![]() William comes up next to him, presses his shoulder down, and it’s not like Spencer couldn’t break away if he really wanted to but there’s a pressure there, and everybody is watching and Tom hands Jon a bottle of Bailey’s. “Never, your belly is made for it.” Jon rubs his skin and Spencer maybe kind of shrieks. Spence blinks, laughs again and then pushes at Jon’s shoulder. “Body shots,” Jon says, pushing up Spencer’s T-shirt. “What are you doing?” Spence asks, feels his skin buzz where Jon touches him, and threads his fingers through Jon’s short hair. More whiskey, and suddenly Jon is pressing a warm kiss to Spencer’s neck and whispers, “I have an idea, the best idea.” He slides from the armchair, arms sliding along Spencer’s side and Spence giggles and watches him curiously. William wins, despite Spencer’s best efforts, and Tom calls for shots. Slowly but steadily his skin is growing warm again, with Jon’s arms around his waist and his breath down his neck, and the cheering and the whiskey in his blood. He cheers for Brendon, spills whiskey over his jeans and lets Jon pull him into an armchair. It’s a rush of color and people handing Spencer drinks until he talks more freely. He sits on the armrest of the couch and lets the Butcher curl his arm around his waist while Brendon and William start a game of Super Mario. The whiskey burns down his throat but he frowns and takes another sip and another until his head feels tipsy turny again. William hollers and Spence flicks him off. Jon makes grabby hands but Spence tilts his hip and takes a sip from one of the numerous bottles on the table. “I do not,” he hisses and wrenches free from Jon. Jon’s mouth is still pressed to Spencer’s temple, and Spence swallows and feels himself blush a little. “Spencer sucks,” he continues, evoking catcalls from Siska and Tom. “We tried,” William says and brushes past them, squeezing in between Brendon and the Butcher on the couch. “We made snow angels,” Spence says, a little breathless. “Hiii, Spencer Smith,” Jon mouths against his skin, all warm, arm curling around Spencer’s shoulder. He ducks into the lounge, rubbing his arms, and is greeted by a wet kiss to his temple. He’s completely soaked, hair, clothes, and there’s water trickling down his back. ![]() “So cold,” Spence echoes, tugging at his T-shirt. “Shit,” William curses, shaking the snow from his hair. The rest of the guys welcome them with shouts to close the fucking door and Spencer peels off his soaked jacket and, mourning, his Nikes. Spence tries to pull himself up, laughing, shaking already from the cold, and William pushes at his ass until he stumbles inside, finally. He falls twice, giggling and climbing to his feet with William’s help, before they finally reach the Academy bus. Spence slips a little in the flattened snow, holding onto William’s collar and then stumbles away towards the buses. “Come on,” Bill says a moment later, “come on, get up.” He wedges his hand under Spencer’s neck and grabs his hand and pulls him up. He reaches over and brushes the hair from Spencer’s forehead and Spence closes his eyes. William makes a fake-pitying noise and squats down next to him. “I can’t get up,” he says, and now there’s also snow leaking into his jeans. He’s maybe a little drunk, he has to admit. “You fail, Smith,” William slurs and Spence wants to tell him to fuck off, but he’s suddenly starting to feel warm again, feet and hands buzzing. It’s snowing, thick flakes of white, clinging to Spencer’s lashes, melting on his lips and cheeks. Over him William is giggling away, a bottle of Tequila in his hand. He rolls onto his back, arms splayed out, and moves them again, up and down for perfect angel wings. It’s like minus a trillion degrees outside and his feet are soaked from all the snow because sneakers just aren’t proper winter shoes, especially not on the East Coast.
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