Title: Every One of You
Author: Mokuyoubi
Pairing: bb!Spencer/bb!Brendon, adult!Spencer/adult!Brendon (very mild bb!Spencer/adult!Brendon)
Rating: R-ish. For some sexy-times. Not very explicit at all…
WC: 20,000
Warning: Some physical interaction between underaged characters and adults.
Summary: Baby Lesbian Spencer wakes up six years in the future, to find himself in the home shared by his future self and Brendon, who are really cosy with each other…
ETA: This is not genderswap! I use the term baby lesbian Spencer in affectionately teasing way given how he used to dress/wear his hair, etc.
AN: IDEK, guys. This was supposed to be a birthday drabble for redorchids and then it mutated. Purely self-indulgent, fluffy schmoop. Thanks so much to okubyo_kitsune for her quick and lovely beta work.
A fairly porny one-off sequel will be posted in the next day or two, just fyi

So, red, I know this is a little early, but I'm so worn out from being sick, and I figured by the time I got up tomorrow, your birthday would almost be over. So. Here you go. I love you!


Spencer had a headache. He’d had a headache for the past twenty-four hours at least, and no dosage of ibuprofen had managed to dispel it. It was currently being helped in large part by the epic shouting match going on in the next bedroom over. Spencer toed Brent in the thigh and when Brent didn’t even look up from his magazine, Spencer drew his leg back and kicked, hard.

“What the fuck, dude?” Brent muttered, tugging out one of his ear buds.

“Your turn,” Spencer said.

Brent rolled his eyes and turned back to his magazine. “They’re your friends.”

Spencer frowned, and that made his head hurt worse. “My friends?” he asked, but Brent had already put his ear bud back in.

On his way down the hall, Spencer cast a longing look at the door to his bedroom. He’d abandoned it a half-hour earlier when it had become clear that the fight wasn’t going to end anytime soon. His normal refuge—turning up his iPod and rolling over—wasn’t doing much good in light of his current headache situation.

“Guys,” he snapped, opening the door without knocking, and glared through his bangs. The two of them were standing close together in the centre of the room, and Spencer couldn’t tell if they were about to start hitting each other, or start kissing. “It’s two fucking a.m.”

Ryan crossed his arms, expression pissy, but at least Brendon had the good grace to look ashamed. “We were just discussing the importance of artistic integrity,” Ryan said, and Brendon rolled his eyes.

“Well, can you save it for the fucking studio?” Spencer grumbled.

“Sorry,” Brendon said, “of course.” Spencer felt a little bad for waiting so long to come in, when it was clear that Brendon didn’t even want to be having this argument.

He gave Spencer a strange, urgent sort of look and what with hearing his own heartbeat doing a drum solo against his temple, it took Spencer a second to catch on.

“Um, Brendon, why don’t you crash with Brent tonight?” he said. Brendon practically deflated with relief and ducked out of the room.

“God,” Ryan said, “he’s such a fucking child.”

Spencer was trying very hard not to take sides in this whole debacle because, well, it wasn’t that he didn’t understand Ryan’s artistic drive, but it was clear that Brendon was busting his fucking ass to give Ryan everything he wanted.

Only Brendon was an annoying asshole and Ryan was Spencer’s best friend, so it was just easier to shut up and let them deal with it themselves. Except when it was two a.m. and Spencer was the lucky one who got to talk to Pete when the neighbours complained to management about the noisy teenagers.

“Yeah,” Spencer said. “I guess.”

Ryan snorted and flopped back on his bed. “You guess? Spence, we’ve been given this amazing chance. Pete Wentz signed us. He believes in us. And Brendon’s just fucking around. How are we supposed to make it if he won’t take this seriously?”

Spencer thought about how Brendon had stopped drinking warm milk before bed because it messed with his vocal chords, even though it was something his mother had always done for him when he was stressed and one tiny piece of home he’d clung to since being kicked out.

He thought about all the gross shit Brendon did, with salt and raw lemons, just because he said it would help him sound better. He thought about how Brendon would go through dozens of takes that sounded exactly the fucking same to Spencer, until Ryan was pleased.

He didn’t bring any of it up.

“I’ve got a fucking headache,” he said, and got under the covers on Brendon’s bed.

Ryan huffed an annoyed sigh, but thankfully didn’t try to keep the argument going. It was seriously for the best, because with Brent’s weird comment about Ryan and Brendon being Spencer’s friends and having to deal with Ryan’s diva attitude and Brendon’s kicked puppy feelings, he was about ready to snap.

When they’d been kids, dreaming about the day they’d get big, this was never how Spencer had imagined it. He’d thought it would be fun—big hotel rooms, fancy cars, lots of hot girls. He hadn’t imagined being stuffed into a dump of a two bedroom apartment with three other guys, living on shitty take out, and having to be the support beam that kept his band together—or at least kept them from killing each other. The stress was kinda turning him into a bitch.


*


The next day was Saturday, which didn’t necessarily mean a day off. Since they’d arrived in Maryland, they’d been working six day weeks, and even sometimes on Sundays, too. Mostly they didn’t complain (though sometimes Brent just didn’t show up), since they knew the sooner they got done, the sooner they could move on to more exciting aspects of their imminent stardome. Like touring.

Spencer woke up after five hours of sleep and his headache had morphed into a low-grade, dull thrum of pain at the base of his skull. They spent most of the morning at the studio and when Spencer came back from laying down some new tracks, it was to find Brendon and Ryan at it again in the mixing room.

Brent muttered about how they should just fuck each other already, and like, yeah. Right? It made sense, with all the unresolved tension between them, but just the suggestion made Spencer want to punch Brent really fucking hard in the face.

Someone had called Pete to complain about it, not that Spencer could blame them. Pete told them to take the rest of the weekend off and try to blow off some steam. Spencer could tell that the producer wasn’t happy about it, but whatever. It might put them slightly behind schedule, but it was better than their lead guitarist murdering their lead vocalist.

As soon as they got back to the apartment, Ryan grabbed a notebook and stormed out, saying he was going on a walk. Brent hunkered down in his bedroom with his cell phone. Brendon looked seriously unhappy, but he tried to smile when Spencer found him in the living room.

“Brent’s being lame,” Spencer said. “But I asked some of the guys at the studio and they said that on Saturdays there’s this thing at the Inner Harbour. Free music, food booths, games. Sorta like a festival.”

“Yeah?” Brendon said, perking up around the edges, eyes bright.

Spencer’s stomach flipped a little unpleasantly and he realised that last night at dinner was the last time he’d had food. “You wanna come?”

Brendon beamed at him and it made Spencer a little uncomfortable, how much Brendon wore his emotions on his sleeve. “Spencer Smith, it is a date.”

“Shut up,” Spencer mumbled. “I just invited you since Ryan took off.”

“Oh,” Brendon said, and that seemed to take that ridiculous smile of his down several notches.

Whatever, Spencer thought. It was Brendon’s own stupid fault for saying shit like that. A date. Yeah right. Like anyone would want to date someone as obnoxious as Brendon.

It was near sunset when they got to the harbour and there was a jazz band playing. Brendon forgot all about pouting in the face of jazz, apparently. They didn’t have a lot of money, so they just got a hotdog each and an order of fries and lemonade to share, then sat near the back of the amphitheatre.

Usually, you couldn’t pay Brendon to shut up, but for once he seemed content to just sit still and listen. Spencer was thankful; his headache had mostly dissipated and they were far enough back from the speakers that the music was more of a background noise than an assault on their eardrums.

Following the jazz band there was an orchestra doing a bunch of famous movie themes, then a local choir doing a bunch of oldies. They lay down on the grass after eating, feet to head, and Spencer tried not to notice how close Brendon was lying, or how his arm brushed Spencer’s hip whenever he shifted.

After the sun had set completely, a local band came on, doing some of their original stuff. The singer wasn’t the greatest, but the lyrics were awesome, sometimes bordering on hysterical, and the crowd loved them. Something about them being from Maryland, maybe.

“It’s too bad we didn’t get to have that,” Brendon remarked.

“What?” Spencer snapped. He didn’t mean to always sound so annoyed, but it had become his default, as of late.

Brendon propped himself up on his elbows, frowning down at his feet. “Just. You know, like touring around Nevada, building a fan base.”

Spencer snorted. “There is nowhere to tour in Nevada. And are you seriously complaining about getting signed?”

“No,” Brendon said, frown deepening. “That’s not what I meant. Just, like, they sound like they’re having fun, and maybe they’re not perfect, but they’re enjoying what they do, and the crowd loves them, and like. You know what, maybe being famous isn’t as important as loving what you do.”

“But we’re gonna get to do both. Get famous doing what we love,” Spencer said.

“Yeah,” Brendon said. Then he laughed, and sprung to his feet. “You’re right. Of course, you’re right.” He wandered a few feet away, kicking at the grass.

Spencer turned his attention back to the music, resolute. He was not going to cater to Brendon’s weird mood swings. He dealt with that enough with Ryan.

Without Brendon pressed up close to him, Spencer’s whole right side felt cold, and then the band changed to some stupid country band, and that was the only reason Spencer got up and followed Brendon to where he was pacing down by the railing at the water’s edge.

“Wanna get some ice cream?” Spencer asked. He’d seen Brendon eyeing the stand earlier.

Brendon looked in that direction now, then back out at the water taxis lighting up the harbour. “Can’t. It’ll fuck with my voice.”

Spencer rolled his eyes and kicked at the railing. “You don’t have to sing again ‘til Monday. I think you’ll be fine.”

“I can’t,” Brendon insisted. And now he was just being a stubborn bitch. Spencer grabbed his arm and dragged him towards the stand. “Ryan will flip,” Brendon said.

“Ryan doesn’t need to know,” Spencer said. He really shouldn’t be eating ice cream either. He’d been losing weight lately, and it was a trend he wanted to keep up. Still, he ordered a strawberry pistachio for Brendon and a single scoop of mint chocolate chip for himself. Solidarity in rule-breaking, or something.

Brendon tried to look petulant about it when Spencer shoved the cone at him, but there was a smile tugging at his lips when he began to eat. They walked along the main stretch of food booths and the occasional carnival game as they ate.

Brendon kept trying to loop his arm through Spencer’s and Spencer had to keep scowling and batting him away, taking exaggerated steps to the side. Brendon was smiling about it, like it was a fucking game, or something, and Spencer didn’t know how to get across the point that this touching thing was not okay, short of, like, actually hurting Brendon.

“Hey, check it out,” Brendon said, pointing towards the science museum. There were a bunch of little coin operated machines outside—little kiddie rides, test the strength of your grip, weigh yourself, that sort of thing. Brendon rushed over to them and Spencer followed more sedately.

“It’s like the one in Big,” Brendon said. He was standing in front of a fortune telling machine that didn’t look anything like the one from Big. For one thing, the fortune teller was a woman dressed like a gypsy, and for another she was painted onto the background, rather than being a mechanical puppet thing.

“You need your fortune told?” Spencer asked. He maybe sounded a little derisive about it.

“Hey, what would be so wrong with that?” Brendon asked. He looked sort of wistful and sad. “Maybe if I could see it was all going to work out in the end.”

“Yeah, sorry Brendon, but I don’t even Zoltar could help you grow up.”

It was…even as Spencer spoke the words, he knew he shouldn’t, knew that his tone was all wrong. He didn’t mean for it to come out the way it did. But even as Brendon’s face fell, Spencer couldn’t make himself take the words back, or try to make them better.

Brendon laughed, this awful sound that made Spencer’s stomach sour. “Sometimes I’m so stupid,” he said. “I forget you’re Ryan Ross’ best friend.”

“Brendon,” Spencer said.

“No,” Brendon said. “You’re right.” He spun on his heel, heading back the way they’d come, pushing through the crowd.

“Come on Brendon,” Spencer said, and Brendon glanced over his shoulder at him. “We can’t really afford two separate taxi fares home.”

Brendon turned fully around, gave Spencer a seriously hateful glare and said softly, “Fuck you, Spencer Smith.” He stormed off, making a few people double take at him in his wake.

“Shit,” Spencer said. The lights of Madame Fornestra’s machine blinked blue and red at him unhelpfully. He’d sorta thought that graduating and moving halfway across the country to fulfil his record contract would mean being an adult, but he felt every bit the stupid, inexperienced seventeen year old that he was.

Maybe if he brought a fortune home for Brendon, he’d forgive him. Spencer wasn’t even sure why he was bothered about Brendon forgiving him, but he was. He fished around in his pocket for a couple quarters, which were precious currency at the recording studio when they’d been there twelve hours and Spencer was running on four hours of sleep and needed some caffeine from the soda machine on the first floor. Still, Spencer weighed caffeine against the look on Brendon’s face just now and shoved the quarters into the machine.

He pressed the little green button on the front of the machine and the lights started flashing in a different pattern and a woman’s voice made these ridiculous spooky noises. “You seek your fortune,” she said. “Yes, I see great things in your future, great things!!! Look below for the answer to your question!” The lights flashed and lit up a little drop box, from which a card fell.

Spencer bent to pick it up. The back was like a fancy playing card with intricate drawings. He flipped it over and frowned. It read: Sorry, Duplex Closed. Beneath was a string of letters that could have been a foreign language or could have been nonsense. Either way, what a serious fucking waste of fifty cents.

There wasn’t a trash bin around, so he pocketed the card and headed back the way he’d come, hunting down a taxi.

Ryan was sitting on the couch when Spencer came in. He looked happy and relaxed for the first time in over a week, so Spencer was cautiously pleased. “What’s up?”

“I don’t know what you said to him,” Ryan said, “but whatever it was, you pissed him off enough that he’s not mad at me anymore, so, thanks. And he said he was ready to take this seriously and do what I needed him to do in the studio.”

Spencer wanted to point out that since none of them even fucking knew what Ryan wanted from Brendon in the studio, that might be impossible, but he didn’t feel like having two members of his band pissed off at him. “Maybe I should talk to him,” he said.

Ryan waved a dismissive hand. “He said he was gonna shower, then sleep. Dude, he’ll get over it in the morning. It’s fucking Brendon. I swear, he’s got, like, a goldfish’s attention span.”

“You’re such an asshole sometimes,” Spencer said.

“Whatever,” Ryan said. “You’re the one who made him cry. I’m not even that bad.”

Made him cry? Spencer refused to let his surprise show on his face. He shut himself up in his bedroom. Brent was playing his DS and he barely gave Spencer a second glance as Spencer started getting ready for bed.

“Heard the lovebirds made up,” Brent said, and Spencer had to grit his teeth to keep from lashing out at him. Brent didn’t deserve it, and Spencer had no logical reason to get upset over hearing it.

“Dude, when we’re on tour, there are going to have to be some rules about them doing it in the van or on the bus, or whatever,” Brent said.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Spencer said. He just managed to keep his voice level. “They aren’t sleeping with each other.”

“Matter of time,” Brent said. He gave Spencer a weird look. “I never thought you’d be a homophobe.”

“I’m not a—they’re not going to have sex,” Spencer said.

Brent raised his eyebrows in the universal okay, chill out dude manner and went back to his game. Spencer climbed into bed, but it felt like ages before he actually fell asleep.


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