Fic: If You're Wondering if I Want You to (I Want You to)

[foxxcub]

If You're Wondering if I Want You to (I Want You to)
Jon/Spencer | 5500 words | NC-17

At least Brendon and Ryan actually fit into the "amicable" part; they knew better than to fuck their bassist and then choose music over him in the end.

I blame this mostly on mahoni for putting the idea in my head. This may not be completely what she had in mind, but it's close enough? :D? And for some reason I always seem to post porn on Spencer's birthday, idk.

Thanks to themoononastick and slowlikewine for the beta. Title stolen from Weezer.







It's sort of a spur of the moment thing that comes up not long after they're home from touring. Brendon invites Sarah out for the weekend, and while Spencer really enjoys hanging out with the two of them, there's only so much third wheel antics he can take.

He calls Shane, who's busy editing and taking on a new side project. He calls Zack, who's "not leaving this goddamn house for the next week, dude, sorry. Pretend I'm a shut-in." He even accidentally calls Pete, until his phone goes straight to voicemail and Spencer remembers that he's probably in soundcheck right about now.

He's at Starbucks later that afternoon, too paranoid to go home for fear of walking in on Brendon naked on the living room couch with his girlfriend—once is enough for Spencer. It's not until he's scrolling through his Twitter for the millionth time that he sees a picture of Ryan's backyard recently tweeted by Jon.

The caption reads, If I'm lucky, there will be jonfires tonight.

Spencer drums his fingers against the table for a minute, then makes one last call.

~

The last time he'd so much as touched Jon was in a hotel room in Johannesburg, which also happened to be the last time they'd fucked. The room had the most amazing view, one Jon had been completely obsessed with, and on that last night he'd all but begged Spencer to fuck him on the balcony, which was a rush all on its own—Jon had never had an exhibitionist streak, that was a kink Spencer thought they'd never share. The sun was setting in the background, with Jon standing there shirtless and still sweating from the show and biting at Spencer's lips as he tugged him through the open glass sliding doors, whispering, "C'mon, Spence, c'mon."

Spencer could hardly say no.

He remembers holding his breath just as Jon clenched around him and came, his chest pressed tight against Jon's back as he pounded into him, their hands tangled together around the balcony railing. Jon threw his head back and gasped, and the red-orange glow of the sunset had shown off the sweat of his skin. Spencer had closed his eyes, trying to hold the image in his head as his hips stuttered.

The next day they flew back to the states, and not long after that came Jon and Ryan's demos, arguments about musical direction, and then days spent alone with Brendon and the ocean, while Jon hid off with Ryan in the mountains.

Three weeks later, the band decided to split. Jon had pretty much stopped looking Spencer in the eyes.

~

It's never been awkward with Ryan. Out of the four them, Ryan and Spencer seem to get it more than Jon and Brendon, at least when it comes to the pros of taking different routes. Spencer's always known that eventually Ryan would want to do something else; he just thought he'd want to be a part of it when the time came.

Brendon stopped feeling sorry for himself once the new song debuted and they started rehearsing with Ian and Dallon; that was all it took to make him realize that wasn't about him, it was about making things work. After that, Brendon didn't flinch when Spencer mentioned Ryan's name.

But Jon's a different story.

It doesn't help that Ryan seemed perfectly happy to ignore whatever was going on between him and Spencer. Once Spencer had called Ryan when he knew Jon was still in town, but when he'd asked about Jon, Ryan had said, "Oh, yeah, he's um. He went back to Chicago yesterday, actually."

Spencer could clearly hear Jon's voice in the background, laughing at something Eric had said.

He wishes it didn't feel like a second break-up, because it was never like that. They'd just started fooling around one night in England, just before the album had dropped, and it...just never stopped. It was only that one time, during Rock Band in St. Louis, that Spencer had asked as nonchalantly as possible, "So...this," and spread his hand out on the hotel mattress between them as Jon finished his joint.

Jon's eyes got really big and he'd replied quickly, "This what?" He'd coughed a little on the smoke, and Spencer shook his head and rolled over onto his stomach, mumbling, "Nothing, never mind."

Jon had stubbed the joint out, pushed Spencer onto his back, and kissed Spencer slow and dirty, letting the taste of weed and the Cherry Dr. Pepper he'd had earlier mingle in Spencer's mouth.

Spencer thought, I don't need to ask. This is enough.

~

Ryan doesn't answer the door when Spencer knocks. The mid-afternoon sun is still high in the sky, and Spencer figures Ryan's maybe another hour away from getting out of bed.

But he didn't expect Ryan to answer, anyway, because Ryan wasn't the one Spencer had called.

Jon stands in the doorway, shoulders hunched in a little. He smiles slightly with one corner of his mouth.

"You gonna let me in, or what?" Spencer says, smirking. He folds his arms over his chest to keep from doing something stupid, like touch him. It's been probably three months since he saw Jon in person, and he looks really thin. A part of him selfishly wants to believe Jon's leanness is due to missing the other half of his band and not the lack of food in Ryan's pantry.

Jon shrugs. "'s not my house, but okay," he drawls, and steps back to let Spencer inside. He looks up a bit as Spencer walks by, meets Spencer's eyes, and for a moment, there's a weird spark of something strained and desperate, something that makes Spencer's chest go tight. He can't remember the last time Jon held his gaze like this, but then it's gone the second Jon looks away and pushes the hair out of his eyes.

"Ryan went to get steaks with Alex. He also said something about salmon, so god knows when they'll be back," he says, leaving Spencer in the foyer as he wanders down the hall to the living room. There's a hint of incense in the air, and Spencer can hear the faint murmurs of the TV. He follows after Jon to find pages of lyrics scattered all over the couch, along with at least three guitars and a tambourine hanging over a lamp. A rerun of King of the Hill is playing on the flat screen.

"Want a drink?" Jon yells from the kitchen.

"No thanks, I'm good." Against his better judgment, he picks up one of the sheets of paper with scribbled words across it. It's not Ryan's handwriting, it's too legible; even if Spencer didn't recognize Jon's swoopy g's, he'd still recognize the lyrics—simple and direct, nothing heavy-handed or overdone.

Suddenly the lyrics are plucked out of his hand. "Those are confidential," Jon says, and even though he's smiling politely, there's a bite to his words. He sets his beer bottle on the coffee table and scoops up the rest of the sheets of paper, throwing the stack into a nearby chair.

"I always liked your lyrics," Spencer says before he can think better of it, which is a mistake.

Jon laughs, but it's a dry, brittle sound. "Of course you did," he replies softly, without looking at Spencer. He takes a long drink and paces behind the couch.

Spencer can feel his cheeks flushing. "You guys are, what, more than half done with recording?" He refuses to let Jon bait him, because he's not here to fight, and besides, Jon's the one who took his call, who agreed to let Spencer come over.

"Yeah, something like that." Jon shrugs again. "Ryan wants everything to be done and ready by November, but we'll see. I think that date's too optimistic."

It's stupid how much Spencer wants to touch him, cup his hand over Jon's shoulder, something. Jon looks too stiff, like he'd rather be anywhere but in Spencer's presence, and Spencer's torn between shoving him into a wall and wrapping his arms around him.

"You'll make it. You know Ryan, if he's set on something, he'll fucking do it." He wishes he'd taken Jon up on the drink offer, just so he'd have something to occupy his hands.

"Yeah, maybe." Jon scrubs a hand through his hair. It's longer than Spencer's ever seen it, curling around his ears and against his neck. He hates the instant visual that flashes through his mind, of what Jon's hair would look like spread out over his pillow.

Spencer closes his eyes and sighs. "Did, uh, Ryan tell you we're gonna be in the studio next week?"

Jon nods at his beer bottle.

"Brendon's pretty stoked, I think it'll be really awesome."

"Nice." Then Jon waves his hand at the balcony. "Hey, I'm gonna go smoke. You're welcome to come, if you're still, I dunno, into that or whatever."

Spencer can't quite tell if Jon's being sarcastic or not, but he's definitely not going to let this be an excuse for Jon to get away from him. He hasn't smoked up since South Africa, and he's kind of missed it. Or more specifically, he's missed smoking up with Jon.

"No, yeah, I'll smoke," Spencer says, and Jon kind of blinks at him like that wasn't the response he expected.

They don't speak as Spencer follows him out onto the deck overlooking the valley behind Ryan's house. To the left is the wall Spencer helped Ryan build months ago; somewhere etched in the bricks is Spencer's initials.

He's squinting at the wall, trying to remember the exact location, when he hears Jon clear his throat.

"Want the first hit?" Jon asks, holding the joint out to Spencer. If Spencer closed his eyes, he could pretend they were back on tour, standing on a hotel balcony, waiting for Brendon and Ryan to join them.

He doesn't reply, just takes a long drag and tries not to watch the way Jon's eyes track the movement of Spencer's fingers. The smoke settles into his lungs, and it only burns a little from being out of practice.

"You can cough, I won't judge you," Jon says, smirking.

"Fuck you," Spencer replies. He coughs once, and for a second, Jon smiles at him for real.

They fall into a silent rhythm after that, trading the joint back and forth, fingers barely touching. Spencer can feel the smoke settling into his blood, letting the tension ease out of his shoulders. He's not quite stoned, but he's got a nice buzz going, and he thinks maybe, now, things can stop being awkward between them.

Until Jon says, flicking the spent joint into the trees, "So I guess you must've been pretty bored."

Spencer blinks. "What?"

"It's been, like, months since you called me. Figured I was a last resort." He shrugs, and he doesn't sound angry or bitter. Just...resigned.

Despite his buzz, Spencer's jaw clenches. "I can't just decide I want to see you? Hang out?"

"Let me guess—Sarah's in town, Zack's being a homebody, Pete's booked into next century, and you don't like being around Ryan when he's with Alex. So that leaves me. And here we are." Jon waves his hand around at nothing. "Sorry I'm not more entertaining."

Spencer barely flinches. He knew this was coming; Jon's been angry for months—at him, at Spencer, not at the rest of the band, because when it came to the music, Jon didn't take it personally, he'd been around long enough to know better.

At least Brendon and Ryan actually fit into the "amicable" part; they knew better than to fuck their bassist and then choose music over him in the end.

"You could've called me, too," Spencer says softly, scuffing his feet against the deck.

Jon mumbles, "Pretty sure that's the last thing you wanted from me," as he pushes off the railing and walks toward the windows, arms hugged against his body. From behind, he looks almost tiny, and Spencer really wishes he didn't still have vivid memories of being so unbelievably turned on by the fact that he can completely cover Jon's body with his own and pin him to the wall, or the bed, or the back of a speaker just before soundcheck.

"What I wanted was for you to not hate me." His heart pounds as he says the words to Jon's back.

Jon rolls his shoulders, his head dropping forward a little. "I don't hate you."

Now it's Spencer's turn to laugh. "You are the world's shittiest liar, Walker."

"You're here, aren't you? I answered the goddamn phone." He still hasn't turned around, but Spencer can see his face in the window, looking straight at him.

"That doesn't mean you want me here. It means you're just being polite, and that Ryan would've just let me come over, anyway." Spencer's proud of the fact that his voice stays even.

"Okay, fuck it. Maybe I think you're over here to check up on us, get a feel for the competition." Jon smirks at Spencer again in the window, only this time it's far from friendly. "Even though some of us don't have the luxury of getting Mark fucking Hoppus to write our songs."

Spencer doesn't think as he launches himself off the railing and shoves Jon, both hands flat against his back. It's the first time he's touched him in months.

Jon stumbles slightly into the window as Spencer yells, "It's not a fucking competition, Jon, you know that! We're doing what we all wanted to do, what you said you wanted to do. How is that a fucking competition?"

Jon finally turns around and shoves Spencer back, hard against his shoulder. "You think I'm—this band is joke, you just won't say it to Ryan's face. Or mine." His glare is fierce, but Spencer caught the slip.

"Fuck you, I don't think that. I've never—" He shoves a hand through his hair, mostly to keep himself from shoving Jon again, or possibly hitting him. "You know I'd never think that, what the hell?"

Jon takes a few steps toward Spencer, his expression going very dark and mean. "What was it you told Brendon? That Ryan and I just needed 'to fuck around pretending to be The Beatles' for a while until we decided to be 'a real band again'?"

Spencer's heart lodges itself in his throat. "I told you I was pissed, I didn't mean for you to hear it—"

"You didn't mean for me to hear it, but you fucking meant it. You meant every word."

There were a lot of things said after Ryan and Jon had presented their demos, but it was mostly the frustration talking. Things hit rock bottom for a few days after that, and there were times when Spencer felt like Ryan and Jon just didn't want him around anymore, that he and Brendon were unnecessary now that they'd found their rhythm. For a good twenty-four hours, Spencer had hated the two of them more than anyone else in his life.

Then he'd had a long talk with Ryan and gotten over it. But not before Jon accidentally caught the brunt of Spencer's anger being vented at Brendon.

"I meant it then, but I sure as hell don't mean it now. If you'd actually talk to me once in a while, you'd know that!"

"Sorry, been too distracted learning how to be Ringo Starr."

"What do you want from me, Jon? Am I supposed to be, like, begging for your forgiveness or something? Because I won't, that's bullshit, you were just as much a part of all this as the rest of us, as I was. If you're trying to be a martyr in this scenario of yours, I'm not buying into it. Fuck that." He can feel an angry flush in his cheeks, spreading down his neck as his shoulders rise and fall with each breath.

Jon's quiet for several moments before he rubs both hands over his face. "I don't know," he finally says softly. "I just can't stop..."

Spencer swallows. "Stop what?"

Jon shrugs and shakes his head. "Nothing. Just go hang out in the living room or whatever until Ryan gets back." He jerks his head toward the open door leading back into the house, and it hits Spencer that he's being dismissed.

"So that's it?" Spencer says, barely above a whisper. "You're not even...we're just gonna...?"

"Yeah." Jon keeps his head down as he walks back to the railing. "That's it. Sorry to waste your time."

A rush of anger hits Spencer square in the gut, along with words meant to bruise, to hurt, to sever whatever threads are left between them and just be done with it for good. It's on the tip of his tongue to tell Jon he's a selfish prick, that Spencer and Brendon are better off without him.

Yet even if Spencer meant it, he'd never say it out loud. He watches the way Jon leans against the railing, his shoulders hunched in again, arms folded close to his body. Spencer recognizes the signs of when Jon's in self-preservation mode.

He starts to leave the deck, because if anything they can both take some time cool off and be civil to each other when Ryan gets back. But just as the door closes behind him, Spencer thinks, Damn it, no.

He taps on the glass.

Jon looks over his shoulder at him, frowning.

"I'm locking you out," Spencer calls, pointing to the door handle. "And you don't get back in until you fucking talk to me for real."

They face off for a moment, until it seems to dawn on Jon that there's only one door out onto the deck and no stairs.

"Whatever, Ryan'll just let me in," Jon calls back, although there's a hint of trepidation in his voice.

Spencer shakes his head.

Jon huffs and rolls his eyes, pushing off the railing. He comes up to the door, jiggles the handle.

"Fuck, Spence, c'mon. Grow up." He frowns harder at the handle, and Spencer can't help noticing that Jon's gone back to not looking him in the eyes.

Spencer takes a deep breath and says, "No."

He doesn't know what he expects from Jon, but it's not him slowly putting his hands on his hips and saying softly, head bowed, "Spence, don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't...do this." Jon flails his hand a little at the locked door. "Just open the door."

"Will you talk to me?"

Jon's throat bobs. "Maybe."

Maybe isn't good enough. Spencer's heart starts to pound again, harder and faster than before. He has a sudden, reckless urge to push Jon as far as he can, just to see if he can make him crack.

He presses close to the door and says in a low voice, "All right, you don't have to talk to me. But you're not getting back in."

Jon slams his hand against the window. "Stop being a dick!"

"I'm the dick? I'm not the one being a stubborn douchebag."

"Open the damn door, Spence."

Spencer tips his chin up, eyes narrowed. He gives Jon a nasty smirk. "No, you know what? Since you're such expert on all things dick-related, maybe you could just whip it out and beat off."

Jon laughs, and it's definitely got a bite to it. "Yeah, sure. That's really what you want from me, not to fucking talk."

"'Course, talk's obviously overrated," Spencer shoots back.

"Is that a dare, Smith?"

Before Spencer can stop himself, he blurts out, "Yeah, it is. A dick touching his dick sounds fitting, don't you think?"

He doesn't expect Jon to laugh again and brace one arm against the door, his free hand shoving into his jeans. "Like that? Is this what you want?" But there's something in his eyes that Spencer can't quite read, something that contradicts the malicious tone of his laughter.

And suddenly Spencer brain is flooded with the memories of New Zealand, the tail end of their world tour, and the balcony of a hotel room in Auckland. He remembers how the two of them had teased each other all day, even on stage, with nothing but looks. When they got back to the room, Jon had leaned against the doorway to the hotel balcony and slowly tugged his boxers off, until he was completely naked. He'd palmed his cock lazily and said, "You want this?" in a low, rough voice that never failed to make Spencer go hard. They'd fucked for hours that night, to the point that Spencer walked with a slight limp the next day.

Spencer takes a deep breath, not breaking eye contact with Jon for a second as he splays both hands on the glass and says simply, "Yes," his voice pitched an octave or two deeper than normal.

Jon's eyes flare for a second, his smirk faltering. Then he snorts, "Fine, asshole," as he starts jerking his hand in tight little movements.

The thing is, even though Spencer can't see his hand, he knows how Jon touches himself. He knows exactly what Jon's hand looks like wrapped around his cock, how his thumb overlaps his short, wide fingertips. He knows Jon likes it dry at first, then likes to lick his palm, or squeeze himself tighter until the tip gets slick. Spencer knows all this, and it makes his heart race and his skin flush, regardless of how frustrated and hurt he is.

"You're a sick bastard," Jon says, but his voice is already a little thin at the end. Spencer can see the way his chest rises and falls, faster in time with his hand.

Spencer licks his lips and leans closer to the glass. "You like it. You always did," he says softly.

A muscle flexes in Jon's jaw. "No, you're the one who liked to show off."

Something tightens low in his stomach, and he can feel himself getting hard. He wants to be pissed, but he's not. If anything, he's predictable; he could never watch Jon like this and not respond.

"But you liked to show off for me," Spencer replies, breath fogging the glass. He bites his lip as Jon blinks fast for a second, and then his gaze drops down to follow the path of Spencer's hand as he very slowly rubs his palm over the front of his jeans. The smug look on Jon's face completely fades.

Spencer swears he hears a tiny, strangled grunt from the other side of the door.

"'m not showing off." And there it is, a breathy little hitch in Jon's voice that Spencer's missed so goddamn much. It's the same hitch Spencer remembers from when he'd pull Jon into a dark corner just before a show. He'd kiss him fast and dirty, and Jon would say, "That's inappropriate, Spence," before laughing and pulling him in close to kiss him back quickly.

"No one's holding a gun to your head." He doesn't look away from Jon's face, because Jon's always been the most vulnerable like this, even if he's never realized it himself. Maybe, deep down, this was Spencer's intention all along. "No one's making you beat off on Ryan's deck, Jon." His voice feels too rough in his throat; he presses his hand harder against his crotch, hissing softly.

"Fuck you, I'm not—" Jon's eyes flutter, and he grits his teeth, swallowing against a moan. "You just wanna fuck with me." The hurt in his voice is nearly palpable, and it hits Spencer in the gut.

He slides his hand down the glass, until his fingers are even with Jon's slightly curled ones. A part of him wants to open the door, wrap his arms around Jon. But they need this. It all needs to be said somehow, and if a locked door makes it happen, so be it.

"It's never been like that," Spencer says, watching the muscles along Jon's forearm flex as he twists his hand. "Christ, all I've ever wanted was for you to be—to be happy, I just—" He glances up just as Jon's tongue darts out over his lower lip, and Spencer can't help the groan that slips out. "I just wish it involved me somehow, that's all."

Jon squeezes his eyes shut, wincing like he's in pain for a moment. His forehead drops against the door, and he's panting, his breath puffing out in short bursts over the glass. Spencer stopped watching Jon's hand ages ago; he just wants to press closer, feel the heat of the blush that's spreading over Jon's cheeks and neck. He grinds his hand tighter over his erection, wishing it were Jon's hand, wishing the goddamn glass would vaporize.

"Spence," Jon gasps, and it's soft, so soft, even as he keeps stroking himself.

God, Spencer hopes Ryan and Alex don't decide to show up right now. He doesn't really give a shit if he's caught jerking off; but everything feels like it's wrapped up in this moment, and if they lose it somehow, they'll never get it back. "I thought you didn't need me anymore," he whispers, swallowing hard. "You had Ryan and your demos, and nothing else really mattered..."

Jon huffs, then leans back from the glass. His hair is in his eyes, and all Spencer can think is that he looks completely wrecked.

"Do you even know how much your opinion mattered on those demos?" he breathes.

"Then why shut me out?" Spencer says, and his voice sounds too high, too desperate. "You took off after that and hid up here and didn't fucking pick up the phone or text or anything, and I'm just supposed to—"

"Because I—" Jon stops, grits his teeth around another groan, and fuck, they're still doing this.

"Because you what, Jon?" He pushes his palm harder against the glass, his fingertips fitted perfectly between Jon's.

"Because..." His gaze flicks down to their hands splayed over each other. "Because I hated disappointing you. And I hated myself for letting it mean so much to me." Jon closes his eyes, his head bowed. He makes a soft huh-uh in his throat as he twists his hand, and it's that tiny broken sound that finally causes Spencer to break inside as well.

He fumbles with the lock and throws the door open, startling Jon enough that he stumbles a bit. But Spencer catches him, backs him up against the window, shoving his thigh between Jon's legs and completely covering Jon's body from chest to hip. Jon looks up him with wide, shocked eyes, gasping, and Spencer can only spread his hand over Jon's jaw and kiss him like he needs it more than his next breath.

Jon fights him for all of five seconds, but it's like a final push, a last ditch effort; the tension immediately drains of him the moment Spencer's tongue slides against his, and then he melts against the window, hands suddenly clinging to Spencer's shoulders. He kisses Spencer back just as desperately, his teeth pulling at Spencer's lower lip. Jon goes up on his toes slightly and their hips rub against one another, making Spencer shudder and wrap himself tighter around Jon.

"You've never disappointed me," he whispers against Jon's ear, nipping at his jaw. "Fuck, you were my idol for a while after you first joined the band. You were my hero." He rolls his hips, and Jon shivers and moans, pushes back up against Spencer.

"I never meant—I didn't want to leave, but—" Jon slides his hands into Spencer's hair, and his kisses go softer even as their rhythm picks up speed.

"I don't think your band's a joke. I love you too much to ever think that, you fucking jerk." He knows he should add Ryan's name in there somewhere, he knows it, but it's too late, it's already out there.

Jon shakes his head, and Spencer can feel him lift his right leg and wrap it loosely around Spencer's thighs. The position is a bit awkward, but they've made it work in the past, and they both know it. It makes Spencer's heart pound faster as he slumps slightly and spreads his legs, letting Jon set the pace and the angle.

"Thought you didn't want me," Jon gasps into Spencer's mouth, his back arching off the window.

"You thought wrong." He goes for broke and licks a stripe down Jon's neck to the bend of his shoulder, sucking sharply and tasting sweat and soap. Spencer's not being fair, but he wants Jon to know he still remembers the little details, like how sensitive the skin at the base of his neck is. When Jon cries out and bucks against him, Spencer can't help grinning.

"Shit, Spence, I'm—"

"Yeah, I know," Spencer growls back, meeting Jon's thrusts. He wants more friction than just the confines of his jeans, but he's not stopping now, and besides, he can already feel the wet spot growing. He's fucking close, and so is Jon—his face softens and his eyes are all pupil, and his cheeks are pinkpinkpink.

Spencer loves that he remembers exactly how Jon looks just before he comes.

He ends up swallowing whatever words Jon tries to say as he clenches and shudders, pawing at Spencer's chest. He runs out of air and breaks out of the kiss just as Jon gasps, "Fuck, yes," his head falling back against the glass, baring his throat, and that, somehow, is all it takes to send Spencer over the edge. It's hard and fast and a little painful, but good, so good. Better than good.

They don't say anything else for a long time, their eyes closed, mouths open and panting. Jon's leg slides down Spencer's calf, his fingers still tangled in the neck of Spencer's t-shirt. Spencer skims his thumb over Jon's cheek, over the soft five o'clock shadow that never really seems to disappear.

"You're in love with me?" Jon whispers, rough and breathless, and that is, quite frankly, not quite what Spencer expected to hear first thing out of his mouth.

He sighs, nuzzling the tip of his nose against Jon's. "Would it matter if I was?" he asks softly.

A slow smile spreads across Jon's face as he laughs. He's yet to open his eyes. "Yeah, it would. A lot." Finally, his eyelids flutter open, and he's looking up at Spencer through his lashes, all flushed and gorgeous and yeah, Spencer fucking loves him.

His throat feels too dry suddenly. "I missed you," he whispers.

Jon reaches up and trails a fingertip down the slope of Spencer's nose. "That's really all I ever wanted to hear you say."

~

Ryan comes home to find them curled up together on the couch watching the Food Network. Jon's sprawled on Spencer's stomach, hands folded under his cheek, and Spencer is idly playing with Jon's bangs.

Ryan comes to a complete stop in the living room, nearly causing Alex to crash into his back. He blinks at the two of them, and slowly the corners of his mouth twitch.

"You...worked it out?" he asks tentatively, plastic grocery bags dangling from his hands.

Spencer smiles crookedly at him, his hand pushing a little further into Jon's hair. "You could say that," he replies.

Jon leans into his touch as he nods. They both know there are things still left to be said, but for now they're good. The worst is over.

"As long as you guys didn't consummate your love all over the kitchen, I'm all for it," Alex calls as he hauls the rest of the food into the other room, humming the Super Mario Brothers theme under his breath. Spencer knows without a doubt that the two of them figured out harmonies and a tambourine part for the whole song in the time it took them to drive home from the market.

"No worries," Jon mumbles against Spencer's chest, rubbing his face against the front of his shirt like a cat. "We just did it all over your bed."

"Fucker, I heard that!" Alex yells back, and Ryan actually beams at Spencer.

"Carry on then, my friend," Ryan says, and leans over the back of the couch to muss Jon's hair. But he keeps smiling at Spencer, one eyebrow raised as if to say, This is good, right?

Spencer nods, returning the smile as Jon yells back something about Alex's mom.

Ryan lets out a loud sigh. "Thank god," he breathes, then takes his bags to the kitchen.