Smoke-smuggered Stars - Spencer/Brendon - PG-13
Title: Smoke-smuggered Stars
Author: alljustlovers
Rating: PG-13 for language and some ~colorful imagery~
Pairing: Spencer/Brendon
POV: 3rd
Summary: Dystopian apocalypse AU in which Spencer saves Brendon in more ways than he intended to, and maybe Brendon even saves him too.
Wordcount: ~7,500
Disclaimer: If you think this is real, or if your RL persona is a basis for these characters, it'd be best for everyone involved if you closed out of this window.
A/N: This is here thanks to detourtoyou and her thorough, thorough beta of an otherwise useless piece of crap. Any mistakes, inconsistencies, time jumps, comma splices, run-on sentences or grade school level grammar mistakes left are mine and mine alone /o\ Also, this fic is solely here [beyond the help of Detour] because MY RACHEL IS HAVING A HAPPY, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TODAY. AND WE ALSO JUST CELEBRATED A FRIENDIVERSARY. AND SHE'S ALSO OFFICIALLY BEEN A PART OF BANDOM FOR A YEAR. Happy FriendaBandoBirthaversary to you-oo, bb, and I wish you/us/the world at large many, many more. Infinite hearts, hugs, and unicorns <3 XOXO
You can find a mini-mix here ; the title was taken from here
There’s the familiar clicking, a chk-chk-chk through the earpiece that works as a reminder that all words whispered through the wires are ultimately heard by others, and then comes static. There’s a pop and a hiss, a pre-recorded message squealing in Brendon’s ear to hang up lest he burn through his telecom credits for the week, and Brendon slams the transmitter down in its cradle. He just wanted to order some fucking dinner. Sighing, he grabs his food pass and pulls on his two heaviest coats before leaving. He considers his options for food, but soon realizes that he has no choice but to just go grab a quick pre-packaged single-supply from the Department of Famine Regulation since curfew is twenty minutes off. The snow is still falling in sheets, the entire city block drowned white under the feet and feet of snow that has continued to fall for the last 193 days straight. There’s a news forecast every morning promising sunshine in the days ahead, but hope dwindles more with every freezing minute.
Some people say that this is the first sign the world is coming to an end; Brendon thinks it’s one of the last.
Brendon is lucky enough to find a decent looking single-supply after only a minute of searching through the cheaper machines. In one fluid swipe, he scans his food pass and slaps the vend button for his chosen meal, and he’s out of the building and back into the snow with thirteen minutes to make it back to his home. He reaches the cluster of tiny condos and climbs the three flights of stairs it takes for him to get to his own door; he’s inside with eight minutes to spare. He tears the packing from his dinner and wolfs it down, the starchy potato substitute getting stuck in his throat and the imitation turkey leaving an ashy taste underneath his tongue. It’s a meal, though, the first one he’s been able to afford in two and a half days, and it leaves him feeling full enough to sleep. Which is a good thing, really, since his eight minutes are up and his room is suddenly plunged into dark.
Brendon undresses in the shadows and climbs into the rough bedding that came with his apartment. On nights like this, nights when he’s able to make it in before curfew and also somehow manage to get a meal, Brendon likes to think about how life was before the Regime came to power. The thing he misses most, more than his music or his dog or even the over-sticky summer days of his teen years, the thing he absolutely misses more than anything else is the freedom to let someone else know that he’s scared. They have eyes and ears everywhere you can go now, and fear is the worst form of treason. Brendon takes a deep, shaky breath and counts backwards from one hundred. Every number closer to zero he gets, Brendon relaxes an infinitesimal amount. He makes it to zero and starts from the beginning two more times until he’s able to finally fall asleep, his eyes grainy from all the tears that refuse to spill.
Six-thirty the next morning, all of the lights in Brendon’s apartment switch on. It’s years after the city curfew was implemented, but Brendon startles awake every morning still, wishing the last decade of his life was one ridiculous dream. He gets up and puts on his work coveralls and coat, tucking his gloves into his pocket and ignoring his growling stomach in favor of brushing his teeth. The fluorescent lights cut the apartment’s shadows at right angles, leaving everything sallow in the glow of the buzzing bulbs. It’s just like any other morning in Brendon’s life, and this is the exact thought running through his head when the sirens start to blare.
A long time ago, years and years before the Regime ever came to power or Brendon was even born, the old officials installed a system of sirens to go off in case there was ever an attack on the land. In all of Brendon’s years, he had never thought he would have to know the sound they would make. He’s realizing now how very, very wrong he was. Brendon is just heading towards his telecom to see if he can find an answer as to what’s going on when there’s a snapping at Brendon’s front door and all of the lights flicker out. The entire apartment is plunged into an impenetrable black; a shadow so thick it seeps into every nook and every corner; a kind of darkness that just doesn’t make sense considering the time of day. Brendon panics, running full force into the corner of a wall, grazing his leg on a stool, throwing himself into his front door, anything to get the hell out of the dark and figure out what exactly is going on. It’s only after he’s swiped his key card a half dozen times and tried the manual knob at least as many times that Brendon realizes what the bang he heard earlier was - Brendon is locked in his apartment.
Brendon lets his body drop against the freezing steel of his door, his chest heaving for breaths and his heart pounding in his ears. He’s never been so scared in his life, and he knows that this is the end. The end of him or the Regime or the world, he isn’t sure. Brendon’s not even sure he cares anymore with the way he still hears the sirens wailing, with the inky blackness surrounding him so thick he can practically feel it in his lungs with every choking sob. He’s breathing too hard too fast, and Brendon knows it, can feel the lightheadedness coming on, but there’s nothing he can do to change the way his lungs are begging, begging, begging for air. Brendon collapses to his knees, has enough mind to roll to his side, and everything whites out around the edges.
Brendon wakes up to a light shining in his eyes, and he goes to jump up to get his morning started and go to work. When he tries to move, every muscle in Brendon’s body constricts; he realizes that there’s also the slightest murmur of a voice dancing along his line of consciousness. He has no idea where he is or what’s going on, and he can feel panic rising in his chest as he tries to sort out the fragmented memories running rampant through his brain.
“It’s okay… help you… you’re okay…” The voice is humming through the haze in Brendon’s brain, Brendon still fighting to get up and figure out what the actual fuck is going on. Brendon tries to thrash around and wave his arms and scream for, fuck, anything, but nothing is happening. Brendon can’t move a muscle on his body.
“Calm down, calm down, okay. It’s okay, you’re okay, I’m not here to hurt you.” The voice is stronger, practically booming now, and Brendon is scared into compliance. The light is back in his eyes again, dancing from pupil to pupil three times before it’s dark again, and Brendon feels the tears pouring down his temples before he even thinks about stopping them.
“Hey, shh, it’s okay, don’t be scared,” the voice drops to a near-whisper when, Brendon assumes, the person belonging to said voice sees his tears in the flickering light of a small candle just to the right of Brendon‘s body. “Hey, no. I’m not here to hurt you. They can’t get you anymore.” Brendon doesn’t know if he can talk - whether he’s physically able to or whether he’s allowed to - so he doesn’t. He lies there, tears pouring into his hair from the way he‘s been placed on his back, with this stranger leaning over him and touching along Brendon’s body.
It goes on in this fashion for a while until the stranger nods, seemingly content with whatever riddle Brendon’s body provided an answer for, and slinks away into the fuzzy shadows on the other side of the - room, cave? Brendon isn’t sure where he is, where they are or who this guy is or really much of anything that’s going on, come to think of it. The last thing he remembered was getting ready for work and then - wait. There were sirens; he remembers that part, sirens and the thickest darkness he’s ever experienced in his life. But there’s nothing in his brain after that, nothing until he woke up with this man hovering over him. Brendon is confused for a scant second before a thought hits him cold in the chest - this man might be one of Them, a member of the Regime. He starts trying to break free again, twice as hard as he’d tried before but still to no avail; it seems like mere seconds of his trying to escape before Brendon sees the man crouch back into view, something small clenched in one of his hands.
“Don’t bother trying, there’s no way you’ll even be able to move right now.” The stranger’s voice sounds like there’s a joke hidden beneath the words, like there’s laughter trying to spill from between his lips, but it’s been so long since Brendon’s heard either that he doubts he would recognize it if he actually did hear it. He’s not even sure there would be anything about this situation to laugh at unless this stranger was one of Them, though, and that thought leaves Brendon in a cold sweat.
“Relax,” the man says, “I’m not with the Regime. Not anymore, at least. I’m just trying to help you out.” Brendon sees the man hover over him for a moment, sees whatever is in the man’s hand glint in the candlelight for just a second, and then there’s a burningitchinghorrendous pain in his thigh. The man stabbed him, Brendon thinks wildly, and there’s nothing he can do about it except - except that his body is heating up and he can feel the way his fingers are wiggling on their own accord and yes, yes he can move his jaw freely now.
“That’s a shot of Ford I just gave you; it counteracts the muscle-numbing agent they sprayed in your building.” Brendon is told this while he sits up and feels for damage amongst his limbs, luckily not finding anything worse than some bruising.
“Why would they spray a muscle agent, muscle whatever, why would they spray it into my building?” Brendon asks, not actually expecting much of an answer.
“They took your whole building out with that spray, knocked everyone flat and then left them to die. That shit stays in your system for days, locking up all your muscles until someone stops the agent or until something bigger gets you.” Brendon feels confused; there’s no reason why his building should be attacked. The man laughs - laughs, Brendon is sure of it, as sure of anything else in this world, and the sound alone takes him back to the days of his youth when he had a family and music and the sun - and shakes his head with a smile as he hands Brendon a half-full bottle of water. “Don’t you know?” he asks Brendon.
“Know what?” Brendon replies.
“We‘re all about to die. No need to keep the workers alive in that case, the Regime thinks.”
Brendon feels sick and then instantly thinks the man must be messing with him.
“You’re lying!” he shouts, loud and vehemently and in all of the ways he was never allowed to speak before. “Just because there was a, a blackout or- or electrical failure--”
“No, no,” is all Brendon gets as a hushed reply from the man, “no, no, no, no. It‘s the snow, it‘s going to be the death of us.”
Brendon tries to fight that argument; he shakes his head and opens his mouth to speak, but he remembers thinking the very thought in the days before. No matter how positive everyone had seemed that the snow would lift, Brendon was filled with more and more doubt and dread as every powdery foot stacked up - and, apparently, he had good reason, since this stranger sitting here in front of him is telling him how the world is going to end.
“Is there anything we can do?” Brendon asks minutes later, voice strangled.
“To help everyone else or ourselves? Or to make it less painful?” The stranger asks back, shaking his head before Brendon has any time to respond. “Doesn’t matter, actually. Things happen as they will, whether we give our consent or help at all.”
Brendon’s face, if possible, falls more. The stranger says nothing in return.
Time passes then, the two men sitting as blotched shapes in the dwindling light of the ever-melting candle, until Brendon watches the stranger stand and reach one arm out towards Brendon. Brendon remembers this, the archaic instance of one man extending his body to the other, but he can’t remember for the life of him what it’s supposed to mean until the stranger opens up his mouth.
“Spencer Smith, formerly Corporal seven-oh-six-four of the nineteenth jurisdiction of the National Watch.” And Brendon remembers this now, remembers the way you used to be able to embrace another without having been ordered to do so by one’s government, and he melts into it. Brendon’s hand comes up to clasp with the still out-stretched hand, brings his free hand to wrap around the back of the other man’s, and holds on for dear life.
It’s been a lifetime since he has touched the flesh of another human being, and if he were in the practice of thinking poetically, Brendon’s sure he could draw up some point about waiting a lifetime for something just to have it dashed to bits. Instead, he introduces himself - “Brendon Urie, surveyor fourteen-ninety-one of base four-twelve” - and clings as long as the man, as long as Spencer Smith, will allow.
It turns out to be a lot longer than Brendon was expecting.
They eventually end up huddled together to fight the frost, letting their combined body heat pool as much as possible. It’s uncomfortable, but it keeps them mostly warm enough. Hours must pass before Brendon risks one of the questions that’s been on the tip of his tongue since he found himself in this strange cave.
“When is. Why--” but he can’t think enough, can’t quite formulate the phrase he needs, and just settles on a scratchy, “The sun?”
Spencer shakes his head, always with the shaking of his goddamn head, and makes a vague motion in the air with his hand.
“Gone before I even got you down here,” Spencer tells him gently. And Brendon remembers that again, now, with startling clarity. He remembers the darkness grabbing him by the throat and dragging him into its inky bottom.
“Did it. Did it burn out?”
“No. Brendon. It’s the snow.”
Or course, Brendon thinks, of course it’s the snow.
Spencer stands then, grabbing Brendon’s hand and pulling him to his feet, leading him away from the candle light and back into the slip of shadow Spencer had disappeared into earlier. It’s windy, forcing Brendon to squeeze his eyes shut and stumble blindly wherever Spencer is leading him. It isn’t long at all before they stop, far less of a distance than Brendon was expecting to walk, and he carefully opens his eyes in spite of the still-offending wind.
Everything is dark and grey, and it’s the first thing Brendon notices. The sun is trapped behind sooty clouds, its rays barely squeezing through, and it reminds Brendon of a full moon on a stormy night rather than the afternoon that the sun’s position implies. It takes a minute for Brendon to realize that it isn’t just the lack of sunlight that has the world in front of him looking bleak and grey - it actually is grey. Everything he can see is the same deep slate color, like someone smeared the earth with charcoal - the bare branches where leaves once stood, the derelict buildings in the distance, the miles and miles of ground that spreads beneath their feet. It doesn’t make sense. He stands there next to Spencer, blinking heavily against the wind and pulling his arms tightly across his body to try and keep warm, and tries to make sense of what he’s seeing.
“Is there a fire?” is all Brendon can think of, the only reason why there should be cinders falling from the sky rather than the snow that‘s been present for months.
“None that we know of. This is one of the last places to be hit by the grey, everywhere else has had if for days, if not weeks. Blot out the sun, the clouds do. Makes everything colder, darker.” Spencer shrugs this nonchalant little bob of his shoulders, and Brendon is enraged.
“Why weren’t we told? We could have been warned off!”
“S’not how it works,” is all Spencer tells him. They stand there with the icy grey collecting on the jackets over their goose pimpled skin; they stare into the distance, taking in all their eyes can see. Spencer is the first to turn around and trudge back into the dwelling they had been in before; Brendon loses the feeling in his toes before he follows. If this is one of the last days of his life, Brendon’s got no reason to worry about the silly things like cold or hunger or living life with a fucking purpose. When he gets back inside, Brendon and Spencer look at each other for just a minute until Spencer nods to the space next to him. Brendon doesn’t think twice about sitting next to Spencer, leaning in and stealing as much heat as he possibly can.
Things are quiet between Spencer and Brendon for a long time, until Spencer lets out a loud, drawn out huff of breath.
“Did you ever have any pets?” It’s the last thing Brendon’s expecting to hear, and it must show on his face because Spencer continues. “Before the Regime? I never had much of a family to miss; Father was in a paramilitary unit while I was growing up so he was never around, and I spent all of my time with our dogs. Boba, he was my favorite. I think, if there’s one thing I could have right now from this life, it’d be him.”
And Brendon understands now, understands that this- this purging? It’s allowed now. No one is here to punish them for their honesty, no one is here to drag them away for admitting their fears.
“Music. I used to love music.” Brendon sees Spencer nodding, hears the soft chuckle he lets out.
“Weed.” Spencer says, “Weed, music and my dog. I’d be happy to go down if I could just have those three things again.”
Brendon laughs, startling himself with the rusty sound, and then laughs again when he realizes that no one is going to punish him for it. Spencer laughs too, and Brendon can’t help but think that Spencer’s laugh sounds far less foreign than Brendon’s own. They talk until the candle burns out, and even once they’re plunged into darkness, they stay leaning into one another and whispering about the lives they once led. Brendon can’t believe the way his heart is fluttering in his chest, can’t even remember if he’d ever felt this strange mixture of immediate attraction and fast-growing affection in the days before The Regime.
As Brendon feels himself drifting off to sleep to the sounds of Spencer’s stories, there are wisps of thoughts running through his brain non-stop. They are thoughts about how Brendon is no longer alone, how he’s no longer in the quiet, and how he’s nowhere near as scared of the end as he once was. Though he doesn’t realize it, the longer these thoughts drift through his mind, the harder Brendon clings to Spencer. Spencer clings right back.
Brendon is jostled awake by Spencer, who is hovering over Brendon with small packages in his hands that Brendon immediately recognizes: single-supplies. Suddenly, Brendon realizes how hungry he actually is and sits up from where he had slipped to the ground in his sleep. Spencer sits next to him and holds the two packages out, one in each hand.
“Reconstituted beef meal or artificial chicken?” Spencer scowls, and Brendon reaches for the chicken. They open their meals and eat in silence.
“Where did you get those?” Brendon asks. He and Spencer have practically licked their containers clean and are now sitting against one another sharing a small bottle of water. Spencer shrugs. Of course.
“I grabbed some supplies when I first came out here. I’ve got a couple more single-supplies, a half dozen bottles of water, and two self-light candles left.”
“So why share with me? Not that I’m not grateful, because I am! I just… still don’t know why I’m here,” Brendon finishes lamely, knotting his fingers together in his lap.
“The Regime knew what was coming and had plans to do what they did, and uh, I came out here instead of waiting around for someone to get me. I figured it would be better to die from the elements than by the hand of another man. I was out here when the grey came, but the guilt got to me, knowing what the Regime was going to do to everyone, so I went back to see if I could help anyone.”
Brendon doesn’t think that’s the whole story, feels like there’s some monumental chunk missing by the way Spencer’s voice is completely lacking tone, but doesn’t push it. In the end, it’s Spencer’s story to tell, and if that’s all he’ll tell Brendon, then Brendon guesses that’s all he’s going to hear.
There’s another pregnant pause between the two, and Brendon reaches out towards Spencer. He reaches around Spencer’s shoulders, pulling him in, and brings his other arm up to wrap fully around him. Spencer holds onto Brendon, and oh. Brendon realizes that the night before wasn’t his imagination and it wasn’t a fluke, that Spencer is still holding onto him. It’s something Brendon is glad to know, not understanding the tightness he felt in his stomach until it unclenched in time with Spencer’s grasp.
They hold each other in the candlelight, Brendon’s heart beating too fast and Spencer’s hands digging too deep. They meet each other halfway in a kiss, and Brendon is hardly surprised. Brendon remembers this from before, remembers so vividly the way he used to sneak into the restrooms with his classmate Frank and trade hurried kisses, the way his older sister’s friend Greta used to kiss him on holidays. These kisses are like nothing Brendon has ever experienced in his life, though. Spencer’s lips are so feather-soft and sweet on his that Brendon is practically vibrating in place from holding back. It lasts only a moment, but the entire world has shifted around Brendon. Spencer nudges his nose into Brendon’s, kisses him again, and Brendon doesn’t see why he should deny the want he feels all the way in his bones. He pulls on Spencer until they’re both laying on the ground, Spencer kneeling between Brendon’s legs and Brendon lifting on his elbows to meet him. They stay there trading kisses, Spencer’s hips digging into Brendon’s and legs intertwined, until well after the candle burns out.
Only two more candles and a handful of meals left, and then Brendon doesn’t know what they’re going to do.
The next time Brendon wakes up, things go much the same as they did the last time. Spencer brings them food that they eat in a fury, and they share some water in the flickering light. Their shadows dance on the wall behind them, blending into one shapeless form from the way they’re invading each other’s space. Eventually, they’re back on the floor, another perfect reflection of the day before, and just like before, another candle burns out. Brendon resolves to let the last day pass better, to thank Spencer and show his gratitude for making his last days better than Brendon ever could have thought they would be.
Brendon doesn’t get a chance to work up the courage to say anything on the last day. After they have their meals and shared water, the two just sit together and watch the candle. The wax drips like blood from a mortal wound; the more it pools, the closer they both are to the end. Spencer and Brendon are both holding themselves stiff, knowing that they’ll be here comfortably for only a few hours longer. They’re both ignoring the way the air has been getting alarmingly colder and thicker each of the last two nights. They hold themselves closer than either of the days before - whether from the cold or fear, neither is sure, so they just hold on tighter.
“I lied,” Spencer says as the candle light begins to wane; he swallows heavily, “I lied when I said I just wanted to help.” Brendon is surprised but stays silent, stays right where he is. “I, uh. When I was kid, I had a friend, a best friend. We grew up together, but when the Regime came to be, I followed in my father’s footsteps, and he went on to be a worker. We haven’t spoken in at least a decade’s time, but I’ve thought about him nearly every day of my life. He was a brother to me, growing up, and my heart still considers him to be one. So I went to get him the day the grey came. I knew where he had been living, knew exactly which building, which door, and I went to get him. It was too late, though, when I got there. Someone had gotten him before I had, killed him on his floor. I think it was so they could steal from him, but I can’t be sure.”
Spencer’s tears are rolling silently down his cheeks, and Brendon doesn’t think twice as he wipes them away with quick swipes of his thumbs.
“I took a glance around the building as best I could, trying to find if anyone was still alive. Most of the units were empty, but a few had people in them. All were like Ryan though, in their own blood. But then there was this door that was still locked, and I jimmied it open and found you. You were still alive, and I.” Spencer makes a motion, this little head tilt with a raised shoulder, and Brendon’s pretty sure it’s the best thing that can be said.
“How’d you get me here?” Brendon asks, wondering wildly for a minute if he somehow overlooked a vehicle when they had ventured outside that first afternoon.
“Upper body strength and sheer force of will.” Spencer’s laugh that follows is self-deprecating at best.
“Yeah, yeah. That, uh. Thank you, for that. For saving me. I really mean it, Spencer. If only to have had you for these few days, I’d gladly go through all of this. With The Regime, it’s like I forgot I could be a human, but you’ve reminded me that things weren’t always so bad. That they shouldn’t be that bad. And it’s okay, you know. It’s okay if this is the end, because this is a better end here, with you, than I could have hoped for as a worker.” Spencer nods, resting his forehead on Brendon’s, and breathes deep, deep, deep.
“This shouldn’t be the ideal, Brendon,” is what Spencer tells him eventually, “things never should have gotten that bad. I lost everything I had, all the things that mattered, as soon as They were in. I never should have lost any of it. I shouldn’t have to lose you, either, not when I just got you.”
It’s that sentiment - whispered so purely into this fucking meaningless existence - that makes Brendon yearn for just a day in the sun. What he wouldn’t give to hold Spencer close to him, the sun beating down on their backs, and kiss him in the warmth. Brendon would trade in every dreary day of his life for one short hour of Summer with Spencer.
They make love that night, right there on the ground, shivering from the freezing air sinking into their bones. They lie together afterwards, huddled underneath their coats in an attempt to stay warm while still pressing their bodies together. They say nothing as loudly as they can with bruising mouths and searching hands and much too much desperation for the amount of time they’ve actually known one another.
Brendon is woken by kisses that are being peppered across his eyes, the bridge of his nose, his lips. It’s so sweet, so affectionate, the perfect juxtaposition to the immediate realization that this is the beginning of the end. For real this time, Brendon tells himself, this is really, really, really the end. They’ve run out of food and candles, and there’s not much water to spare. The air is colder than Brendon has ever felt before, and he tells himself that this is why his chest feels so damn heavy.
“There has to be something.” Brendon thinks aloud, mostly whispering the thought into Spencer’s mouth as the two kiss. Spencer pulls back, and asks Brendon what he said. “There has to be something, Spencer. Something we can do to, I don’t know, prolong this or something, to keep this going.”
“Do you really want to keep this going? Are you really up to fighting the inevitable?” Spencer scoffs, rolling away from Brendon. There’s rustling, and Brendon can feel Spencer’s hands searching around until he reaches the pile of clothes near Brendon’s head. It’s too fucking cold. Spencer starts pulling on whatever he can find of his and drops Brendon’s coveralls onto Brendon’s stomach. They dress quickly, quietly, and afterwards seek each other out in the dark. They pull their bodies together, backs against the wall.
“I just don’t see the point in sitting here in the dark waiting to die,” Brendon grits out eventually, anger bubbling deep in his stomach at the thought of giving in to all of this after living with the damn Regime for so long.
“What else could we do, Brendon? What do you honestly think we can do other than this?” Spencer’s voice is soft, and Brendon doesn’t know how to read it. It angers Brendon further.
“We can go somewhere! The world isn’t over yet, so let’s fight this as long as we can, Spencer. Let’s, let’s just, go. Let’s go and try to find something, head in the opposite direction of where we came from.”
“It won’t do any good, Brendon!”
“But it can’t do any harm!” Brendon is shouting at Spencer at this point, some dam of emotions bursting deep inside of him and telling him to fight, fight, fight. Brendon can’t shake the feeling that there must be something out there, somewhere they can go that won’t be like this. He says as much to Spencer.
“Then let’s go,” Spencer breathes, surprising Brendon with his assent. “Let’s get going, because I don’t want this to be the last memory of my life. I don’t want screaming at you to be the last thing I do.”
“Now?” Brendon asks, and Spencer agrees. Brendon feels around in the shadows until he finds Spencer, dragging his hand down until he can link his fingers with Spencer’s, and pulls them until they’re both standing. They find their way through the dark and make their way outside, stopping to grab the remaining two bottles of water from Spencer’s stash and putting them in the inner pockets of their coats to keep them from the freezing elements.
It’s more terrifying than it was the last time Brendon came out. The wind is whistling wildly around them, biting into the skin on their faces and through their gloves to their hands, knocking the breath right out of their lungs. The clouds have all but coated the sky, the sun escaping just enough to barely light the world around them. The ash-colored snow has completely covered everything in sight.
Brendon, with his hand still linked with Spencer’s, starts off in the direction he knows won’t take him home. It’s slow going, making their ways through all of this snow, and it’s not long before Brendon begins to tire. Spencer begins to look weary not too long after that. They reach a thicket of trees, and Spencer tugs Brendon to sit under the lower branches with him, protecting them both from most of the wind and snow. They sip from their water bottles and rub their hands together, trying with all their might to return any of the blood to their digits.
“There used to be a story,” Spencer starts out of nowhere, startling Brendon, “before the old officials fell out of power, about a garden. It was supposed to be the most beautiful place in existence, but men were banned from entering for some reason, and they eventually forgot where it went. My friend used to tell me that story when we were kids, said that there was a place just like it where the weather never changed and you could reach right into the sky and touch the clouds, but I never believed him. When the Regime took over, I forgot all about it. Until now, at least. Do you think a place like that exists?”
“Yes,” Brendon nods fervently, remembering with stark clarity the storybook pictures his parents would show him when he was young. “The place exists, though the story was invented to keep people away. The old officials didn’t want anyone to have that much power over the sky is what my parents told me. It exists, though. Spencer, it does exist!” Brendon calls, excitement clawing itself out from beneath his skin. “I’m remembering now. It’s supposed to be hidden well, but only a day or two’s walk from here. My parents used to tell me all about it too.”
“Do you remember where it’s supposed to be?” Spencer’s eyes are wide. “I mean, there’s- there’s a huge probability that it’s just a tale, but what if it isn’t? What else have we got to lose?”
Brendon agrees, and he and Spencer piece together their memories of the stories to try and figure out which direction they should head towards. Judging by the trees they’re surrounded by, they figure they must be where the old orchards once stood, miles and miles away from population. That means they only have to turn slightly to start in the direction of the afternoon sun, and the pair heads west into more trees with their hopes unreasonably high.
They trudge along into the night through paths that are protected from the wind by the trees surrounding them. The trees only seem to get thicker with every step. They reach a point in the very depths of the thicket that the tangled branches start cutting into the ground, burying themselves deep under Brendon and Spencer’s feet. The two have to drop to their knees and crawl to even get through. It’s odd in that part of the thicket, they mention to each other, because there’s room to the sides of them but not above them. Spencer says he is thankful for any extra inches they may have, and Brendon agrees.
It’s a long time going, the journey growing harder with each motion; Brendon, weaker and inexperienced with physical labor of this kind, tires quickly. He’s panting for air, the skin on his hands and knees scabbed through his clothing from the roughness of the forest floor beneath them, and he can feel every inch of his body shaking too hard from the cold. Brendon pushes himself and pushes himself, falling only slightly behind Spencer, until he just can’t go any further. Brendon collapses into a heap with this audible thump that terrifies Spencer, and for one minute, his vision whites out and he can’t breathe. Spencer turns back and reaches an unsteady hand out, touching Brendon’s shoulder. He can feel the trembling of Brendon’s groan more than he can hear it, but still, it means Brendon is alive.
“Brendon,” Spencer’s voice is pleading, “Brendon, can you hear me? Are you okay?” Brendon heaves, using the strength he has to roll onto his back, and Spencer is terrified by the haggard breaths Brendon is drawing in. Spencer quickly pulls out the water he has in his coat and uncaps it, helping Brendon lift his head enough to take a few small drags from the bottle. Brendon sputters, choking on the water as his chest swells with his over-worked lungs, and nods at Spencer to take the water away. Spencer caps the bottle and puts it to the side, trying to figure out what he can do for Brendon to help him gain enough strength to continue forward. Spencer doesn’t bother thinking about what they’ll do if Brendon’s unable to go further; they’ve come too far to turn back or give up now.
In his training, Spencer was taught how to do plenty of things The Regime thought would benefit him in the end - one of these things was how to get a spark from dried wood in case one found themselves without a self-light candle. Deep in the woods, though the ground is still jagged and frozen solid, the branches above their heads are packed into a canopy so thick that there is absolutely no snow at the lowest level where they are. It’s the first time since the snow started that Spencer can actually build himself a fire. Spencer sits up and starts snapping branches as he can reach them, stacking them to his side in a small pile. He stops every minute or so to check on Brendon, who is shivering from the cold but no longer gasping for breath. Spencer’s muscle memory kicks in, and a short while later there is a tiny flame in a pile of fabric Spencer tore from the clothing beneath his coat. It isn’t much, but it should be enough to warm Brendon up the amount necessary for him to be out of the danger zone.
Spencer adds twig by tiny twig to the flame, careful to not let the fire escape his control. He helps Brendon position his body around the heat, and then Spencer lays himself on the cold ground and wraps his limbs around Brendon from behind. It’s not long until either is as warm as they ever were back in the heat-controlled cages they once called home. Spencer stretches at one point to grab the water bottle he had abandoned earlier, and he and Brendon split it. The warmth and hydration finally rouse Brendon enough that he tells Spencer he’s ready to continue their journey.
“Are you sure, Brendon? We’re okay here for a little while, we don’t need to leave right away,” Spencer offers, so terrified of Brendon exhausting himself to the point of no return. Brendon jostles the twigs of the tiny fire, uses his gloved hand to stamp it out entirely, and then kisses Spencer with everything he has in him. Spencer gets the message, and lets Brendon lead the way this time.
They get turned around when they try to set out. Not quite remembering where they had come from, and not finding any distinguishing features in the three feet of webbed wood they can see between the ground and branches above their heads, they decide to take a guess and start going. Brendon says a prayer for the first time in years, and his prayer is that they’re going anywhere but backwards.
They’re not going backwards, not at all, because the entire wood around them is shifting and spiraling in ways they surely would have noticed before. The branches overhead are getting thicker as the headroom grows, and all around them the branches are turning into actual trees. The ground is growing smoother and their journey is getting easier by the step. By the time they’re standing at full height, they realize that it’s not the garden they’ve found, but a clearing. A clearing broken off from the rest of the world by the most compacted trees Brendon has ever seen in his life, and with an opening at the top to match the empty circle of land. There is no snow on the ground, and it’s not nearly as dark as any of the leading days had been.
“Brendon.” Spencer laughs out, “Brendon, there’s no snow falling here. Do you see? It‘s so light here, I can see your face!”
Brendon nods, reaching out for Spencer as Spencer places his hands on Brendon‘s cheeks and pulls him in for a kiss. The two cling to each other for just a moment before pulling apart and staring at the clearing in awe.
“Where do you think we are?” Brendon squints into the sky as he asks, “Do you think the garden died and that this is where it stood, or do you think we’re somewhere else?”
“If this isn’t it, then we must be close,” Spencer tells Brendon with a grin, “because there’s no snow and that must account for something. Should we keep going and see what lies further through the trees?”
Brendon nods, reaching for Spencer’s hand to hold, and heads into the trees opposite from where they came. The dead wood slowly turns into a small tunnel the same way the other branches did, and Brendon feels a leap in his heart. This is it, he thinks, this has to be it. They crawl and crawl and crawl, but neither gets more sore or tired - the cold, rough ground they had dealt with before has been replaced by soft, warm soil that springs back up when their palms and knees sink into it. Brendon feels sweat pooling on his brow, and he lets out a scoff, laughing as tears prick his eyes - he is feeling actual fucking warmth, something he never, ever thought he would feel again. Spencer positively beams at Brendon, letting their mouths slide together for a moment too long as they both abandon their winter clothing somewhere in the underbrush.
There’s no gradual change in the scenery when they finally reach the other side; one minute they’re surrounded on all sides, sunlight streaming through the branches all around them like a sign of true divine intervention, and then they’re -- Brendon’s breath catches in his throat and his heart skips a beat and Spencer gasps from beside him, both sets of eyes watering from the nearly blinding beauty in front of them.
They’re in another slight clearing of trees, this one much smaller than the first, and there’s a huge tree set in the middle. It’s the biggest tree either has seen in their lives, and its branches tangle all the way up as far as Brendon can see, into the blue sky above. There are tears pouring from Brendon’s eyes as he and Spencer walk up to the tree and begin climbing the branches and vines up, up, up. It’s not long at all before they’re well over the tops of the other trees, climbing closer and closer to the sunlight through a flowing white fog that Brendon realizes is a cloud. He laughs, something loud and beautiful, and he hears Spencer do the exact same from behind him. He keeps climbing until he reaches the very top, the branches bundled up enough that he and Spencer can sit together on them.
They kiss then, hands in each other hair and tears streaking both of their cheeks, neither remembering seeing anything so beautiful in their lives. Spencer stands up on the topmost twist of branch, then, reaching his arm all the way into the beautiful blue of the sky and pulling on a silky tendril of cloud. It pulls free, untangling like cotton candy and wrapping itself around Spencer’s arm. Brendon gets as close to Spencer as he can, reaching out to do the very same thing, and thinks about his mother and about his old family piano and about warm spring days. He laughs and laughs with Spencer and remembers everything beautiful about his life before the Regime, remembers everything beautiful about living in general, and thinks that everything might be okay. Somehow, the sunlight will lead them where they need to be, Brendon is sure of it.
Aaaaand with optional alternate Twilight Zone ending, because I know Rachel loves that ambiguous shit:
[Highlight text to read ♥]
There’s an eerie creaking from beneath them, then, followed by the loudest crack Brendon could ever imagine; all Brendon knows after that is the whoosh of air around him as he falls. It’s getting darker the further he tumbles down, and he opens up his mouth to scream, but his lungs just won’t let him. There’s a clatter, a huge resounding bang, and then Brendon isn’t moving anymore. He hears a voice calling to him from far away, speaking in a soft tone.
“It’s okay… help you… you’re okay…” the voice hums. Brendon tries to look around into the dark room to see where the voice is coming from, but he can’t move a muscle. He has no idea where he is or what’s going on, he just keeps hearing that same voice telling him to not worry, that everything’s going to be just fine.
ILYBB!
Author: alljustlovers
Rating: PG-13 for language and some ~colorful imagery~
Pairing: Spencer/Brendon
POV: 3rd
Summary: Dystopian apocalypse AU in which Spencer saves Brendon in more ways than he intended to, and maybe Brendon even saves him too.
Wordcount: ~7,500
Disclaimer: If you think this is real, or if your RL persona is a basis for these characters, it'd be best for everyone involved if you closed out of this window.
A/N: This is here thanks to detourtoyou and her thorough, thorough beta of an otherwise useless piece of crap. Any mistakes, inconsistencies, time jumps, comma splices, run-on sentences or grade school level grammar mistakes left are mine and mine alone /o\ Also, this fic is solely here [beyond the help of Detour] because MY RACHEL IS HAVING A HAPPY, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TODAY. AND WE ALSO JUST CELEBRATED A FRIENDIVERSARY. AND SHE'S ALSO OFFICIALLY BEEN A PART OF BANDOM FOR A YEAR. Happy FriendaBandoBirthaversary to you-oo, bb, and I wish you/us/the world at large many, many more. Infinite hearts, hugs, and unicorns <3 XOXO
You can find a mini-mix here ; the title was taken from here
There’s the familiar clicking, a chk-chk-chk through the earpiece that works as a reminder that all words whispered through the wires are ultimately heard by others, and then comes static. There’s a pop and a hiss, a pre-recorded message squealing in Brendon’s ear to hang up lest he burn through his telecom credits for the week, and Brendon slams the transmitter down in its cradle. He just wanted to order some fucking dinner. Sighing, he grabs his food pass and pulls on his two heaviest coats before leaving. He considers his options for food, but soon realizes that he has no choice but to just go grab a quick pre-packaged single-supply from the Department of Famine Regulation since curfew is twenty minutes off. The snow is still falling in sheets, the entire city block drowned white under the feet and feet of snow that has continued to fall for the last 193 days straight. There’s a news forecast every morning promising sunshine in the days ahead, but hope dwindles more with every freezing minute.
Some people say that this is the first sign the world is coming to an end; Brendon thinks it’s one of the last.
Brendon is lucky enough to find a decent looking single-supply after only a minute of searching through the cheaper machines. In one fluid swipe, he scans his food pass and slaps the vend button for his chosen meal, and he’s out of the building and back into the snow with thirteen minutes to make it back to his home. He reaches the cluster of tiny condos and climbs the three flights of stairs it takes for him to get to his own door; he’s inside with eight minutes to spare. He tears the packing from his dinner and wolfs it down, the starchy potato substitute getting stuck in his throat and the imitation turkey leaving an ashy taste underneath his tongue. It’s a meal, though, the first one he’s been able to afford in two and a half days, and it leaves him feeling full enough to sleep. Which is a good thing, really, since his eight minutes are up and his room is suddenly plunged into dark.
Brendon undresses in the shadows and climbs into the rough bedding that came with his apartment. On nights like this, nights when he’s able to make it in before curfew and also somehow manage to get a meal, Brendon likes to think about how life was before the Regime came to power. The thing he misses most, more than his music or his dog or even the over-sticky summer days of his teen years, the thing he absolutely misses more than anything else is the freedom to let someone else know that he’s scared. They have eyes and ears everywhere you can go now, and fear is the worst form of treason. Brendon takes a deep, shaky breath and counts backwards from one hundred. Every number closer to zero he gets, Brendon relaxes an infinitesimal amount. He makes it to zero and starts from the beginning two more times until he’s able to finally fall asleep, his eyes grainy from all the tears that refuse to spill.
Six-thirty the next morning, all of the lights in Brendon’s apartment switch on. It’s years after the city curfew was implemented, but Brendon startles awake every morning still, wishing the last decade of his life was one ridiculous dream. He gets up and puts on his work coveralls and coat, tucking his gloves into his pocket and ignoring his growling stomach in favor of brushing his teeth. The fluorescent lights cut the apartment’s shadows at right angles, leaving everything sallow in the glow of the buzzing bulbs. It’s just like any other morning in Brendon’s life, and this is the exact thought running through his head when the sirens start to blare.
A long time ago, years and years before the Regime ever came to power or Brendon was even born, the old officials installed a system of sirens to go off in case there was ever an attack on the land. In all of Brendon’s years, he had never thought he would have to know the sound they would make. He’s realizing now how very, very wrong he was. Brendon is just heading towards his telecom to see if he can find an answer as to what’s going on when there’s a snapping at Brendon’s front door and all of the lights flicker out. The entire apartment is plunged into an impenetrable black; a shadow so thick it seeps into every nook and every corner; a kind of darkness that just doesn’t make sense considering the time of day. Brendon panics, running full force into the corner of a wall, grazing his leg on a stool, throwing himself into his front door, anything to get the hell out of the dark and figure out what exactly is going on. It’s only after he’s swiped his key card a half dozen times and tried the manual knob at least as many times that Brendon realizes what the bang he heard earlier was - Brendon is locked in his apartment.
Brendon lets his body drop against the freezing steel of his door, his chest heaving for breaths and his heart pounding in his ears. He’s never been so scared in his life, and he knows that this is the end. The end of him or the Regime or the world, he isn’t sure. Brendon’s not even sure he cares anymore with the way he still hears the sirens wailing, with the inky blackness surrounding him so thick he can practically feel it in his lungs with every choking sob. He’s breathing too hard too fast, and Brendon knows it, can feel the lightheadedness coming on, but there’s nothing he can do to change the way his lungs are begging, begging, begging for air. Brendon collapses to his knees, has enough mind to roll to his side, and everything whites out around the edges.
Brendon wakes up to a light shining in his eyes, and he goes to jump up to get his morning started and go to work. When he tries to move, every muscle in Brendon’s body constricts; he realizes that there’s also the slightest murmur of a voice dancing along his line of consciousness. He has no idea where he is or what’s going on, and he can feel panic rising in his chest as he tries to sort out the fragmented memories running rampant through his brain.
“It’s okay… help you… you’re okay…” The voice is humming through the haze in Brendon’s brain, Brendon still fighting to get up and figure out what the actual fuck is going on. Brendon tries to thrash around and wave his arms and scream for, fuck, anything, but nothing is happening. Brendon can’t move a muscle on his body.
“Calm down, calm down, okay. It’s okay, you’re okay, I’m not here to hurt you.” The voice is stronger, practically booming now, and Brendon is scared into compliance. The light is back in his eyes again, dancing from pupil to pupil three times before it’s dark again, and Brendon feels the tears pouring down his temples before he even thinks about stopping them.
“Hey, shh, it’s okay, don’t be scared,” the voice drops to a near-whisper when, Brendon assumes, the person belonging to said voice sees his tears in the flickering light of a small candle just to the right of Brendon‘s body. “Hey, no. I’m not here to hurt you. They can’t get you anymore.” Brendon doesn’t know if he can talk - whether he’s physically able to or whether he’s allowed to - so he doesn’t. He lies there, tears pouring into his hair from the way he‘s been placed on his back, with this stranger leaning over him and touching along Brendon’s body.
It goes on in this fashion for a while until the stranger nods, seemingly content with whatever riddle Brendon’s body provided an answer for, and slinks away into the fuzzy shadows on the other side of the - room, cave? Brendon isn’t sure where he is, where they are or who this guy is or really much of anything that’s going on, come to think of it. The last thing he remembered was getting ready for work and then - wait. There were sirens; he remembers that part, sirens and the thickest darkness he’s ever experienced in his life. But there’s nothing in his brain after that, nothing until he woke up with this man hovering over him. Brendon is confused for a scant second before a thought hits him cold in the chest - this man might be one of Them, a member of the Regime. He starts trying to break free again, twice as hard as he’d tried before but still to no avail; it seems like mere seconds of his trying to escape before Brendon sees the man crouch back into view, something small clenched in one of his hands.
“Don’t bother trying, there’s no way you’ll even be able to move right now.” The stranger’s voice sounds like there’s a joke hidden beneath the words, like there’s laughter trying to spill from between his lips, but it’s been so long since Brendon’s heard either that he doubts he would recognize it if he actually did hear it. He’s not even sure there would be anything about this situation to laugh at unless this stranger was one of Them, though, and that thought leaves Brendon in a cold sweat.
“Relax,” the man says, “I’m not with the Regime. Not anymore, at least. I’m just trying to help you out.” Brendon sees the man hover over him for a moment, sees whatever is in the man’s hand glint in the candlelight for just a second, and then there’s a burningitchinghorrendous pain in his thigh. The man stabbed him, Brendon thinks wildly, and there’s nothing he can do about it except - except that his body is heating up and he can feel the way his fingers are wiggling on their own accord and yes, yes he can move his jaw freely now.
“That’s a shot of Ford I just gave you; it counteracts the muscle-numbing agent they sprayed in your building.” Brendon is told this while he sits up and feels for damage amongst his limbs, luckily not finding anything worse than some bruising.
“Why would they spray a muscle agent, muscle whatever, why would they spray it into my building?” Brendon asks, not actually expecting much of an answer.
“They took your whole building out with that spray, knocked everyone flat and then left them to die. That shit stays in your system for days, locking up all your muscles until someone stops the agent or until something bigger gets you.” Brendon feels confused; there’s no reason why his building should be attacked. The man laughs - laughs, Brendon is sure of it, as sure of anything else in this world, and the sound alone takes him back to the days of his youth when he had a family and music and the sun - and shakes his head with a smile as he hands Brendon a half-full bottle of water. “Don’t you know?” he asks Brendon.
“Know what?” Brendon replies.
“We‘re all about to die. No need to keep the workers alive in that case, the Regime thinks.”
Brendon feels sick and then instantly thinks the man must be messing with him.
“You’re lying!” he shouts, loud and vehemently and in all of the ways he was never allowed to speak before. “Just because there was a, a blackout or- or electrical failure--”
“No, no,” is all Brendon gets as a hushed reply from the man, “no, no, no, no. It‘s the snow, it‘s going to be the death of us.”
Brendon tries to fight that argument; he shakes his head and opens his mouth to speak, but he remembers thinking the very thought in the days before. No matter how positive everyone had seemed that the snow would lift, Brendon was filled with more and more doubt and dread as every powdery foot stacked up - and, apparently, he had good reason, since this stranger sitting here in front of him is telling him how the world is going to end.
“Is there anything we can do?” Brendon asks minutes later, voice strangled.
“To help everyone else or ourselves? Or to make it less painful?” The stranger asks back, shaking his head before Brendon has any time to respond. “Doesn’t matter, actually. Things happen as they will, whether we give our consent or help at all.”
Brendon’s face, if possible, falls more. The stranger says nothing in return.
Time passes then, the two men sitting as blotched shapes in the dwindling light of the ever-melting candle, until Brendon watches the stranger stand and reach one arm out towards Brendon. Brendon remembers this, the archaic instance of one man extending his body to the other, but he can’t remember for the life of him what it’s supposed to mean until the stranger opens up his mouth.
“Spencer Smith, formerly Corporal seven-oh-six-four of the nineteenth jurisdiction of the National Watch.” And Brendon remembers this now, remembers the way you used to be able to embrace another without having been ordered to do so by one’s government, and he melts into it. Brendon’s hand comes up to clasp with the still out-stretched hand, brings his free hand to wrap around the back of the other man’s, and holds on for dear life.
It’s been a lifetime since he has touched the flesh of another human being, and if he were in the practice of thinking poetically, Brendon’s sure he could draw up some point about waiting a lifetime for something just to have it dashed to bits. Instead, he introduces himself - “Brendon Urie, surveyor fourteen-ninety-one of base four-twelve” - and clings as long as the man, as long as Spencer Smith, will allow.
It turns out to be a lot longer than Brendon was expecting.
They eventually end up huddled together to fight the frost, letting their combined body heat pool as much as possible. It’s uncomfortable, but it keeps them mostly warm enough. Hours must pass before Brendon risks one of the questions that’s been on the tip of his tongue since he found himself in this strange cave.
“When is. Why--” but he can’t think enough, can’t quite formulate the phrase he needs, and just settles on a scratchy, “The sun?”
Spencer shakes his head, always with the shaking of his goddamn head, and makes a vague motion in the air with his hand.
“Gone before I even got you down here,” Spencer tells him gently. And Brendon remembers that again, now, with startling clarity. He remembers the darkness grabbing him by the throat and dragging him into its inky bottom.
“Did it. Did it burn out?”
“No. Brendon. It’s the snow.”
Or course, Brendon thinks, of course it’s the snow.
Spencer stands then, grabbing Brendon’s hand and pulling him to his feet, leading him away from the candle light and back into the slip of shadow Spencer had disappeared into earlier. It’s windy, forcing Brendon to squeeze his eyes shut and stumble blindly wherever Spencer is leading him. It isn’t long at all before they stop, far less of a distance than Brendon was expecting to walk, and he carefully opens his eyes in spite of the still-offending wind.
Everything is dark and grey, and it’s the first thing Brendon notices. The sun is trapped behind sooty clouds, its rays barely squeezing through, and it reminds Brendon of a full moon on a stormy night rather than the afternoon that the sun’s position implies. It takes a minute for Brendon to realize that it isn’t just the lack of sunlight that has the world in front of him looking bleak and grey - it actually is grey. Everything he can see is the same deep slate color, like someone smeared the earth with charcoal - the bare branches where leaves once stood, the derelict buildings in the distance, the miles and miles of ground that spreads beneath their feet. It doesn’t make sense. He stands there next to Spencer, blinking heavily against the wind and pulling his arms tightly across his body to try and keep warm, and tries to make sense of what he’s seeing.
“Is there a fire?” is all Brendon can think of, the only reason why there should be cinders falling from the sky rather than the snow that‘s been present for months.
“None that we know of. This is one of the last places to be hit by the grey, everywhere else has had if for days, if not weeks. Blot out the sun, the clouds do. Makes everything colder, darker.” Spencer shrugs this nonchalant little bob of his shoulders, and Brendon is enraged.
“Why weren’t we told? We could have been warned off!”
“S’not how it works,” is all Spencer tells him. They stand there with the icy grey collecting on the jackets over their goose pimpled skin; they stare into the distance, taking in all their eyes can see. Spencer is the first to turn around and trudge back into the dwelling they had been in before; Brendon loses the feeling in his toes before he follows. If this is one of the last days of his life, Brendon’s got no reason to worry about the silly things like cold or hunger or living life with a fucking purpose. When he gets back inside, Brendon and Spencer look at each other for just a minute until Spencer nods to the space next to him. Brendon doesn’t think twice about sitting next to Spencer, leaning in and stealing as much heat as he possibly can.
Things are quiet between Spencer and Brendon for a long time, until Spencer lets out a loud, drawn out huff of breath.
“Did you ever have any pets?” It’s the last thing Brendon’s expecting to hear, and it must show on his face because Spencer continues. “Before the Regime? I never had much of a family to miss; Father was in a paramilitary unit while I was growing up so he was never around, and I spent all of my time with our dogs. Boba, he was my favorite. I think, if there’s one thing I could have right now from this life, it’d be him.”
And Brendon understands now, understands that this- this purging? It’s allowed now. No one is here to punish them for their honesty, no one is here to drag them away for admitting their fears.
“Music. I used to love music.” Brendon sees Spencer nodding, hears the soft chuckle he lets out.
“Weed.” Spencer says, “Weed, music and my dog. I’d be happy to go down if I could just have those three things again.”
Brendon laughs, startling himself with the rusty sound, and then laughs again when he realizes that no one is going to punish him for it. Spencer laughs too, and Brendon can’t help but think that Spencer’s laugh sounds far less foreign than Brendon’s own. They talk until the candle burns out, and even once they’re plunged into darkness, they stay leaning into one another and whispering about the lives they once led. Brendon can’t believe the way his heart is fluttering in his chest, can’t even remember if he’d ever felt this strange mixture of immediate attraction and fast-growing affection in the days before The Regime.
As Brendon feels himself drifting off to sleep to the sounds of Spencer’s stories, there are wisps of thoughts running through his brain non-stop. They are thoughts about how Brendon is no longer alone, how he’s no longer in the quiet, and how he’s nowhere near as scared of the end as he once was. Though he doesn’t realize it, the longer these thoughts drift through his mind, the harder Brendon clings to Spencer. Spencer clings right back.
Brendon is jostled awake by Spencer, who is hovering over Brendon with small packages in his hands that Brendon immediately recognizes: single-supplies. Suddenly, Brendon realizes how hungry he actually is and sits up from where he had slipped to the ground in his sleep. Spencer sits next to him and holds the two packages out, one in each hand.
“Reconstituted beef meal or artificial chicken?” Spencer scowls, and Brendon reaches for the chicken. They open their meals and eat in silence.
“Where did you get those?” Brendon asks. He and Spencer have practically licked their containers clean and are now sitting against one another sharing a small bottle of water. Spencer shrugs. Of course.
“I grabbed some supplies when I first came out here. I’ve got a couple more single-supplies, a half dozen bottles of water, and two self-light candles left.”
“So why share with me? Not that I’m not grateful, because I am! I just… still don’t know why I’m here,” Brendon finishes lamely, knotting his fingers together in his lap.
“The Regime knew what was coming and had plans to do what they did, and uh, I came out here instead of waiting around for someone to get me. I figured it would be better to die from the elements than by the hand of another man. I was out here when the grey came, but the guilt got to me, knowing what the Regime was going to do to everyone, so I went back to see if I could help anyone.”
Brendon doesn’t think that’s the whole story, feels like there’s some monumental chunk missing by the way Spencer’s voice is completely lacking tone, but doesn’t push it. In the end, it’s Spencer’s story to tell, and if that’s all he’ll tell Brendon, then Brendon guesses that’s all he’s going to hear.
There’s another pregnant pause between the two, and Brendon reaches out towards Spencer. He reaches around Spencer’s shoulders, pulling him in, and brings his other arm up to wrap fully around him. Spencer holds onto Brendon, and oh. Brendon realizes that the night before wasn’t his imagination and it wasn’t a fluke, that Spencer is still holding onto him. It’s something Brendon is glad to know, not understanding the tightness he felt in his stomach until it unclenched in time with Spencer’s grasp.
They hold each other in the candlelight, Brendon’s heart beating too fast and Spencer’s hands digging too deep. They meet each other halfway in a kiss, and Brendon is hardly surprised. Brendon remembers this from before, remembers so vividly the way he used to sneak into the restrooms with his classmate Frank and trade hurried kisses, the way his older sister’s friend Greta used to kiss him on holidays. These kisses are like nothing Brendon has ever experienced in his life, though. Spencer’s lips are so feather-soft and sweet on his that Brendon is practically vibrating in place from holding back. It lasts only a moment, but the entire world has shifted around Brendon. Spencer nudges his nose into Brendon’s, kisses him again, and Brendon doesn’t see why he should deny the want he feels all the way in his bones. He pulls on Spencer until they’re both laying on the ground, Spencer kneeling between Brendon’s legs and Brendon lifting on his elbows to meet him. They stay there trading kisses, Spencer’s hips digging into Brendon’s and legs intertwined, until well after the candle burns out.
Only two more candles and a handful of meals left, and then Brendon doesn’t know what they’re going to do.
The next time Brendon wakes up, things go much the same as they did the last time. Spencer brings them food that they eat in a fury, and they share some water in the flickering light. Their shadows dance on the wall behind them, blending into one shapeless form from the way they’re invading each other’s space. Eventually, they’re back on the floor, another perfect reflection of the day before, and just like before, another candle burns out. Brendon resolves to let the last day pass better, to thank Spencer and show his gratitude for making his last days better than Brendon ever could have thought they would be.
Brendon doesn’t get a chance to work up the courage to say anything on the last day. After they have their meals and shared water, the two just sit together and watch the candle. The wax drips like blood from a mortal wound; the more it pools, the closer they both are to the end. Spencer and Brendon are both holding themselves stiff, knowing that they’ll be here comfortably for only a few hours longer. They’re both ignoring the way the air has been getting alarmingly colder and thicker each of the last two nights. They hold themselves closer than either of the days before - whether from the cold or fear, neither is sure, so they just hold on tighter.
“I lied,” Spencer says as the candle light begins to wane; he swallows heavily, “I lied when I said I just wanted to help.” Brendon is surprised but stays silent, stays right where he is. “I, uh. When I was kid, I had a friend, a best friend. We grew up together, but when the Regime came to be, I followed in my father’s footsteps, and he went on to be a worker. We haven’t spoken in at least a decade’s time, but I’ve thought about him nearly every day of my life. He was a brother to me, growing up, and my heart still considers him to be one. So I went to get him the day the grey came. I knew where he had been living, knew exactly which building, which door, and I went to get him. It was too late, though, when I got there. Someone had gotten him before I had, killed him on his floor. I think it was so they could steal from him, but I can’t be sure.”
Spencer’s tears are rolling silently down his cheeks, and Brendon doesn’t think twice as he wipes them away with quick swipes of his thumbs.
“I took a glance around the building as best I could, trying to find if anyone was still alive. Most of the units were empty, but a few had people in them. All were like Ryan though, in their own blood. But then there was this door that was still locked, and I jimmied it open and found you. You were still alive, and I.” Spencer makes a motion, this little head tilt with a raised shoulder, and Brendon’s pretty sure it’s the best thing that can be said.
“How’d you get me here?” Brendon asks, wondering wildly for a minute if he somehow overlooked a vehicle when they had ventured outside that first afternoon.
“Upper body strength and sheer force of will.” Spencer’s laugh that follows is self-deprecating at best.
“Yeah, yeah. That, uh. Thank you, for that. For saving me. I really mean it, Spencer. If only to have had you for these few days, I’d gladly go through all of this. With The Regime, it’s like I forgot I could be a human, but you’ve reminded me that things weren’t always so bad. That they shouldn’t be that bad. And it’s okay, you know. It’s okay if this is the end, because this is a better end here, with you, than I could have hoped for as a worker.” Spencer nods, resting his forehead on Brendon’s, and breathes deep, deep, deep.
“This shouldn’t be the ideal, Brendon,” is what Spencer tells him eventually, “things never should have gotten that bad. I lost everything I had, all the things that mattered, as soon as They were in. I never should have lost any of it. I shouldn’t have to lose you, either, not when I just got you.”
It’s that sentiment - whispered so purely into this fucking meaningless existence - that makes Brendon yearn for just a day in the sun. What he wouldn’t give to hold Spencer close to him, the sun beating down on their backs, and kiss him in the warmth. Brendon would trade in every dreary day of his life for one short hour of Summer with Spencer.
They make love that night, right there on the ground, shivering from the freezing air sinking into their bones. They lie together afterwards, huddled underneath their coats in an attempt to stay warm while still pressing their bodies together. They say nothing as loudly as they can with bruising mouths and searching hands and much too much desperation for the amount of time they’ve actually known one another.
Brendon is woken by kisses that are being peppered across his eyes, the bridge of his nose, his lips. It’s so sweet, so affectionate, the perfect juxtaposition to the immediate realization that this is the beginning of the end. For real this time, Brendon tells himself, this is really, really, really the end. They’ve run out of food and candles, and there’s not much water to spare. The air is colder than Brendon has ever felt before, and he tells himself that this is why his chest feels so damn heavy.
“There has to be something.” Brendon thinks aloud, mostly whispering the thought into Spencer’s mouth as the two kiss. Spencer pulls back, and asks Brendon what he said. “There has to be something, Spencer. Something we can do to, I don’t know, prolong this or something, to keep this going.”
“Do you really want to keep this going? Are you really up to fighting the inevitable?” Spencer scoffs, rolling away from Brendon. There’s rustling, and Brendon can feel Spencer’s hands searching around until he reaches the pile of clothes near Brendon’s head. It’s too fucking cold. Spencer starts pulling on whatever he can find of his and drops Brendon’s coveralls onto Brendon’s stomach. They dress quickly, quietly, and afterwards seek each other out in the dark. They pull their bodies together, backs against the wall.
“I just don’t see the point in sitting here in the dark waiting to die,” Brendon grits out eventually, anger bubbling deep in his stomach at the thought of giving in to all of this after living with the damn Regime for so long.
“What else could we do, Brendon? What do you honestly think we can do other than this?” Spencer’s voice is soft, and Brendon doesn’t know how to read it. It angers Brendon further.
“We can go somewhere! The world isn’t over yet, so let’s fight this as long as we can, Spencer. Let’s, let’s just, go. Let’s go and try to find something, head in the opposite direction of where we came from.”
“It won’t do any good, Brendon!”
“But it can’t do any harm!” Brendon is shouting at Spencer at this point, some dam of emotions bursting deep inside of him and telling him to fight, fight, fight. Brendon can’t shake the feeling that there must be something out there, somewhere they can go that won’t be like this. He says as much to Spencer.
“Then let’s go,” Spencer breathes, surprising Brendon with his assent. “Let’s get going, because I don’t want this to be the last memory of my life. I don’t want screaming at you to be the last thing I do.”
“Now?” Brendon asks, and Spencer agrees. Brendon feels around in the shadows until he finds Spencer, dragging his hand down until he can link his fingers with Spencer’s, and pulls them until they’re both standing. They find their way through the dark and make their way outside, stopping to grab the remaining two bottles of water from Spencer’s stash and putting them in the inner pockets of their coats to keep them from the freezing elements.
It’s more terrifying than it was the last time Brendon came out. The wind is whistling wildly around them, biting into the skin on their faces and through their gloves to their hands, knocking the breath right out of their lungs. The clouds have all but coated the sky, the sun escaping just enough to barely light the world around them. The ash-colored snow has completely covered everything in sight.
Brendon, with his hand still linked with Spencer’s, starts off in the direction he knows won’t take him home. It’s slow going, making their ways through all of this snow, and it’s not long before Brendon begins to tire. Spencer begins to look weary not too long after that. They reach a thicket of trees, and Spencer tugs Brendon to sit under the lower branches with him, protecting them both from most of the wind and snow. They sip from their water bottles and rub their hands together, trying with all their might to return any of the blood to their digits.
“There used to be a story,” Spencer starts out of nowhere, startling Brendon, “before the old officials fell out of power, about a garden. It was supposed to be the most beautiful place in existence, but men were banned from entering for some reason, and they eventually forgot where it went. My friend used to tell me that story when we were kids, said that there was a place just like it where the weather never changed and you could reach right into the sky and touch the clouds, but I never believed him. When the Regime took over, I forgot all about it. Until now, at least. Do you think a place like that exists?”
“Yes,” Brendon nods fervently, remembering with stark clarity the storybook pictures his parents would show him when he was young. “The place exists, though the story was invented to keep people away. The old officials didn’t want anyone to have that much power over the sky is what my parents told me. It exists, though. Spencer, it does exist!” Brendon calls, excitement clawing itself out from beneath his skin. “I’m remembering now. It’s supposed to be hidden well, but only a day or two’s walk from here. My parents used to tell me all about it too.”
“Do you remember where it’s supposed to be?” Spencer’s eyes are wide. “I mean, there’s- there’s a huge probability that it’s just a tale, but what if it isn’t? What else have we got to lose?”
Brendon agrees, and he and Spencer piece together their memories of the stories to try and figure out which direction they should head towards. Judging by the trees they’re surrounded by, they figure they must be where the old orchards once stood, miles and miles away from population. That means they only have to turn slightly to start in the direction of the afternoon sun, and the pair heads west into more trees with their hopes unreasonably high.
They trudge along into the night through paths that are protected from the wind by the trees surrounding them. The trees only seem to get thicker with every step. They reach a point in the very depths of the thicket that the tangled branches start cutting into the ground, burying themselves deep under Brendon and Spencer’s feet. The two have to drop to their knees and crawl to even get through. It’s odd in that part of the thicket, they mention to each other, because there’s room to the sides of them but not above them. Spencer says he is thankful for any extra inches they may have, and Brendon agrees.
It’s a long time going, the journey growing harder with each motion; Brendon, weaker and inexperienced with physical labor of this kind, tires quickly. He’s panting for air, the skin on his hands and knees scabbed through his clothing from the roughness of the forest floor beneath them, and he can feel every inch of his body shaking too hard from the cold. Brendon pushes himself and pushes himself, falling only slightly behind Spencer, until he just can’t go any further. Brendon collapses into a heap with this audible thump that terrifies Spencer, and for one minute, his vision whites out and he can’t breathe. Spencer turns back and reaches an unsteady hand out, touching Brendon’s shoulder. He can feel the trembling of Brendon’s groan more than he can hear it, but still, it means Brendon is alive.
“Brendon,” Spencer’s voice is pleading, “Brendon, can you hear me? Are you okay?” Brendon heaves, using the strength he has to roll onto his back, and Spencer is terrified by the haggard breaths Brendon is drawing in. Spencer quickly pulls out the water he has in his coat and uncaps it, helping Brendon lift his head enough to take a few small drags from the bottle. Brendon sputters, choking on the water as his chest swells with his over-worked lungs, and nods at Spencer to take the water away. Spencer caps the bottle and puts it to the side, trying to figure out what he can do for Brendon to help him gain enough strength to continue forward. Spencer doesn’t bother thinking about what they’ll do if Brendon’s unable to go further; they’ve come too far to turn back or give up now.
In his training, Spencer was taught how to do plenty of things The Regime thought would benefit him in the end - one of these things was how to get a spark from dried wood in case one found themselves without a self-light candle. Deep in the woods, though the ground is still jagged and frozen solid, the branches above their heads are packed into a canopy so thick that there is absolutely no snow at the lowest level where they are. It’s the first time since the snow started that Spencer can actually build himself a fire. Spencer sits up and starts snapping branches as he can reach them, stacking them to his side in a small pile. He stops every minute or so to check on Brendon, who is shivering from the cold but no longer gasping for breath. Spencer’s muscle memory kicks in, and a short while later there is a tiny flame in a pile of fabric Spencer tore from the clothing beneath his coat. It isn’t much, but it should be enough to warm Brendon up the amount necessary for him to be out of the danger zone.
Spencer adds twig by tiny twig to the flame, careful to not let the fire escape his control. He helps Brendon position his body around the heat, and then Spencer lays himself on the cold ground and wraps his limbs around Brendon from behind. It’s not long until either is as warm as they ever were back in the heat-controlled cages they once called home. Spencer stretches at one point to grab the water bottle he had abandoned earlier, and he and Brendon split it. The warmth and hydration finally rouse Brendon enough that he tells Spencer he’s ready to continue their journey.
“Are you sure, Brendon? We’re okay here for a little while, we don’t need to leave right away,” Spencer offers, so terrified of Brendon exhausting himself to the point of no return. Brendon jostles the twigs of the tiny fire, uses his gloved hand to stamp it out entirely, and then kisses Spencer with everything he has in him. Spencer gets the message, and lets Brendon lead the way this time.
They get turned around when they try to set out. Not quite remembering where they had come from, and not finding any distinguishing features in the three feet of webbed wood they can see between the ground and branches above their heads, they decide to take a guess and start going. Brendon says a prayer for the first time in years, and his prayer is that they’re going anywhere but backwards.
They’re not going backwards, not at all, because the entire wood around them is shifting and spiraling in ways they surely would have noticed before. The branches overhead are getting thicker as the headroom grows, and all around them the branches are turning into actual trees. The ground is growing smoother and their journey is getting easier by the step. By the time they’re standing at full height, they realize that it’s not the garden they’ve found, but a clearing. A clearing broken off from the rest of the world by the most compacted trees Brendon has ever seen in his life, and with an opening at the top to match the empty circle of land. There is no snow on the ground, and it’s not nearly as dark as any of the leading days had been.
“Brendon.” Spencer laughs out, “Brendon, there’s no snow falling here. Do you see? It‘s so light here, I can see your face!”
Brendon nods, reaching out for Spencer as Spencer places his hands on Brendon‘s cheeks and pulls him in for a kiss. The two cling to each other for just a moment before pulling apart and staring at the clearing in awe.
“Where do you think we are?” Brendon squints into the sky as he asks, “Do you think the garden died and that this is where it stood, or do you think we’re somewhere else?”
“If this isn’t it, then we must be close,” Spencer tells Brendon with a grin, “because there’s no snow and that must account for something. Should we keep going and see what lies further through the trees?”
Brendon nods, reaching for Spencer’s hand to hold, and heads into the trees opposite from where they came. The dead wood slowly turns into a small tunnel the same way the other branches did, and Brendon feels a leap in his heart. This is it, he thinks, this has to be it. They crawl and crawl and crawl, but neither gets more sore or tired - the cold, rough ground they had dealt with before has been replaced by soft, warm soil that springs back up when their palms and knees sink into it. Brendon feels sweat pooling on his brow, and he lets out a scoff, laughing as tears prick his eyes - he is feeling actual fucking warmth, something he never, ever thought he would feel again. Spencer positively beams at Brendon, letting their mouths slide together for a moment too long as they both abandon their winter clothing somewhere in the underbrush.
There’s no gradual change in the scenery when they finally reach the other side; one minute they’re surrounded on all sides, sunlight streaming through the branches all around them like a sign of true divine intervention, and then they’re -- Brendon’s breath catches in his throat and his heart skips a beat and Spencer gasps from beside him, both sets of eyes watering from the nearly blinding beauty in front of them.
They’re in another slight clearing of trees, this one much smaller than the first, and there’s a huge tree set in the middle. It’s the biggest tree either has seen in their lives, and its branches tangle all the way up as far as Brendon can see, into the blue sky above. There are tears pouring from Brendon’s eyes as he and Spencer walk up to the tree and begin climbing the branches and vines up, up, up. It’s not long at all before they’re well over the tops of the other trees, climbing closer and closer to the sunlight through a flowing white fog that Brendon realizes is a cloud. He laughs, something loud and beautiful, and he hears Spencer do the exact same from behind him. He keeps climbing until he reaches the very top, the branches bundled up enough that he and Spencer can sit together on them.
They kiss then, hands in each other hair and tears streaking both of their cheeks, neither remembering seeing anything so beautiful in their lives. Spencer stands up on the topmost twist of branch, then, reaching his arm all the way into the beautiful blue of the sky and pulling on a silky tendril of cloud. It pulls free, untangling like cotton candy and wrapping itself around Spencer’s arm. Brendon gets as close to Spencer as he can, reaching out to do the very same thing, and thinks about his mother and about his old family piano and about warm spring days. He laughs and laughs with Spencer and remembers everything beautiful about his life before the Regime, remembers everything beautiful about living in general, and thinks that everything might be okay. Somehow, the sunlight will lead them where they need to be, Brendon is sure of it.
Aaaaand with optional alternate Twilight Zone ending, because I know Rachel loves that ambiguous shit:
[Highlight text to read ♥]
There’s an eerie creaking from beneath them, then, followed by the loudest crack Brendon could ever imagine; all Brendon knows after that is the whoosh of air around him as he falls. It’s getting darker the further he tumbles down, and he opens up his mouth to scream, but his lungs just won’t let him. There’s a clatter, a huge resounding bang, and then Brendon isn’t moving anymore. He hears a voice calling to him from far away, speaking in a soft tone.
“It’s okay… help you… you’re okay…” the voice hums. Brendon tries to look around into the dark room to see where the voice is coming from, but he can’t move a muscle. He has no idea where he is or what’s going on, he just keeps hearing that same voice telling him to not worry, that everything’s going to be just fine.
ILYBB!