turps

The Black Parade is Dead Limited Edition *wants so badly*

Sadly, way out of the reach of anything I can justify spending, so I'll just sit and drool.

It's a bank holiday today, so both of my boys are home. It's also a beautiful day so I think we'll go out for a drive to the coast and blow some cobwebs away.

Before that though, I promised

duoshingami a get well soon ficlet. Now it was a while ago so she's probably fine now, but I needed something to tease the words free. She asked for anything young Spencer/Ryan, which this is, if you squint.

Spencer ends the call and kicks off the bedclothes, letting them slide to the floor. He yawns as he pulls on his jeans and a t-shirt, scrubs at his eyes as he shoves his feet into his sneakers and eases open his bedroom door. Carefully, he makes his way along the dim hall, trailing his fingers against the wall as he walks downstairs and then outside.

Immediately Spencer shivers, his sleep-warm skin cooled by the night breeze. He presses one arm against his stomach, holding down the material of his t-shirt as he turns to lock up, then takes a hurried step back, his heart thundering as his mom pushes open the door.

“Take this.”

She’s holding out Spencer’s jacket, the padded one he hardly ever wears. He doesn’t tell her that he doesn’t need it, just takes it from her and willingly folds into her offered embrace. He holds on, pressing his face against the soft material of her robe, her hands tight against his back.

Spencer allows himself a long moment to just breathe, to be loved, then he’s pulling back, the jacket held tightly in his hands.

His mom brushes a kiss against his cheek and says, “I’ll make up the other bed.”

Spencer loves his mom.

~*~*~*~

It doesn’t take long to get to Ryan.

He’s sitting on the steps outside his house, arms wrapped around his bent knees and his head down. He doesn’t move as Spencer approaches, or when Spencer slips the jacket over Ryan’s shoulders, arranging it so he’s protected against the breeze.

Spencer sits then, grimacing at the cold that seeps through his jeans. He waits, patient, knowing Ryan will talk when he’s ready.

“I hate him,” Ryan says suddenly, softly, not talking to Spencer at all.

“I know,” Spencer says, and he does, because he’s heard this before. He knows Ryan’s words. The hate and the frustration and the knowledge that nothing ever changes no matter what you try. They’re not Spencer’s words, his thoughts or his emotions, but he feels them as keenly as his own.

He looks at Ryan. How he’s pulled in tight, one isolated boy against the world. Spencer breaches that isolation, shifts sidewards on the step and rests his arm over Ryan’s shoulders. Ryan bristles, but Spencer doesn’t move, just holds on and waits, looks along the street at the dark houses, at the scattering of brightly lit windows.

Finally, Ryan relaxes and unfolds, says quietly, “Why won’t he stop?”

It’s a question Spencer can’t answer. One he gave up trying to years before. He pulls Ryan closer still and brushes a kiss against his hair.

“Come on.” Spencer stands and holds out his hand. “I’ll make you hot chocolate; with marshmallows.”

Ryan curls his hand around Spencer's, looks up and says, "okay."