insunshine

Spencer Smith is a chef. Spencer isn’t the best chef, and he doesn’t work for the best restaurant, but he does okay and he loves it, and that’s the important thing.

It still makes him sort of sick to his stomach, though, when he thinks about coming home late at night, after his shift at Rockfish had ended, to find that note from Haley. The I think I need some space, just for a little while one, so different from the smiley face post-its, the I love yous she used to leave. He thinks about the way his fingers had still smelled like garlic, the taste of Mark’s pecan pie, the one they’d shared in the backroom after cleanup, still coating his teeth. He thinks about it, and he has trouble going back.

He has trouble going back, and then he has trouble coming home to an empty house, and finally Ryan tells him to visit him in Chicago or, “I’ll kick your ass, seriously, this brooding shit is creepy as hell on you.”

Ryan can’t actually kick Spencer’s ass. Spencer’s got a good three inches all the way around on him. But he thinks maybe Ryan has a point.

Ryan says, “Jon wants to see you,” and Spencer’s known Jon since they were all undergrads. Unlike Ryan, Jon can totally kick Spencer’s ass, but he’d never have enough motivation to do it.

And Spencer can’t just—they’re engaged. They’re planning a wedding. “She hasn’t—”

“Spence, Spencer, do you really think.” Ryan pauses. He says, “Do what you want to do, Spence, but do you even want her to come back?”

Haley is all Spencer’s ever wanted for nearly half a decade. In the last year, though, ever since sliding that ring on her finger, Spencer’s spent more time at the restaurant, more time with his band even, his crummy, awesome funk revival band, than he has with his fiancé. He supposes that says something about their relationship.

“Come on,” Ryan says. “Just come stay with me for a while.” It’s as close to wheedling as Ryan’ll get.

Spencer sighs. He sighs, and he knows he’s going to have to talk to Haley and, surprisingly enough, something like relief flutters low in his belly. He says, “Okay.”

*

Spencer leaves Ryan at the club and takes a cab back to Ryan’s place, because Ryan’s still having a good time, and Spencer’s at the point where he thinks he left good times back in Vegas with Haley. He’s just drunk enough to be depressed, and just drunk enough to think that trying to squeeze in through Ryan’s laundry room window is a good idea.

He could have sworn he had a house key.

It’d be a tight fit, Spencer thinks, squinting up at the half-open window. He’d have to punch out the screen, too, and if he does that Ryan’s gonna pitch a fit in the morning, but whatever. Ryan’s probably going to be a few more hours, and Spencer doesn’t feel like calling his evening short just because he can’t work a fucking lock.

“Hey,” someone calls out, just as Spencer grips the sill, works at the bottom of the screen with a rock he’d gotten from the front garden.

Spencer glances over at a little guy in glasses, arms crossed over his chest. There’s a spotlight angled out from the back corner of the neighbor’s house, and Spencer’s pretty sure the guy is wearing pajama pants with ponies all over them. Spencer gives him a little wave with his free hand.

“Hey, so. So, I called the cops, ‘cause I thought maybe you were trying to break into Ryan’s house, which, okay, it looks like you are, but I don’t actually think robbers dress like that.”

“What?” Spencer’s sort of slow from the beer, maybe. He looks down at himself. He’s wearing a black button-down and tight jeans and really kick-ass cowboy boots.

“Uh.” The guy shifts on his feet. In the distance, a siren whirs. “You might want to run?”

“Fuck. You—fuck.” There isn’t any real heat to Spencer’s words. He’s sort of already resigned to the fact that the night is going to fucking suck. He slumps against the siding, rubs a palm over his forehead. The sirens get louder. He doesn’t think he can run in his boots, honestly.

“Um.”

“Yeah?” Spencer says tiredly. He tugs out his cell and texts Ryan: might get arrested. best night ever

“I’m Brendon,” the guy says, holding out a hand, and Spencer can see his wide grin in the dim light, white teeth flashing.

Spencer doesn’t particularly feel like being polite. “That’s great.”

Brendon’s grin still holds, though he stuffs his hands in his front pockets, rocks back on his heels. “Want to hide out at my place?

*

“Your neighbor called the cops on me,” Spencer says, wrapping his hands around his coffee mug, heat burning through the porcelain.

Ryan blinks at him across the table, unsympathetic. “Apparently you were breaking in. And not being very stealthy about it.”

“Yeah, well.” Spencer shrugs. He doesn’t want to argue. The police had been nice about everything, too, so it’s mainly the principle of the thing, the fact that Ryan’s neighbor had called the cops on him, and then waited on Ryan’s front stoop with him while Spencer tried his very best not to get arrested. Brendon hadn’t shut up, either. “Brendon’s kind of annoying.”

Ryan rolls his eyes. “He’s Brendon,” Ryan says, as if that explains everything.

And then a troupe of Walkers tear through the kitchen – all three of them tethered together, and that’s new, but the last time Spencer saw them, the twins were still crawling – and Jon comes ambling in after them with a tall Starbucks cup, messy hair, and a glaze of sleep still covering his eyes.

“Morning,” he says around a yawn.

“Daddy,” Snap says, tapping her foot and looking decidedly Cassie-like and impatient, “It’s almost Magic hour.” She’s five now, Spencer thinks, and she has gold bangle bracelets on each of her wrists and half a dozen gauzy scarves tucked into the waistband of her jeans. She’s got leashes to both the boys – they’re just shy of three, and Spencer has no idea how Jon does it, how he survives with Cassie halfway around the world.

Jon pulls out a chair and says, “Ask Uncle Ry.”

Ryan nods as soon as Snap turns puppy-eyes on him, she doesn’t even have to say anything, and then she’s tugging the boys behind her as she dances out of the room and into the den, singing something about bus stops and gypsy queens.

“So,” Jon says, looking over at Spencer. “So, it’s done.”

Spencer salutes him with his mug. “We are officially no longer engaged.” It doesn’t hurt as much as he thought it would, stating that so baldly.

Jon grins. “Good. Good, because I have a project for you.”

Ryan snorts. “Yeah, I don’t see that going over too well,” he says, and Spencer is immediately intrigued.

“What?” he asks.

Jon jabs a finger at him. “You play the drums.”

“I do.” Spencer motherfucking drums. He’d drummed for the recently disbanded Leroy Green, disbanded mostly because of him, he knows, and he still feels kind of guilty about that, even though the guys hadn’t been all that upset. Spencer’s been in more bands than he can count since high school, and they all know how it goes.

Ryan glances at his watch. “Magic hour,” he says blandly, and Spencer bounces his gaze from Jon to Ryan to Jon again. Jon looks stoned, but Spencer knows he isn’t, not with the minis in tow.

“Okay?”

“Come on,” Jon says, and it’s, like, physically impossible for Jon Walker to look evil, but he comes really, really close.

*

In the den, Snap’s got a cartoon on. She’s dancing in front of the TV and she says, “Uncle Spence, look, look,” and Spencer watches as two animated boys are, from what he can tell, zapped back in time, where they collect, in random order, a gypsy – “Queen,” Snap insists, “she’s a queen” - a ninja, a pirate, a cowgirl, and a mummy. It’s a wacky montage, set along over a guitar-heavy bridge.

Spencer tips his head to the side. “Um.”

“Just watch,” Jon says.

Ryan is perched on the couch arm, and he shrugs when Spencer glances up at him.

The gypsy queen, ninja, pirate, cowgirl and mummy all face off, brandishing weapons at each other – or, in the mummy’s case, his hands, curled into menacing claws – and then the two boys shove musical instruments at them, tossing drumsticks at the ninja, who has to drop his nunchucks to catch them, and Spencer thinks this is possibly the most ridiculous thing he’s ever seen.

There’s a sparkly rainbow flash, a slight pause before a cymbal crash, and the cartoon is gone, replaced with actual costumed people, and Spencer can just barely make out the words Magic Friend Band etched onto the bass drum.

Even the twins are into it now, bouncing up and down as the band plays out the rest of the theme song, the gypsy and the pirate rocking side-by-side, the mummy leaping up onto the ninja’s drum kit before stumbling off and into the cowgirl, who stops playing just long enough to cuff his head.

“I’m gonna play bass,” Snap says excitedly, and Spencer has to stifle a laugh at her attempt at air guitar, “just like Lyn-Z!”

And then Ryan’s neighbor steps out in front of the band, along with a red-haired guy in a trucker hat that says MFB on it, and says, “You know what’s cool, Magic Friend Band?”

“Yes,” they all shout, along with Snap and a dozen other kids’ voices piped in like a laugh track.

Brendon says, “Monkeys! Monkeys are cool.” Brendon has a chimp head on his t-shirt – layered under a vest worthy of Ryan Ross, and Spencer suspects Ryan’s been playing fast and loose with his clothing - and he puffs out his chest.

The pirate says, “Arrrrr,” and the cowgirl – who Spencer thinks should maybe rethink how short her fringed leather skirt is – starts a simple melody on her keytar.

“Wait, wait,” the redheaded dude says, shaking his head. “Wait.”

“Yes, Patrick?” Brendon says, fluttering his lashes straight into the camera as it zooms in for a close-up. The makeup they caked on him makes him look sort of pretty, with rosy cheeks and shiny lips, and Spencer can’t believe he just thought that about a guy, but whatever. Jon’s been calling Spencer pretty for years.

“We can’t just sing about monkeys,” Patrick says, scratching his forehead. “Let’s sing a song about a—a lemur.” Patrick joins Brendon right in front of the camera, the band a blur of multicolored shapes in the top right corner of the screen. “A lemur named Frog that jumps like a kangaroo.”

Snap shouts, “Sing about Frog!” at the TV, and the boys start hopping around, chanting, “Frog, Frog, Frog,” and if Spencer had to deal with that on a daily basis he just might shoot himself. Jon’s his fucking hero.

Brendon turns and says, “But that is a monkey. Right, Frank?” as the camera zooms back out.

Frank the mummy nods. “I think we should sing about toilet paper again,” he says, grinning wide, and then the gypsy says, “I think we should sing about your face,” and then they start bickering – everyone except for the ninja drummer, at least, who doesn’t seem to talk at all – and then Brendon puts two fingers in his mouth and gives an ear-splitting whistle.

Snap giggles, and it’s obviously a well-used and well-loved shtick.

Spencer turns to Jon and gives him really? no, really? looks, because really? He lets his kids watch this shit?

But then the Magic Friend Band seems to come to some sort of agreement, and Spencer has no clue what the song is about – talking orange dance shoes? Poodles? – but they can really rock the fuck out. Spencer’s impressed. Snap is singing along at the repetitive parts with her arms spread wide and the twins are spinning in circles and Brendon and Patrick are trading verses and harmonizing and playing ukuleles or something.

“Awesome, right?” Jon says, knocking his shoulder.

“Yeah,” Spencer says, because they are.

“Johnson, the drummer, he’s on his way out. He’s been splitting time between this and another band, and they just got signed, so.”

“They need a new ninja.”

Jon grins. “Yep.”

Spencer can’t believe he’s even considering it. He still has a house in Vegas. He’s living on Ryan’s couch, for fuck’s sake, and he’s only taken three weeks vacation from the restaurant.

Ryan says, “It might be fun,” and Ryan hardly ever thinks things might be fun. Ryan has very specific parameters for what’s fun and not fun.

His vague assurances make Spencer suspicious, but he says, “Alright, fine,” anyway.





The best day in Brendon’s life was the day he’d met Patrick Stump.

Brendon hadn’t actually thought of himself as a busker at the time – even though that’s what his Wiki page claims - but he’d liked singing songs about colors and State capitals and he’d liked doing it outside on his tiny apartment balcony or on the equally tiny front stoop of the building, strumming his guitar or uke or banjo, and he’d never turned down an occasional coin or dollar. And then this short, roly-poly guy with the best lower lip ever just sort of stood there for an hour one day, watching him on the balcony and shouting up prompts and requests and then suggestions, like, “How about something minor key, but about mules eating daisies?” and, “Do you know anything about the accordion?” and Brendon had fallen helplessly in love.

They may’ve started out small, gaining a following outside the library, in between kindergarten classes, in the parking lot of the zoo, but then there’d been more and more requests for official performances and kids had actual favorite songs, and Oprah’d had them on with an audience of local fans, and in the most surreal moment yet Disney picked them up, and sometimes Brendon still can’t believe it’s all real, that this is his life.

Patrick Stump is pure magic, and Brendon is convinced that his special friend Pete can make anything happen. Anything at all. It’s how they went from five minute segments after Playhouse Disney to a full blown hour show, and it’s how he ended up doing the one thing he loves best in the entire world for an actual living.

Without Patrick, Brendon might still be living out of that crappy apartment with no heat, and the Chicago winters can be so very, very cold.

Of course, the songs might be Patrick and Brendon’s, the drive might be Pete’s, but the genius behind the Magic Friend Band concept is all Gerard.

Disney execs had thrown Gerard at them. He’d flown in from New York and locked himself in a room with Pete and had come out victorious, which is quite a feat. Pete had looked shell-shocked but pleased, and Gerard had looked like a porcelain doll with straggly, unwashed hair and clothes better fitted for a bum, which didn’t detract at all from his beaming smile.

He’d said, “I’m really excited about this,” and, “Seriously, I love that song about the lonely fire truck and the can of beans, freaking genius,” and he’d hugged Brendon super tight and said, “You know what’s missing from kids’ shows? Time travel,” and that had been that.

Gerard’s original storyboard is proudly displayed on a wall in Brendon’s dressing room. It depicts little cartoon Brendon and Patrick being chased by hundreds of kids, stumbling into a broken-down Volkswagen Beetle and then getting mysteriously transported back in time. The next frame has them at a gypsy camp, lamp-lit and brightly-colored, a beautiful gypsy girl staving off a highwayman with a curved dagger. Another frame has them at a Japanese temple, and a ninja hops silently onto the roof of their car before they disappear again.

They almost get their throats slit on a pirate ship, almost get shot by an outlaw in the Wild West, and in an eerie tomb in ancient Egypt they literally get wrapped up in extra cloth entangling a cursed, undead mummy. It’s actually pretty dark and bloody and way too intense and scary for a kids’ show, but they’d gotten Gerard to tone it down some for the final product.

Gerard had fleshed it out as their opening sequence, and he’d stayed on as a creative consultant and executive producer, because everyone loves him and he’s got the very best ideas.

In each episode, Patrick and Brendon and the Magic Friend Band go on adventures through time in their cantankerous Volkswagen. They meet new people, see new places, visit new cultures - Pete gets local bands to play traveling wizards or unicorns or foreign legions and then they all jam together, and Brendon thinks it was Pete’s smartest move ever to insist that they stay based in Chicago. Gerard knows just how to use everyone, even the guest stars, to their best potential.

He can be a little protective of his characters, though.

Gerard takes one look at Spencer Smith – Spencer Smith! Brendon is ridiculously excited about having Ryan’s friend in the studio – and says, “No. No, he won’t work.”

“He’s perfect,” Brendon says, watching Spencer behind the Magic Friend Band drum set – it’s actually their fourth, because Frank keeps breaking them. Spencer Smith is perfect, and if they can’t badger Andy into playing for them, Spencer Smith is it.

Plus, Jon Walker vouches for him, and Jon Walker is one of Brendon’s very favorite people. It doesn’t hurt that he owns the studio.

Gerard narrows his eyes, but not in any mean way. He’s just thinking, Brendon knows, and he runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head. “He’s just not ninja material,” Gerard says. “I can tell.”

Frank’s smiling, though, and Victoria is nodding her head as they run through Fun Times In China, better known as the chopstick dog song.

Joe’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, guitar cradled in his lap, one of his pirate scarves holding his fro back. He says, “Yeah, dude, Johnson usually does this like—but that’s totally cool.”

Everyone seems to like Spencer just fine. Even Lyn-Z, and it’s not that Lyn-Z isn’t as nice as the next Magic Friend Band-er – they all had to be super nice, had to like the kids, or Brendon wasn’t willing to work with them - but she’s a tough cookie to impress.

“He’ll fit,” Brendon insists.

Gerard makes a noise. It’s his think-y noise, and he bites his bottom lip. “Maybe,” he says. “Maybe if, hmmm.”

“Let’s have a trial period for him,” Patrick finally puts in. He’s watching the gang with his hands in his pockets, hat tugged down low so Brendon can’t see his eyes. “We just won’t announce that Johnson’s gone yet.” The ninja costume pretty much covers his entire face, so it would work.

“Okay,” Gerard says thoughtfully. “Okay, and then I might have an idea.”

*

The house that Brendon lives in is his first ever house that he lives in by himself. Sometimes he loves it, and sometimes he misses his tiny apartment with Shane, and sometimes his misses his mom and dad and siblings and the way the house he grew up in was never ever quiet.

Those are the times that he bothers Ryan.

Spencer opens Ryan’s door, and Brendon gets the distinct impression that Spencer doesn’t like him very much, which is disappointing. As far as Brendon can tell, Spencer is pretty awesome.

Brendon doesn’t usually let a little disapproval stop him, though – he’d grown up Mormon, after all – and he bounces into Ryan’s house like everything’s fine and normal and dandy, and Spencer just steps aside and lets him.

Brendon isn’t used to being disliked. Brendon knows he’s a handful at times, yeah, but he can wear most people down by his sheer adorableness. That’s how he’d won Ryan over. Ryan still pretends to be annoyed, but Brendon can tell he’s smiling on the inside. It’s all in his eyes.

Spencer’s eyes are an awesomely cool blue. Brendon almost doesn’t know what to say, and that’s a really rare occurrence for him. He ends up with just, “Hi.”

Spencer arches an eyebrow. “Hello.”

Brendon tangles his fingers in the hem of his t-shirt. “Is, um—”

“Ryan’s not here,” Spencer says, and Brendon bobs his head.

He says, “Right, okay.” Spencer had let him inside, though—or, like, didn’t stop him, so Brendon is totally not going to leave. Not when his own house is so gloomy.

And something smells really freaking delicious.

Brendon follows his nose into the kitchen and asks, “Are you spinning heaven into edible delights, Spencer Smith?” He tilts a look at Spencer and catches the tail end of a smile. Cool.

“I’m making stuffed shells,” Spencer says, and Brendon leans over the stove and closes his eyes and breathes in and says, “God, Spencer. Oh my god, marry me?” because Brendon has never smelled anything so fine.

Brendon’s maybe cheerful a great portion of the day, but he’s pretty good at picking up on other people’s moods, and the stony silence coming from Spencer’s end of the kitchen is sort of daunting. Brendon flutters his eyes open and glances over his shoulder and Spencer is. Spencer’s kind of white, actually, and Brendon has no idea what he did wrong.

Spencer says, “Um,” and gropes for a chair.

“Hey, hey, you. Are you okay?” Brendon asks, moving towards him. He hovers as Spencer sits, and then Spencer’s color floods back into his cheeks and he looks up at him and Brendon realizes he’s standing, like, entirely too close, which is more than alright with Brendon, of course, but Spencer looks a little uncomfortable.

“I’m fine,” Spencer says.

“Uh.”

“I’m fine, Brendon,” Spencer insists.

Brendon doesn’t press. Brendon’s usually fabulous at pressing, but he thinks maybe Spencer’ll punch him, and Gerard will totally yell at him if he shows up at the studio with a black eye. Or, okay, Gerard wouldn’t yell. He’d probably flap his hands a lot and sigh and send him worried puppy-eyes across the room, but that’s almost as bad. Brendon has great puppy-eyes, but he’s no match for Gerard.

Instead, Brendon says, “I’m inviting myself over for dinner,” because that’s what he does, and if Spencer has a problem with that he can take it up with Ryan.

*

Spencer, when you get a little wine into him, is Brendon’s new favorite person. Tipsy-Spencer is the best Spencer ever, and Brendon maybe doesn’t know Spencer very well yet, but he’s willing to bet this is a true blue fact.

He gets warm and blurry eyed and smiley, and they end up on the sofa marathoning Ryan’s collection of Shirley Temple movies and Brendon hadn’t even known this magical collection existed. Spencer is awesome for explaining how Ryan totally empathizes with The Little Princess and how Ryan’s love for Shirley Temple spans time and space and Brendon’s sure not even Spencer’s best friend status will exempt him from Ryan’s fury at telling Brendon all this, but it’s fodder for years and years of endless teasing. It’s sort of Brendon’s favorite night ever.

Brendon doesn’t even realize he’s half asleep on Spencer’s makeshift bed until Spencer tugs the pillow out from under his head and says, “I’m too old to sleep on the floor,” but settles down there anyway.

“Um.” Brendon lifts up onto one elbow. He can go home. It’s late, yeah, but he lives next door. He’s pretty sure he can drag his ass across the side yard if he has to.

“Doesn’t matter,” Spencer says through a yawn.

Brendon hums animal crackers in my soup and doesn’t bother protesting, slumping back down onto the couch and just, like, resting his eyes. He doesn’t want to fall asleep yet.

“So.”

Brendon blinks at Spencer’s voice. His glasses are knocked sideways and the screen is blurry, but he doesn’t think he’s missed very much of Bright Eyes. He doesn’t remember Spencer turning the kitchen light off, but the den is dark except for the black and white flickering TV screen.

“So,” Spencer says again. He’s on his back, hands clasped over his stomach, and Brendon really wonders how much time had passed, because Spencer looks like he’s been laying there thinking for a while. He shifts a little and gives Brendon this, god, beautiful smile, and asks, “Why a mummy?”

Brendon is only slightly disappointed that he hadn’t asked, like, why aren’t you humping my leg or something, because this entire evening has spelled romance to Brendon - minus the why Ryan prefers Curly Top to Moulin Rouge conversation, which had surprised the heck out of Brendon, wow – what with the wine and the Italian food and the cozy couch movie watching.

Spencer says, “You’ve got all these generic characters from history” – and Spencer better never ever say that in front of Gerard – “except for Frank.”

Brendon could tell Spencer about how he suspects Gerard came up with the mummy part specifically with Frank in mind, and how Frank and Gerard’s brother have been friends since forever, and how Gerard had waited and waited and refused to sign off on any other perfectly good guitar-playing cursed undead – they’d had a few auditions; Brendon had been particularly fond of one of the many Alexes that’d ended up in Johnson’s band – until they’d had a chance to see Frank, this tiny, manic, tattooed rocker who fronted a band called Leathermouth, for goodness sake.

Brendon likes to gossip, but he’ll gossip about Gerard’s pining for Frank to Pete, or about Patrick’s super secret before-show rituals to Vicky, because everyone already knows everyone else so well on the show. It kind of feels unfair to expose Gerard like that to someone he’s only met once.

“Gerard’s a genius,” Brendon says instead.

Spencer laughs a little. “He is.”

“Yep. Certified even.”

“Right.”

“I sense your doubt, Spencer Smith.” Brendon maybe should be offended on Gerard’s behalf, but he knows what a mess Gerard seems to the untrained eye. Plus, Shirley Temple’s singing about bonbons and candy shops and Spencer has this glow about him, and it’s probably just an effect of the bright monochrome TV light, the shadow curving under his jaw, making half his face, his cheek, a triangle of skin at his throat, look this pure perfect white, but it makes Brendon’s mouth a little dry anyhow.

“Oh, I believe you,” Spencer says, amusement coloring his voice, and then he rolls onto his side towards the TV, giving Brendon his broad back.

Brendon fights a sigh. He figures maybe he’s kind of screwed.





Pete says, “We have a problem,” but Brendon doesn’t look up from his notebook because Pete’s always coming into his dressing room and saying, “We have a problem.” It’s never anything major.

Usually it has something to do with Patrick and how he won’t let Pete write a saxophone into a chorus – Pete’s always pushing for a saxophone part, a sexy one, like in Better Off Dead – or something to do with Gerard, and Gerard’s to-scale replica of the battle at Helm’s Deep that Pete accidentally-on-purpose fucked with yet again.

“Brendon, listen, I’m serious,” Pete says.

Brendon bites the end of his pen and says, “Okay, what’s up?”

Pete’s eyes are wide. He says, “I might have told Frank that Gerard’s in love with him.”

“Um.” Brendon doesn’t see how that’s a problem. “But Frank already knows.”

“Yes, yes, he does,” Pete says, nodding.

Brendon’s still not following. Unless Pete somehow told Frank this while Gerard had been in the room, because Gerard’s a strange guy, and he thinks that his love for Frank is well-hidden and secret and, okay, Brendon’s totally betting on that being the case. “Uh oh.”

“Exactly.”

“You might want to tell Bob,” Brendon says. Brendon is a firm believer in Bob. Bob fixes everything. Bob’s the head sound guy – Brendon can never remember what he’s officially called – but Bob had been their original ninja and if Bob’s wrists hadn’t gotten fucked up, Bob would still be their ninja, and Bob’s kind of a ninja anyway. Brendon has spent many a late night contemplating this.

Not that Brendon doesn’t love Johnson. Johnson’s been with them for over six months, and Brendon’ll miss him like crazy and—and he totally just had the best idea ever and he’s gonna have to talk to Gerard about it, but he’s pretty sure it’s along the same lines as what Gerard’s already thinking of doing, and it’s going to be awesome, he’s sure of it.

“Brendon, hey,” Pete says, snapping his fingers in front of Brendon’s face. “Let’s stay on topic here. Namely how to heal Gerard’s fragile heart before Patrick notices.”

Brendon can totally be wise at times. He says, “Frank’s going to have to do it.” Frank’s the only one who’ll be able to convince Gerard it isn’t the end of the world. Brendon thinks Frank should do this with sweet kisses, but sometimes not everyone agrees with Brendon. Which is dumb, because Brendon is awesome.

“Okay,” Pete says, “but he’s put up his techno dance cave sign.”

Brendon grimaces. Everyone knows to leave Gerard alone when he’s, “thinking up amazing ideas, guys, Simian Mobile Disco really jumpstarts my creativity,” which Brendon thinks is code for, “I’m leaving fifty million messages on my brother’s voicemail about how my life is over, do not disturb.”

Patrick’s the only one who ever dares enter Gerard’s Dance Cave of Deep Despair. Patrick is going to kill Pete if he finds out about this, but Patrick’s going to find out about this anyway, no matter how hard Pete tries to keep it from him. It’s best to get it over with quickly, and then Patrick can help clean up the mess.

“Patrick,” Brendon says.

“Patrick,” Pete echoes, with a little sigh on the end, and Brendon knows he’s going to have to get Patrick himself, because Pete will say he’ll do it, but then he’ll just go hide out with Dirty and Chuck.

Brendon nods. “And Bob.” Involving Bob certainly can’t hurt.

*

They don’t have a swear jar on the set because everyone except Dirty is a professional. Dirty’s just some bum Pete found on the street. Or, okay, that’s unfair, because Brendon’s sure Dirty’s an old friend of Pete’s from, like, high school or something, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t smell really bad and perform harmful-to-himself tricks for hard cash money.

Gerard’s favorite word is freaking, and Frank has, like, a switch, because almost every other word out of his mouth is a curse until he steps through the studio doors, and then his fudge and stuff it and heck are so smooth you’d never even guess about his other side.

Bob sticks with the old standby of not saying much of anything at all and growling menacingly if anyone pisses him off, which is why Brendon’s so surprised when he hears Bob say, “Don’t be a fucking asshole, Iero, Jesus.”

Brendon feels he’d been right to approach Bob, though.

Patrick is standing next to Bob with a scowl on his face and his hands balled into fists – and Pete is going to so pay for this later.

“What’s going on?” Spencer asks in a hush.

Brendon sends him a lingering glance, because they’ve been rehearsing for the next episode and Spencer’s playing catch-up, and he’s sort of flushed and sweaty. It’s nice and distracting. Brendon shakes his head. “Frank’s being stubborn,” he says.

Spencer nods. He pushes his hair back off his forehead, smiles, and Brendon’s fingers start tingling.

Seriously. Seriously, Ryan’s told him about Spencer’s failed engagement and all, and there’s, like, zero chance Spencer would ever be interested in him, so this swooning thing his mind is doing is super annoying.

Brendon turns back to Frank and Bob and Patrick and Frank actually looks kind of confused, but he doesn’t protest when Bob manhandles him down the hall towards Gerard’s office. Bob knocks once on the door and stuffs him inside while Patrick watches on approvingly, and Brendon agrees with that plan, too. He’s a romantic, so he likes to think getting locked in a room together’ll lead to love and babies.

Bob sets up camp outside the door with his arms crossed.

Brendon would give his mint condition Potty Scotty Garbage Pail Kid card to press his ear up to that door, but there’s no way Bob’ll even let him hang around in the hallway.

“Does that happen a lot?” Spencer asks.

Brendon shrugs. Things like that, yes, because Bob more than often has to march Pete or Frank or Lyn-Z or HeyChris or Dirty or Audrey into Gerard’s office, but never ever before for this specific reason. “Not really?” Brendon says.

Spencer nods. “Cool.”

*

Pete books The Hush Sound at the eleventh hour for their first episode with Spencer when Empires gets stuck in Cincinnati with a scheduling mix-up, and even though the Empires guys were supposed to be old school U.S. Navy, like, circa 1940s – “Think Gene Kelly and Frank Sinatra! We can do a whole New York City segment!” Gerard had said excitedly – Gerard pronounces the Hushies, “Totally German, let’s get some lederhosen on these guys, okay? Can any of you play the tuba?” and Patrick and Brendon are up all night.

Working with their small but dedicated team of script-writers, they churn out two new songs and decide to work in some old standards – Gerard’s always a sucker for Beans Make Everything Better – because there are usually at least five songs per episode.

Brendon’s running on little sleep for the read-through. He slumps over and rests his cheek on Spencer’s shoulder. Brendon can feel Spencer’s restlessness, even though Spencer really isn’t moving at all. He pokes him in the side. “Hey.”

Spencer grunts. “Yeah.”

“Relax.” Brendon smiles. “These guys are always fun.” They’re still waiting for Greta and Chris, but Bob and Darren are already at the end of the table, and Brendon gives them a wave.

“They’ve been here before?” Spencer asks. He shifts a little, so Brendon has to straighten up in his seat.

Brendon pouts and knuckles Spencer’s arm, which earns him an eyebrow raise and then one of his ridiculously soft smiles and, oh man, actual touching, because Spencer reaches out and smoothes Brendon’s hair back and says, “You’re sort of a mess.”

He can’t help but snuggle into Spencer’s touch a little. Just the barest little push back against his palm. “Rough night,” Brendon says, kind of hoarse. He clears his throat. “And yeah. Yeah, we’ve had Greta and Bob on before, like, as a total surprise. They did a mini alien bit that Eric scribbled out last minute, so. They are completely fun and easy to work with, don’t worry.”

“I’m not really worried about them,” Spencer says, fingers tapping on the table.

“You,” Brendon says with total confidence, “are going to be awesome.”

Spencer’s smile holds, but it’s kind of wobbly at the edges.

Things are a little cool down at Frank and Gerard’s end of the table, and not, like, awesome cool. Stony cool. Petulant cool, and Brendon is eighty-five percent sure it’s because Gerard said something stupid, because Gerard is not the poster boy for well-adjusted social interactions. Rumor is that he’d spent the first twenty-five years of his life in his mom’s basement, drawing cartoon zombies. Brendon’s willing to bet that’s an exaggeration – he had to have gone to college at some point, at least, to end up where he is – but neither has Brendon ever ever seen Gerard date. Like, at all. Even his initial infatuation with Lyn-Z sort of ended up as them being art-buddies who occasionally get all dolled up to troll galleries arm-in-arm, but who’ve probably never even kissed each other on the mouth.

Frank’s looking mean around the eyes. When Gerard gets stupid, Frank gets vicious.

Brendon sighs and picks up his packet and flips through a few pages, mouthing some of the words. The official name of the show on all their scripts is Disney Presents Patrick & Brendon’s Magic Friend Band, A Gerard Way Production - with a JWalk Studios stamp at the bottom of every page - but everyone just calls it MFB. The writers are listed in alphabetical order, including Patrick and Brendon, and Brendon feels a small thrill of pride every time he sees that. HeyChris and Charlie and Audrey and Eric are, like, so awesomely talented, and they’re so lucky to have them all on board.

Spencer knocks Brendon with an elbow and whispers, “Is Patrick all right?” and Brendon laughs, because Greta just walked into the room with Jon and Patrick turned three shades redder.

“It’s Greta,” Brendon says, because Greta has some sort of mysterious power over Patrick - luckily, Pete thinks it’s hilarious – and then he raises his voice and says, “Ready to get started?”

*

They finally film and it’s awesome, and Spencer’s maybe a little broader in the shoulders than Johnson, a little taller, but none of the kids are going to notice. They’d noticed the difference between Bob and Johnson, yeah, but that’s only because they’d made a big show of pointing it out. Ninja Bob and Ninja Johnson. Ninja cousins.

Jon slides his hands into his pockets and smiles at Brendon. “Looking good,” he says.

Brendon has on a black polyester shirt covered in yellow tulips. Brendon is looking fine. “Why thank you, Jon Walker.”

Jon never brings Snap or the boys into the studio. They’ve all hung around the kids out of costume, and Snap’s the only one old enough to draw any parallels, that red glasses wearing Uncle Bren is the same as MFB Brendon, the guy with the crazy hair and the paisley vests, but she seems content not to. He figures that’ll go once she figures out Santa Claus isn’t real. For the time being, it’s kind of awesome having a Clark Kent-esque alter ego.

Jon nods towards Frank, who’s scuffing his sneaker on the floor, head bent and scowling. “How’s the drama?”

Frank’s hardly ever off on stage, so it hadn’t affected the show, but Brendon’s sure something big’s gonna have to happen soon. He’s kind of been waiting excitedly for it. Gerard’s been tiptoeing around and Frank’s been throwing himself at Bob and sulking and there’s a high probability that Bob’ll lock them in a room together again, just to keep Frank from climbing him like a monkey.

Brendon’s gaze slides off Frank as he walks away and onto Spencer, and of course Jon notices, because Jon is keen and observant and nosy. Brendon loves these things about him. Before Jon can even open his mouth, but after he’s arched both his brows, eyes shining with amusement, Brendon says, “I know. I know, I know, it’s just sad.”

“Brendon, little buddy, nothing about you is sad,” Jon says. He rocks back on his heels, smile sliding into a full-out, loose grin.

Brendon is awfully fond of Jon. He says, “I’m awfully fond of you,” and Jon says, “It’s because I’m so awesome,” just as some sort of skirmish breaks out in front of Gerard’s office.

Brendon hears Frank yell, “You’re an ass, Gerard Way,” and Gerard yells, “That’s because I’m in freaking love with you, you freak,” and Frank shouts, “Well, duh,” and, “Are you gonna fucking kiss me already?” and Brendon’s eyes widen because Frank’s forgotten his studio manners and that’s happened, like, never, and also. Also, Brendon is totally going to get to see Frank and Gerard make out.

Jon slips a hand over his eyes and says, laughing, “Don’t look, don’t look. It’s like watching your parents kiss, trust me.”

Brendon tries to pry him off, but his little fingers are no match for Jon’s. “You,” he says, “are no longer my favorite.”





Spencer doesn’t exactly feel comfortable in the Magic Friend Band. It isn’t that he doesn’t like everyone there. He’s just. He’s just not a ninja, and he knows Gerard thinks the same thing.

He learns five songs in three days and tapes an entire episode and it isn’t like it’s difficult. The songs aren’t simple – and that’s kind of surprising, because Spencer never would have thought kids songs could be so complex - but Spencer knows his stuff. He’s a damn good drummer, and he doesn’t even have any lines, so the gig should be perfect and easy, but mostly he feels awkward. Awkward behind the kit, like he’s somehow off-beat, even though he knows he’s not, and that’s kind of. Wrong.

When Gerard calls him into his office, he’s sure he’s done. There’s no way, after Gerard’s initial reservations, they’re going to let him replace Johnson. It’s okay, though. This had been sort of a whim; he’s got a life to get back to, he’s got a job and friends and the longer he stays away, the more David’s going to horn in on his kitchen territory – Mark’s been texting him daily - and David’s an asshole with an overblown ego and a heavy hand with sauces. He’s Spencer’s sworn enemy at Rockfish.

Brendon’s already sitting in one of the chairs across from Gerard’s desk, and he gives Spencer an encouraging smile. Brendon’s been kind of a surprise. It’s weird, but Spencer’s been enjoying Brendon’s company. Brendon can always always make him laugh, and he’s really going to miss him when he’s gone.

Spencer perches close to the edge of the chair and clasps his hands between spread legs.

“So,” Gerard says, leaning forward onto his elbows, eyes twinkling. “I’ve got an idea. How do you feel about growing a beard?”

Spencer’d had a beard before it became a casualty of culinary school. Spencer knows for a fact that he can fucking rock a beard.

And that’s how Spencer lands an offer for a permanent place in the Magic Friend Band. As a Viking.

*

Spencer doesn’t straight-out accept the part. It isn’t the money or whatever, he just isn’t exactly ready and he’s a little stunned. He’d been so prepared to go home, to go back to Rockfish, and he loves cooking, loves his job, so it’s like his two passions in life are battling it out – he’d never really thought, before, that he could make a living out of playing the drums.

“How is this even a choice?” Ryan asks, almost incredulous. He slices into his well-done tuna steak and Spencer can’t help a cringe, even though he’s the one who’d grilled if for him – his own is just seared, but Ryan doesn’t like anything that’s, “Practically still swimming, yuck,” because Jon has clearly destroyed all of Ryan’s taste buds with epically strong pot.

“I have a life,” Spencer says, and Ryan argues, “Okay, yeah, how is that life better than living here with me?” and, okay, he has a point.

And it’s not like Spencer’s unfamiliar with the city. College is where they’d both met Jon, and then Ryan had accepted a position at Loyola, and Spencer had moved home to Vegas to “study food,” as Jon had called it, and just never ended up coming back.

“Besides,” Ryan says, “you sort of have a crush on Brendon.”

Spencer blinks. “I, um. What?”

Ryan shrugs. “It’s cute,” he says, and Ryan never thinks anything is cute. Ryan doesn’t believe in cute. Ryan uses words like sharp and handsome and, very rarely, endearing, but never cute.

Also. “Wait, no.”

“Oh my god, don’t be dumb, Spence.” Ryan rolls his eyes. “You light up whenever he walks in the room. It kind of makes me want to slap you.”

Spencer has—Spencer likes Brendon, yeah. Brendon’s this funny, hyper dude with an amazing voice and, okay. Spencer’s noticed his ass. Spencer isn’t used to noticing guys’ asses, this is true. He feels his cheeks heat up, because he maybe has a tiny crush on Brendon. It’s nothing important, but it’s kind of embarrassing now that he really thinks about it.

Ryan arches an eyebrow.

“It’s not a big deal,” Spencer says.

“It means I owe Jon ten bucks,” Ryan says. There’s a smile at the corner of his mouth, though. “I thought for sure he’d drive you crazy.”

Spencer shakes his head. Jon and Ryan betting about stupid shit isn’t new. “Seriously, it’s nothing.”

“Whatever.” Ryan amused never stops being a little creepy, since Ryan had spent the majority of his teen years as an emotional robot. “You need to do this because you want to. You want to be Viking Smith in the Magic Friend Band, admit it.” His lips twitch into a full-blown smirk.

Viking Smith sort of has a nice ring to it.

*

“The boys are gonna develop a complex,” Spencer says when Snap airplanes into the room and beyond, toddler brothers leashed to the contraption she’s got strapped around her chest. Spencer’s even heard Snap call them doggies before.

Jon just shrugs. “They’ll have Ryan’s DVD player in pieces if left on their own,” he says. In the next room, Snap’s shouting for Ryan and then there’s a clattering crash and a loud, “Bad pips.” Jon doesn’t even wince.

“Wow,” Spencer says. Seriously, he doesn’t get how Jon is still so laid back about everything. He really hasn’t changed much since college.

“I like to imagine they get their destructive streak from Cassie.”

Spencer nods. It kind of makes sense. “So,” he says, and he watches Jon get a mug out of the cabinet and slip over to the coffee maker. “I don’t know if this is going to work out.”

“What, like, the show?” Jon asks, leaning against the kitchen counter and grinning. “You’re gonna rock the show, Spence.”

“I’m not exactly an actor here,” he says.

“Johnson didn’t even have any lines, dude.” Jon shakes his head.

Spencer grimaces a little. “Yeah, it doesn’t look like Gerard’s gonna let me get away with that.”

“You’re perfect,” Jon says, and there’s just enough of an edge to his voice to make Spencer think he’s serious, since his eyes are always defaulted to mischievous twinkle. “Everyone thinks you’re perfect, and it’s not like you have to stay if you end up really hating it, right?”

“He’s not going to hate it,” Ryan says, walking into the kitchen with a dustpan full of pieces of. Something. It’s black and brown and red, and Spencer’s hoping maybe it was that really hideous mushroom sculpture with the tiny houses all around it that Ryan keeps insisting is, “A symbol of our insignificance in the universe, dude, and the way the face of life is, like, ever-changing in time,” even when he’s not high, ‘cause that’ll save Spencer the trouble. “He’ll get to hang around Brendon and feed his big gay crush.”

Jon gets a little hysterical.

“Fuck, seriously, I hate both of you,” Spencer says, crossing his arms. He has a feeling this is never ever going to get old for them.

*

Spencer’s costume consists of a conical helmet – “Not horned?” Spencer had asked, and Gerard had said, “A common misconception. You’re lucky you’re even getting a helmet,” which, okay, but it’s not like Spencer actually cares one way or the other, except for the fact that a horned helmet would’ve been pretty cool - a huge faux fur vest, lace-up suede pants that Spencer suspects aren’t actually suede, and a sword. The sword isn’t really conducive to drumming, but it’s kind of awesome anyway.

They shoot Johnson’s last episode before Spencer’s first – as a Viking – and the Cab guys are all pretty cool, even if most of them are named Alex.

Gerard and Brendon’s premise involves Bob the sound guy, too, because apparently it’s some sort of ninja reunion, and Pirate Joe gets nabbed and ransomed and Spencer gets a little lost at one point. He thinks maybe they’re supposed to be in Holland, but he’s never thought of Holland as a hub for ninjas before, so he’s not sure. The music rocks, though, and Patrick breaks out a zither and Brendon solos a song about friends and family and Spencer comes away from it with this lump in his throat and a strong urge to call his mom.

Afterwards, Gerard attacks him with a wad of papers and a manic gleam in his eyes. His fingers and a corner of his lower lip are stained with blue ink.

“So the Volkswagen lands in your boat,” Gerard says.

“Does that. Are longboats actually big enough for that?”

Gerard waves a hand. “Some of them. This one will be. I think we’re gonna write in some of Victoria’s lasso tricks, too, it’ll be awesome.”

Spencer nods. “Sounds good to me.” Spencer’s seen Victoria’s lasso tricks. She’s sort of unbelievable with any length of rope. When they’re not filming, she apparently likes to hogtie Joe. According to Frank, at least, and Spencer’s going to take him at his word, because Spencer’s not sure he wants any firsthand knowledge of that.

“And Pete’s working on getting TAI to be your Viking buddies,” Gerard goes on. “We’ll have a rowing song and everything. Patrick loves rowing songs because he can work in his xylophone.”

Spencer has no idea what a xylophone has to do with rowing, but he just nods again. Gerard’s enthusiasm is kind of catching.

Brendon bounces up and says, “Hey, hi, do you sing?” and Spencer says, “Not unless you want to attract ducks.”

Brendon wrinkles his brow and asks, “What do ducks have to do with—you know what, never mind.” He grins. “You’re gonna be a Viking, Spencer Smith. How does it feel?”

“Pretty damn fantastic.” Spencer only speaks the absolute truth. Brendon’s grin makes him tingle all the way down to his toes.

Gerard shuffles through his papers, says, “Nope, no, no,” absently, then, “Ah-ha,” and, “Here’s a list of acceptable curse substitutes,” as he slips one into Spencer’s hands.

Spencer scans the words, bemused. “Great googlie mooglie?”

“Sweet sassafras,” Brendon says, nodding.

Spencer bites his lip, but it really doesn’t do anything to suppress his smile. “By Odin’s beard.”

“In trying times, yes.” Brendon has wide, wide eyes, like he’s just about to burst out laughing. Spencer is so past gone.

“So if you two are done being ridiculous,” Gerard says, “we need to discuss how Spencer’s faithful hound, Marjory, scampers into the Volkswagen at the last second. It’s going to be a problem.”

*

Marjory turns out to be Dirty in a dog suit. Patrick lets him play the tambourine during practice and Gerard says, “Hey, perfect,” and so Marjory suddenly becomes another member of the MFB. It doesn’t really bother Spencer, even though Dirty keeps trying to hump his snare drum.

Sitting in the dressing room he’s sharing with Frank, Spencer pages through the script. He’s got minimal lines and lots of stage directions, like eye-narrowing and looking ‘fierce.’ They’ve already run through it once with the TAI guys, and Spencer’s pretty proud that he didn’t mess up. He only faltered once, when he’s supposed to share his hearty fish stew with Brendon, since Brendon’s all pouty about not having a drummer anymore, and Brendon’s supposed to look up at him and grin and, Jesus, it sort of makes Spencer embarrassingly breathless, even when Brendon’s halfway across the table from him.

There’s laughter from the hall, and then the door bursts open and less than half of TAI comes spilling inside.

“This is wonderful,” Bill Beckett says, waving his hands around. “Utterly delightful, Smith. I can call you Smith, right? Of course I can.” He collapses in a pile of spindly limbs next to Spencer on the couch.

Siska says, “I’m sort of excited to sing We Are Vikings.”

“As you should be,” Bill says, rubbing his chin. “I’m looking forward to the beards myself.”

We Are Vikings is a pretty snazzy song. Spencer doesn’t actually get to participate in that one, and he’s a little disappointed, since there’s lots of sword-clanging and mug-thumping and wood-chopping involved.

“Thanks for doing this,” Spencer says, because it seems like the thing to say, and Bill actually pishaws. Spencer’s never seen anyone do that in real life before.

“Really. Really, Smith, this is an honor,” Bill says, hand to his chest, and Siska says, “All the greats have played MFB.”

Bill nods. “The Matches, Motion City Soundtrack, Gym Class Heroes, Midtown, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers.”

“The Backstreet Boys,” Siska puts in.

“The Electric Mayhem,” Bill says, jabbing a finger in the air. “The Electric Mayhem, Smith.”

Spencer presses his lips together to keep from laughing, although he doesn’t think Bill would mind. Bill’s sort of like a cartoon character, like he’d take a pratfall just to get a laugh out of his band. He’s so completely over-the-top that Spencer can’t help but like him.

“And now you,” Spencer says, and earns a beaming grin from Bill.

“I think I like you best, Smith,” Bill says. “Now what’s this I hear about hearty fish stew?”

*

Even though they’ve had a screening at the studio, Spencer watches episode #48, Hello, Viking Smith, with the Walker minis, squished on Ryan’s loveseat next to Brendon, and he’s already seen it, and he knows it’s good because Gerard had given him the biggest hug ever - and Gerard’s supremely protective of his show, so there’s no way Gerard wouldn’t have let him know if he’d sucked, although he maybe wouldn’t have been that bald about it, because Gerard is hyperaware of other people’s feelings – but Spencer is so nervous.

Snap is the ultimate test.

Snap knows her MFB.

Snap wants to be Lyn-Z when she grows up, and she sleeps with a stuffed Pirate Joe, and has a Ninja Johnson action figure - that’s apparently married to her Veterinarian Barbie - and Jon sings her to sleep every night with A Cowgirl Lullaby from episode #21, Victoria Falls In Love With The Moon.

Brendon squeezes his hand, and Spencer automatically flexes his underneath it until he can thread their fingers together. He’s so on edge that he forgets to be embarrassed, doesn’t even blush when Brendon tips his head towards his and whispers, “She’ll love you,” into his ear.

Snap’s on her feet the entire show, like normal, and when they get to the first scene at the Viking set, Snap’s practically pressed up against the TV.

It turns out, of course, that Snap’s more impressed with Marjory the faithful hound – “Daddy says I can have one when I’m older and when the pips grow out of their leashes,” Snaps says – but she seems to like Viking Smith just fine. She looks at Spencer a little narrow-eyed after it’s over.

She doesn’t call him on it, but he figures it’s only a matter of time before she puts two and two together. Even Brendon’s glasses disguise isn’t going to last very much longer. Snap is in no way stupid.

Afterwards, Brendon follows him into the kitchen to get coffee and he says, “Total hit, Spencer Smith,” grinning, and Spencer can’t really help himself.

He asks, “What are you doing for dinner?” and Brendon shrugs and opens his mouth and then, like, completely freezes.

“Let me—let me just get this—okay, are you asking me out?” Brendon finally manages, eyes huge.

“Um.” Spencer’s first instinct is to say hell no, but then his inner Jon Walker shows up –which is weird, since his inner Jon Walker mostly just shows up when he’s high – and everything sort of mellows out and his mouth slides into this half-smile. He says, “Maybe,” and he is so cool. He’s like ice, never mind the paper napkin he’s contorted into some sort of demented swan.

Brendon bounces in place, bobs his head. “Okay. Okay, if this is—if you are, then yes, I am totally interested in having dinner with you,” he says, and Brendon’s sort of put himself right out there for him, and Spencer is of the opinion that that is awesome.

“Good,” he says, and reaches for Brendon’s hand, and if Snap wasn’t staring at them intently from the doorway he’d probably go in for a kiss. Then he thinks, fuck it, and does it anyway.