Fic: starts in my toes (high school AU!)

[foxxcub]

starts in my toes
[Jon/Spencer, 3000 words, PG-13]

Spencer has spent all of freshman year learning the things you don't do, and having a debilitating crush on a junior is one of them.

Okay, I'll admit it: this is selfish early birthday fic for myself. Go me! Enabled by shleemeri and beta'd by adellyna, who are both two good reasons to be on AIM on a Friday night.







Spencer's known who Jon Walker is for months. It's not like he's this uber-popular guy, but everyone seems to know him, and they say his name around the halls like a side note: "D'you see the shots Walker got last week?" or "I'm seeing Walker's band next weekend, I'm so stoked."

Spencer has spent all of freshman year learning the things you don't do, and having a debilitating crush on a junior is one of them. He's been quite diligent in ignoring the huge, nearly sickening rush he gets when he catches a glimpse of Jon outside the doors of the darkroom just off the journalism room, and he certainly never lets himself blush hard enough to be noticeable.

"You turn pink really fast, you know that?" Ryan says as he leans against his locker door, watching Spencer with a smirk. "It's like a cartoon, almost."

Spencer tries a lot harder after that to be more inconspicuous.

All goes well until the day during band practice when Mr. Morin, his band director, tells them the yearbook staff is taking their yearly band photos today, and that everyone should just act normal and pretend the photographer's not there.

Of course, the universe hates him, because said photographer is one Jon Walker. And of course, Jon would start with the percussion section.

Spencer promptly drops his sticks and kicks his snare as he tries to pick them up discreetly.

"Spencer, right?"

He jerks upright, and possibly swallows his tongue. "Spencer. Yes." He doesn't look Jon in the eye for fear of, like, exploding on the spot into a million wretched pieces.

"Thought so, yours was the only new name I recognized on the percussion list." Jon holds up a yellow sheet of paper. "My crib notes, so I can mark my negatives later."

Spencer wishes Jon would take a step back, because it is completely impossible to breathe with him this close. He's staring down at his snare, which also puts Jon's feet into view, and Spencer notices the black Old Navy flip flops. They're scuffed and faded, and Spencer maybe hates plastic flip flops. But then Jon wiggles his toes a little, and Spencer maybe has a change of heart.

"Is it okay if I take your picture?" Jon asks. He holds his camera up and Spencer wants to say no; he doesn't really want to think about what Jon sees when he looks through that tiny viewfinder. He's nothing spectacular; his arms are kind of outgrowing his body, and he hates that he has what his mother lovingly calls "chipmunk cheeks". He doesn't need to be in the yearbook, not for his freshman year. He thinks about telling Jon to wait a few years and come back when he's something to look at.

"Uh, yeah, I guess. Sure. Do you want me to - ?" He unconsciously twirls one of his sticks, like a nervous twitch, letting the end come down against the drum head.

"Just pretend I'm invisible." Jon smiles at him, wide and friendly, and Spencer almost laughs at the irony.

He tells himself later (much later, when he's curled up alone in bed in the dark listening to the ceiling fan whir overhead) that Jon took more pictures of the percussion section than any other section of the band. It's probably not true, but when it's just between himself and his thoughts, Spencer lets himself believe.




"You really need to get a grip with the whole exploding into five different shades of red whenever someone says 'Walker'. Like, I could ask you to watch some Chuck Norris with me, only you'd ruin it by turning into a girl over Walker, Texas Ranger. So, thank you, Spence. Thank you for ruining Chuck Norris for me."

Spencer considers glaring at his cell phone. His best friend is such a dick.




He manages to go a few weeks without seeing Jon at all, and Spencer thinks he should feel relief at not having to dissolve into a ball of incoherent goo. Instead, he's even more restless than before, and god, he just wants to stop feeling like some Judy Blume character (he pays way too much attention to what his sisters read).

Spencer's waiting outside the main doors with Ryan on a Friday afternoon, in the usual spot where his mom stops to pick them up after she's dropped his sister off at soccer practice (Ryan swears he's close to getting his own car, but Spencer's not holding his breath). Ryan's attempts to talk Spencer into splitting their Saturday between skateboarding in the public library's parking lot and working the kinks out of their cover of "All the Small Things" are almost becoming successful, when Spencer hears a voice behind him drawl, "Spencer Smith, what's up?"

Ryan is facing him, so he sees before Spencer does. His eyebrows go up and he smiles slowly, saying, "Aw, hey, Jon Walker." He puts extra emphasis on Walker, and Spencer loathes him so much, almost more than the instant (predictable) flare of heat in his cheeks.

Spencer takes a deep breath and purses his lips, hoping to form some sort of expression of vague interest. He turns around slowly and tips his head to one side, jerking his chin at Jon. "Hey." His knee is twitching.

Jon has a camera bag slung over his shoulder. It's a dark maroon color and has patches sewn all over it; clovers, rainbows, kittens, an elephant with a heart coming out of the end of its trunk.

"There's an elephant on your bag," Spencer says before he can censor himself. Ryan makes a small choking noise.

"You like it? My niece picks them out and I let her put them on. I requested Dora the Explorer for Christmas, but instead she got me the elephant. Have to admit, though, I like the elephant better."

Spencer carefully - very carefully - dies. "Oh. It's cute."

Jon rubs his thumb over the patch, and okay. Spencer really shouldn't be staring, and Jon shouldn't rub things like that in his presence. Or at least, not in his presence when Ryan's standing behind him.

"So hey, I was wondering - there's this party tomorrow night that my band's playing at. I don't know how great the party'll be, but seeing as how you drum and all, I thought maybe you'd want to come check us out?"

"Um." For a split second, Spencer forgets what language he speaks.

Ryan jumps in, says a little too eagerly, "Yeah, yeah, we'll go. I know where it is." He digs his knuckle into the lower part of Spencer's back, but Spencer's still trying to remember words.

Jon gives them a thumbs up. "Awesome, I'll catch you guys there. Later, Spencer."

He jogs off toward the school parking lot, and long after he's out of earshot Spencer whispers, "See you."

Then he punches Ryan's shoulder.

"What. The. Fuck."

Ryan punches back. "Dude, he asked you to see him play. In the real world, that's considered somewhat of a big deal. Plus, his band's kind of the shit and I'd like to see them."

Spencer gapes. "Are you serious? You really want to go?"

"Fuck yeah, I do. And please, like you don't. I'm not a moron, Spence."

Spencer wonders when his life became an eighties high school movie.




Spencer's never really been to a house party before. Ryan hasn't really, either, although he did makeout with a girl on the front lawn after a house party once, but that was only because she'd drunk-dialed him and asked him to come. Spencer hasn't kissed a girl since sixth grade, so he hasn't really had to worry about drunk-dialed booty calls.

The house is huge, sprawling, with a basement that's almost as large as the main floor. He watches Ryan put on his casually indifferent face, the one he uses when he's trying look unimpressed with everything while making everything impressed with him. He nods at a few people they know while Spencer fiddles with the hem of his t-shirt; he's suddenly afraid to make eye contact with anyone, because what if he's not really supposed to be here and Jon was just taking pity on him?

But suddenly there's a warm, solid heat pressed up against his arm. Spencer smells beer and sweat as a hot voice says in his ear, "Spencer Smith, I didn't think you'd make it."

The shudder that runs through Spencer's body is completely involuntary and completely embarrassing. "I, yeah, we couldn't find the place. Our ride got lost." And seriously, it's the last time Spencer's letting Ryan's friend Pete drive them anywhere. He doesn't mind being lost, but dying in a fiery crash is another story.

"You missed the first set." Jon's hand is cupping Spencer's elbow, and the pads of his fingers are callused and rough on Spencer's skin. It occurs to Spencer that he's maybe, maybe, a smidge taller than Jon. It's the first time he's been happy about summer growth spurts.

"Sorry." It's all he can really say when Jon's touching him. On his arm. With his hand.

"Hey, you didn't actually stand me up, so we're cool," and oh god. Spencer never realized Jon had that little hint of a lisp before. He wants to have Jon say his full name again so he can pay closer attention.

And then the part where Jon said you didn't actually stand me up starts to sink in, and Spencer's truly flailing inside.

Someone calls Jon's name, and Jon says, "Gotta run, we're up," and his thumb sort of brushes along the crease of Spencer's elbow. "You can tell me I suck later, okay?"

Spencer just nods dumbly and waits for the burning tingle in his arm to fade as Jon runs off.

Ryan jabs him the ribs and says, "Fucking told you so."




Jon banters with the crowd. He's not the lead singer, but he's the one to get the crowd involved; he swings his bass around to rest at his back and says into his microphone, voice low, "Who here is getting laid tonight?"

People laugh and make cat calls. A few hands go up. Spencer presses harder into the wall and tries not to blush.

"I'd just like to say that tonight's performance is brought to you by beer, which has been helping ugly people get laid since...well, for a long fucking time."

The room cheers, and as the next song starts, Jon flips his bass back around and winks at Spencer.

Then again, Spencer's pretty far back and the room doesn't have the best lighting, and Jon could very well just have something in his eye.

Spencer swallows hard as his palms start to sweat inside the pockets of his hoodie.

"Did he just call you ugly?" Ryan says. "Because if he did, I'm taking him out, I don't care how much you wanna to make heart eyes at him."

Spencer ignores him. He's too busy watching Jon play.




It's probably well past midnight when the band wraps up. Spencer is keyed-up, wide-awake and never wanting to leave, but Ryan's tugging on his arm.

"Pete says he wants to get coffee at Waffle House, c'mon," he says.

Spencer's eyes dart across the room, but the band's already disappeared. His heart sinks, but he still says, "Okay," as Ryan pulls him toward the front door. He really should be home, anyway, his mom'll kill him -

"Hey, wait up." Jon materializes out of nowhere, and his hand is back on Spencer's arm. "I want to show you something."

Ryan smirks over his shoulder, but doesn't say anything. He lets it be Spencer's choice.

"I - I really need to get home, I shouldn't - and my ride is - " He can can't fidget like normal, not when Jon's standing so close and has a grip on him.

"It won't take long, promise." Jon takes a step backward, and his hand slides down Spencer's arm until his fingers circle Spencer's wrist. He nods to Ryan and adds, "I'll bring him right back."

"No hurry!" Ryan calls after them.

They weave through the bodies crowding into the foyer upstairs, make their way back down the steps into the basement, and Spencer finally realizes they're heading back toward the stage area, to Jon's bass case.

Jon lets go of Spencer's wrist as he crouches down by the case, flipping the lid open. Spencer's skin feels instantly cold.

"I know this isn't, like, protocol or anything," Jon's saying as he pulls something out of small compartment hidden in the lid. "But I wanted to ask you if they were okay to use before I brought them to my editor." And then he hands Spencer a small stack of black and white pictures.

They're all of Spencer from that day in band. The first few are simple framed profile shots of Spencer doing roll-offs, eyes straight forward and intense. It's a typical yearbook candid, and Spencer winces a little at the way his hair's too messy, cheeks too round. He flips them to the back of the stack quickly.

"No?" Jon asks.

Spencer shrugs. "They're alright, for what they are."

"I won't use them if you don't want me to."

He shrugs again, his heart pounding heavily in his chest. "I don't care."

"Yes, you do." Jon leans over and pulls one of the pictures from the stack. "I like this one the best."

Spencer doesn't remember the context of the scene, but he's laughing at something, and his mouth is quirked as he bows his head over the snare. His hair is in his eyes, but he's smirking in such a way that it looks like he knows secrets no one else knows. He looks confident.

"Yeah," Spencer says quietly. The view's not perfect, but he likes it. "Yeah, you can use that one."

"Really?" Jon takes the picture from him, slow enough that their fingertips brush. "Because seriously, this is art. I could win a Pulitzer for this thing."

"They give Pulitzers for high school yearbook photos?" Spencer says, and he tries out the smirk from the picture again.

Jon flushes pink around his cheekbones as he tucks the pictures back into his case. Spencer resists the urge to fist pump.

"Okay, fine, shit all over my parade."

"You're the one who asked my opinion."

"No, I asked your permission. Totally different."

They are almost nose to nose, close enough for Spencer to track the movement of Jon's pupils and count the number of freckles along his left eyebrow. He can still smell beer on Jon's breath, especially when Jon parts his mouth and swipes the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip, leaving it shiny and wet.

Spencer hasn't kissed a girl since he was twelve. He's never, ever kissed a guy.

"Stop staring at my mouth like that." It comes out thick with Jon's lisp, and Spencer startles, eyes flicking back up.

"I wasn't - "

"You stare at my mouth like that and I'm gonna do something dumb, like kiss you," Jon says, his voice softer than it was a few minutes ago.

Spencer thinks, I like dumb things, how 'bout you?

The room isn't completely empty yet; people filter in and out of the basement, shouting names and asking for rides, but it's a low hum in Spencer's ears. It's a cliched moment where the world dies out around them and Spencer can only hear the slow rhythm of Jon's breathing.

Jon reaches his hand up, drags the rough pad of his thumb down the curve of Spencer's cheek. "Is that okay?" he whispers.

Spencer could play dumb and ask for clarification, but he's way, way too gone to even have the heart to try. "I don't mind," he whispers back, giving Jon permission again.

Jon's smile is instant, relieved. "I swear I'm not that drunk, you're pretty no matter what," he mumbles, and the words die out as his lips touch Spencer's, the pressure light and gentle.

Spencer wants to use tongue and open his mouth, but he's petrified of fucking the whole thing up. Not to mention he has no idea where to put his hands, or whether to keep his eyes closed, or if Jon even likes tongue.

So he holds very still, hands stuffed into his hoodie pockets, and simply lets Jon's lips sweep carefully over his. He's shocked his heart hasn't exploded out of his chest; if Jon pressed a little closer, he'd feel every frantic beat.

He has no idea how long they stand like that, barely touching except for their mouths and Jon's hand on Spencer's cheek, Jon's bass case laying open on the ground between them. He also doesn't know why he's the first to pull away.

"I need to go," Spencer says, his voice completely unrecognizable to himself. He licks his lips as he shoves his hair back, head bowed, although he's not embarrassed. Not at all.

"Yeah, you're right, sorry. Ryan's probably thinking I'm robbing you of your virtue this very second."

Spencer laughs and looks up at Jon through his bangs. "Sad, but true."

Jon takes a deep breath, rubs at his neck. "Do you like mini golf?"

"I haven't played since I was, like, five, but it's okay."

"I'm not asking you on a date or anything, I just really wanna go play a round and I don't have any friends. You're my last ditch effort."

Spencer decides it's physically impossible for him to not smile. "Wow, you're totally not as cool as I thought you were."

"What can I say, I'm a huge poser."

"Pretty much."

"So that's a yes?"

"Yes to me being your last ditch effort at a round of mini golf?"

"Exactly."

Spencer rolls up on the balls of his feet and looks at the ceiling. "I guess so." Seriously. His face almost hurts from smiling so hard.

Before he's fully comprehended the move, Jon's kissing the corner of his mouth and saying, "Awesome, thank you."




Ryan is sitting outside on the lawn when Spencer comes out.

"Jesus, you better have gotten tongue or something," he says as he gets to his feet.

Spencer beams. "Nope, no tongue. But I do have a free round of mini golf on Wednesday night."

Ryan stares at him, then shakes his head. "I'm not even gonna to ask. You're hopeless." He nudges Spencer down to the sidewalk. "C'mon, Pete's been texting me the entire Waffle House menu. I'm about to fucking kill him."