ara: (spencer fucking smith)
[personal profile] ara
and breathe in
bandom // brendon/spencer. 1345 words. pg.
for [personal profile] merihn , on her birthday. also for [livejournal.com profile] hc_bingo  - unconsciousness
featuring: spencer leaping over a drum kit! fluff! CUDDLES!
happy birthday, my darling Alex! [beta by [personal profile] merelyn  whose face is the best face]

It came out of nowhere.

One minute Brendon was stalking around the stage to the first verse of Nearly Witches, voice playful as he slid between the alternatively sweet melodic lines, and the harsh edge of the lower parts. Spencer rolled his eyes fondly as the crowd screamed for Brendon, and looked down to land a hit.

When he looked back up, Brendon had frozen, eerily still, and almost in slow motion Spencer watched him sway and start to crumple.

He didn’t even remember standing up from his kit.

***


One hour and forty-three minutes. Spencer glanced at his watch. Brendon had disappeared through those doors almost forty five minutes ago, surrounded by nurses and doctors.

He shifted uncomfortably in the hard chair, restless and worried. Spencer hated hospital waiting rooms with a passion. Not as much a Ryan, maybe, but enough all the same. Just like the white walls, the sick feeling of complete helplessness, never went away, no matter the time or place. He’d never be able to doze off, like Dallon had in the chair next to him.

His hands were starting to cramp from the death grip he had on his knees. There would probably be bruises, but it didn’t seem very important right now, not with Brendon in there, condition unknown. The ankle incident had been bad enough, but this was worse. At least then they’d known what they were dealing with. At least that time, Brendon hadn’t just collapsed.

Someone settled in the chair on his other side, and he looked up to find Ian shoving a paper coffee cup at him. He took it on autopilot after a moment. “Thanks,” he said, belatedly.

“Any news?” Ian asked, sipping at a cup of his own.

Spencer shook his head, staring blankly at the cup. He and Zack had both taken turns interrogating the receptionist stationed in the corner of the room, but apparently hospital workers must face more terrifying opponents than a 300 pound body guard, because every time they’d been coolly dismissed. He glared in her direction.

“Zack went to find us food. He says to call him if anything happens,” Ian told him. Spencer nodded blankly.

He could feel Ian eying him. “How you holding up?” Ian said, quieter.

Spencer shrugged. “Fine.” His voice came out hoarse.

He should have known something was wrong. That morning, when Brendon passed up the last brown sugar poptart. Later when he said he had a headache. And that second trip to the bathroom The signs were there, Spencer just hadn’t been paying attention. He wasn’t an amateur at the care and keeping of Brendon, this shouldn’t have happened. Brendon was so stupid, always pushing himself to his limits, and then past them, without letting anyone know. He needed someone to tell him when to stop.

Maybe they should cancel the tour. Pete would back them up, definitely. Brendon wouldn’t be happy, but sometimes he was terrible at knowing what was best for him. Some time off and he would be fine.

His mind was racing, considering what all would need to be done to take of it if it was necessary.

Ian sighed, and bumped his shoulder. “He’s gonna be okay, dude. Probably just an accident. You know how long emergency rooms can take.”

“Did you see it?” Spencer asked, needing to know. His memory was curiously blank of details.

“Not really,” Ian shook his head. “I looked over when the sound cut off, and I saw you - it was crazy. I think you actually leapt over your kit.”

Spencer blinked at him. He didn’t really remember, just the sick desperate feeling in his throat as he watched Brendon sway, Brendon’s head in his lap as they waited for the paramedics.

Ian laughed, eyes wide, with shock maybe. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone move so fast,” he said, awed.

Spencer’s fist clenched and unclenched in his lap. He didn’t think he’d ever been so scared. His eyes kept flicking to the double doors Brendon had disappeared through.

Ian nudged him. “Drink your coffee, dude. Glaring at the door isn’t going to make them come out any faster,” he said kindly.

Spencer blinked and looked at the, right, untouched coffee cup in his hand. “Isn’t it my job to be the reasonable one?” he asked wryly, but he took a sip.

Ian snorted. “Your - Brendon’s in the ER. I think I can manage it just this once.”

Spencer swallowed, and dipped his head. “Thanks,” he said quietly, meaning it.

As if on cue, the doors opened and a white-coated doctor walked out. Spencer tensed.

The man frowned at his clipboard. “Mr. Smith?” he called out.

Spencer jerked to his feet and walked over. “That’s me,” he said sharply. “How’s Brendon?”

“You’re his emergency contact?” the doctor asked, ignoring his question.

“Yes,” he answered shortly, hackles going up.

“I’m Dr. Pierce. Mr. Urie seems to be suffering from anemia. His iron levels are significantly lower than they should be, and combined with overexertion and stress, we believe led to his collapse.”

“Is he okay?” Spencer cut in. He didn’t really care if he was being rude, he just wanted a straight answer from someone.

Pierce looked at him disapprovingly, but Spencer just stared right back. Finally, he conceded, “Mr. Urie’s stable and awake. He’ll be fine.”

The relief was so palpable, Spencer nearly stumbled.

“He has minimal head trauma from his fall, but we’ll keep him overnight for observation,” Pierce warned. “He’ll need to be careful for awhile so this doesn’t happen again.”

Ian popped up at Spencer’s elbow. “How’s Brendon?” he asked, looking back and forth from the doctor to Spencer.

“He’s okay,” Spencer told him, watching the tension in Ian’s shoulders drop.

“I want to see him,” he told Pierce.

“Mr. Urie needs rest,” he hesitated. “Fine, but only you, and just for a few minutes.”

“I’ll call Zack and Pete,” Ian offered, already pulling out his phone. “You go ahead.”

Spencer nodded his thanks and stared expectantly at the doctor. “Well?”

***


Brendon looked so small in the hospital bed, washed out and disappearing against the white sheets, except for his shock of dark hair.

He grinned though, when he looked up and saw Spencer standing in the doorway. “Hey,” he said.

Something loosened in Spencer at the sight of the familiar smile, and he found his feet carrying him to the bed.

“You know,” he said, “when Pete said dramatic stage shows were in, I don’t think this is quite what he meant.”

Brendon pouted at him. “My artistic vision is unappreciated.”

Spencer rolled his eyes. “How about next time, your artistic vision doesn’t include a trip to the local ER?” He meant it to be sarcastic, but he couldn’t help it when some of the worry of the past hours of waiting crept in.

“You are so stupid,” he said tiredly.

“’M sorry,” Brendon offered, looking properly contrite. "I just thought I was feeling a bit off.”

“You’re not allowed to scare me like that again.”

Brendon just looked at him and held his arms out wordlessly.

Spencer went.

The bed wasn’t really big enough, not built for two people, but luckily neither of them was very large and Spencer was able to fold himself carefully around Brendon.

“Stay?” Brendon asked, big eyes wide and pitiful.

“Until they drag me out,” Spencer promised. He carded his fingers through thick hair, and for the first time in hours, felt like he could finally breathe.

***


The next night, Brendon pulled Spencer into his bunk after him.

“Ian says you leapt over your kit to save me,” he reported to the hollow of Spencer’s throat.

Spencer started to flush. “You collapsed,” he answered helplessly.

He felt Brendon press a grin into his skin. “My hero,” he said in a breathy falsetto.

“Shut up, dork,” Spencer grumbled, tugging Brendon’s leg up over his.

“You love me,” Brendon said smugly.

Spencer sighed, and tilted Brendon’s face up for a kiss. “Yeah, I kind of do.”

FIN.

January 2012

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