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~*~
He can't quite feel anything. This is a good thing, Spencer thinks numbly, this wrapped-in-cotton-wool sensation, because he's pretty sure if he could feel, he'd shatter into a million pieces right now. Around the edges, so distant it's almost like it happened to someone else, lurks both the memory of Brendon moving against him and an urge to hide away from the world forever.
He can't do one, can't let himself have the other, so he does the only thing he knows to do. He quietly lets himself back into the farmhouse, careful to skirt the living room where he can hear Jon and Ryan laughing and the muted sounds of cartoons playing on the television. He makes his way upstairs and into the shower, spends long minutes under steamy hot water resolutely not thinking about anything, letting the water scald away sun, sweat, and suntan lotion, any evidence that this morning even happened.
And then he sits back down at his books, and he studies. He stays locked in his room, and he doesn't go down for lunch. He doesn't go down when he hears Brendon come inside, just before sunset, or when Ryan knocks softly on his door to ask if he wants dinner. He just needs time, he tells himself, some time to get himself back under control, and then maybe he can go back to the way things where when he didn't know how good Brendon tasted.
~*~
Life goes on. That's one of the things Spencer's learning this summer - everything can change so dramatically, and the rest of the world might not even notice, and he still wakes up every morning - life goes on. Things are shut down, strange, but they're both trying to pretend everything's normal. And if Spencer doesn't let himself be near Brendon, if he doesn't trust himself without the buffer of Ryan or Jon between them, then that's his own business and he keeps it to himself. Or at least no one calls him on it.
Like today for instance. Today, Ryan didn't mention that Spencer was late - late, Spencer, who's never been less than ten minutes early for anything ever - to breakfast so that he didn't have time to do more than grab a slice of toast as they were on their way out the door to haul hay. And Jon, Jon doesn't say anything when Spencer hops onto the truck's bed rather than climb up front and let his thigh brush against Brendon's on the short ride to the neighbor's field. And Brendon doesn't say anything either, but Spencer knows he notices, can see it in the set of Brendon's shoulders when he dares to turn around and peek into the cab as they pull out of the drive.
Two hours later, they're on their second load, hot and sweaty under the mid-morning Midwest sun. The hay truck creeps down the aisle, Ryan behind the wheel as Jon and Spencer heave the bales from their respective rows up on to the flatbed. Brendon, with his typical energy-of-ten-people and his lemur-climbing tendencies, stacks it, building neat stair-steps to high rows at the front of the truck. It's dusty, dirty work, and Spencer can feel the grime sticking to his skin, can feel the sweat soaking through the bandana he'd tied around his forehead to keep it out of his eyes.
He pauses to adjust his gloves, then bends to grab the next bale. When he straightens, he'd swear he can feel Brendon's eyes on him, hidden behind the dark lenses of a pair of ridiculous-looking white Willy Wonka-style sunglasses. The hair on the nape of his neck prickles for a moment, and he tries to ignore it as he slings the straw onto the truck. Brendon hops down off the stack to grab it, shouting a joking remark to Jon about keeping up as he swings the bale up into the next slot. Spencer can see a rivulet of sweat running down Brendon's cheek, his dark hair soaked and matted to his forehead. Spencer tucks his hands under the twine of the next bale to make himself stop looking, concentrating instead on testing the weight, on hefting it high so Brendon won't have to go so far to grab it.
Only when he looks up, it's in time to see Brendon's shirt go whipping up over his head, to watch him tuck it into the back pocket of his jeans. He's knocked his sunglasses askew in the process, and he smiles tentatively down at Spencer as he wipes away the sweat that's gathered under them. Spencer doesn't smile back, even though he wants to, he really does. He just can't figure out how, how to be Brendon's friend again but avoid a repeat of last week's breach in control. It's easier to shut him out altogether, even if watching the smile slide slowly off Brendon's face makes Spencer feel like part of his heart is shutting down. It's better than the alternative, he reminds himself sternly, gritting his teeth and turning back to his task. Although a small part of him grumps bitchily that surely a merciful God would put less of Brendon on display if Spencer isn't supposed to want to touch him.
He picks up the pace, wanting this to be over faster, so he can go back to the house and lock himself away with his books. He works ahead, so that he's walking up toward the cab of the truck to grab the next bale and then walking it back to set it on the bed. Ryan waggles his fingers out the rolled-down window, bobbing his head along with whatever's on the radio. He's got a bandana around his forehead too, but since he hasn't broken a sweat, and since it's paisley, Spencer figures that it's more for a fashion statement than actual use. Spencer smirks, his tone teasing as he grabs the bale. "Don't work too hard there, Ry."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Ryan responds airily as Spencer strides back to deposit the bale, and Spencer catches his grin in the side mirror as he returns. "I'd offer to let you drive, but we've all seen how that turns out."
"Hey!" Spencer slaps one hand down, playfully banging against the driver's side door with a loud thump. "I maintain that that was not my fault."
"Sure, sure," Ryan deadpans. "That fencepost totally moved into your way, I get that. No, really. Could've happened to anyone."
"Shut up," Spencer grins at him, and it's nice. He feels lighter than he has in days. "Or I swear I'll tell Jon you've been dying to go horseback riding."
"Low blow, Spence," Ryan says with a laugh, flicking his eyes forward for a second to check their path. "Low- oh, shit!"
They've come to the end of the row without Ryan noticing and he swerves to miss hitting the bale dead in front of him. Spencer hears the thump from the flatbed at almost the same time Jon shouts "Ho!" to warn them to stop. Spencer meets Ryan's horrified eyes for a brief second before he takes off for the back of the truck at a run.
Jon's already kneeling next to Brendon on the wooden slats of the bed, helping him roll to a sitting position as Spencer leaps up onto the truck, pulling his gloves off and shoving them in his pocket. "What happened?"
"I lost my balance, I landed wrong," Brendon says quietly, moving his legs forward as Jon pulls off one of his gloves, rubbing over the reddened skin of Brendon's palm. Brendon's face is pale, his mouth set in pain as he looks up at Spencer.
Jon looks up at Spencer too, worry creasing his brow. "His ankle rolled, it didn't look good."
"Which one?" Spencer asks as he squats down next to Brendon's feet, and Brendon sets his left foot against Spencer's thigh in answer. Spencer unlaces the boot, gingerly removing both shoe and sock, gently brushing away spare strands of straw as he pushes Brendon's jeans leg up, trying to ignore the way his heart seems to have decided to relocate to his esophagus in response to Brendon being injured. The ankle has already started swelling just a little, and Spencer frowns as he feels around skin and bone carefully. His fingers press in, and Brendon hisses sharply. "Sorry." Spencer freezes for a second, then presses on, more gently than before. He frowns, swallowing hard before delivering his prognosis, looking Brendon in the eye for the first time in almost a week. "I think it's broken."
"Guess my luck had to run out some time," Brendon jokes weakly, and Jon gives him a smile with about the same strength. Ryan and Spencer don't even bother.
"We should get him back to the Crenshaws, I'm sure they'll help us get him into town to the hospital," Jon suggests, and Ryan nods. He reaches out to help steady Brendon to get down off the truck, and accidentally jostles Brendon's ankle. Brendon lets out another small, pained gasp, and Spencer acts out of instinct.
He slaps Ryan's hand away, hard, a hissed "Don't touch him!" as Ryan jerks back, all the color draining out of his face as Spencer bites out angrily, "Just leave him here, if you think you can get us back to the house without doing further damage."
Ryan's face falls, and Spencer knows he's being mean, knows this isn't really Ryan's fault, but he can't get the rational part of himself to override the part that needs to keep Brendon safe.
"Hey, hey," Jon breaks in, his conciliatory tone contrasting with the frown on his face. "Let's just focus on getting him out of here."
He claps Ryan on the shoulder in commiseration as he pulls them forward to the cab, leaving Spencer sitting with Brendon's foot balanced on his lap. Spencer can hear Ryan trying to get Jon to drive, and Jon's adamant refusal, and it makes him flinch a bit, because he's never been the one who knocked Ryan's confidence back before. He tries not to think about it, and then tries not to think about how long the list of things he's not thinking about is getting, as they take off through the field with as much urgency as Ryan can swing without jostling them off the bed or losing the load of hay. Spencer turns his concentration to keeping Brendon's foot as stationary as possible until they pull up between the barn and the house.
The Crenshaws are eighty if they're a day, and Spencer had found them charming when they arrived that morning to Mrs. Crenshaw insisting they take lemonade and some fresh baked cookies into the field with them, and Mr. Crenshaw reminiscing with Jon about Chicago and what it was like when he and Mrs. Crenshaw vacationed there in 1962. Their puttering is less amusing when it takes thirty minutes to get Brendon loaded into their giant sedan and off to the hospital. Part of this might have something to do with him figuring out about ten minutes into the process that he couldn't go with them.
"We can't leave the hay in the field," Jon says in an undertone, and it's only how upset he sounds about leaving Brendon that keeps Spencer from going off half-cocked. "There's a chance of rain tonight, and-"
"I know." Spencer's reply is terse, and he crosses his arms defensively. He does know, but that doesn't mean he has to like it, shipping Brendon off by himself to be at the mercy of strangers.
"We can't do it with less than three people, or Ryan and I'd just-"
"I know."
"The Crenshaws, they're good people. I know they seem a bit dotty, but they'll take care of him."
"I know."
So the three of them stand there, watching the sedan creep down the dirt lane, and Spencer tries to tell himself that he only wishes he was with them to get to see a real emergency room in action. The lie tastes like dust in his mouth, and he has to force himself to turn away and go back to work.
~*~
Spencer manages to wait until they've all exchanged niceties with Mrs. Crenshaw, until Jon offers her a ride home and Ryan slips up the stairs to his room, before he searches Brendon out.
Brendon's on the couch in the living room, fast asleep, his plaster-encased foot propped up on the sofa arm and his mouth hanging open just a little. He's clutching the remote control to his chest and he's probably minutes away from drooling on himself, and it shouldn't be cute, but it is. Spencer feels something loosen inside his chest, the tension he's held in all afternoon finally letting up. Brendon's really okay. He reaches down, brushing the hair off Brendon's forehead. Brendon stirs a bit, unconsciously leaning into the touch, but he doesn't wake. Spencer lets himself look, just for a moment, before gently freeing the remote and pulling the blanket up higher.
He makes himself move then, and he's halfway to the door before he hears Brendon's voice, scratchy from sleep and groggy from painkillers. "Hey."
Spencer turns slowly, forcing himself to plaster a small smile on his face. "Hey, you're awake. You want some water?"
"Nah," Brendon shakes his head, yawning as he props himself up on his elbows. "Just make me have to go, and wow, is that ever not worth it."
Spencer smiles for real this time, and sits down on the sturdy coffee table across from Brendon. "How's the foot?"
"Broken, like you said." Brendon gives him a sleepy half smile.
Spencer rolls his eyes, but his smile takes the edge off. "And here I thought they just put the cast on because they were bored."
"Ha ha," Brendon sticks his tongue out, and reaches out for an oversized manila envelope sitting on the table next to Spencer. "Just for that, I shouldn't give you these."
"What are those?"
"Just copies of my x-rays," Brendon laughs as Spencer's eyes light up. "I totally talked the girl who takes them into making extras."
Spencer holds them up to the light, while they talk about what the hospital was like, and how they took the pictures and made the cast. Spencer looks up after a while, and he sees the way Brendon's eyelids are starting to droop, how he's struggling not to yawn as he finishes telling Spencer about going to the pharmacy to get his prescription filled. Spencer puts the film down. "Thanks, Brendon, this was really... cool of you. Thank you."
Brendon's eyes are soft, and that matches the curve of his smile as he says, "Any time, Spencer Smith, any time."
"Get some rest, okay?" He ruffles Brendon's hair as he stands. "Doctor's orders."
He makes it as far as the doorway before Brendon calls his name softly. He looks back, and Brendon's expression has turned nervous. "Spencer, are we not going to talk about it at all?"
Spencer puts one hand on the wooden doorframe, and he looks down as he swallows hard. He doesn't know what to say, so he just sort of shrugs. Brendon gives him a moment, and when it becomes clear that Spencer isn't going to say anything, he keeps talking.
"I don't like it when we don't talk about stuff. You've... you've been ignoring me, and that sucks," Brendon's voice wavers just a bit, and Spencer wonders if he'd even be saying this if he weren't so tired and half gone on painkillers. "So if... If you don't want me, then fine. That's fine. But the thing is, I've been thinking. You kissed me. You kissed me. And maybe you don't know why you did it - I know I haven't been able to figure it out - but the thing is, if you just wanted to kiss someone, then. Then I don't think you should do it again. But if you did it because you wanted to kiss me, well." He pauses for a second, and Spencer looks up. Brendon's eyes are serious, even if they look tired, and there's the hint of a smile that Spencer thinks might be mostly bravado. "Well then, like I said. Any time."
Spencer swallows again, but the words just won't leave his throat, the words to tell Brendon that he doesn't want him, not like that, the lie that he knows he should say to save them both. His fingers tighten on the wood as he stares at Brendon for a moment. And then he turns, and he walks away.
~*~
"Come in," is the quiet reply, and Spencer shoves the door open across too-thick carpet. Ryan's curled up on the bed, his thin frame looking awkward in mustard yellow paisley pajama pants and a t-shirt that shows all his sharp edges. He's got a book open in his lap, and a cautious look in his eyes that Spencer's never seen aimed at him before. It's about the fourth thing that's made him feel like throwing up today.
"Hey," he says softly as he tries to push the door shut, giving up as it sticks on the carpet again. It's almost midnight, and they've all had a long day, and he just doesn't have the strength left to fight. He walks over and sits on the edge of the bed. "Good book?"
"So far," Ryan tips the cover back to show Spencer the title, The Great Gatsby. "You can have it when I'm done. If you want."
Spencer nods, and then tries to think of something to say next. He can't remember ever having to do that. Not with Ryan. But there's nothing else to be said, no soft way to segue into this, so he just starts. "Ryan, I'm sorry."
Ryan looks startled at that, but he nods. "Me too. I should have been paying attention, I should have-"
"No! It wasn't your fault. It was an accident, and if it's anyone's fault, it's mine - I was distracting you. I shouldn't have snapped at you, I just. He was- Brendon, I. He was hurt, and I." Spencer swallows, trying not to think about how it sounded when Brendon fell. "I wasn't mad at you, I was just mad."
Ryan sighs softly, putting his book face down on the side table. Spencer takes that for the apology-acceptance that it is and scoots over to sit next him, leaning back against the headboard. Ryan bumps against his shoulder, and peers sideways at Spencer through his bangs. "Because you guys were fighting before?"
"We weren't fighting, we just-" Spencer waves one hand around helplessly, trying to find the right description and failing. He gives up, shrugging. "I did something I shouldn't have done."
Ryan stays silent for a moment, waiting for an explanation that obviously isn't going to come. "Ooo-kay. What? You desecrated his shrine to Walt Disney? You... you said the Beatles were trite and outdated? You touched his wood?"
And Spencer, who's spent the better part of the last month watching the best of the best of gay and lesbian cinema, his eyes go wide and his cheeks go red as he starts to splutter. "I- no- I, not like that. I mean, yes, sort of. But."
"What?" Ryan looks confused for a second, and then he catches up. "Oh. Oh! No, I meant his furniture, not..."
They both trail off into an embarrassed silence. After a few minutes, Ryan says, "Well, on the bright side, your grasp of idioms is really coming along."
Spencer snorts, and pulls his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms tight around them. "Thanks, that's a comfort."
"So... something happened?" Ryan asks softly. "And it didn't... he didn't like it?"
"No. I don't know," Spencer buries his face in his hands, because part of him can't believe he's having this conversation with anyone, even Ryan, and if it's going to happen, he's not going to have it while looking at Ryan. "I- We... kissed. I. Kissed him."
"Okay," Ryan's acknowledgement is quick and unquestioning, and Spencer kind of loves him for it. Part of him has always known that Ryan knew, but it's another thing to say it, to admit to a sin and be forgiven. Or something. Spencer tries to ignore the voice in his head that wonders, 'is it really a sin?,' because he's pretty sure that's Brendon's voice.
"So you kissed him, and then what?"
"Isn't that enough?"
"No, I mean, what did he do?"
"Oh. He, he kissed me back." Spencer stares down at his own feet, toying with the hem of his jeans. "But it was my fault, I started it. I was... it was a moment of weakness."
Ryan sits quietly for a moment, taking in Spencer's words before looking at him sadly. "I don't know what I could say that would make you stop thinking of this as a fault," Ryan sighs. "I know what you think, I know what we've been told our whole lives, but... I don't think it was wrong - you care about him. That's not a weakness."
"I have to be stronger, Ryan. I can't- it's his soul," Spencer implores, his eyes wet with unshed tears. "I can't be wrong about this. It's his soul and it's forever and-"
"Is that what this is about?" Brendon's standing in the doorway, one arm wrapped around Jon's shoulders and the other leaning on one crutch. He looks pale, like the journey up the stairs has worn him out. He also looks miserably determined, and Spencer has to fight the twin urges to hug him or strangle him, because he's not supposed to be here.
"You shouldn't be up-"
"Jon was helping me to the bathroom, but that's not the point. Is that what this is all about? You don't want to... because you're afraid that I'll go to Hell? You're going to deny us both a chance in this life, for an afterlife that no one - no one, no matter what we've been told - really knows exists? No fucking way, Spencer Smith, I will not let you." He hobbles in to the room, half-dragging Jon with him.
"Brendon, you can't just-"
"No, shut up. Just shut up and listen for a minute." Brendon's eyes flash as he stares down at Spencer, who's sitting next to Ryan with twin expressions of shock on their faces. "I like boys, Spencer. I like you more than any other boy I've ever met, but I like boys and you not being the boy who likes me back isn't going to change that. So if that's enough to send me to Hell, your sacrifice is pointless."
"You don't know that." Spencer frowns, because how can Brendon know that? He's never... he better not have ever... "You can't know that."
"I can and I do," Brendon's flushed, his temper high, more upset than Spencer's ever seen him. "You think just because I haven't experienced everything there is to experience, that I don't know what I want? Fuck that. Fuck it."
And the momentary relief that there's no one else is fleeting as Brendon makes a frustrated noise. He grabs Jon by the shirt front, his hand fisted in his shirt, and pulls him forward, pressing their lips together.
Brendon kisses Jon hard and with some pretty obvious tongue, and they're both out of breath when Brendon pulls away a few seconds later. Brendon meets Spencer's eyes. "I. Like. Boys."
He turns to go, but his dramatic exit is somewhat ruined by his injury and he hops toward the door. Jon, who's been just standing there looking shell-shocked, snaps back into action with a stuttered "I, uh. I should just-" and runs to help Brendon out the door.
Ryan and Spencer just stare after them. Spencer's torn somewhere between fuck, that was hot and the odd desire to strangle Jon even though he was pretty obviously just an innocent by-stander in Brendon's demonstration.
A few more long seconds go by, and then Ryan turns to Spencer, his voice drier than dust. "Well, I guess that answers that question."
~*~
He didn't sleep well anyway, and lying in bed had not been a comfort. His dreams were a maelstrom of confusing, hurtful images: half-hidden scenes of accusation and condemnation, bits of fire-and-brimstone sermons, the glowing torment of an imagined Hell. But worse than that were the images of Brendon with someone else, someone else's hands touching him, someone else getting all of Brendon's special smiles.
His chest aches, and he rubs at it as he heads toward the kitchen for a cup of coffee. He wants more sleep, and for everything to stop being so confusing all the time, and-
"Hey." Brendon pulls the earbuds out of his ears and looks up from the TV as Spencer passes by the doorway. Spencer grabs the doorframe and pulls himself back into view.
"Hey." Spencer waves awkwardly from the doorway, because he doesn't know what else to do. Brendon's slouched on the couch, and he's got his foot propped up on a couple of throw pillows on the coffee table in front of him. He pats the cushion next to him, looking up at Spencer with hopeful eyes. Spencer walks over and sits down next to him, carefully sitting down on his own cushion, not touching Brendon. Brendon's watching the animal channel on mute, and Spencer watches the little rodent-like creatures the closed captioning labels as meerkats popping in and out holes. They're cute, Spencer thinks, as he sits there searching for something to say.
"I'm sorry I yelled at you," Brendon says quietly after a moment. He's not looking at the screen, but he's not looking at Spencer either, his gaze stuck somewhere between staring at his own knees and staring at Spencer's. "I'm not sorry about what I said, but I am sorry that I raised my voice."
Spencer nods, and he opens his mouth to tell Brendon that it's okay, not to feel bad, but what comes out is, "You. You kissed Jon."
Brendon nods, and he looks like he's maybe been thinking about this whole mess as much as Spencer has. Spencer shouldn't like it that Brendon looks tired and pale, too, but somehow it's comforting. Brendon nods again and says, "Yes. I did."
"I didn't like it." Spencer's not sure what he's doing, not even sure that he should be saying this stuff, but dammit, it's how he feels and he's tired, so tired, of trying to keep everything in all the time. "I don't think you should do that again."
Brendon looks pleased at that for a second, just a quick flash across his face, and then he frowns slightly, the twist of his mouth turning determined. "Then give me a reason not to."
And that's what it all boils down to. Brendon wants to be with be with him, but if he can't, he'll be with some other guy. Spencer may not know exactly what he wants, but he knows he doesn't want that. He rubs at the bridge of his nose, trying to figure out what to do. "I want to. I'm just not sure that I even know how."
Brendon smiles, bright and wide and a touch victorious, because he's known Spencer long enough to know that most times Spencer not saying no is tantamount to Spencer saying yes. He reaches out, and his fingers are warm when he wraps them around Spencer's hand. "I don't know either, Spencer. I just think we could figure it out together."
"Together," Spencer echoes, and god, it sounds so nice. Brendon squeezes his hand, and it makes him want to be reckless, to promise Brendon the happy-ever-after from all the Disney movies he loves so much. He wants to be as brave as Brendon is, putting himself out there like he did last night. But Spencer's a cautious man, and he still feels nervous, skittish. "Maybe we could just... I don't know, take things slowly? I know that's not fair-"
"Spencer." Brendon manages to make his tone simultaneously fond and exasperated, and he looks Spencer in the eyes now. "Spencer Smith, I have been in love with you since I was twelve. I can take things slow. If it means... if I get you, I can take things glacially slow."
He looks so earnest, and Spencer can see the hope there, the way the joy is creeping in around the edges of his smile, like he's getting something he thought he never would. Spencer kind of wants him to always look like that, and he kind of always has. Spencer bits at his lower lip, lets his eyes sweep over Brendon without holding back this time, and he can see the color rise in Brendon's cheeks at the interest he sees there. Spencer slowly threads his fingers in with Brendon's. "I think regular slow will do."
~*~
He tangles their tongues together, swallowing the soft moans that escape Brendon as Spencer pushes him back against the hard edge of the counter. It's been a week, and holding hands has turned into stolen kisses, to not-so-stolen kisses, to what Jon terms 'disgusting full-scale make-out sessions.' Spencer presses his body to Brendon's, feeling once again how warm he is even through two layers of clothes, and not for the first time wonders what it would be like to do this naked. Spencer sort of sucks at taking things slow.
"Oh, dear God. Not in the kitchen. We have to eat in here." Ryan's tone doesn't change, but Spencer can hear the mocking and the love that belie the words. Brendon must too, because he just takes the hand that was stroking softly along Spencer's beard and flips Ryan the bird.
"Just pretend you've gone blind," Jon advises from the stove on the other side of the kitchen, flipping pancakes and pointedly not turning around. "That's how I'm getting by."
"Oh... shut up," Spencer grouses. As comebacks go, it's not his best, and it makes Brendon laugh.
"Seriously, I never thought I'd miss the moping and the unresolved sexual tension, but if I'd known how much tonsil-hockey we were in for, I might have changed my mind," Ryan laughs and dodges the wicker potholder Spencer lobs at his head like a Frisbee.
"Don't listen to him, Spencer," Brendon leans up, smacks a quick kiss against Spencer's cheek before pulling away to go get the silverware for the table. He throws a mock glare in Ryan's direction. "He's just jealous."
Ryan considers that for a second, and then shrugs. "Yeah, probably."
"Aw, poor Ryan." Jon ruffles Ryan's hair as he passes by, taking a plate of pancakes toward the dining room.
"Don't worry, Ryan," Brendon grins at him as he grabs plates too and follows Jon. "There'll be lots of nice girls in Chicago, and surely we can weed through all of them to find one crazy enough to go out with you."
Ryan sticks out his tongue. Spencer just stands there, watching the whole exchange with a stupid smile on his face, one that only widens when Ryan grins at him, a full-fledged happy-Ryan grin, and says, "Come on, lover boy, before Brendon eats all our pancakes."
Breakfast is a light-hearted affair, and Jon tells them about Meg calling - they'll be back at the end of the week - and the talk turns to GED testing and the classes Jon's taking this fall and how to fill another too-hot afternoon. No one's expecting it when the doorbell rings, and they all freeze just for a second, looking at each other. Most everyone who knows Jon's family knows they're out of town, and it's rare to get unexpected company this far out. Jon shrugs and gets up to go answer it.
Spencer waits a moment, and then follows after him. Maybe it's someone having car trouble. He didn't hear anyone pull in.
He gets to the foyer just as Jon's opening the door, saying hello to the man standing there. Standing there in plain work clothes holding a straw hat in one hand, looking somehow older than Spencer remembers. He draws in a quick breath, and the man looks past Jon to him.
"Hello, Spencer." His father says quietly in Dietsch, and Spencer swallows hard as he steps behind Jon. Over his father's shoulder, he can see the wagon, the horses hitched to it standing quietly, chewing on Meg's manicured lawn.
"Hello, Father." Spencer answers in English, and if pressed he would say that it's because Jon's there, that he owes him the respect of not having a conversation in his presence that he can't understand. But the truth is the thought of speaking in his mother tongue ties a knot in his stomach, makes him think of home: the smell of fresh bread, the sound of his sisters' laughter, the curve of his mother's smile. All the things he left behind. He shakes himself back to the present. "Jon, this is my father. Father, my friend Jon Walker."
"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Smith," Jon says, and the words are politely puzzled. Spencer gets that, because he can't fathom how his father ended up on the front porch either. Jon steps back and gestures toward the living room. "Won't you come in?"
His father steps over the threshold as Ryan and Brendon round the corner from the kitchen.
"Hey, we were thinking, Squirt Gun Wars, yeah? It's totally-" Brendon's voice dies off when he notices Mr. Smith, and Ryan runs into his back, jabbing him with the pointy end of a Super Soaker. Brendon doesn't even seem to notice, and Ryan's eyes widen. Spencer hasn't moved either, and it's like the three of them are frozen in some sort of tableau. A tableau where they're all dressed completely inappropriately, where they're standing under electric lights with the air-conditioner running, where his father can probably tell exactly how far Spencer's given over to a life of sin.
Spencer swallows hard, and Jon sighs. "Why don't we take this into the living room? Can I get you something to drink, Mr. Smith?"
Next thing Spencer knows, they're all sitting in the living room, with Spencer's father on the couch with a cup of coffee that Spencer thinks he took just to be polite. No one has said anything in a solid five minutes. Jon looks like he really wishes he was high, and Spencer can relate.
"We should not have let you go." Spencer's father finally breaks the silence, looking over at Spencer as he speaks stiltedly. "Ryan's father is not well-"
Meaning not sober, Spencer thinks, his mouth tightening into a bitter line.
"-and the community has decided he should not have said to Ryan what he did. Spencer, your mother and I would like you to come home." He looks hopefully at them, Spencer leaning against the wall, Brendon and Ryan sharing a Lazy-Boy chair only meant for one person. "All of you boys to come home now."
Home. Spencer starts, staring over at his father. He doesn't know what to say.
"Why now?" Ryan frowns, obviously suspicious. "We've been gone for more than a month."
Ryan doesn't want to go, Spencer knows. There's nothing better for him there. Brendon fists one hand in the fabric of Ryan's t-shirt, and Spencer guesses that he knows that too.
"There were some... people do not like change. We had to convince them." Spencer's father admits. "Please, we want you to return. Think about it."
~*~
And he got it, he really did. Brendon wanted him to make his own decision.
Ryan had come to him, ambushing him in the hallway and whispering low. "I'm staying. You should... if you need to go back, I'll be okay. You'll still be, always be my best friend."
He'd ended the words with his arms wrapped around Spencer, hard and tight like goodbye, and he'd slipped away again while Spencer was still swallowing back the tears.
The water in the sink swirls down the drain, a tiny whirlpool. Sometimes you have to make a choice, even if it hurts people you love, Spencer thinks, and he's spent all night trying to figure out which of the people he loves he's supposed to hurt. Well, that's not strictly true. He's spent all night trying to figure out how to break the news. He knows his father is waiting downstairs, waiting to take him, them, back to their quiet country life.
"Spencer?" Brendon's voice is muffled through the doorway of the master suite. Spencer reaches for a towel, wiping his face dry. "You in there?"
"Yeah."
"Spencer, I've been thinking. You should. It's your family, Spence, and I know how much you love them." Brendon sounds like he's close to tears, and Spencer's hands clench into fists around the terry cloth. "I just wanted to say... I'll understand. If you want to go back to your fam-"
Brendon breaks off when Spencer opens the door, and he stares almost comically at Spencer.
"What?" Spencer rubs one hand across his clean-shaven skin. He tugs self-consciously at his Led Zeppelin t-shirt with his other hand, pulling it down to meet the waistband of his jeans. And then he reaches out, pulls Brendon to him and steals a quick morning kiss. "Did I miss a spot?"