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“I want Spike!” Brendon gasps meekly, his eyes darting around to the city around him, then to the Spike. His teeth are slightly bared, right eye scrunched as he looks around for the validation he needs.
“Not if I get it first,” Spencer laughs, grabbing the Spike off the ground. Ryan lets out a dismissive huff of pure disapproval at the boys’ banter—but instead of taking this into consideration, Brendon decides to fire back.
“Jesus fuck, Spence. I hate you as much as I love you.”
“Shut up, bubble boy.”
“Spencer’s Gifts.”
“Breadbin.”
“Stop it.” Ryan growls, pushing past Brendon, then down the stairs to where Jon stands by a lamppost, idly kicking at the mosaic rock beneath him, riddled with moss. “Oh, Jon, you’re the only one good to me…”
“Ryan,” Jon coos, playing along with Ryan’s clingy, needy demeanour. “You’re so sweet to me.” He smiles, all sickly-sweet with his stubbled face—a toothy grin to Ryan, whose eyes glimmer with mischief.
“Ugh, get a fucking room. No homo isn’t gonna cut the gay shit.” Brendon whines, stomping his foot, which slides over the ground with a sharp squeal.
“Nope.” Jon smiles. “Now shut up, we gotta kick major ass.”
The pistols feel all cold in their hands like a metal cuff link as Spencer takes visible notice and caution in his step—forward, forward, foot by foot as Jon, Brendon, and Ryan glance at each other, mutually grimacing.
As much as they love Spencer, he is not good with Spike. Not now, not never, not when he even started. Spencer is made for hiding by sites and being spotted, while the defenders go coo off to their teammates where they saw Spencer and where they think the Spike is being planted—while Ryan can go rush over and plant the Spike in the opposite site. Spencer is a killing machine, and not much of a Spike machine.
“Ah,” Brendon slightly gasps.
“Your fault,” Ryan reminds happily, his voice light and airy. “Jon, come with me. Brendon, take mid or go with Spence.”
“Where the fuck is Spence even going?”
Before he can receive a clear answer, Jon and Ryan are already sneaking off to B while Spencer heads towards A in the genuine tunnel of death. His footsteps are quiet and calculated, and Brendon tries his best to match his friend’s expertise across the stone, and then to the arch of the entrance. The roof has that same off-orange tile that Brendon has always remembered and always will remember, but that’s quickly stopped when he bumps into Spencer’s outstretched arm.
“Oof,” he huffs.
Spencer shoots him a dirty be quiet glare, then slowly walks into the tunnel. Brendon’s about to shout big mistake and end this match. Spencer looks a fair amount of spooked when he finally turns the corner, holding his pistol with two hands like he’s in an action movie, all fucking arms before a bullet comes zinging towards the wall and Spencer quickly retreats.
His eyes are wide and his lips are pressed into a tight line as he makes eye contact with Brendon and quickly shakes his head. It conveys enough—the other motherfuckers are probably camping by A, which means that they would have to get in through either mid or B.
“Dude.” Brendon says.
“Dude.” Spencer replies.
His eyes are a little too blue for Brendon’s liking, but it looks just like the sky above them. Maybe this place was made for Spencer. His hair is hanging in his face and he looks like a chick. Maybe that’s why he nearly got fucking jumped. (Or shot. Either way.)
“B?” Brendon suggests. It feels weird coming out of his mouth—it’s like he’s calling himself his own nickname, but this situation calls for a reference towards site B.
“You know, maybe I’ll just…” and then Spencer snaps briefly, and then his eyes are all unfocused as what can only be described as an extraterrestrial silhouette pops out of him and slowly creeps towards the entrance again.
Brendon does not want to look. It’s not exactly his favourite thing when Spencer pulls this shit off—this is exactly why he cannot have Spike. Ever. Again. And then there’s an echoing bang of an automatic, and Spencer’s decoy is down as his eyes suddenly refocus straight onto Brendon’s face.
Brendon gives a lopsided grin, because that was kinda awesome. Spencer just frowns a bit and opens his mouth to speak.
“Just wait a bit. They think I’m down and that the Spike is down too. They’ll probably rush over to A or something.”
“Yeah, no shit,” Brendon replies.
Spencer just frowns his girly face and then starts to head back to where they’d first started, beckoning Brendon with a quick curl of his fingers. “C’mon, B.”
Something in Spencer’s voice makes Brendon’s head spin a bit. Quickly, he follows Spencer’s path, back to the bistro tables in the front as they sliver over to mid. It’s like a dance routine—Spencer takes the right and Brendon takes the left of the arch, as fake defender Jon makes his (or their) way over.
Brendon’s gaze darts to Spencer with wide, unforgiving eyes—to which Spencer gives a quick nod, and they both pop out with a rush of adrenaline so strong you could almost smell it in the air. It’s nearly electric when they fire at fake defender Jon, whose blood splashes gloriously, fanned across the stone.
He goes down with a hard slump, but he’s already told his teammates about the enemies in mid. His stupid fuck automatic gun drops to the floor along with his body, still all warm and absolutely gutted by Spencer and Brendon. They both grin at each other like maniacs, all white and toothy before there’s the sharp echo of a shot. Spencer’s face contorts and—
Ah, shit. Brendon grabs Spencer and pulls him back behind the wall, where safety is guaranteed but not a hundred. Spencer’s brows are furrowed and he’s biting his lip. The armor helps a lot when you get shot in the back—Brendon knows this because he’s been roughed up and bloody too many times, but it’s not enough to satiate the burning sting.
Spencer holds a palm up. “‘M fine. Hurry. I’ll go to B, you go to A as a fake.”
“Alone?”
“I’ll have Ryan and Jon, don’t worry—”
“No, no,” Brendon replies. “I’m alone.”
“You’re a strong kid, B.”
“Shut the fuck up. We’re literally the same age.”
“Okay, well fucking sorry for trying to compliment you,” Spencer whisper-yells, starting to creep over to B. It’s not far, much, but Brendon has a feeling this is going to be a hell of a match against defense.
He doesn’t care. He waits until Spencer is out of the range where he can see Brendon, and then Brendon starts to creep over to B, using the separate entrance by base. It smells beautifully like rain and musk, but the skies are perfectly blue overhead, unscathed by streaks of grey.
He draws his knife and starts to sprint to B, where there’s the light echo of gunfire zinging off the walls and to his ears. His legs ache in protest—he’s been doing a lot of walking, and it travels up his calves all the way to his thighs, but he can almost taste the victory in his hands.
There’s the two entrances to B. He sneaks to the warzone from the left, where Spencer’s planting the Spike and Jon’s standing at the wall, waiting. “Bitch camping behind the wall!” Jon quickly calls to Brendon. Brendon gets the message to go together. But Spence needs some protection, doesn’t he?
And where’s Ryan? Gayass.
Brendon draws his gun and, with a curt nod from Jon, goes to back, where the fake defender Spencer quickly gets shot down. In fact, the assist was so good, Brendon smiles at Jon, and Jon smiles back, even with the bleeding fake defender Spencer straight on the ground, a pool of ruby starting to stretch and inch closer to Brendon’s feet.
“Spike planted!” Spencer calls.
“Got it!” Jon calls back.
God, they’re so lovesick. They’re like a grown couple. Brendon shudders a bit at the thought of Jon getting to see Spencer’s blue eyes every day and being able to stare into them all he wants. Brendon wishes he could do that. Also, apparently—Spencer’s improved, because at least he can plant Spike now. Before the device could detonate, there’s rapid gunfire and an echoing whoop. Where’s Ryan again? But the voice can only belong to Ryan, oh my! There’s heavy, clacking footsteps as Ryan rushes over with his knife out.
“Defenders down!” He chirps.
“Where were you?” Jon asks.
“No one told me. So I was in mid.”
“Well that worked out.” Brendon rolls his eyes. His hands are all sweaty from adrenaline and shooting.
“Uh huh.” Spencer hums.
“How’d you figure out how to do Spike that good?” Ryan asks, all smiley and breathless. “I thought you couldn’t.”
Spencer frowns. “What? I was… fine at Spike.” Then his eyes flick over to Jon and Brendon, who both grimace.
They both end up with red handprints on their cheeks and a dazed smile. This is really fun.