his lip to keep from moaning out loud as his hand works faster. He thinks about the corded ripple of muscle, the curve of a body, the give of flesh as it's penetrated. He lets himself go, replacing the players in his mind, sometimes taking, sometimes giving. He even thinks about the girls, especially one girl, the one with dark hair and pouty lips, soft and full, and the way she'd looked on her knees, with that mouth wrapped around hardened flesh, so pliant, and she'd looked up...
And in his mind, he looks down, and it's Brendon's big brown eyes looking back up at him, Brendon's perfect mouth on his cock, and oh, god, oh fuck...
His mind whites out with the release, his body sated if not his mind eased, and Spencer wonders as he lies there, sweaty and sticky, wonders if this is hell, or only just his condemnation.
~*~
Because it's not normal, it can't be normal, for him to be thinking about sex this much. He can't seem to turn around without something setting him off. It's like it's every where he looks, all he can see, in advertisements, on the television, in the dancers in music videos grinding against each other, in the teenagers making out at the mall when he goes shopping, in a certain boy running around the house singing Disney songs. Even the medical text Jon had suggested to him when they went to the library in town, the one about the study by Dr. Kinsey, had been about sex. He'd still read it, of course. For science.
And Jon, Jon is not helping. Jon keeps bringing home these movies for them all to watch, and these films, they all have boys touching each other, or girls kissing, or boys who like to dress up like girls (and he's trying not to notice how interested Ryan seemed in that one or the fact that his best friend may or may not have now started wearing eyeliner) or Mormons running off to Los Angeles and being seduced by young men who fall in love with them, which Jon does not seem to realize is NOT HELPING. Spencer wants to tell him this, about the not helping, but he doesn't quite know how to say it without saying something to which he isn't ready to admit. So instead he buries himself in the books they've gotten from the library to prepare for the GED test, reading into the early hours of the morning, taking solace in the lack of tongue-action going on the history text.
Except for maybe he's starting to wonder about Washington and LaFayette. But that could just be the lack of sleep talking.
He slams the book shut and pushes back from the small reading desk. Obviously time for a breakfast study break. He makes his way downstairs to the kitchen, walking in to the sight of Brendon unintentionally defending the coffee pot from Jon's advances. Brendon's one of those people who naturally wakes up bright and sunny, and doesn't understand the need of others to caffeinate themselves first thing in the morning, and it wouldn't be so funny, Spencer thinks as he neatly skirts his way around them and pours himself a mug, it wouldn't be so funny if Jon didn't look so desperate.
Brendon's obviously been at this for a while now, judging by the look of defeat and java-longing on Jon's face when Brendon asks, "But how will Midwest farmers' daughters make you feel alright? I've met a lot of them, and honestly... not so much. I don't get it. And what are the California girls doing that makes them so special?"
"SEX, Brendon!" Jon snaps, and Spencer can't help but snicker at the look on his face. Except, except. "It's about sex. Rock and roll, sex. All of it. Even when it's not about sex, it's about sex. People having sex, people not having sex, people angsting about no one ever wanting to have sex with them. SEX."
"Fake Plastic Trees is about sex?" Brendon's eyes are wide, but he's starting to have a hard time hiding the smile threatening the corners of his mouth.
"Yes." Jon nods emphatically, then finally gives up and shoves Brendon out of his way, grabbing the coffee pot with both hands. "It's about sex with fake plastic trees."
No good can come of this conversation, and Spencer makes an escape before he can get dragged into a conversation about music and sex, or fake plastic sex toys, because seriously, seriously, he might not make it out alive. He snags a slice of toast off a plate, ignoring the half-hearted protests from a now-caffeinated Jon and heading for the door shouting "Going for a swim!" over his shoulder.
And the swimming does help. The sun is warm on his skin, and the water cold, and the pond on the back forty is almost big enough to be called a lake. He hardly thinks about sex at all, except for when two of the cattle start going at it, and really, who can help but think about sex when witnessing the bovine equivalent? Probably people who aren'tperverted sex fiends, his conscience points out helpfully. If he gets "Birds Do It, Bees Do It" stuck in his head, and if it gets stuck in his head in Brendon's distinctive singing voice, complete with choreography and jazz hands, well. He just swims faster back and forth across the water. And fantasizes about hiding Jon's iPod.
He swims til his muscles ache, til he's afraid he might get a cramp and drown, and then he drags himself onto the small wooden dock and lies down in the sun. The wood is hot on his back, and the sun beats down on him, and in the bright red glow behind his closed eyes he can lose himself, let loose all the thoughts that he holds at bay during the long days and longer nights. The vast categories of Brendon's smiles, the curve of his back as he bends over the wood as he carves intricate patterns into the grain, the timber of his voice when it's late and he's clinging to the last vestiges of consciousness...
"Spencer. Spencer Smith." And for a moment, Spencer thinks maybe he's managed to conjure Brendon here with the power of his mind, but no, when he squints his eyes open, one hand up to block the glare of the sun, he didn't because he wouldn't have thought to have Brendon bring lunch. "Spencer, you're going to burn."
Spencer rolls onto his stomach, and Brendon plops down on the dock in front of Spencer's head, setting the sack of food between them. Spencer peers up at him through his bangs, his hair drying as he props himself up on his elbows. "I'm not going to burn, I haven't been out here long."
"You could, though," Brendon argues, his face scrunching up into a frown as he pokes a finger into Spencer's shoulder. "Jon said you have to put this on," He fishes out a tube and shows it to Spencer. "So you don't get the cancer and die."
Spencer snorts, burying his face in his forearms. "Somehow I don't think I'm going to die right now. One day won't hurt."
"Unh-uh." Brendon pops the lid off and squirts a giant blob of the lotion onto Spencer's back. "No burning on my watch."
The lotion is freezing cold on his back, and Spencer jerks up. "Cold! Jeez, Brendon, cold."
"Sorry," Brendon giggles, not sounding particularly sorry, pushing Spencer back down and reaching over to rub the lotion in.
Spencer sighs, resting his chin on top of his hands, feeling the heat seeping up from the boards below, as Brendon slowly rubs in the coconut-and-chemical scented lotion into his skin. He tries not to think about it too much, the pads of Brendon's fingers touching him, callused from years of working with his hands.
He fails. He fails so badly as he opens his eyes and sees Brendon leaning over him, denim-encased thighs flexing, shirt falling forward to expose the pale skin of Brendon's stomach as he stretches to slide his hands down the hollow of Spencer's lower back. Brendon's talking, words buzzing like bees in the air, and Spencer tries to focus on them instead. "-because you're too young to turn into Sunday roast, Spencer. And then you can't be a doctor, and that would be a shame."
Spencer makes a noise that could be interpreted as disbelief, or as a man nearing the end of his own limits. It's muffled, so it's hard to tell. He sits up quickly, then gets to his feet, his head swimming a bit from the heat. The heat, not the feel of Brendon's hands on his skin. He shrugs, looking at Brendon then away. "The world seems to be getting along just fine without me being a doctor, so I think they would continue to survive if I bake."
"That's only because they've never had you care for them," Brendon says with conviction. And then he rises, reaches out, tilting Spencer's face back to look at him, his expression serious. "They just don't know what they're missing."
And he's so sincere, and so close, and so Brendon. Later, Spencer will blame those things, blame the sun going to his head, blame all those things for the way his willpower gives out. He sways forward, his hand finding Brendon's jaw of its own volition, as he leans down and gives into the temptation of Brendon's mouth.
Brendon's lips are firm against his, wet from where Spencer's licked across them, tasted him, and then Brendon's opening to him, and their tongues are touching, touching, and Spencer's brain literally shorts out, and he can't think anything but more and closer and now.
It's possible he says one of these things out loud, because Brendon does move closer, his hands sliding to Spencer's hips, thumbs resting against bone. He tilts his head up, and Spencer delves deeper into his mouth, exploring, learning his taste, reveling in the way Brendon moans as Spencer sucks slowly on his tongue. It's white-hot, Spencer feels like he's burning inside and out, as they stand in the heat of the day, and Brendon presses against him, equally hard and hothothot, their mouths moving spit-slick together, hot, heat, burning, on fire.
Oh. Oh, oh, fuck. And the fire that Spencer's thinking of now is no where near as enjoyable, and fuck, but he doesn't want that, not for Brendon, and his mind just shuts down, because that's the only way he can stop this. And he has to stop now, or he'll damn them both. He shoves Brendon back, more out of instinct than thought, his entire body set on recoil as he touches his lips with his fingers, expression horrified. "I. You'll. We shouldn't- it's not."
And then he gives up, turns away from Brendon, and walks away. For the first time in the twenty-four days since he walked off the land that he'd spent his whole life on, Spencer Smith runs away from home.