Archive of Our Own

Spencer shows up at Pete's General Store twenty minutes after it opens with a double tall latte in each hand, one already sitting his stomach, and forty dolls worth of babysitting and lawn mowing money jammed in his pocket. Pete glances up from his Blender as Spencer slinks in through the door amidst the tinkling of bells, chugging away at the second drink. He can feel pressure starting to push down hard on his bladder and a caffeine buzz simmer beneath his skin. Fuck, maybe he should have just jacked the economy size bottle of orange juice from the refrigerator.

"You look like someone stole your dog, fairy prince."

Pete is an asshole and not nearly as funny as he thinks he is. Spencer scowls and halfheartedly tries to flip him off, a gesture made largely impossible by the giant fucking cups of coffee in both hands, as he meanders casually over to the Forbidden Aisle. It's home to all the products people have to blush over when they buy; condoms, lube (available in plain, heat on contact, and three delicious flavors), tampons, pads, and pregnancy tests.

There's a box of condoms tucked in the back corner of Spencer's underwear drawer, sans however many he managed to catch in his fingers when he grabbed a handful on his way out the door to Mikey's house. He's got a half empty bottle of lube jammed between his mattress and the wall (plain, because the strawberry kind smelled funky when he popped open the cap, the grape tasted like cough syrup, and Mikey's allergic to bananas). If the day ever comes where he needs pads or tampons, he'll ask Ryan to take him out to the nearest field and kindly shoot him out of his misery.

Shit. Spencer shifts back and forth on the balls of his feet. It's really hard to be inconspicuous with Pete not even trying to pretend he isn't staring at him over the cover of Blender. He finishes the second latte and defiantly plops the empty cup on top of the aisle.

"Fucking Pete," Spencer mumbles under his breath, darting out a hand to grab the first box his finger tips lay on, made of soothing, pale purple cardboard with the navy blue outline of a pregnant chick on one side and pregnant guy on the other. It's possible Spencer hates them both, their serene posture and smiles drawn in with white shading. He slinks up to the counter and slaps down a handful of crumpled bills. "Gimme the bathroom key, please."

"Jesus Christ, Smith." Pete raises his eyebrows up so far they nearly disappear into his bad hair and Spencer fights back the urge to punch him in the nose and steal the bathroom key, hanging on the wall behind the cash register.

"Please."

"Of all the kids in this town," Pete intones as he unhooks the little bit of metal and tosses it over; Spencer nearly drops the third latte as he fumbles, but manages through sheer force of will to only have a little coffee slop over the rim and not drop the jangling key to the faded tile floor. "Who's the daddy, Smith?"

This time Spencer does flip him off as he darts to the back corner, hastily unlocks the bathroom door and throws himself inside.

Fifteen minutes later he comes out pale faced and maybe shaking just a little teeny bit. There are a couple more customers now, a few teenagers Spencer goes to school with wasting time on a Saturday afternoon because there's nothing better to do in a little town, a few people actually doing their grocery shopping, and some old folks getting cat food and canned beets. Spencer drops another handful of bills on the counter and heads off back down the forbidden aisle, grabbing a second test, this one soothing blue, as he makes for the bathroom again.

"Y'know it's not like poker," Pete calls as the door swings shut. "You can't keep trying for a better hand!" Spencer rolls his eyes, but even that's weak. His hands are shaking, and the walk across the store feels like miles. "You sure you don't want something to eat, Smith?" Spencer shakes his head, but Pete doesn't really seem to be listening at all, laugh braying out. "After all, you're eating for two."

Spencer can't stop himself. He bends at the knees, hands pressing against the worn denim against his knees and throws up all over the pavement in front of the store. He straightens after a minute, wiping the back of his hand across his lips and in through the window at Pete.

Spencer smirks.

--

When Spencer was fifteen, Ryan tried to teach him how to drive. It was a gesture more than anything, because Ryan wasn't actually the best driver ever, but it was the principal of the thing. Spencer's dad wasn't around much, and Ryan must have thought it was his duty or something.

That was where they found it first; this like, completely intact living room set with the most awesome armchair either of them had ever seen in their lives. Spencer was just glad that Ryan drove a truck.

"You want us to what?" Ryan had asked, and it's almost the same now, like a flashback or one of those movie montage moments where indie music swells and a lot of scenes blend together to create a certain mystique. Spencer would cue up Deathcab if he'd thought to bring along Transatlanticism. "You want us to what?" Ryan asks, brows raised, hips cocked, and Spencer would smile or snort or do something other than stare at the ground and his shuffling feet, but he feels sick enough as it is.

"The living room set. We need to move it to Mikey's." Ryan rolls his eyes. "Is this some weird mating dance you guys are doing? Are you gonna snuggle on the stupid chair and watch the stars or some shit?" Spencer winces at the 'mating', and after a minute Ryan winces too. "No fucking way, Spencer Smith. It's Mikey's?"

"No," Spencer says around the bile rising in his throat. "Ass. It's yours, obviously." Ryan doesn't even bother justifying that with a response, biting hard on his bottom lip and scratching at the back of his neck. "Mikey Way, man? Seriously?"

Spencer sighs, spitting indelicately, and when he straightens, Ryan's looking at him softly, which Spencer absolutely hates. "Mikey Way," he says, "Seriously."

Ryan goes a little nuts with the heavy lifting shit, huffing and puffing because he won't let Spencer help him haul anything into the bed of the truck. Half of Spencer is annoyed as all shit by the overprotective routine, because he's procreating, not crippled, but another part of him bites back a good half of the sarcastic comments that jump to mind as he leans against the side, hands laced over his stomach like he needs to protect it, the kid. His kid. His and Mikey's kid. Shit.

"I owe you," Spencer whispers, standing on Mikey's lawn with the sun just beginning to barely peek over the horizon. Ryan drops the armchair onto the sidewalk with a loud thud and gives Spencer a very pointed look. "No, shit, Spence. You owe me so fucking much."

The half dead remains of Mrs. Way's old flower garden end up getting crushed beneath the chair and Spencer feels a little bad for that, but he knows Mikey and Gerard both have death thumbs for any plants, so it's not like they're going to be that upset. Spencer flops down and the springs let out a low, comfortingly tortured screech, just like they always have. Ryan wipes his palms on the thighs on his pinstripe pants and folds his arms across his chest. "Hey, do you want me to come with you this afternoon for, you know, moral support?"

"No. It's fine. Just, you know. Pick me up? They say you're not allowed to drive ... after."

Ryan nods and leaves and Spencer sighs, remembering why Ryan is his best friend despite the fact that he can drive Spencer bat shit like very few other people alive. It's cool out and he shivers, hunching into his hoodie with his hands shoved into the pocket. Light floods over the horizon, spreading warm light over the slightly battered yellow paint of the Way house. He can't hear any movement from inside, but Gerard has weird artist hours and is never conscious before nine and Mikey is master of the fifteen minute get ready routine. Plus, he has a before school rehearsal and nothing, not even death, plague or Armageddon, can keep Mikey away from rehearsal.

"Hey, Mikeyway, I'm pregnant," Spencer whispers. "Guess what Mikeyway? You knocked me up. Shit. Want to hear something really funny Mikeyway? You impregnated me."

Spencer jumps a little when the screen door opens with quiet squeak of hinges. Mikey steps onto the porch and, just like the first time they met in middle school, something warm splashes in Spencer's chest at the sight of him, even at six thirty in the morning with dark circles ringing his eyes, mussed hair, and batman pajama pants. He's got his battered book bag slung across his chest, unbuckled, and leaving behind a trail of paper scraps, wrappers, and broken pins. "Spencer." He cocks his head, shifting his keys in his hand. "Hi."

Looking at Mikey, Spencer's throat goes dry. "Hi, Mikeyway."

"Why are you on my lawn?"

Spencer barks out an unexpected laugh. Fuck it. "So, guess what. I'm pregnant."

There's a long beat of silence as Mikey stares and it's only because Spencer has known Mikey forever and a day and is one of three people who can decipher the nuances of his bored expression he sees the way his eyes widen just a fraction as the muscle in his jaw starts to jump. "I. Are you sure?"

There are six more positive pregnancy tests shoved under the sink in Spencer's bathroom. "Yeah."

"Are you okay?" Mikey's brow creases and Spencer feels the unreasonable prick of tears at the corner of his eyes. Fuck. He's fine. It's a surprise, yeah, and sure as hell not what was supposed to happen, but he's going to have it taken care of in less than twelve hours, so. No harm, no foul.

"I'm fine. I'm taking care of it after school." Spencer stands, shouldering his backpack. "I just thought you should know. I guess."

"Okay." Mikey swallows. "I. I appreciate that?"

"Yeah." The need to cry burns stronger and Spencer can't figure out why. "No problem."

--

After homeroom, Spencer cuts into the bathroom, cell phone pushed against his ears, breathing heavy, heavy, heavy into the line waiting for the operator to answer. "Good morning, Women Now," her voice is pleasant enough, and it's someone different than who he'd talked to yesterday. Spencer can't figure out if that's a good thing or not. "Hello?" She asks again, because it's taking Spencer for-fucking-ever to say something. There are tears pooling low in his eyes, but he blinks them away. He has to.

"Um. Hello? Hi. Hi. My name is um. Spencer? Smith? I have an appointment for today?" She makes a clucking noise, something that's probably supposed to be soothing, and maybe motherly, but it just sets Spencer's nerves on end. "I um. I was just wondering if. I have an appointment for 3:30? I was wondering if there was anyway I could." He's expecting her to ask something, to further him along, but she doesn't, quiet and waiting for him. "Move it up? I just. Would noon be good? I mean. I know it's not like. I just. Please?" His voice breaks on the word, and he's holding his breath, just hoping.

"Noon?" She asks, and her voice doesn't sound any different at all. "Noon, I think we can do, Spencer."

--

When the bell rings to end fourth period, Spencer follows the flow of students down the hallway, veering away at the last moment to slip out through the front doors instead of pouring into the cafeteria along with everyone else. He catches the bus two blocks down and spends the entire fifteen minute ride sitting right by the driver with his backpack on his lap, staring out the window at the store fronts slipping by. He gets off a stop early, because he doesn't want to feel the eyes of the other passengers between his shoulder blades if he got off right in front of the pointedly inconspicuous Women Now (which is a really shitty name for the place, to be honest) building.

He scuffs his sneakers on the pavement as he walks, humming one of the loud metal rock songs Mikey likes to play while he's memorizing lines. It'll be a relief to have things taken care of, Spencer thinks as he steps off the curb and into the parking lot in front of Women Now, he's so not ready to deal with something like this, it's not even funny.

Of course, because Spencer's life is perpetually cursed in a kind of darkly funny way, he recognizes the one person standing the required amount of feet away as mandated by law, wearing an ugly brown coat with a bowl haircut, braces, and red glasses that could be kitschy if paired with cooler clothes, but end up just being tragically dorky. "Choose life! Choose life!" He yells as Spencer shuffles up, eyes firmly fixed on the ground. "Hi, Spencer."

"Hi, Brendon." They have two classes together, band and Algebra II. Brendon moved from Utah back in freshman year and he's from one of the, like, grand total of three Mormon families for a hundred miles.

"Are you ... ?" Brendon waves his hand in the direction of the door and Spencer wants to throw up again. "Yeah."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

Brendon shifts back and forth on the balls of his feet, as though he's slightly perplexed as to how someone he personally knows could ever need the services offered by Women Now. The funny thing is, Spencer is totally with him there. "Did you know your baby has fingernails?"

Fuck.

Spencer's been doing fairly well picturing it as an amorphous group of cells pulsing away in some dark body cavity, like an alien waiting for the right moment to burst out of his stomach for the maximum gross out factor. But fingernails, fuck, fingernails conjures up the image of fingers and toes which leads to hands and feet and arms and legs something that's not an it but a kid. "Fingernails?" Spencer echoes and Brendon nods solemnly. "Shit."

It's almost like his feet act independently of his brain, turning him around and sending him bolting back toward the bus stop. "Fingernails," he mutters under his breath. "Fuck. Fucking fingernails."

--

Spencer's pacing on the sidewalk in front of Ryan's house, hands flitting over his stomach, and it's not like he can feel the fetus yet or anything -- fetus, Christ, but it's. Fuck, the thing has fingernails.

"Spence?" Spencer's been looking at Ryan's face for the past eleven years, he knows every facial expression, but he's never seen him so terrified. "Spence, what the hell, I was just going down there to pick you up, you shouldn't be -- did you drive? What the hell, Spencer." The less inflection there is in Ryan's the worse it is, and Spencer winces.

"Did you know that it has fingernails?"

Ryan blinks. "What? Spencer, what?"

"Do you remember Brendon Urie?" Ryan blinks again, twice, three times in quick succession, head tilted to the side. "Brendon Urie? What? Spencer. What the hell does that have to do with anything? Are you. How the hell did you get here," Spencer's starting to get dizzy; he walked all the way from the center of town, and he's a little thirsty and he needs to fucking pee, he always needs to lately, so he sinks to the bottom step, breathing in and out and trying not to hurl again.

"Spence -- "

"I can't. I can't do it, Ryan. I can't."

Ryan, god bless him, knows when to be quiet, Ryan knows how to be really fucking quiet, but now is not one of those times. "So what. You're going to keep it? Sixteen and alone and pregnant? You're gonna get fucking huge, Spence, and like, if you want to camp out here for like, the next six months, I don't think my dad'll notice, but yours might and -- "

"Ryan, Christ, can you stop?" Spencer's trying really, really hard to breathe. It's not working very well. "It has fingernails, Ry. It's a little person." He coughs wetly, closing his eyes around the tears in his eyes, and Ryan drops down next to him, hand squeezing his shoulder.

"It'll be okay, dude. I'll be the best fucking uncle Ryan ever."

--

It's one of those rare days in the desert where it's actually not too hot, where the sun stays just over the horizon line, exactly where it's supposed to be. They're leaning in the bed of Ryan's truck, sunglasses perched on their noses, listening to the faint strains of Mikey's (and what used to be Spencer's) band practicing. The window to the music room is open, and if Spencer just cranes his neck (and arches as straight up as he can, and sort of squints, a little), he can see Mikey, turning his bass, hair falling into his eyes, shielding his glasses.

"...of five." Ryan finishes with a flourish, or he must finish, because he's making this face that looks a little constipated and a lot expectant. "Spencer? Earth to fucking Spencer, stop looking at Mikeyway, okay? You have a sickness, do you hear me?"

"Of five?" Spencer asks, because it's easier than talking about Mikey. Or thinking about Mikey. Or, Spencer does the whole neck-crane-back-arch-squinting thing again and sighs; even looking at Mikey is a fucking hassle.

"Don and Gale West, looking to enrich their wholesome home with the an addition of a -- "

"It sounds like they're shopping for a couch," Spencer says, and when Ryan holds up the section of the paper with the picture on it, Spencer wrinkles his nose and winces. "No. No way, man. They look old." Ryan rolls his eyes, but he doesn't say anything, for which Spencer is profoundly grateful. "What was the of five, about?"

Ryan blinks. "Five of," he says, and Spencer winces again. "Man, I don't want to give the kid up to a couple who describes themselves as "wholesome", Ryan. I was looking for, maybe, a thirty-something graphic designer with a cool Asian girlfriend who kicks ass on the bass." Ryan snorts, looking in through the music room window himself, and Spencer's cheeks color. Maybe. "But I don't know," he continues. "I don't wanna get too particular."

Ryan pushes his sunglasses up past his nose and keeping his hair out of his eyes. "How 'bout this? There's no picture, but it sounds good, Spence. Twenty-nine year old jazz musician Patrick and stay-at-home husband Gabe -- "

"Stay at home? Seriously?"

"Baby'd be in the lap of luxury, man."

"Whatever," Spencer huffs, but he's listening. Ryan's quiet, and this is a test, Spencer knows it's a test, Ryan's making it Spencer's call, and he rolls his eyes because, god, Ryan is so fucking easy sometimes. "Keep going, Ross."

Ryan does.

--

Spencer and Ryan are sitting in the living room when his dad gets home a little before eight. The coffee table is covered in the detritus of a tense afternoon; dirty plates from reheated pizza and leftover Chinese food, an empty package of Oreos, and a small tower of soda cans. Spencer stiffens and Ryan's hand lands on his knee. "It's okay," he whispers and Spencer swallows hard.

His dad, Jeff, comes in through the garage door with a couple McDonald's bags in one hand and a cardboard holder of sodas in the other. There's food for Ryan, Spencer can tell, because his father accepted long ago that Ryan wasn't going anywhere and was nearly as much his son as Spencer. "I brought dinner, but I see you guys already got to it." He cracks a tired smile.

"Yeah." Spencer swallows hard. Fuck. "Hey, Dad, I need. I need to talk to you."

Jeff sets down the food as the worry line appears between his eyebrows. "What's up, kiddo?"

Panic claws insistently at Spencer's chest. His dad is going to hate him, he's going to be furious, he'd going to kick him out the house and Spencer's going to be sixteen, pregnant, and homeless. Shit, he's going to be some heart wrenching Dateline special.

"You have to promise me you won't freak out," Spencer pleads, lacing his fingers in Ryan's and squeezing tight. "You're going to freak out, but promise me you won't."

"Spencer." Jeff sits down on the edge of the coffee table and looks at Spencer with worry deeply written in his eyes. "Spencer, you are freaking me out. What's wrong?"

"Please, Dad, please promise me."

"Is it drugs?"

Ryan snorts.

"No, it's not drugs." Spencer inhales and deeply and shakes his head. Damn, hell, shit, fucking fucker. "Dad, I'm. I. I'm pregnant."

Jeff stares and Spencer honest to God thinks he's going to throw up all over his lap. "You're sexually active?"

"Apparently," Ryan chimes in.

Jeff clears his throat. "I. Christ, Spencer. With who?"

"Get this," Ryan continues, "Mikey Way. Who knew?"

"Mikey Way?" Jeff cocks his head. "Seriously?"

"Shut up, Mikeyway is awesome," Spencer snaps, shooting Ryan a pointed glare. "Dad, I know this is bad, but I have it all taken care of. I'm going to give it up for adoption. We even found a family and I'm going to go see them Saturday morning and get everything all arranged. I promise, I have everything under control."

Jeff sighs deeply and runs a hand through his hair. "Oh, Spence. Honestly kiddo, I kind of wish it was drugs."

Ryan laughs, snorting into his hand and Jeff huffs out a tired chuckle. Spencer, well, he doesn't want to laugh because it's very fucking not funny, except for the part where it is a little and he can't help but let out a soft little sounds that's a fair imitation of laughter.

--

The couple, Patrick and Gabe, live way the hell out in one of the private, gated, high communities named Spring Hill; it's a forty-five minute drive and Spencer gets twitchy after twenty. He needs to pee, he always needs to fucking pee, and his iPod battery is hovering very dangerously near dead. He switches it off and shoves it into the glove compartment, flicking the radio dial to try and find something palatable. It's hard, most of the stations wouldn't know a good song if it walked up and smacked them across the face.

"Crap," Spencer mumbles. Jeff raises an eyebrow, but doesn't say anything as they speed down the highway.

Five minutes pass like molasses and Spencer gives up, hauling out his phone and pressing down the two for Ryan on speed dial. It rings twice. "Are you there yet? Are they awesome? Are they baby eating monsters?"

"Fuck you." Spencer tips his head onto the window. "We're still like ten minutes away."

"Then why do you sound like someone just kicked your dog?"

Spencer sighs and closes his eyes, fingers drumming against his thigh. "What if they are awful?"

"Spencer." Ryan's voice remains pointedly monotone, but Spencer has known him too long to believe that shit. "Okay, think of it as buying a car. This is the test drive. If you don't like the way they handle, you can always go in for a different model."

"That's a really awful metaphor."

Ryan snorts. "Fuck you, I had come up with it off the top of my head. Seriously Spence, they sound great and it's not like you're gonna walk in, pop it out, and hand it over. There's still time. It's all good."

"Right." Spencer hangs up, inhales and exhales, and feels his heart skip a couple beats in his chest with the elegant, understand Spring Hill development sign comes into view.

--

"Be cool, okay, dad? Like, no making jokes, and no pulling out your wallet and showing them baby pictures of what I looked like what I was a baby, and no like -- "

"Spencer," Jeff says, and he sounds a little exasperated, but he's smiling a little, reaching forward to ruffle Spencer's hair. He stops a little short, hand suspended in the air, and Spencer winces, because this is the kind of thing that's been happening a lot lately. "I promise I won't embarrass you, kiddo." He says, quiet, and something hits Spencer, hard, in the stomach, because his dad isn't the embarrassment, his dad isn't the one who is fucking sixteen and pregnant.

"Dad, you're not -- " Spencer starts, and the door opens, which makes sense, because they're standing on some stranger's front porch. Patrick and Gabe must have been waiting for them, it makes sense. Spencer opens his mouth, ready to say, "Hi, I'm Spencer, let me give you the thing growing inside of me." He has it all planned, he and Ryan even wrote it out on cue cards and practiced hair tossing and Spencer knows all the cues.

Instead, his eyes practically bug out of his head. "Hi," the guy says, standing tall, taller than anyone Spencer's ever seen in his entire life, and he's. "Holy shit, you're Gabe Saporta."

--

Gabe Saporta is the lead singer of Midtown; okay, well, was the lead singer of Midtown until the idiot masses didn't get the brilliance of their third album and they kind of fell apart. Anyway. The point is, they get called a one hit wonder kind of band, which is completely fucking lame, in Spencer's humble opinion. Their first indie label album is genius, as is the third; but to be honest, the second one, home to the Big Hit, is a little bit lame, but people apparently like lame. Spencer has loved them since middle school, sitting on the steps with Mikey and a disc-man, sharing headphones.

And now he's standing in Gabe Saporta's living room, trying not to gape like an idiot and remember why he's there in the first place.

Spencer sits on the couch opposite Gabe fucking Saporta and his husband Patrick, who is short and a little bit round with reddish hair, sideburns, and a fedora. He tries not to stare, but he can't help it, he can't. He feels like a fucking broken record in his head, but it's GABE SAPORTA, the man who maybe/kind of/sort of got Spencer wondering if maybe he was into guys way back in those confusing middle school years when it seemed like everyone but him was starting to look at girls and like the weird bumps, not be freaked out by them, like Spencer was.

"So, we're completely willing to do an open adoption, if you'd like," Patrick says and that's enough to jerk Spencer's eyes away from where Gabe's sprawled languidly on the couch. "We'd send you pictures and keep you updated, even have meetings every now and then."

"No." The word comes out harsher than Spencer intended or expected. Patrick cuts off and Jeff looks at Spencer from the corner of his eye; even Gabe cocks an eyebrow and, fuck, they're all staring at him like he's an alien. "Look, I just, honestly? If I could take the kid out right now and give it to you I would. I'm not ready to be a parent, I am so not equipped for this, and I just think it would be easier to do it the whole old fashioned, sealed records, lock and key way."

Patrick glances at Gabe and Spencer really wishes Ryan were there to make a pithy comment.

"Of course we can do that if that's what you want," Patrick says kindly. "But you can always change your mind if you want to be involved later."

Spencer thinks there's probably not a delicate way to explain that he totally would have gone through with the Women Now plan had Brendon Urie not been standing in the parking lot and he's still not entirely sure why his mind seems to think it's a good idea to go through six more months of pregnancy and birth, but what're you gonna do? "I don't think I will. Um, do you have a bathroom? I gotta pee. I always gotta pee these days."

Gabe laughs and Spencer blushes. Patrick shoots Gabe a pointed look. "Yes, there's one up the stairs and to the right."

"Thanks." Patrick flinches, and Spencer stops himself before he climbs all the way up the stairs. "Thanks. I mean it." Patrick smiles at him, and it's beautiful, in a tragic way, and Spencer thinks that he likes him a lot in that moment.

--

Spencer pees, and it's like. It's like he's never peed before in his life, that's how much of a relief it is, and then, okay, Spencer is in GABE SAPORTA'S HOUSE. He has to call Ryan. He has to. "Aren't you there? Why are you calling me? Oh god, they were fakes, weren't they? Did they try and hurt you? Oh my god, Spencer, is your dad not okay? Do you need me to -- "

"Ryan." Spencer says breathless, because seriously, he is standing in Gabe Saporta's bathroom. "Gabe Saporta. Ryan. Bathroom. Gabe Saporta." He's well aware that he's not making any sense, but this is Ryan. If anyone can make sense of him, Ryan's it.

"Gabe Saporta? The guy from Midtown? What about him?"

"Bathroom, Ryan." Spencer says, and it's like he can almost see the light bulb flashing over Ryan's head. "Holy shit. Holy shit. The Midtown guy is one of the dads?"

"Uh huh," Spencer says weakly, because seriously, Gabe Saporta. "And you're standing in his bathroom, when you could be, I don't know, talking to him? Telling him how much of a geek you are for his band? Begging him for -- "

"Ryan Ross." Spencer says, starting to calm already, just hearing Ryan's voice. "Ryan Ross."

"Stop standing in his bathroom, Spence," Ryan says, clearing his throat. "And go stand somewhere else."

--

Spencer takes his time wandering back down the hallway from the bathroom and it totally doesn't count as spying, because if they leave the doors open then he is perfectly at liberty to poke his head in and make sure they don't have bloody axes or instruments of torture hanging the walls. He finds a study that's half clean, precisely and neatly organized, and half a maelstrom of papers and pens and an incredible amount of stuff. He privately thinks Gabe probably belongs to the messy half; y'know, chaos fostering creative genius and all that.

He pokes his head in the second open door and his jaw drops.

It's a musician's wet dream of a home studio in a room so big Spencer thinks it would probably be the master bedroom in any other house. There's a baby grand in the corner and a couple high end keyboards along the far wall. Guitars and basses line the walls, some of them expensive, some of them scarred, all of them beautiful. Set off the side is the kind of kit Spencer spends hours dreaming about, drawing on the covers of his notebooks, and seriously considering cashing in his college fund to get.

"God," Spencer whispers, taking an involuntary step inside. There are posters on the wall for old jazz musicians, old rock bands, new rock bands, all interspersed with grungy fliers like they paste on the walls to advertise underground shows. Jesus Christ, Spencer can see Gabe's fucking gold record from the second Midtown album.

"You a musician?" Gabe's amused voice cuts through the silence and Spencer jumps, taking a guilty step back.

"Sorry." He can feel color flame into his cheeks and he wants to go bash his head against the wall. "The door was open and I just saw the guitars."

Gabe shrugs. "It's not a problem. Come in." He pushes open the door and walks in, Spencer hesitant behind him. "And I repeat my question, are you a musician?

Spencer wanders over the drums, he can't help it. There's something vaguely familiar about the kit, but he can't put his finger on it. "Yeah, I drum."

"You know who those belonged to?" Gabe asks, kneeling down and flicking his finger on the cymbal. "A buddy of mine. Nate Navarro."

Spencer very nearly swallows his fucking tongue. "Nate Navarro."

Gabe laughs and stands, ruffling Spencer's hair. Normally he hates that kind of thing from anyone except his father (and even then it's entirely dependent on him being in an indulgent mood), but it's Gabe Saporta, so whatever. "Yeah, that's the kit from Ivy League's first tour, fuck, back before Vicky joined the band, even. He ran out of room at his place because the idiot likes living in a shitty little apartment in New York and asked if I wanted them. I'm a shitty drummer, Patrick's pretty good, but he'd always rather be on the piano, but I thought what the hell?"

"God," Spencer exhales, laying a finger on the rim. "That's so cool."

"Wanna play?" Gabe asks.

Really, there's only one right answer to that. "Fuck yeah."

--

Spencer barely has the sticks in his hands, barely gotten through the first half of Holiday -- "Play me something that's important to you," Gabe said, and it's not like Spencer could have picked his real favorite song, okay? He's not settling for Green Day, but. But.

But he's barely through the first couple bars of the drum bit when there's a shadow in the doorway, and Patrick is standing there. "Um. Hello. Spencer, I thought you were using the bathroom. Did you get lost?" Spencer drops the sticks, skin prickling, stretching tightly when he tries to smile.

"Hi. Um. Drums, I saw, and Gabe said."

"Gabe did." It's not a question, even though it feels like it should be, and Spencer kind of wants to die a little bit. From his corner, Gabe laughs, Gabe is always laughing, Spencer's noticed, which is something, which is interesting, and he's exactly how Spencer had always thought he'd be.

"Pattycake, relax," he says, standing and wrapping am arm around Patrick's shoulders. "Kid's a drummer. Baby's gonna come out just fine." His words snap Spencer out of whatever fantasy he'd been in, because right. Right. There's a baby. Inside of Spencer's stomach, Jesus.

"Right." Patrick says, and he tries to smile, or it looks like that's what he's trying to do, but it doesn't do anything to reassure Spencer, or the pressure that's tightening his throat. "Will you excuse me?" Spencer asks, standing before either of them can even answer.

He always needs to fucking pee.

--

By the time Spencer makes it back downstairs, Patrick and Gabe are back on the couch, his dad is picking at the collar of his jacket and looking awkward, and a man in a suit Spencer totally hadn't noticed with the blinding glare of Gabe Saporta in his eyes is shuffling out stacks of paper on the coffee table. Spencer zips up his hoodie and pulls down the sleeves; he feels uncomfortably exposed after that thing in the studio, like he caused something or witnessed something he wasn't supposed to.

"Hi." Patrick smiles and it seems more genuine. Spencer relaxes a fraction as he sits. "This is our lawyer, Brian Schecter."

Brian Schecter has tattoos, which is cool, and piercings, which is cooler. In fact, he's the most badass lawyer Spencer has ever seen and somehow that makes him feel both more at ease and more intimidated. Fuck, he's beginning to think that hormone spiel he read on the Internet is a little more true than he'd given it credit for. "Hey, I'm Spencer."

"Nice to meet you, Spencer." Brian smiles. "So, okay, here's the basic agreement. You agree to give your baby up for adoption to Patrick and Gabe, surrendering all parental rights. They'll pay for all medical expenses." He shuffles more papers as Spencer nods. Seems pretty easy. "Patrick said you don't want an open adoption?"

"Yeah." Spencer taps his thumb on his knee. "That's right."

"Okay."

Spencer exhales and feels unreasonably glad that Brian doesn't point out he can always change his mind.

--

On the road, Spencer texts Ryan, so he's sitting on the front porch when they pull up, in pajama pants and a sweatshirt, footing tapping against the warped boards. Spencer jumps out of the car and grabs Ryan's wrist, pulling him inside the house and up the stairs into his bedroom, slamming the door behind them. Ryan flops down on his bed as Spencer unzips his sweatshirt and tosses it into a corner of the room. "Ryan, fuck, Gabe Saporta. Gabe. Saporta."

"I heard." Ryan yawns. "What's he like?"

"He's aw-." Spencer chokes off the awesome, for no reason he can explain. "He's great. Ryan, he's so fucking cool. They have this studio in their house with all these guitars and basses and Nate Navarro's kit from the first Ivy League tour. Nate Navarro just asked if he wanted it. I mean, God, it's so...cool."

"What about Patrick?"

Spencer shrugs. "Patrick's fine. He seems a little uptight, but he plays the piano, so I guess he was probably just nervous or something."

"Hey, come here."

Ryan hooks his fingers in Spencer's belt loops and pulls him back and down onto the bed. Spencer obligingly falls down onto the bed, wriggling so his head's pillowed on Ryan's shoulder with their bodies tucked in close together. He's only got a full, so it's a bit of a tight fit, but he and Ryan learned a hell of a long time ago how to fit their bodies into spaces where they shouldn't have enough room. Ryan tucks his chin on top of Spencer's head and sighs. "So, like, I know it's Gabe Saporta and all, but they're really okay, right? I mean, for the kid to be with them?"

Spencer presses his face into Ryan's chest. "You know how in the movies whenever they show the perfect family they have this big, sunny house with pictures on the walls and matching furniture and you think, God, if only my life could be like that, everything would be okay?"

"Yeah."

"Well, that's them." Spencer huffs out a laugh. "I mean, that's who they are."

"Jesus." Ryan exhales. "And we found them in the fucking Penny Saver."

"Yeah, I know, it's kind of trippy." Spencer shifts onto his back, stretching his arms up over his head and pulling his tee shirt tight across his chest. He hears Ryan's breath catch in his throat, feels the way he goes utterly still for a split second. "What?"

"Baby," Ryan says softly.

Spencer cranes his neck and cocks his head. "What about it?"

"No, dude." Hesitantly, Ryan smooths his hand along Spencer's stomach, along the faint outline of a curve that was completely flat not so many days before. "You have a fucking bump. I just noticed."

"Yeah." Spencer rolls onto his side, back pressed against Ryan. "It's gonna get a lot bigger pretty fast, I guess."

Winter.

Spencer's dad actually calls and makes the appointment for Spencer's first ultrasound, which he kind of thinks is his way of apologizing for the fact that he can't get his work hours rearranged and be there. It's not a big deal, Ryan drives and really, Spencer was planning on having him there anyway, but he gets this funny pang in his chest when he walks up the medical center building without his dad for the first time in his life.

The waiting room for the ob-gyn is painted in the same soothing pastels as the pregnancy test boxes, which strikes Spencer as unreasonably funny for some reason. Really, what the hell is so fucking soothing about cotton candy pink and sunny yellow? All they do is make Spencer think he's never going to able to eat dinner mints again without having to pee or puke. He giggles at that and Ryan elbows him in the side, shooting him a pointed what the hell, you moron look, which only serves to make Spencer laugh harder.

Ten minutes later the nurse ushers them into the back and tells Spencer to lay down on the table and unbutton his jeans, the technician will be with them in a minute.

"The technician?" Ryan echoes, sounding distinctly unimpressed. "They don't have a doctor do this?"

"The doctor's are probably busy delivering babies." Spencer hauls himself up onto the table and flops back, wrestling with the button of his jeans. "Crap."

Ryan snickers. "I can't believe you can still get those buttoned. You're probably squeezing the kid in half with your girl pants."

"Fuck you," Spencer grits out as the button gives and the door swings open to reveal a tech in a white coat with a sever bun and the highly veiled, vaguely disapproving look Spencer has come to expect for ninety-five percent of people he has to deal with on a daily basis. Christ, it's like the world has never seen a teenager who made a mistake before.

She doesn't say much, just fiddles with the machine, pushes Spencer's shirt out of the way and covers his belly in goop so cold it sends shocks up his spine. Ryan situates himself in the chair next to the table and unobtrusively links his fingers in Spencer; the tech glances at their hands and makes a face and Spencer gets it and remembers why he loves Ryan. He'll let people think he fucked up even when he didn't, if it means making Spencer's life easier. She pulls out the magic viewing wand, which is what Spencer calls it in his head, puts it to a spot to the left of his belly, punches and couple more buttons and, voila, the screen fills with something blurry and black and white that looks nothing like a baby.

"One moment here," she murmurs and Ryan's hand tightens around Spencer's. "Ah, there we go. There are the hands and the head."

It takes a long moment, but then Spencer blinks and suddenly he can see the rounded outline of the kid's skull and the little flippers of it's hand and, Jesus Christ, it's actually a kid.

"Spence," Ryan murmurs, "Look at that."

"Would you like a picture?" the tech asks, shifting the wand around on his belly.

"Yeah." Spencer smiles. "I can give it to Gabe and Patrick."

"Are those your friends?" The tech seems only distantly interested as she turns off the machine and pulls out a washcloth to wipe the goop away.

"No, they're the couple adopting the kid." Spencer pushes down his shirt and starts wrestling with his fucking button.

"Oh, that's good." She wipes her hands off and walks out before Spencer can wrap his head around the words.

"'That's good?'" Ryan echoes, "What a bitch."

--

Spencer wakes up the next morning to find that none of his pants fit, fucking Ryan and his fucking observations. He has a panic heart attack, standing in front of the full length attached to his closet door and trying to pull the two gaping sides of his girl's jeans closed. There's about an inch of extra room where his belly won't let the denim budge.

Spencer calls Ryan. It's pretty much all he seems to do lately, and he figures he turned into a girl when he got himself knocked up.

"Spencer? Christ, are you okay? It's quarter to six in the fucking morning." Spencer shuffles so that the phone is balanced in the crook of his shoulders and fusses with his pants again. They're still not budging and there are maybe tears starting to pool in the bottoms of his eyes.

"Ryan," he whispers in this tiny little voice, and he can hear the hiss and the hitch in Ryan's breathing as he sits up, the bed springs squeaking under even his minute weight. "Ryan, my pants."

"Oh god, did you go into labor? You are not supposed to do that, Spence. Not for another four fucking months, if there's water and you didn't spill it we need to call a doctor. Did your dad leave for work yet?" Spencer can hear him check his watch. "Fuck it's almost seven. Of course he did. Fuck. Okay, I'll be over in ten minutes. Do not move, okay? Okay? Spencer, answer me."

Spencer is trying very, very hard not to snort. Or simultaneously cry. "Ryan my water didn't break."

"Spencer, come on -- what?" Spencer clears his throat, wiping at his eyes with the back of his wrist. "What the fuck is wrong with your pants then, Smith?" His voice is flat, which could be angry, considering this is Ryan, but Spencer knows him better than that; he can hear the hint of amusement creeping in. He'd probably smile too, if the situation weren't so dire.

"My pants won't fit," he mumbles pitifully, and he has to hold the phone away from his ear when Ryan starts to laugh.

--

They skip school and go to the mall. Spencer was actually a good student before he became a Sexually Active At Risk Teen, so he doesn't have any other unexcused absences, and Ryan, well. Ryan is a special case all on his own.

"Mimi Maternity, Spence. They have a new guy's section with band t-shirts. For the low price of $39.99, you too can have William Beckett's face emblazoned on your pregnant tummy." Ryan reaches over and pats him, which Spencer loves and simultaneously hates, because Ryan isn't doing it in earnest, he's just being a condescending asshole.

"How about Big & Tall? They deal with wide loads all the fucking time, dude." Spencer is maybe, maybe terrified of the pregnant-lady store. Sure, ten percent of the male population can and does have the recessive Waterman-Reyes gene, but only three percent of that ten are actually gay, which is how most male pregnancies occur. So sure, there's a whole new section for guys -- men who's wives can't get pregnant, men who are far more in tune with their sexuality. Sure, it happens, but it doesn't happen much, and the second Spencer walks into one of those, he'll be as trussed as a stuffed chicken.

"Spence," Ryan snorts, arm wrapping around Spencer's shoulder. "You're not big or tall."

--

Two hours and a whole hell of a lot of ducking behind wracks to hide from salesclerks later, Spencer has a bag with three pairs of jeans and a couple tee shirts, and a promise from Ryan they'll hit up the local thrift stores on Saturday for band shirts and pajama pants big enough to stretch over his rapidly expanding belly. Spencer pays for smoothies as a thank you and, though they could probably make it back for the last two periods of the day, they decide they'd much rather wander around the mall. Spencer makes a quick pit stop in the bathroom to change, it's kind of sad how happy being able to button his fucking pants makes him, and they start making a slow circuit around the mall.

Halfway down they stop to lean on the railing, looking down at the little play area for the kids to chill on. For a split second, Spencer wonders what it would be like to be one of those parents sitting on the benches, watching their kids, or even maybe one of the really dedicated ones who gets down on their hands and knees to play with their spawn. But he shoves the thought away before it can go anywhere.

He almost misses Patrick, just barely catching sight of a fedora from the corner of his eye as he turns to go. "Hey, Ryan, look. That's Patrick."

Patrick's holding the hand of a little boy with a shock of dark hair, dressed in jean shorts and a bright red tee shirt, laughing over his shoulder to another guy with masses of brown hair, who has to be the kid's dad. Spencer smiles as he watches Patrick chase after the boy, catching him around the waist and tickling him until he's hanging upside, trying his best to squirm away.

"Hey, he really likes kids," Ryan says approvingly.

"Yeah, he does." Spencer laughs. "See, I told we picked a good family."

"No, you told me you were having a Gabe Saporta-gasm," Ryan teases, elbowing him in the side. "But he looks like he could be a good dad."

"I think he will be," Spencer says, "I mean, he's wound a little tight, but he really wants this kid. Okay, come on, no more creepy stalking."

Of course, ten minutes later, coming out of Hot Topic with a new Green Day shirt for Ryan, they round a corner and literally walk into Patrick with hair guy and kid in tow. "Oh, hi, Spencer." Patrick smiles and Spencer can't help but grin back. He's beginning to think Patrick really was just nervous that first day, which is kind of funny, the idea of someone being nervous about meeting him.

"Hey, Patrick." Spencer tugs at the hem of his new shirt. "Um, this is my friend, Ryan. Ry, this is Patrick."

"Nice to meet you," Patrick says sincerely, shaking Ryan's hand. "Wow, Spence, you've gotten ... uh. Bigger."

Ryan, the asshole, snorts and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like 'you have no idea' and Spencer none too subtly jams his elbows into the soft spot underneath his ribs."Yeah, I know. They tell me that's supposed to happen, with the whole kid and everything."

Patrick laughs, "That's what they say," and Spencer links his hands under the curve of his belly. The kid started moving a little before midnight a on a Wednesday a couple weeks ago and it seems like it hasn't stopped since then. Most of the time it's just a fluttering sensation, but every now and again it'll hook it's foot on his ribs or something or press up on his lungs and it almost hurts. It's been one of those days; Spencer half wonders if maybe the kid liked being squeezed into girl jeans.

"Ow," Spencer mumbles, "Knock it off."

"Are you okay?" Patrick's eyes go wide and Ryan gives him a look. God, everyone treats him like he's going to break. "No, I'm fine, kid's just kicking soft parts."

"Oh." Patrick's face goes soft and yearning and, yes, Spencer's sixteen and kind of feeling his way blind through this whole pregnancy bit, but he's not stupid. He passes his smoothie off to Ryan and smiles. "You wanna feel? It's easiest to right under my bellybutton."

Patrick kneels down and hesitantly puts his hands on Spencer's stomach. His fingers and warm and gentle and Spencer has to bite back the urge to sigh because, of all the weird things that the kid has done to his body, it feels really good when people touch his bump. Patrick goes utterly still for a long moment than shakes his head sadly. "I don't feel anything."

"Hey, you gotta be patient," Spencer urges, laying his own hands on top of Patrick's, gentle and guiding them to the right spot. "There. Hey, maybe trying talking to it?"

Patrick chuckles. "I wouldn't know what to say."

"Well, you could like. Sing to it. You're a musician, right?"

Patrick blushes bright red and his friend smirks like Spencer's missing some joke, but nonetheless, he bends down to Spencer's bellybutton and starts singing something jazzy and old sounding very quietly, about birds and fish and everything under the sun falling in love. Spencer's not a jazz fan, it's just too slow or too brassy for his taste, but he likes the song and he loves Patrick's voice. Apparently the kid does too, because it pushes hard enough for Spencer to feel it through Patrick's hand. "There, you felt that, right?"

"Yeah," Patrick breaks into a beam that makes Spencer feel like a good person for a split second. "I did."

--

Spencer forgets. He totally forgets that he has an extra copy of the ultrasound picture in Ryan's car, forgets that he got it for Patrick in the first place. Ryan drops him off at home just in time for him to see his dad's car in the drive.

He pushes into the house, just to drop his bags off on his bed and to grab the keys.

He's in the car before he even knows it.

--

Gabe answers the door. Which Spencer wasn't expecting, but he probably should have been, considering that when he'd left Patrick at the mall, an hour ago, he hadn't looked even remotely ready to leave. "Hey, little pregnant dude. What brings you out here?" Spencer blinks, because god, Gabe Saporta. He can't fucking believe that he now knows Gabe Saporta.

"Uh. Hi." Gabe laughs. He always seems to be fucking laughing.

"Uh. Hi," he mocks, and Spencer would scowl if this were anyone other than Gabe Saporta. God, that will never stop being cool.

"So I um. We had the. Um. Ultrasound yesterday. And I brought you guys a copy." He tries sort of smiling the way Ryan's always telling him best shows off his teeth since the braces got taken off. He's holding it out, trying not to look too hard (even though he's memorized what it looks like, already), and Gabe takes it, smile dipping but still there, pushing up the corners of his mouth just a little.

"Well look at that," he says, laughing a little, the sound ripped from his throat almost like it was unexpected, and Spencer gets a little shiver in his shoulders. They're still standing in the doorway, Spencer realizes, and even though this is Nevada in December, he's still a little cold. Gabe seems to get it as soon as he does -- and seriously, Spencer could like, come in his pants with glee (can the pregnant actually come? Spencer's done a lot of research on male pregnancy, but the subject of that had certainly never come up), because he just had a mind-meld moment with Gabe fucking Saporta. "Pregnant!Spencer come on, get your ass in here."

"I really -- I really shouldn't. I just came by to bring um -- "

"Hey," Gabe says, hand on Spencer's arm. "Get in, man. You are our little incubator after all. We've gotta keep you warm."

--

Spencer remembers being in seventh grade and spinning these elaborate fantasies where he miraculously met the members of Midtown and they loved him to death and he ended up getting to hang out with them all the time, so the irony isn't lost on him that he should find himself sitting on Gabe Saporta's couch in Gabe Saporta's entertainment room, bonding over a random shared love of terrible horror movies from the seventies and eighties. Life, Spencer thinks as he drains the last of a ginger ale, watching introspectively as a blond girl's head goes flying, is sometimes really fucking weird.

"See, that's totally wrong. There would be way more arterial spray if her head got cut off," Spencer comments.

"That's not the point," Gabe protests, "It's the aesthetic of the way the blood spurts against the wall." Spencer snorts and mumbles something like, "Gorgeous aesthetics, my ass." Under his breath, and Gabe snorts a little, just turning to look at him. Spencer can feel the color spreading fast across his face, and he clutches the pillow he's been holding closer to his stomach.

"Are you trying to tell me that The Texas Chainsaw Massacre isn't the greatest horror film you've ever seen?"

"I like that you call it a film," Spencer says, and then he's surprised at himself, but he doesn't take it back. Gabe's laughing again anyway. "'course I do, little incubator. It's a masterpiece. It's fuckin' art, is what it is." Gabe tweaks at his cheek, and the breath Spencer sucks in bounces off the walls, it's so loud.

"And I'm saying that the original is much better than the one with Jessica Biel."

--

Arterial spray leads to a conversation on the difference between the gross out factor vs. true fright and Gabe hauls out Saw, pointedly ignoring Spencer's protests that his gag reflex is ridiculously sensitive these days, so if he upchucks smoothie and pretzel all over the very expensive leather couch it's totally not his fault. Spencer kicks his feet up on the coffee table and Gabe disappears downstairs and returns with ginger ale, Twinkies, and a bowl of popcorn. It's nice and easy; Gabe keeps up a running commentary that has Spencer alternately in stitches and resisting the urge to clap his hands over his eyes.

The funny thing is, he doesn't realize he's tired until he's waking up from a doze to the sound of the front door opening, with twenty minutes having slid by in the movie without him being aware.

"Gabe?" Patrick appears in the doorway, holding an armful of plastic grocery bags

"Hi," Spencer says fuzzily, through a jaw cracking yawn. He feels like his brain is moving two speeds slower than usual as he pushes himself up, bushing crumbs off his belly.

"Hi, Spencer." Patrick's brow creases. "What are you doing here?"

"Baby." Spencer waves his hand, searching for the right word. "Baby pictures. Y'know, ultrasound. They took films of the ultrasound and I brought you a copy."

"It's downstairs on the counter," Gabe offers, voice low and amused. Patrick's face tightens for a moment and Spencer feels the room fill with the same weird thing he caught in the studio the first day he met them. "I should probably go."

"Right." Patrick shakes his head and smiles, turning back to Spencer and suddenly looking like the same person in the mall who played with hair guy's little kid and sang to Spencer's belly. "Thanks for bringing the picture. I, ah, we really appreciate it."

"Yeah, it's no problem." Spencer pushes himself up, zipping his hoodie and grabbing his bag. "It's gonna be your kid, after all."

Gabe barks out a laugh and Spencer can see Patrick swallow. "Right."

"So, yeah. I'm gonna go. Bye." Spencer slips past Patrick and darts down the stairs, wondering what the hell that was all about.

--

Spring.

It's not like Ryan minds, Ryan's been saying that he doesn't mind sixty-three times a day, every day since they found out Spencer was pregnant and Spencer simultaneously stopped spending all of his free time with Mikey. Ryan says he doesn't mind, but Spencer's also known him since he was six; Ryan is a solitary creature, he likes dark rooms and heavy books with titles Spencer can barely pronounce, let alone comprehend.

"You should totally like, take a break, Ross. I'm sick of seeing your face," is what he ends up saying into the phone, wincing, because it's not true, and Ryan's done more for him than Spencer can ever actually repay.

"Spencer," Ryan says, voice tight and heavy with warning. It doesn't escape Spencer that Ryan has known him since elementary school and scabbed knees and buck teeth too. He can see through the bullshit just as well as Spencer can. "Unless you give me a good explanation I am coming over there in fifteen minutes and we're going to watch King Kong so you can feel manly and The Notebook so you can get your tears out. The books say -- "

"I think I'm going to go see Mikey. Um. Maybe. I." Ryan's breath hitches and Spencer shivers a little, wishing that his body wasn't so fucking weird.

--

It's officially spring and plenty warm, so Spencer zips himself into a hoodie and walks. He's not a big fan of driving on a normal day, so trying to go anywhere with the plastic of the wheel flush against his belly makes him so nervous he can barely push down on the gas pedal, much less actually get anywhere. He scuffs his feet on the pavement as he walks, arms linked around his belly. It's kind of funny how his feet know the way to Mikey's house, even as his brain flips back and forth between vaguely terrified that Mikey's not going to want to see him and fucking excited as all hell that maybe Mikey will really want to see him.

Spencer climbs up the steps and hesitates for a split second before pushing open the front door without knocking. He never used to knock and hell, now they really are family (which is funny in the kind of way that makes his chest ache). The house is quiet, except for the soft sounds of Mikey's bass floating down the stairs. Spencer swallows hard as he climbs the stairs to the second floor. "Mikey?" There's no answer, which means he's probably got his headphones plugged in. "Mikey?" Spencer pushes open his bedroom door.

Mikey's sitting on his desk chair, crouched over his bass with his glasses down on the end of his nose, brow furrowed in concentration. He jumps when he sees Spencer, fingers fumbling on the strings and Spencer suddenly feels like an intruder. "Hi, Mikeyway."

"Hi. Spencer. Hi." Mikey jerks off his headphone and leaves them hanging around his neck. "I. Um. Hi."

"Hi."

Mikey nods. "Hi."

"So, I just thought I'd stop by." Spencer tries for casual and fails pretty miserably, but Mikey doesn't seem to care. "Wanna come in?"

--

They end up watching a Family Guy marathon, which is what they used to do anyway, and it almost feels normal until Spencer gets up to pee, and then again fifteen minutes later, and then again seven minutes after that.

"Sorry. I just," he mumbles awkwardly, gesturing down towards his stomach where it's more now than just a little bump. He's getting to be the size of a whale and Mikey's too nice to say anything, and Ryan wouldn't ever, and it's not like Spencer's dad is ever home. He's a whale and he's lonely and he just. It's weird, because it's not like they did a lot of talking in the first place, but Spencer's just missed the sound of Mikey's voice.

"Oh, no. Yeah. I know. I read the book. Books? It was more than one definitely, because like. The first one I got was more about the female reproduction system, which was like, helpful? But not exactly what we're dealing with, and it's weird, because it's not like this is a new phenomenon, you know? So then I looked online, because they have everything there and." He stops, blinking, because Spencer is just staring at him. To be perfectly honest, Spencer can't help it. "So pee." Mikey finishes, and then he ducks his head, cheeks coloring.

Spencer's not a blusher by nature, but he can feel the sweep of heat across his own cheeks too.

The funny thing is, he kind of likes that Mikey gives him permission to pee, if only because it means he hasn't completely forgotten about Spencer in the past months. "Okay. I will."

--

That weekend, Ryan gets antsy, so they end up spending Saturday night wandering around town, stopping at Burger Barn for a double cheeseburger, large fries and a vanilla shake for Spencer and a small diet coke for Ryan. There's not a whole hell of a lot to do in their suburb and Vegas is really only fun once you turn twenty-one, but it's better than spending another night curled up on Spencer's bed with a movie and junk food. The usual Saturday night high school crowd stares and whispers, but Spencer hardly noticed anymore.

"Hey, Ryan," Spencer mumbles under his breath as they throw their trash away. "Guess what? I'm pregnant, aren't you surprised?"

Ryan snorts. "No, really? I'm stunned by this unforseen turn of events."

The music store is always crowded on the weekends, so Ryan steers them toward the art supply store, Brushes, so he can stock up on charcoals and drool over an ink set he's been lusting after for the better part of three months. Spencer wanders off as he sorts through the boxes, looking for exactly the right pencils; his artistic ability is limited to stick figures, lopsided circles, and crooked lines, but he likes browsing the shelves and looking at the thousands of colors of paint, brushing his fingers across the different papers. Mikey can draw, though he tends to stick to sharpie sketches on his arms and notebooks.

Spencer pauses to look at a package of like three hundred markers in every color he can think of when a familiar voice breaks into his wandering thoughts on Mikey. "Spencer?"

Gerard's standing at the end of the aisle in ragged black jeans, a black tee shirt, and an unzipped black hoodie. His hair is messy, just like always, and he's got a couple sketch pads and a package of colored pencils tucked in his arm. Spencer smiles awkward and tries to fold his arms across his chest, but can't for his belly, so ends up hugging his stomach. "Hi, Gee."

"You're pregnant," Gerard says, eyes widening.

Oh shit.

Sometimes, Spencer thinks, sometimes Mikey is an asshole.

"Yeah." Spencer nods. "I'm gonna go out on a limb here and guess Mikey didn't talk to you about this."

"He really didn't." Gerard swallows and smiles crookedly. "It explains the whole prom thing, though."

Spencer's stomach dips and twists and, for once, it has nothing to do with the kid's feet mashing into sensitive body parts. "Prom thing?"

Gerard makes a face like he's said something he didn't mean to and, for any other reason, Spencer would let it pass. "Yeah, I thought it was weird he wasn't taking you." Spencer ducks his head, trying to swallow down the heavy thing in his throat. "He's taking Adam Siska."

"Oh." Spencer hears white noise and feels unreasonable, irrational tears burn the corner of his eyes. "Oh. I. I have to go."

The art store isn't that huge, so when Spencer rushes down the hall, it makes a lot of sense in the weird tragicomedy that is his life, that Ryan would be standing there, arms full of the random sorts of art supplies artistic dudes like Ryan actually use.

"Spence?" He asks, just as Gerard calls his name too, and Spencer just. He can't. He can't handle being pregnant, and deal with fucking Mikey and Sisky and reading the books, and god. God, sixteen year-olds should definitely not be getting pregnant. There are way too many fucking hormones. "Spence?"

"Gotta get out of here, Ry," he whispers, unable to speak in anything higher than that without his lungs feeling like they're about to cave in. He can hear all of Ryan's supplies hitting the parquet floor, and he'd feel bad, but as it is, his entire body feels like it's collapsing, and he's the most ridiculous individual alive.

It's started to rain, which makes a lot of fucking sense, since neither of their houses is closer than a quarter of a mile away, and sure, the doctor prescribed exercise, but not like this, not while wet. Shit.

"Spencer Smith, what the hell."

Spencer's shaking and it's not even because he's cold, it's not even because he's drenched and his fucking hoodie won't zip up. "He doesn't even care, Ry," he whispers, and he knows he sounds fucking retarded, but it hurts. It hurts even more than the kid kicking. He shudders out a breath and pushes his bangs away from his forehead. "He doesn't even fucking care, and I." He let's out a breath and doesn't even know what he's saying anymore. "I kept it because it was. I kept it because it was Mikey's. Mine and Mikey's and he doesn't. He's going to prom, Ry. He's going to prom with fucking Sisky, and I. He didn't ask me. He didn't even. I mean, I couldn't have gone, that's like. It's like, the day before the surgery, but I was with him like, two nights ago and he didn't even -- " Spencer can breathe anyway, and the rain is mingling with the tears squeezing out of his eyes.

And then Ryan does what Ryan does best, pulling Spencer close, squishing the kid between them and kissing at his ice-cold forehead.

"It'll be okay, Spence," he says, voice tight and oddly serious. "Now get your ass back inside the store before you get pneumonia and I have to explain to the nice man why he won't be getting any children."

--

That night, laying in bed, Spencer pulls up his tee shirt and rubs at the stretched tight skin across his belly, thin and weirdly soft, and promises himself he won't say anything to Mikey. They never made promises to each other after all, not a single fucking one, at least not that had to do with Spencer and Mikey becoming SpencerandMikey. It, the kid, was an accidental bi-product from one afternoon, and it's not like Mikey owes him anything.

It's all very cool and very logical and it lasts all of twenty second after he runs into Mikey during lunch. He's finishing up, dumping his trash and working on a slurpee when suddenly Mikey's right there, knock kneed and perfect, pushing his glasses up on his nose and pulling out his headphones.

"Hi, Spence." He jams his hands into the pocket of his hoodie.

Cool and logical, Spencer thinks, it's fine. "Are you really taking Sisky to prom?"

Mikey hunches up his shoulders and worries on his bottom lip and Spencer can't help but have a single moment of triumph on calling Mikey out on ... something. Fuck. He doesn't know. "Yeah. I mean. I didn't think you. Wanted. You know."

"Right." Spencer nods and rocks on the balls of his feet. "I have the thing the next day."

"Yeah, and Sisky and I are friends. Seemed like. Fun."

Okay, the thing is, until he saw Gerard in the art store, Spencer would have said he liked Adam Siska. Everyone likes Sisky. He's funny and goofy and he plays bass like a badass and right now Spencer kind of wants to stab his eyes out with a dull spoon. "Yeah, but Sisky. His house smells like soup."

Mikey cocks his head. "Yeah, but. Prom isn't at his house. And I like. I like soup, Spence."

"That's not the point." Spencer shakes his head.

"Look, Spencer, he's not you." Mikey shifts. "I wish. I wish he was, but."

Logically, Spencer thinks that should make him feel better. But it doesn't. It's so fucking monumentally unfair that it isn't him, that he's going to be sitting at home with his fucking whale sized stomach and a fucking movie, thinking about his stomach being cut open so their kid can come out while Mikey's at prom with fucking Sisky, having fun and dancing and being a stupid, loud, happy, fucking teenager.

"Fuck you," Spencer snaps and, without thinking, he upends the rest of his slurpee on Mikey's stupid, flat ironed head and stalks away.

--

Spencer doesn't even think about it. He cuts the rest of the day because he can't stand being stuck in the same building as stupid fucking Mikey Way, and even though his house is a mile away from the high school, the sun is out and high and it takes him less time than he would have thought, getting there. His dad has the day off, one day in a three week rotation, and Spencer can tell he's asleep by the snores rumbling the floorboards. It takes Spencer less than a second to find the keys, even though his hand shakes when his fingers close around the metal.

He pauses in his room to change, pulling on a fresh shirt and his only other pair of sneakers.

He doesn't think about why.

--

Gabe seems a little surprised to see him, which, okay, makes sense as it's a little after one on a Thursday and every other normal sixteen year old is in school, but Spencer really doesn't care, and he's not exactly normal. He maybe started crying in the car on the way over, hot tears falling down over his cheeks, but he's fine now, it's all good and he doesn't give a shit about fucking Mikey or fucking Sisky, he's fine. Gabe lets him in without comment, face twisted into a wry little smile, and he doesn't ask if Spencer is okay. Spencer is fucking sick of people asking if he's okay.

"Patrick's not here," Gabe says, "Wanna to give those drums another go?"

Gabe Saporta is a saint.

It's a little awkward, having to rearrange himself around his belly, sitting just a touch too far back, but damn if it doesn't feel good to bash them hell out of the kit, ripping the rhythms and notes from the drums in sounds so hard and loud it's almost painful. His kit is in the Way garage, which seemed like a good idea at the time because they always practiced over there and it's not like a whole kit can just be picked up and moved like Mikey's bass.

Mikey, Mikey, fucking Mikeyway.

He finishes with a crash and slumps over, feeling wrung out and not a whole hell of a lot better. Gabe raises an eyebrow and chuckles. "You're a fucking good drummer, incubator." He kneels down beside Spencer and lays a hand on his wrist. "Ah. You okay?"

Spencer shakes his head and swallows, setting the stick on one of the drums. "I'm fine. I'm. Fine."

"Right." Gabe huffs out a laugh. "You sure about that?"

"Yes. No. I don't know. Life. It's just sucks sometimes." Gabe laughs, just tips his head back like he knows, and if Spencer weren't forty-six fucking pounds overweight and carrying a small, alien life force in his stomach, he would fucking punch the shit out of him. It's a funny kind of thought to have, but in this particular moment in time, Gabe isn't, OMG, GABE SAPORTA FROM MIDTOWN! He's a guy that's being an ass.

Spencer's had it up to here with those.

"I really want to -- "

"God, you're cute. You know you're fucking precious, don't you?" Spencer blinks down where Gabe is kneeling, because what? What the fucking hell? "Are you blind?" Spencer asks, and he knows it's kind of rude, but whatever. He aches all over and he drove, which means he has to drive back, and god, does driving suck when you're pregnant.

"What are you talking about, incubator?" That's the last straw, really. Spencer starts to push at Gabe's shoulder, completely forgetting that he's not exactly sitting levelly, or that Gabe is bigger and thus stronger than he is, and oh, right, that he's pregnant, so his center of gravity is completely thrown off.

"I have a name, okay? I have a name and it's Spencer and I'm more than your fucking incubator, okay? God." The thing is though, Gabe's laughing, not little, circumspect chortles, either, these huge belly laughs that make Spencer want to kick him, hard and in the face.

"Okay, okay," Gabe laughs, and then he's straightening up, one hand settling on Spencer's arm, right below his elbow and the other just on his neck. "Spencer." Spencer mumbles something that sounds a lot like, "thank you," under his breath, but Gabe is close, closer than he had been, closer than anyone's been since Mikey, to be honest, and it. Well. It doesn't feel as good as Spencer thought it would.

It's a moment, a single moment of Gabe's lips pressed against his and, God, Spencer has kissed Ryan with more heat. It's nearly chaste and Spencer has a split second of oh my God, I'm kissing Gabe Saporta before bile rises harsh in his throat and the utter fucking wrongness of it blares through his brain. He jerks back, biting down hard enough on the inside of his cheek to taste the faint copper tang of blood. "What are you doing?"

Gabe blinks and swallows. "Spence, I have it."

"Have what?"

"The same thing as you." He gestures inelegantly to Spencer's swollen stomach and Spencer feels like he's been punched.

It's like his world is reluctantly shifting, truths and realities and beliefs all grinding painfully against each other and all he can think about is Patrick singing to his belly, smiling in wonder and that this is the man who is supposed to raise Spencer's kid. "You can't. You shouldn't. What about Patrick?"

"He doesn't know." Gabe laughs and, god, if Spencer ever hears that laugh again he's either going to cry or throw something. "I never told him."

"Why?" Spencer demands, breath coming in gasps that hurt. "Why wouldn't you tell him that?"

"You don't understand." Gabe stands. "You're just a kid."

"So what?" Spencer pushes himself and fuck, he doesn't care that he more than a few inches shorter than Gabe, that he's very pregnant and very unbalanced and very much about to break down right there. He's sixteen, but he's also been through more in the last seven months than some people will ever go through in their entire lives. "I still know the difference between fucking right and wrong."

"Is there a difference?" Gabe asks, lips quirked up, like usual, like he's the only person in the world that knows the joke, and seriously that's just fucking it. "Fuck you," Spencer says, and he's angry, he's so fucking angry, which is why the sobs choking past his throat and the tears streaming down his cheeks are so surprising.

By the time he hits the main floor he can't breathe, he's crying so hard, and he can hear Gabe moving around upstairs, occasional snatches of his name. There's no way Spencer's staying, no way Spencer's going back up there. He pushes into the kitchen, hands shaking so hard that he can barely hold onto his keys and that's when he runs into Patrick.

"Spencer?" He looks startled and a little shocked, which makes a lot of sense, considering the state of Spencer's face and the fact that it's only two in the afternoon and oh yeah, that Spencer's the father of his unborn child. "Spencer?" There's a touch on the arm that accompanies this, and Spencer wants to shake him off right-the-fuck-now, except this is Patrick and Patrick actually hasn't done anything wrong.

"I'm fine," he manages to choke out. "Patrick, really, I'm okay, it's just." And then he goes really far in disproving his words, because he starts crying again, little hiccups pushing their way past his lips of their own volition.

"Spencer, what happened?" It's almost like a movie, that's how ridiculous Spencer's life is, because that's the exact moment when Gabe pushes into the kitchen too, grin as always, present.

"Hi honey," he coos, condescending tone at the ready as he looks at Spencer, eyes narrowed into slits and completely clashing with the shape of lips and teeth at his mouth. "You're home early."

Spencer's trapped between them, leaning against the wall and crying; he can't help it. Patrick looks at him and looks at Gabe, gaze flicking between Spencer's tears and Gabe's sneer and, the worst part is, it isn't horrified shock that dawns in his eyes, it's horror, yes, but weariness, here we go a-fucking-gain exhaustion. "You didn't. God. Jesus fucking Christ, Gabe, what the hell is wrong with you?"

The perfect family Spencer saw the first time he walked through the door is unraveling in front of his eyes and it's his fault, it's entirely his fault. Gabe laughs, low and ugly, arms folded defiantly across his chest, glaring at Patrick. "Don't act so surprised."

Patrick ducks his head, inhales and exhales, hands clenching into fists at his side and, god, Spencer can't stop crying. "I can't. I can't do this anymore." He sounds heartbroken and determined, almost surprised at the words coming out of his mouth. "I can't do this again, Gabe. I can't. I'm done." The word rings final and Gabe's laughter chokes off.

"Fuck that, Pat. You can't live without me. You know how good we are together." He slides a palm across across Patrick's cheek, and he flinches, eyes cold under his glasses. "Christ, you really mean it." It's not a question and Patrick doesn't answer.

"Get out," Patrick says quietly, and logically, Spencer knows Patrick's not talking to him, but he can't help it. He lets out a sob and runs, pushing past Patrick and out the door. He did this. He ruined everything.

--

Spencer stays in his car until it's dark, he can't hear what's going on in the house, obviously, but he can't make himself leave either. His hands are shaking so hard he knows he can't drive, so he's just sitting there, watching an entire life crumble through a picture window, and still he can't help marveling at how beautiful they both are.

After a while, Spencer can't tell what time it is because the red numbers on the dash are blurred through his tears, Gabe slams out of the house, pulling on a coat, pulling a bag tighter across his waist, and Spencer's breath catches a little, but for the first time since they've known each other, it's not because he's Gabe Saporta from Midtown; it's because Spencer's seen inside of him, and he can't quite believe it's possible.

Gabe slams his fist on the hood of Spencer's car as he passes and Spencer jumps, slinking down in the seat as Gabe stalks off toward his own car, throws himself in and roars away.

Spencer looks back to the living room window and he can see Patrick standing there, face painfully blank and, maybe it's selfish, but Spencer has to know. He climbs out, feeling Patrick's eyes on him as he walks across the lawn and up to the porch. The front door is still open; Spencer takes a deep breath and says a prayer, not caring that he has issues with religion, because sometimes you need all the help you can get.

"Patrick?" He steps inside, arms tight and protective around his belly.

"Hi, Spencer." Patrick appears from the living room, eyes red and raw, but dry, voice quiet.

"Are you." Spencer shifts, worrying on his lower lip. "Okay? Are you okay?"

Patrick offers him a half smile. "Come sit. We'll talk."

"I don't," Spencer says, but he follows Patrick into the living room anyway. His skin feels stretched, tight, and the uncomfortable feeling in his throat only worsens when he settles on the couch. "I'm sorry," he blurts, and Patrick's weary eyes widen.

"Spencer, god, why are you sorry? You shouldn't have had to see that."

"But -- " Patrick doesn't seem mad, and he seems like a pretty smart guy, but Spencer's pretty sure he's not seeing it. "But Patrick, it's my fault." Patrick's eyes widen further and Spencer thinks finally, thinks he gets it.

"Oh Spencer," Patrick whispers, hand sliding up Spencer's arm and squeezing. Behind his black, plastic frames Patrick's eyes are this deep, warm blue; they look kind, and Spencer didn't even realized how starved he was for that until this moment. "Spencer," Patrick repeats earnestly, "What happened was not your fault. It had nothing to do with you."

"Patrick, come on -- "

"He's been cheating on me for years, since we were barely older than you are. It wasn't you. I'm not even sure if it had anything to do with you, Spencer. It would have exploded whether you had come in to our lives one way or another."

"He cheated on you?" Spencer asks after a long, quiet moment, and Patrick flinches, but he nods, eyes never leaving Spencer's. "And you stayed?" Patrick clears his throat, rubbing at his eyes beneath his glasses.

"Okay." Patrick exhales and leans back. "I don't know if I should be telling you this, but you're not a really typical sixteen year old, so. Alright, Gabe and I first got together when Midtown was opening for this band called Fire Eyes and I was their back up keyboard player. I was just out of college and it seemed like a fun way to spend a couple months after graduation. We, ah, hooked up a few weeks in and it was just this thing at first. And he was ... almost a rock star, so I knew he was messing around with other people, but hey, it was good, it was great, it was fun. So, when the tour ended and Midtown was going in to record the second album, he started making promises and we became an us."

Patrick quirks his fingers in air quotes and Spencer laughs a little, watery and uncertain. "Was he still, you know?"

"Yeah." Patrick looks down. "But at the time it was different. We were both a lot younger, Midtown was starting to become legitimately famous and, maybe it wasn't right, but that's how it was. And that was fine for awhile. He was a rock star and, really, the label decided the world couldn't know about us, so I quit being their keyboardist and went to play for jazz clubs, which I actually like better. On some level I knew it was happening, but he always came back and it was easy to ignore."

"That sucks," Spencer says and blushes.

"Yeah, it did." Patrick smiles. "But I was twenty-three and stupid and I loved him. But, okay, the third album came out and tanked, which, from a purely musical perspective, is kind of bullshit because it's so much better than the second, but whatever. The label dropped them, the band split up, the other guys got absorbed into different projects and suddenly Gabe was a has been one hit wonder. And, well, there are plenty of groupies who are okay with that. We moved out here to get away from it and it became this cycle. Six months of him being great, six of him not, and here we are."

"Wow," Spencer says, and then clamps a hand over his mouth to keep anything else from coming out. "I'm so sorry, Patrick." Patrick shrugs, wiping under his glasses again and finally just taking them off entirely.

"I just wanted you to know, Spencer. It's not. We've been broken for a long time. I thought a baby would have helped things, especially since -- " he cuts himself, and Spencer winces, because of course Patrick knows, of course he does. He's just that kind of guy. "I thought a baby would have helped things, and I'm just so sorry you had to get caught in the middle." They're both quiet for a moment, Patrick's hand still leaving little pockets of heat on Spencer's bare arm. "What're you going to do now?"

Spencer blinks. "Now?"

"With the baby, Spencer, what are you going to do now?"

Spencer blinks again. "Is this your way of saying you changed your mind?"

Patrick cocks his head. "No. I mean. You didn't sign on to give your baby to a single dad."

There's a flutter in Spencer's belly, which in and of itself isn't all that unusual, the kid always moves. But still. "Patrick, you really, really want this baby. Which, okay, which is more than I can say. So, if you're still in this, I'm still in this."

"Spencer." Patrick swallows. "Are you sure?"

That, at least, is an easy question. "Yep."

Patrick moves so fast Spencer doesn't realize he's going to hug him until his arms are tight around Spencer's shoulders, side pressed tight along the curve of his belly.

--

Spencer doesn't want to go home, which is odd because most days, all he wants to do is be at home and stay there. The school days are dragging longer and longer, and the only place Spencer even feels moderately himself is in his room, surrounded by the blankets he's had since he was a kid, staring at the posters of bands he and Ryan put up in middle school. It always makes him feel safe and alive and like he's actually a person again.

Right now though, Spencer doesn't want to feel like a kid, Spencer doesn't want to be safe, doesn't want to pretend that everything's okay, because it isn't, but it could be.

He leaves the car at home and walks to the Way house, almost by accident, but kind of -- mostly not. Gerard's sitting on the porch smoking, which is usual. Spencer standing there and staring at him, that, pretty much isn't.

"Hi, Spence," Gee says, exhaling a puff of smoking and stubbing out his cigarette. He taps another out of the back and lights it in less than a second, puffing away. "What brings you by? Mikey's at rehearsal," he says, which means Mikey must not have mentioned the Slurpee-dumping incident. Spencer's not sure, but he thinks that's a good thing.

"Didn't really come to see Mikey?" It comes out as a question, which he really wasn't going for, but Gerard smiles, and pats at the cushion next to him on the porch swing. "Didn't really mean to come at all," he whispers, head ducked, and both of them probably know that that's not true.

"You've gotta be freaking out," Gee murmurs conversationally, and Spencer drops his head to his hands, muffling a laugh and trying to hide the wetness around his eyes. "Shit," he tilts his head back, looking at how the sky is starting to get dark. "Shit, I couldn't do it."

"It's not like I'm actually doing anything, Gee. Seriously, I just got fat and -- "

"Hey," Gerard says, hand on Spencer's arm startling the fuck out of him. "Hey, Spencer it's not. You're doing something really good. You're changing the world in this really profound way, and you're just a kid."

"I'm not -- "

"Spencer." Gerard's eyes

Spencer's quiet, biting down hard on his bottom lip to keep from crying. This isn't how it's supposed to be, he thinks, cheating husbands and heartbreak and bottomless reserves of strength that are constantly tapped into. It shouldn't be like this at all.

"Tell me something," he mumbles after they've been quiet for a while, sitting in the not-quite-companionable-almost-silence and the rocking of the porch swing. "Tell me that people can fall in love and make it. Tell me it happens, okay? Tell me that it's possible." It sounds a little desperate, even to his own ears, but the words keep pouring out anyway, and Gerard's face doesn't change.

"Spencer," Gerard says. "Nothing's ever easy."

"I don't mean easy," Spencer replies. "I just. It's gotta be possible, right? Sometimes it works and it doesn't always have to break."

Gerard exhales a long tendril of smoke into the twilight sky, twisted and buffeted by a gentle wind. "I don't know if this is what you're looking for, Spence, but it's the best I've got. I met the love of my life at art school and his name is Bob and he lives over a thousand miles away from here. And when our parents died I couldn't uproot Mikey and move him out where I was and Bob's mom has a lot of medical problems and he has to take care of her, so the best we can do is long distance."

"That has to suck," Spencer says quietly, imagining what it would be like to go weeks without seeing Mikey, months without touching him, and almost laughs a little at the realization that, in a weird way, he has.

"It sucks fuckin' hairy monkey balls," Gerard chuckles and Spencer finds a half smile within himself. "But the point isn't that it sucks when we're apart, it's how good things are when we're together. We've had to do this for years and yet, every single fucking time I see him, all I can think about is how much I love him and how much I want to spend the rest of forever with him."

Spencer sighs and tips his head onto Gerard's shoulder. "I miss Mikey, Gee. I miss him a lot."

"I could tell," Gerard murmurs, affectionately smoothing down Spencer's hair. "He misses you, too."

"I don't know what to do. I mean, the world seemed to make a lot more sense not so long ago." He brushes his thumb against the little rise of his belly button and remembers Mikey's hands anchored on his waist, long and perfect, looking at Spencer like he was something utterly special.

"Here's my advice and, remember, it's only advice." Gerard flicks the butt of his cigarette into the remnants of the garden, still bearing the scars from the living room set. "The love of my life lives over a thousand miles away. We, Mikey, live like four blocks away. And sometimes, for better or worse, you just gotta try."

Spencer closes his eyes, pushing off the warped boards of the porch with the toes of his shoes, and knows what he has to do.

--

He shows up at Ryan's at a quarter past one in the morning armed with a thermos full of black coffee, and a box full of pictures Ryan's seen more than a thousand times. The lights are off and the door is probably locked which wouldn't have normally been a problem, but Ryan's dad hid the Hide-A-Key, stuck in a paranoid delusion of a drunken stupor.

Normally Spencer would climb the trellis; he's been coming and going like that through Ryan's house for years, normally, this wouldn't be a problem, but then normally, Spencer wouldn't be forty pounds overweight with a baby inside his stomach.

Still, it's not that high, he could totally climb it, so what if he hasn't in a while, sense memory would totally kick in, his palms have even started tingling. He takes a step forward, the wind around him is whipping and --

And he's still fucking pregnant, and still forty pounds overweight and he'll never be able to get up the damn trellis now, not like this.

He picks up a stone and throws.

--

Three stones later, Ryan's window jerks open with a reluctant squeak of hinges and he pokes his head out, eyes half lidded and tired, hair swept up in a tangled mop around his face. "Jesus motherfucking Christ, what the hell?"

"It's me," Spencer stage whispers, "Get down here and let me in."

Ryan cocks his head and lets out an irritated sigh. "Just climb up."

Spencer knows that Ryan is not purposefully a jackass or stupid, just three minutes out from being dead asleep to the world, but that doesn't stop him from chucking the last rock in his hand toward Ryan's head, missing his ear by maybe three inches. "Ryan," Spencer repeats, hissing through his teeth, "Come let me in."

"Oh, right." Ryan scrubs the heel of his and across his eyes and vanishes. Spencer heads for the porch.

--

Ryan's room is less his space than a place with a bed where he occasionally sleeps whenever he feels the odd compulsion to spend a night away from Spencer's house. It's compulsively neat, depressingly bear, and the very tops of the walls are still covered in the faint remnants of the bear wallpaper his mother put up when he was three or four, before she took off for parts unknown. The only thing in the room that even remotely has anything to do with who Ryan is are the art supplies, stacks of sketchbooks and boxes of colored pencils, charcoals, pastels, and inks.

"Why am I awake at two o' clock in the morning?" Ryan flops down onto his desk chair as Spencer sits on the edge of his bed, drumming his thumbs against his thigh.

"Okay, so, Gabe and Patrick are getting divorced because Gabe is an asshole, but Patrick's still going to take the kid and I really, really, really need your help to draw something for Mikey," Spencer says in a breathless rush.

Ryan blinks. And blinks again. "Patrick and Gabe are getting divorced?"

"Yeah, but that's not the important part." Spencer waves his hand in irritation. "I need you draw a comic of me and Mikey."

"A comic?" Ryan repeated. "Like, you as superheroes?"

"No, just us as us."

"Pregnant you?"

"Pregnant me."

"Why?"

Spencer pauses and flattens his hands over his stomach, thinking about Patrick singing jazz songs to his belly and Gerard being in love over years and miles, Mikey hunched over his bass, Mikey reading comic books, Mikey kissing him and whispering secrets to his skin and maybe things didn't happen the way he planned, but maybe Gee has a point, too. Sometimes you just gotta try. Spencer looks up and meets Ryan eyes. "I just..."

"You really love him," Ryan says quietly.

Which really, Spencer thinks, is all there is to it. "Yes, I really, really do."

"Okay." Ryan reaches for a sketchpad and a pencil. "Tell me what to do."

--

Spencer hasn't slept at all, which probably isn't a good thing, but he and Ryan drank mug of coffee after mug of coffee (and Ryan made him switch to tea once he remembered the whole pregnant thing), but when they manage to finish -- and it really is a they thing, even though Spencer can't draw, or shade, or even color in the lines (aborted version, number six), he's totally there for the moral support and the speech bubbles, the sun is rising, staining the sky a light purple.

"Today is Saturday, Spencer," Ryan says once he puts the finishing touches on comic number twenty-three, blowing on the page lightly and waiting for the ink to dry. "Mikey's at rehearsal all day."

Spencer blinks. "You want me to like, actually hand it to him?"

Ryan rolls his eyes. It's probably good that he's the calm and level headed one out of the two of them. "Spencer Smith, you are admitting that you love him and want to, essentially, have his babies in pictorial form. I'm pretty sure you have to look at him to do that."

Spencer ducks his head, cheeks flaming furiously and really, really wishes that Ryan weren't right.

--

Sunday night, Spencer actually gets hit by a lightening bolt of an idea.

Early Monday morning he dresses, sneaks out of the house, and stops by the Way mailbox, leaving the comics -- all twenty-three of them, neatly rolled up inside with a kiss on the pages and another little invocation of hope up to the sky.

--

The auditorium should be abandoned. It even looks like he's abandoned, but only if you don't know what the tech group looks like.

Spencer's been friends with Mikey since the sixth grade, he's seen the inside of a lighting booth more times than he can count on both hands. That's where he finds Mikey, now, corner of his lip bitten, looking down at pages and pages of light cues crammed in in his tiny hand writing.

"Hey, uh. Mikes." Mikey jumps like he's been shocked, or maybe electrocuted a little, and he doesn't smile when he sees Spencer, which is possibly the worst thing in the entire world. It would possibly be worse if Mikey actually showed much emotion, typically.

"Spencer," Mikey says, and his voice sounds a little scratchy. Spencer can't stop himself, he waves a little dorkily and then promptly wants to die. "Did you um. Leave comics in my mailbox this morning?"

Spencer ducks his head, feeling color flood faintly across his cheeks. "Yeah, I did."

Mikey shifts in his chair, flipping to the back of his battered stage craft notebook to pull out the pages, covered in Ryan's drawings, meticulous and precise, telling the story of them. He smooths his fingers over them, looking down. "The last panel was blank."

"I know. I did that on purpose." Spencer's stomach twists in flips and the kid kicks and he thinks he's going to throw up right there in the light booth and, the really funny thing is, it wouldn't even be the first time. "I don't know what goes there. I'm. I'm leaving it up to you."

Mikey inhales and exhales and Spencer counts the throb of his heart beating in his ears. "I miss you," Mikey says quietly, looking up with a faint, unsure smile swept across his mouth. "I miss you so much, Spencer."

He stands and Spencer can't breath, he slides his hands on top of Spencer's, low on the curve of his belly, leans in and kisses him. This, Spencer thinks, tilting his head to the side and sighing into the kiss, is what love is like. "Let's go," Mikey murmurs when they pull apart, blushing faintly at the wolf whistle from one of the other techs.

Spencer doesn't ask, he just laces his fingers in Mikey's hand and follows.

--

Spencer takes to sleeping at Mikey's a lot, which makes sense, because his bed is just as comfortable and the posters on the walls are familiar, but they're different than Spencer's own. The first day was learning each other again, Mikey's hands sweeping across Spencer's stomach, fingers carding through his hair, pressing wet and deep kisses everywhere he could reach, mumbling, "Missed you, missed you," until Spencer was sure his voice had gotten hoarse.

Spencer said it back though, Spencer met him kiss for kiss whenever he could, and squeezed their interlocked fingers tighter together whenever he couldn't.

Tonight it's different though.

Tonight instead of sloppy handjobs and slow kisses and repeats of Letterman, Spence's skin feels tight and itchy, like there's something trying to tear itself out of him. It's only fitting, really.

"You okay, Spence?" Mikey asks, one arm curled protectively around Spencer's stomach, pressing light patterns into his stretched-tight tee shirt, and pressing light kisses on the back of Spencer's neck.

"Yeah, I'm -- " the words get cut from Spencer's throat as a wave of throbbing pain comes crashing through him. "Oh." He manages to mumble, and then he can't open his mouth at all for fear of screaming. It crests, hard and awful, then begins to recede, leaving Spencer white knuckled and shaking. "Um. I think maybe the kid is coming?"

--

Gerard drives, hands tight around the steering wheel, smoking out the open window. He flicks his eyes between the roads, clogged with nighttime rush hour traffic, and the back seat, where Spencer sits with Mikey's arm around his shoulder, gritting his teeth through the contractions, trying his damndest not to fucking panic. This isn't how things were supposed to go, there was a plan that involved Spencer being completely numb, circumventing any and all pain. And, well, it fucking hurts.

They make it the hospital and inside, Spencer walking between Mikey and Gerard, hands fisted in their shirts. A nurse meets them halfway across the waiting room and seems to produce a wheelchair out of thin air, pushing Spencer down a maze of hallways into the pastel kingdom of the birth center.

"Gee, can you call Ryan and my dad?" Spencer's not blind to the way Gerard's always pale face has lost what little color it has; he remembers Mikey cutting his knee when they were in middle school and Gerard actually passing out as he tried to clean out the cut and put on a band aid.

"Yeah, that's a good idea." Gerard squeezes his shoulders and takes off for the pay phones.

The nurse, who has a kind, lined face and a name tag that says Ellen, wheels him into one of the rooms and shoos Mikey out so Spencer can strip off his jeans and tee shirt and shimmy into one of the highly flattering hospital gowns. She squeezes his hand through another contraction, pressing the heel of her hand between his shoulder blades, mumbling soothing nonsense under her breath. "How're you doing, honey?"

"It hurts," Spencer gasps and blushes.

"Well," she smiles, helping him into the bed, "That's why it's called labor."

--

Logically, Spencer knows his house is twenty minutes away from the hospital by car, and today isn't even his dad's day off, but it seems like one second Spencer is grinding his teeth against the pain and then a second later he's blinking and Ryan's standing a few feet away from him, face pale and cheeks ink smudged.

"Jesus christ, Smith," he mumbles as he comes closer, and his hands are shaking. "You'd think people don't do this every day."

"Spencer doesn't do this every day," Mikey says from where he's curled around Spencer's back like an "S". Mikey and Ryan don't spend much time together without Spencer there as a buffer, but Ryan manages to smile at him weakly, anyway.

"Got anymore room in there?" Ryan asks, bottom lip caught beneath his teeth and if Spencer hurt less, he'd manage to make a joke at the timid way Ryan's eyes are hidden by his fringe of bangs.

"Always, Ross," he mutters, trying his hardest to scoot back against Mikey to make room and failing a little miserably to do it without causing himself any more pain. It's a tight squeeze with just him and Mikey, these beds are really, really not made for three, but Ryan makes himself fit. Skinny fucker.

Its better, a little, with Mikey along his back and Ryan along his front, their bodies bracketing him from the world. He distantly thinks that someone needs to call Patrick because it is his kid after all, but another contraction hits and he forgets about anything other than the flare of pain shooting through his pelvis and holding on so tight to their hands he can almost feel the small bones grind.

--

An hour later, Spencer sitting up with Mikey and Ryan out of the bed, sitting on the edge of the hard plastic chairs, still holding his hand. He shoves his heels into the mattress and lets loose a string broken curses, trying not to cry. Fuck, all he read online and in the books talked about labor as a natural, beautiful, hippie happy thing and, fuck, that's bullshit. It's sweaty and gritty and hard and fucking painful, and Spencer has never felt less prepared in his entire life.

Eventually it slacks off and he can breathe again, leaning back against the pillows.

Ryan hands him a cup filled with ice chips and Mikey hesitantly rubs his thigh. "Are you. Are you okay?"

"I want my dad," Spencer says suddenly, surprising even himself as the words tumble out. "I really need my dad."

"I'll go call and see how far out he is," Ryan volunteers, squeezing Spencer's hand before he takes off for the door. Pain has settled into Spencer's belly, a dull ache through his pelvis and up his spine and he's quite fucking ready to be done with this, thanks so much. Mikey runs his thumb over Spencer's knuckles and it takes Spencer a moment to realize is hands are shaking.

"I can't." Spencer blinks, because those words are never good, but they're especially less so when Mikey's the one saying them, when Spencer is about to give birth to a baby and looking sad and terrified and tiny. Along with giving birth, Spencer thinks he might be having a heart attack.

"Mikey?" He knows he sounds hysterical, he knows he does, but Jesus Christ, he has not spent nine months wishing he could get Mikey back only to lose him again. He doesn't care if thinking that makes him some sort of girl, it's not like the rest of this process hasn't done enough to make him feel like that. "Mikey, you can't be freaking out right now, okay? I'm freaking out enough for the both of us."

"Spence," Mikey leans forward and God, fuck, he does not need to be broken up with right now, okay? Because this day needs anything to make it worse. "Spence, I can't. I can't see it." Spencer blinks at him.

"What?"

"I can't. I mean. It's not. It's not ours, Spence." It is theirs though, Spencer thinks. It is theirs, and it's the only thing of theirs that exists in the entire universe, and they're going to lose it because they're fucking idiots who got lucky way too fucking young. It is theirs, though. Spencer knows it is. "I can't. I'm sorry." He leans forward and kisses Spencer though, and Spencer's shocked into kissing him back, just a little.

Shockingly enough, this doesn't help with the pain in his stomach.

--

Spencer's dad appears in the doorway at the height of a contraction that has Spencer abandoning all pretense of keeping his shit together, body shaking, groaning low and awful in his chest. Mikey's gone to find Gerard and it's just Ryan, squeezing his hand as tight as he can, giving Spencer something to anchor himself to. Jeff freezes, still in his work clothes with a smear of dirt on his chin and grit caked under his nails.

"I can go ... " he says vaguely, eyes wide and no, fuck that noise.

"Dad," Spencer gasps, "Daddy, I need you. Please, please, I need you."

And, the thing is, at that his dad is across the room faster than Spencer can keep track of, sitting in the uncomfortable chair with his broad hand holding Spencer's, rubbing a line along his spine. "It's okay, kiddo, it's okay. You're okay. Just a little bit longer."

--

In the end, it really fucking hurts. Even with the epidural, it hurts, and Spencer squeezes so hard on Ryan's fingers that he's pretty sure he's breaking some of them. He's squeezing onto his dad's, too, but Spencer's dad is big and broad and his fingers aren't likely to break that easily. He even says so, trying to smile, or at least Spencer thinks he is. Spencer can't really be sure, because his eyes are blurring with the tears streaming down his cheeks.

"You can do it, Spence," Jeff says, while Spencer bites his lip and screams and the nurses start to incise into his stomach. "You can do it, kiddo, just hold on." Spencer doesn't want to hold on, Spencer is about to pass out, it hurts so bad.

"This is what it feels like when you're numb? Imagine if I wasn't!" He tries to twist his head to look at Ryan, or at least that's what he thinks he's doing; he can't be sure though, because the rushing in his ears is only getting louder and louder.

Spencer doesn't know how long it's been. It feels like years, it feels like hundreds and hundreds of years, but it could just be minutes or seconds, even and then he can hear crying. "Hey," Ryan says, voice scratchy, leaning forward and pressing a messy kiss to Spencer's temple. "Hey, Spence, it's over."

Spencer starts to cry in earnest.

--

They stitch him up and put him a room; he'll need to stay a couple days for observation, but Spencer doesn't care, he really doesn't. "Mikeyway," he says and Ryan squeezes his hand and moments later Mikey walks through the door. Spencer's still crying, though not from pain, even though it does ache beneath the blank numbness. He feels too empty, alone for the first time in months, and though he knows the kid, she, was never theirs to keep, that doesn't make his arms want her any less.

Mikey doesn't say anything, he just slides into bed behind Spencer, tucking his chin against Spencer's shoulder and pulling him close, rocking their bodies together as Spencer cries.

The knock surprises them both into stillness before Patrick pokes his head in, looking tired and exhausted and utterly fucking thrilled. His face is lit up from within, beaming and brilliant and Spencer knows in his gut Patrick just held his daughter for the first time and fell in love. Spencer feels tears slip down his face. Patrick crosses the room and kneels down beside the bed, laying his hand on Spencer's, his own tears glinting at the corner of his eyes. "Thank you," he whispers.

Spencer wants to tell him a hundred thousand things, take care of her and treat her perfectly and most of all love her, but he can't and he thinks maybe Patrick already knows all that. He kisses Spencer's forehead and smooths back his hair and leaves without another word, for which Spencer is grateful. He has nothing left to give.

Mikey tightens his grip and presses a kiss to the soft skin behind his ear. I love you, Mikey mouths, I love you.

Spencer closes his eyes and doesn't try to stop crying. It's enough.