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Fic: King of Wishful Thinking (3/4)
continued from part two
No one answers the phone in the suite, but the front desk insists Jon returned from the store earlier in the day with armloads of bags in tow, and that he hadn't left since. Spencer starts to get a suspicious as he takes the elevator up, but he keeps telling himself that if something had come up, Jon would've called him.
The suite is quiet when he opens the door, but there's the distinct smell of pasta drifting through the air.
"Jon?" he calls, throwing his jacket over a chair in the foyer as he sets his leather messenger bag down.
"In the dining room." There's a hint of jazz music playing in the background, something that sounds a lot like Miles Davis. Spencer smiles to himself as he pulls his tie off; Jon must have swiped his iPod when Spencer wasn't looking.
But he forgets about his iPod the second he rounds the corner and sees the dinner spread out on the table, complete with wine and candles. And sprawled in the chair closest to him, wearing nothing but a really nice baby blue tie, is Jon.
"How was your day?" Jon asks in that low, smooth voice of his, the one that never fails to make Spencer go instantly hard. He looks up at Spencer from underneath his bangs, eyes dark and heavy-lidded. He hasn't shaved at all today.
Spencer huffs out a laugh, because it's all he can think to do. "It was—" He swallows, unable to stop staring at the lines of Jon's body, the way his fingers keep sliding back and forth over his stomach. "Um, it was long."
Jon grins and holds up the end of the tie around his neck, slowly getting to his feet. "I got you a new tie." He drops it and lets it rest against his chest. "It matches your eyes."
"I like it." Jon's a little bit hard as well, and Spencer can feel his mouth growing wet with the sudden impulse to drop to his knees and swallow him down. He can't even remember the last time he really, really wanted to give head.
"I can tell." Spencer doesn't move until Jon's almost chest to chest with him, and then he can't help but splay his hand over the silk pressing against Jon's skin. He wraps his hand around the tie and tugs Jon closer; he wants to kiss him more than anything, but they both know that's not an option, so he tangles a hand in Jon's hair and whispers against his jaw, "Thanks," before he scrapes his teeth over the scruff covering Jon's cheeks.
"Are you hungry?" Jon asks, and Spencer gets so much pleasure out of making Jon's voice shake like that. He likes to think he's the one only who can.
"A little. It smells great." Spencer kisses just below Jon's ear and lets his hips press up, rocking into Jon's erection. "But I'd rather see what you bought today."
It's Jon's turn to laugh breathlessly. "Sure thing," he replies, and fists his hands into the front of Spencer's shirt, leading him back to the bedroom.
The food is ice cold by the time they make it back to the dining room, but neither one of them really care. They pick at the garlic bread until Spencer hands Jon his Blackberry and tells him to order some Domino's.
________________________________________
It's Jon's idea to have a "picnic in bed," which consists of them laying around in their boxers in the king-sized bed amongst the sex-rumpled sheets, the pizza box and a bottle of wine spread out between them. Spencer has a moment of concern over the grease getting on the sheets, but Jon rolls his eyes and says, "You pay a million dollars to stay here, they'll sure as hell send you up clean sheets." Spencer can't argue with that.
Jon tops off Spencer's wine glass on the nightstand, then does the same to his own. "This is the best cheap pizza I've ever had," he says, smirking as he sets the bottle on the ground by the foot of the bed.
"It's Beverly Hills pepperoni, that's why," Spencer replies, toasting Jon with his second piece.
"Right, because everything is better here," Jon laughs.
Spencer shakes his head. "New York pizza beats this hands down." He catches himself right before he says I'll take you there sometime and show you.
Jon leans back on his elbows, wine glass in hand, and tilts his head. His foot nudges up against Spencer's. "That's where you're from, right?"
"Well, not originally. I was born and raised in Las Vegas."
"Do you miss it? Vegas, I mean."
He pulls his crust apart slowly and considers just how he should answer. "Sometimes," Spencer finally replies. "I haven't been back since I was thirteen." He pauses, looking down at his pizza, then reaches for his wine glass.
"That's a long time to be gone," Jon says quietly, and Spencer can hear the curiosity in his voice, the desire to know, but he doesn't say anything more. He looks away from Spencer and picks another piece of pepperoni out of the box on the bed.
It's Jon's silence that makes Spencer tell him. "My parents died in a car accident right before I started junior high school." He keeps his voice even, like he's simply reading from a biography. "Since we didn't have any close family in Vegas, we—my twin sisters and I—were sent to live with my grandparents in New York."
Jon doesn't look up from where he's rubbing his thumb along the rim of his wine glass. "How old were your sisters?"
"Ten. I think we'd been out to the east coast exactly twice to visit until that point." He stretches out on the bed, one arm wrapped around a pillow. "My grandpa owned a little grocery store that he ran with my grandma, but it never brought in much revenue. Things were always tighter than tight; they hadn't planned to use what little retirement money they had raising three kids. So my sisters usually wore second-hand clothes until they started falling apart, I got the reputation as the weird orphan kid who lived above the rundown store around the corner, and none of us really had any friends." Spencer feels like he's rambling, blurting out stuff he's never really told anyone before. He sighs and tucks his face into the pillow. "Sorry, you didn't want to hear all this," he says, voice slightly muffled as he laughs.
"No, I—" Jon sets his wine glass down and moves the mostly empty pizza box onto the floor. Then he gets to his knees on the bed and waves Spencer toward him. "C'mere, roll over."
Spencer lifts his head and frowns. "What—"
"Just roll over." Jon grabs his arm and pulls him closer, propping the pillow under Spencer's head as he spreads him out onto his stomach. He straddles Spencer's hips and carefully starts kneading his thumbs into the muscles of Spencer's lower back.
Spencer hadn't realized how much he'd needed a good massage until now. He hums contentedly and relaxes completely under Jon's hands.
"So you found a way out." Jon's voice is still soft, hesitant. His palms slide higher along Spencer's spine, working out the tension coiled there.
"Yeah, I did." He turns his face against the pillow so he can see Jon in his peripheral vision. "I hated knowing we were such a burden on them, so I made sure I did really well in school and got the best grades. I graduated second in my class and got a scholarship to Harvard. Five years later I was offered the job I'm in now. I still send money back to them every few months."
Hands curl around Spencer's shoulders, rubbing slow circles. "You're never a burden to people who love you," Jon whispers.
Spencer shakes his head and closes his eyes. "I felt utterly helpless, you know? I had a delivery job that I worked as much as I could, but it never seemed to bring in much. I didn't like feeling that things were beyond my control." He shrugs. "So I took control, and here I am."
"And your sisters?"
"Married with college degrees; I paid off their student loans a couple of years ago. Jackie's having a baby next spring." He arches into Jon's hands when they dig into a particularly tight spot. "They're both really happy."
He feels something soft and fleeting, like a kiss, against his neck. "What about you?" Jon says against his skin. "Are you happy?"
Spencer rolls over and looks up at Jon, at the faint bruise starting to form along his collarbone. He splays his hands over Jon's thighs. "Depends on when you ask me," he whispers.
Jon smiles at him and leans over him to kiss the center of his chest. "Yeah," is all he replies. Then he pulls back and smirks. "By the way, that massage cost you a bargain price of five thousand dollars."
"Only the best," Spencer laughs, tugging at Jon's bangs.
________________________________________
The sun feels abnormally bright the next day. Jon clings to the door handle of the limo and squints at the crowd of people filing into the soccer field.
"Are you sure about this?" he asks, shading his eyes. "I mean, it's really bright and I don't have any sunblock and—"
"You'll be fine." Spencer lets their fingers tangle together loosely. "Are you really worried about getting sunburned, or is there something else?"
Jon fidgets with the cuffs of his shirt. He feels way too dressed up for a stupid soccer game, not to mention that he feels weird wearing jeans that cost the equivalent of half his rent. But Spencer insisted he look good, and Jon didn't want to let the new clothes go to waste, so here he is, nervous as hell and wishing they'd stayed back at the hotel.
It's part of your job, a little voice in his head says.
"What if someone recognizes me?" he asks in a small voice.
Spencer smiles and reaches up to brush the hair out of Jon's eyes. "Not many people here hang out on Hollywood Boulevard," he replies. "Besides, you look great. Just smile and charm people like you always do." He squeezes Jon's hand, and Jon tells himself to breathe.
Spencer pulls him through the crowd and down to the bleachers, and eventually Jon hears someone yell, "Spence! Over here!" A really tall guy in sunglasses and a bright purple polo waves to them from a few rows over.
"Gabe saved us some seats," Spencer says, waving back.
Jon's heart starts to race a little. He's not sure about meeting the guy whose Ferrari he drove for a good fifteen minutes.
"So this is the guy," Gabe says once the two of them weave though the stands. He holds his hand out to Jon. "Gabe Saporta, I'm Spencer's lawyer."
"Um." Jon's hand breaks out in a sweat, and he rubs it over his jeans before shaking Gabe's hand. "Jon. Jon Walker."
"Sorry to bolt, but Spence and I need to mingle for a bit. You can sit tight, right?" He grins at Jon, who glances at Spencer anxiously. He realizes belatedly that Spencer has yet to let go of his hand.
"We'll be back, okay?" Spencer finally lets go, but not until he swipes his thumb over the inside of Jon's wrist. Jon barely resists grabbing Spencer's hand back.
They disappear back into the crowd, leaving Jon to sit alone and survey the field in front of him. Above the scoreboard is a Clandestine Records banner, and he can spot Wentz out on the field wearing a jersey with the Clandestine logo on the front. The rest of the players (Jon vaguely recognizes some celebrity faces) are wearing different colored jerseys with various company logos on the front.
Not long after the match starts, Spencer comes back without Gabe. "He's attempting to hit on Paris Hilton, and it was too painful to watch," he says, smirking as he knocks his shoulder into Jon's.
Jon laughs. "Tell me again why we're here?"
"Networking," Spencer replies, watching the field. Wentz makes a pretty good pass, and everyone cheers. The guy's actually really good. "This charity game is Wentz's baby and we're here to show our support."
"So you're sucking up, basically?"
"You could say that." He grins at Jon, wide and bright, and Jon's heart does a scary little twitch in his chest.
He's about to make another crack about sucking when Spencer spots someone in the crowd and says, "Oh hey, there's Joe. He's Wentz's PR director, and Gabe will kick my ass if I don't go at least say hi." He winks at Jon and adds, "Off to schmooze some more with Clandestine people, I'll be back."
Spencer doesn't come back as quickly this time around. Jon gets antsy sitting by himself, so he decides to wander the grounds for a while. He's in line for the concession stand when he hears a familiar voice call, "Jon?"
He glances over his shoulder and sees Wentz's partner walking over to him. "Hey! Stump, right?"
"Please, it's Patrick." He grins as he shakes Jon's hand, looking way more upbeat than he did two days ago at dinner. "Are you here with Spencer?"
"Yeah, but I lost him back there somewhere." Jon points to the stands. "Figured I'd grab a drink or something."
"Dude, you don't have to stand in line, c'mon." He waves Jon toward a large tent covered in the Clandestine logo a few yards away. "I'll give you the VIP hook-up."
Jon smiles, but looks back at the bleachers. "I probably shouldn't—"
"It's just the company tent. We've got every kind of soda under the sun."
The line is pretty long, and Spencer did say this whole thing was about "networking"... "Sure, okay, lead the way," he says.
The Clandestine tent really does have everything, including two flat screen TVs showing the match and a laptop set up so people can listen to the latest demos from Clandestine bands.
"These aren't the ones you can listen to on MySpace, either," Patrick says proudly. "It's all the newest stuff before it even hits the internet."
Jon is slightly starry-eyed.
For the next half hour, he listens to music and talks bands with Patrick. He gets Patrick to spill the most recent release dates for his favorite bands and possible future tour line-ups.
"'Course, this might all change if..." Patrick mouth shifts into a tight line as he looks away. "Anyway. I meant what I said about changing the location of Decaydance Fest. We really do want to move it to LA eventually."
Jon's not about to get into details of a buy-out he knows nothing about. "That's an awesome idea," he says, gladly latching onto the change of subject. "I think you'd get an even better turn out here than in San Diego. Like I said, I can't travel for concerts, and I know a lot of my friends are the same way."
"That was always our main goal," Patrick sighs. "We wanted to bring new music to people and keep it cheap. You can't build a following if you're constantly charging fifty bucks for a ticket." He motions to the laptop. "Which is also why we're so adamant about using the internet for getting new music out there. Most labels shy away from putting music out for free, but we figure if someone gets a few songs for free and likes what they hear, they're going to get the whole album, and then they'll want to go to concerts. It's a domino effect."
Jon nods, wishing Spencer were here to hear Patrick say all this. "Unique is good," he finally says, and Patrick smiles.
"You sound like Pete." He gives Jon a friendly clap on the shoulder. "You should also probably be getting back before Spencer thinks I kidnapped you for ransom or something."
It hits Jon just how much time has passed. "Fuck, you're right." He winces. "I mean, yeah, thanks." He gives Patrick a thumbs-up. "You're okay, Stump. I'm sure you guys'll get through this."
Patrick tugs at the brim of his hat. He doesn't look as optimistic. "We'll see," he replies.
________________________________________
Jon doesn't get far from the tent when Gabe stops him.
"Looking for Spence?" he asks, and the smile he gives Jon seems a little...off.
"Uh, yeah. I was just—"
"In the Clan tent, I saw." Gabe leans closer. "Drumming up more business?"
Jon blinks at him, a tiny cold trickle of uneasiness sliding down his spine. "No, I was talking to Patrick. He was showing me some new demos."
"Oh, Patrick was showing you demos." Gabe laughs, but it doesn't sound genuine. "I guess you don't get access to a lot of good music working Hollywood Boulevard, huh?"
The cold trickle turns into a deluge. He looks down at the ground as his heart starts to race. "I guess not," he says softly, and his mind chants over and over, Spencer told him, Spencer told him.
"No, probably not." He feels a hand curl around his elbow; it's not a tight grip, but it still immediately puts Jon on the defensive. He knows what a touch like that means, and it's never good.
"I don't know what kind of game you're playing here, but be very, very careful," Gabe says very close to Jon's ear. "Spencer has all this irrational trust in you, but I don't. If you fuck him over, I'll take you down, I don't care how great a fuck toy you are." He lets go of Jon's elbow and backs away. "Spencer's waiting for you by the car. Better not keep a paying client waiting."
Jon doesn't realize his right hand is curled into a fist until Gabe disappears into the stands.
________________________________________
The car ride home from the match is quiet. Jon can't bring himself to look at Spencer, although he does catch Spencer glancing at him every few minutes, brows pinched together.
He tips his head back against the seat and tells himself there's nothing to be pissed about, it's not like Spencer had promised to keep things a secret. It's perfectly in character for a rich business guy to brag about how he's got some rent boy on retainer to be at his beck and call.
Jon's bites the inside of his cheek, remembering the night before when Spencer told him about his childhood, things Jon wants to believe he's probably never told many people. He'd fallen asleep not long after that curled into Spencer's chest, even though he knew Spencer never slept through the night in bed. An hour or so later he'd woken up to the feel of fingertips sweeping over his lower lip just before the bed dipped and Spencer crawled out from under the covers.
He closes his eyes and shuts the memory out. This is business, Jonny, he hears Brendon's voice say in his head. And business never gets personal.
"Jon, are you okay?" Spencer asks.
"Fine," he says, rubbing a hand over his eyes.
Spencer doesn't say anything more to him until they're back in the suite. He tosses the key card on the table in the foyer. "Seriously, is everything all right?" he asks again.
Jon brushes past him and goes into the bedroom, kicking his leather flip-flops off. "Fine."
"Can I get another word besides 'fine'?" There are traces of irritation starting to show in Spencer's tone. "It's been nothing but 'fine' since we left the match."
"How 'bout 'douchebag'?" Jon yells from the bathroom, staring at his reflection in the mirror and wishing he didn't look so fucking hurt over something so stupid.
He hears Spencer sigh. "That's not exactly what I had in mind."
For some reason, Jon breaks a little. "Just tell me one thing, Spencer." He stands in the doorway of the bathroom, arms crossed. "If you were gonna just go around telling people I'm a fucking rent boy, why didn't you give me a heads up? At least then when people like Gabe come up to me, I'm prepared and can handle myself." His hands are shaking, just a bit.
Spencer gives him a hard look, then sighs again. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean for Gabe—I'm sorry he said something to you, that wasn't my intention at all."
"No? Then what the fuck, Spence? Were you trading stories, seeing when a good time would be to pass me along?" He wants to wince at how hurt he sounds, it's pathetic.
"No, you know I'd never do that." He shoves a hand through his hair. "It's just that Gabe was convinced you were a spy for Clandestine or something, that you were trying to get information out of me." Spencer spreads his hands. "He wouldn't shut up about it, so..."
"So you told him about the Ferrari."
"Among other things."
Just the thought of Spencer telling Gabe about the things they've done, any of it, makes his stomach go cold. "Well shit, Spencer, you should've just given him my card." He glares fiercely at him, wanting to just melt into the carpet and disappear.
"Stop treating me like the goddamn bad guy here, Jon," Spencer suddenly snaps. "This may come as a shock, but you are, in fact, a hooker. Or do I need to remind you of all the cash that traded hands a few nights ago?" He tone is deadly sarcastic, and he even manages to add a smirk at the end.
Jon doesn't punch his fist through a wall like he wants to. Instead, he replies, very quietly, "You wanna make me feel cheap? Congratulations, it worked."
"Like it's the first time for you," Spencer throws back, and Jon comes very close to punching him, except his hands are shaking too hard to make a decent hit.
Ignoring the hot flush in his cheeks, Jon goes over to the closet and scoops up all the jeans and shirts he can carry before grabbing his old jeans and Brendon's leather jacket.
"What are you doing?" Spencer asks in a low voice, like he knows exactly what Jon's doing.
He stops with his arms full in front of Spencer, heart pounding in his throat as he stares at the floor. "I want my fucking money, and I wanna get out of here."
There is total silence, until Spencer mumbles, "All right." He sounds defeated.
He leaves the room and comes back with his wallet, and Jon barely breathes as he watches Spencer toss a huge stack of bills onto the bed. Then he turns his back to Jon and slides his hands into his pockets, waiting.
Jon has never seen that much cash before in his life. It's nearly six months worth of rent, or a new car, or enough guitar strings to carry him into the next decade. It's enough to make sure he and Brendon don't have to cut corners for quite a while.
At the last possible moment, he flashes back to the Armani store and Spencer leaning in to kiss his temple, smiling at him like he was the only person in the room. It hurts to remember right now, and he wants more than anything to hate Spencer. But he can't.
He leaves the suite barefoot with his arms full of clothes, but he leaves the money on the bed.
The elevator won't come fast enough; Jon bangs his fist against the down button, taking his hurt and frustration out on something he know won't hit back.
"C'mon, goddamn it," he growls at the button, swallowing hard around the knot in his throat.
The door to the suite opens, and Jon looks straight ahead at the elevator doors. He can see Spencer walking toward him out the corner of his eye, but he doesn't move, doesn't so much as blink.
He catches the way Spencer closes his eyes for second, breathing deep. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "I wasn't...I didn't think I'd have to answer questions about us. It was stupid, and I didn't mean it." He pauses, and Jon thinks maybe he sees him start to reach his hand out, only to drop it a second later. "Don't go. Please stay the rest of the week."
Jon has to swallow twice to find his voice. "Why should I?" he asks, finally meeting Spencer's eyes. He looks tired and worn again, like he did after the dinner with Wentz.
"I saw you talking to Stump in the tent today." There's a slight tick in Spencer's jaw. "I...I didn't like it."
"We were just talking." Jon looks away, shifting his hold on the clothes piled in his arms. "He offered me a drink and we started talking music, that's all." He doesn't know why he's defending himself, why it even matters, why Spencer cares.
Spencer sort of smiles sadly and shakes his head. "I didn't like it."
The elevator doors choose that moment to ding and slide open, and the attendant smiles politely at Jon. "Going down?" he asks.
Jon looks at Spencer, who doesn't say a word.
"No, thanks," Jon finally whispers.
The attendant gives them both odd looks before the doors close.
Jon turns slowly toward Spencer. "That fucking hurt," he says softly, and he knows he doesn't need to say more.
Spencer nods. "I know." His hand twitches at his side, and Jon almost wishes he'd go ahead and touch him.
"Don't do it again." His voice catches on the last word, making him close his eyes and swallow hard.
Instead of nodding again, Spencer steps aside and lets Jon lead the way back into the suite.
________________________________________
The sex is different this time; there's not the usual intensity and rush that's been present each time before. It's slower, careful, like Spencer's trying to earn the right to touch him again somehow. He takes his time opening Jon up with his fingers and lube, and in the middle of sliding three fingers inside him, Spencer licks up the underside of Jon's cock and sucks lightly at the head in time with the push of his fingers.
Jon never begs. He prides himself on his control, and he hates losing any part of it; he doesn't think about how easily he bucks his hips up to get deeper into Spencer's mouth, or how gasping Spencer's name feels almost natural, like breathing.
Spencer eases inside him so slowly Jon grits his teeth and groans, his hands pulling at Spencer's shoulders, wanting him to move faster.
"Shh," Spencer whispers, brushing his lips over Jon's chin. "Wanna make it last."
"Spence, just—"
"Trust me." He rolls his hips a little, sinking in deeper, and they both moan.
It's the first time Jon doesn't have to ask Spencer what he wants.
When Spencer comes, he ducks his head down, his mouth skimming dangerously close to Jon's as his breath stutters sharply. It's sloppy, unfocused, and Jon lets his lips catch the corner of Spencer's mouth right before things splinter apart and he comes against Spencer's stomach, clenching his teeth until his jaw aches.
Spencer's arms give out and he collapses against Jon's chest, panting hard. His hair sticks to his forehead in wet threads, and Jon uses what strength he has left to reach up and push them back from Spencer's eyes.
"Should get cleaned up before we pass out," he gasps.
Spencer hums sleepily. "Yeah." He rubs his sweaty cheek over Jon's collarbone. "Give me a second."
Eventually they clean up and crawl back into bed. Jon expects Spencer to last maybe ten minutes before putting some clothes back on to go into the living room and pour over his laptop and voicemail. Instead, he rolls onto his side and faces Jon, splaying his hand out on the mattress between them.
"You said at dinner the other night that you were in a band," he suddenly says, words breaking up the quiet darkness as he slides his fingers over the sheets until they brush up against Jon's arm folded under his pillow.
Jon stretches and leans into the touch a bit. "I was. Back home, in Chicago."
Spencer licks his lips slowly. "Why did you leave?" His eyes are focused on the movements of his fingertips tracing a line down Jon's skin.
"I thought I could start a new band out here. But things happened, and it didn't work out." He winces—understatement of the century.
They lie in the dark for a long while before Spencer whispers, "What things happened?"
Jon doesn't want to tell his life story, because he doesn't want sympathy. He got over the self-pity and loathing a long time ago, when he decided to own up to his mistakes and accept the consequences.
He closes his eyes. "The guy I was supposed to start the band with went to jail, and I didn't have any money to rent my own place. I didn't have a job lined up or any friends close by, and I was too embarrassed to call my parents. Luckily I found Brendon, or else I'd probably know LA's homeless shelters a lot better."
"Brendon's your roommate?"
"Yeah. I'd been washing dishes at this diner and I was out of cigarettes, so I walked down to the 7-11 on my break, but I didn't have enough cash on me. Brendon was smoking outside and offered to spot me, and we just started talking; turned out his old roommate had skipped town, so he had a spare room to rent."
Spencer smiles. "That's pretty damn lucky."
He shrugs. "Bren paid the bills with random jobs, but the one he always kept was working a couple of blocks of Hollywood Boulevard three or four nights a week. He made it so sound easy, like all you had to do was smile at a guy and he'd give you twenty bucks." It occurs to Jon that he's never talked about those first six months in LA with anyone other than Brendon.
"But?" Spencer says the word softly, less of a question and more of a nudge.
Jon turns onto his stomach, his shoulder barely touching Spencer's chest. "It wasn't like I just ran right out and started charging guys or anything. But one night, I was at this rave with Brendon and I met this guy. We hit it off, and the next thing I know, he's dragging me out into the alley and I'm on my knees with his cock in my mouth. I got him off, and then he shoves a five in my hand and tells me I've got great technique. After that I just sort of...went with it." He hates that he can feel his cheeks heat slightly.
"And the whole band thing just faded away?"
"Well." Jon sighs again, thinking of his guitar back in the apartment with the broken strings. "I still write songs, and sometimes Brendon plays with me. But no, it's not a band, and it's not me with a guitar every night making music for people." He wants to mention the job at the recording studio, how the owner told him the job was his if he got his GED. He wants to tell Spencer about the last several weeks spent going to classes and studying his ass off, how he counts down the days until he takes the test and no longer has to turn tricks to make rent and can actually spend time doing something he loves.
It's not something Spencer wants to hear, though Jon's already told him too much as it is.
Spencer leans close and brushes his lips over Jon's shoulder blade. "You deserve a lot more," he whispers, and Jon's heart flips over.
"No. I just want new guitar strings so I don't just hum shit in my head." He tries to laugh, but it turns into a rueful smile pressed into the pillow.
"You're worth more than that." Spencer rubs his cheek against Jon's skin, his five o'clock shadow prickly soft.
"Everything's relative," Jon replies softly.
________________________________________
Spencer goes into the office the next morning, but he can't concentrate on the final drafts of the Clandestine buy-out piled on his desk. His mind keeps wandering back to the suite and whether or not Jon's awake yet, if he'll actually eat the chocolate chip muffin Spencer left for him or simply opt for coffee.
His iPod shuffles through to an album of opera classics (something an old girlfriend bought him years ago); the familiar sounds of Carmen fill the room, and somehow he ends up Googling the number for his favorite opera house in San Francisco.
Not long after one o'clock, Spencer packs up his laptop and stops at the front desk to double check that Tabitha, the receptionist, sent the tickets to the hotel and that the flight confirmations are set.
"Where the hell are you going?"
Spencer glances over his shoulder at Gabe standing in the doorway of his office, arms crossed. "Wentz isn't going anywhere tonight, and I've got a date." He slides his messenger bag onto his shoulder, not giving Gabe a chance to respond before he heads down the hallway to the main door.
Gabe follows at his heels. "Really?" he asks. "With the rent boy?" There's sharp touch of venom in his voice that Spencer really despises at the moment.
He stops so abruptly Gabe nearly knocks him over. Spencer narrows his eyes and says, voice low and tight, "Careful, Saporta."
Gabe blinks in shock. It's been a while since Spencer used that tone with him. "Fine, whatever." He holds both hands up, palms out, and takes a step back.
Spencer leaves him standing alone in the hall without another word.
________________________________________
It's weird for Spencer to be pacing around in a tuxedo with slightly sweaty palms—he hasn't been this nervous in years. They aren't the usual nerves that set in like a rush of excitement whenever he's waiting for a deal to go through; these are the kind that make his stomach clench and his heart race too fast. He hopes tonight isn't some giant mistake on his part.
Then the bedroom door opens and Jon walks out in a charcoal suit with a matching shirt and tie, looking just as nervous and more awkward.
"Is this okay?" he asks, holding his arms out and turning in a slow circle. He smiles at Spencer, but the usual hint of trepidation is still in his eyes.
He's stunning. Spencer can't really get over how easily Jon fits into his new expensive clothes, how, when he's not fidgeting, he looks like he could be a high-powered executive to anyone passing by.
"It's missing something," Spencer says as he reaches into his pocket for a small black velvet box. He grins when Jon huffs.
"I don't know how much more shit I can put on, seriously. I'm already wearing socks worth more than good concert tickets, which is really tragic." He frowns and rolls the toe of his shiny dress shoe against the carpet.
"I was thinking more along the lines of something like this." Spencer holds the box out to Jon and opens the lid. Inside is a set of black Tahitian pearl and diamond cuff links; Spencer himself doesn't even own a pair this beautiful. "Don't get excited or anything, they're on loan," he adds, like it somehow validates him calling Harry Winston and having them delivered to the hotel.
Jon's eyes flare slightly as he leans over the box, arms folded over his chest. "Those...are for me?" he asks softly.
Spencer laughs and rolls his eyes, even though his cheeks flush. "No, they're for me and I'm just flaunting them."
"You are kind of a jerk sometimes." Jon smirks and runs his fingertips over the pearls. "I, um. Don't know how to put them on."
"Here." Spencer takes them out of the box carefully and motions for Jon to hold his wrists out. As he fastens each to Jon's cuffs, Jon says in a hushed voice, "So, if you were to really buy these, how much would they cost?"
Spencer shrugs. "Probably around fifty or sixty grand. I didn't get an exact price."
Jon barks out a high-pitched hysterical laugh. "Fifty thousand dollars?" He stares at his wrists once Spencer finishes, like he's afraid to move them at all. "And they just let you borrow them?"
"I'm a really good customer." The amount of money he's spent in the past on jewelry for old girlfriends is slightly obscene.
In the elevator on the way down to the lobby, Jon leans in and asks, "So where're we going?" His hand brushes up against Spencer's, and Spencer threads their fingers together for a moment, sweeping his thumb over the inside of Jon's palm.
"Not telling, it's a surprise," he replies, grinning smugly without looking over at Jon.
"Well," Jon says, "if I forget to tell you later, I had a really awesome time." He squeezes Spencer's hand before letting go, and Spencer is suddenly very glad he decided to do this.
They walk through the lobby together, side by side, and Jon stops fidgeting long enough to hold his chin up as the various hotel employees nod their approval at them as they pass by. Ross is behind the check-in desk, and when Jon grins at him and waves, he actually cracks a smile and calls, "Evening, Walker. Lovely suit."
Jon beams proudly at Spencer. "Guess it's okay if Ross gives it his seal of approval."
"Of course he would. When you put effort into it, you look—" He clears his throat, letting Jon go first through the revolving brass doors. "Very dashing." He mumbles it a little, hoping Jon doesn't notice the flare of pink in his cheeks.
"'Dashing'?" Jon laughs. "Isn't that, like, a romance novel word? Are you secretly a girl, Spencer Smith?"
Spencer rolls his eyes and pushes him toward Zack and the limo waiting at the curb for them. "Shut up and get in the car, wiseass."
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Jon spots the company jet sitting on the runway and says blithely, "I knew it, you are trying to kidnap me, aren't you?"
"Your powers of deduction are staggering," Spencer replies as Zack holds the limo door open for them. He slides out first, followed closely by Jon, and as they walk the red carpet toward the plane, he adds softly, "You're okay with flying, right?"
"Yeah, yeah, sure." The bantering tone has left Jon's voice, and he's starting to look a little overwhelmed. "I mean, I haven't flown in years, but I think I remember liking it." He doesn't ask where they're going, but he looks as if he's about to die from holding it in.
Spencer waits until they're all seated and the attendants have brought them their complimentary champagne to ask, "Do you like opera at all?"
Jon narrows his eyes in thought as he sips his drink. "Never really gave it much thought," he finally says. "That wasn't exactly my scene back home."
"Well, it's your scene tonight." Spencer holds two tickets out to him. "We've got box seats to the opening night performance of Carmen."
He takes the tickets and chews at his lip, turning them over in his hand. "Is it one of your favorites?"
"It's a beautiful opera, yeah. I saw this production a few years ago and thought it was amazing." He remembers the set designs vividly, and how the mezzo-soprano playing Carmen had brought down the house.
Jon smiles and hands the tickets back. "I'll need to bone up on my Italian."
"It's in French, and there are subtitles. You're not going to be able to hide out in the bathroom all night," Spencer laughs. He's incredibly relieved Jon doesn't completely hate the idea.
Jon cups his hand over Spencer's knee. "Damn it," he says, and if his gaze hadn't dropped to Spencer's mouth for a moment, Spencer probably wouldn't have thought about kissing him for the rest of the flight to San Francisco.
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They're late, but Spencer knows opening night never starts on time. An usher shows them to their seats, which are the perfect box seats, complete with a fantastic view of the stage and the pit.
Jon sits in the seat closest to the edge of the box. "Wow, you can see everything from up here!" he says, leaning over the railing. "Spence, look, there's the—"
"I'm sure it's great." His palms are sweating just watching Jon.
"If you're so scared of heights, why do you buy box seats?" Jon asks as he sits back down and flips through his playbill.
"They're the best," Spencer replies simply, and Jon rolls his eyes, only to be immediately distracted again by the complimentary brass binoculars. He fumbles with them until he figures out how operate the lenses.
"Dude, the orchestra! They've got, like, four string basses. I've never seen that many in one place."
Spencer grins, watching the way Jon gets more and more excited as he takes stock of the instruments. "I've always been partial to the timpani myself."
"There're two of them, holy shit. The whole thing's huge!"
Suddenly the lights dim, and as if responding to Jon's admiration, the orchestra swells with the opening notes of the overture. Jon settles back into his seat, eyes wide and enthralled, and for some reason Spencer finds himself leaning over and whispering in Jon's ear, "Opera affects everyone differently, you know? Most people either love it, or they learn to appreciate it, but they never really take the music into their soul."
It sounds stupidly cheesy even to Spencer, but Jon nods slowly, his eyes never leaving the stage.
Spencer intends to watch the performance, except he can't quite look away from Jon, how he leans forward at one point during the first act and curls one hand over the velvet-lined edge of the box, his gaze flicking back and forth between the orchestra and the performers. By the time the last act comes and Carmen sings the final song before her death, Jon is biting his lower lip, and the expression in his eyes is so sad, Spencer carefully slides his hand across the seat and fits his palm against Jon's.
When the house lights come up, Jon says quietly, "You could've told me she dies." He's yet to pull his hand away from Spencer's.
"That would've ruined it for you. You don't tell someone that Vader's Luke's father, or that the little kid's therapist is dead."
Jon smiles and shakes his head. "Fine, whatever." He raises an eyebrow. "Lucky for you I've seen both those movies, or you'd be giant dick."
An older couple in the seats beside them give Jon an irritated look, but Spencer just laughs. "Yeah, I guess so." He gets to his feet and pulls Jon up as well, their fingers still intertwined. "Have you had enough death and subtitles for one night?"
"Definitely."
Only as they're headed downstairs to the main lobby, Jon presses close and whispers, "Thank you for this," before letting his lips skim over Spencer's cheek.
Spencer swallows as his breath stutters. "You're welcome," he says quietly.
On the flight home Jon falls asleep with his cheek propped against Spencer's shoulder, and Spencer starts to wonder how he got to this point. He wants to wake Jon up and talk about New York, how the leaves are starting to change and soon the holidays will come around, and how Christmas in New York City is possibly his favorite time of year, regardless of how many painful memories are attached to it. He wants Jon to tell him how he felt during the opera, if he felt the music in his soul, if it's anything close to the feeling he once had performing in front of an audience.
Spencer wants a lot, but he can't have everything. So he breathes in the warm scent of Jon's shampoo and tries not to think about how his life will go back to normal in a few days.
part four
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OR KISS HIM AT LEAST.
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and as if responding to Jon's admiration, the orchestra swells with the opening notes of the overture