Beach Music, girl!Brendon/Gerard, NC-17, 8A/12
One Two-A Two-B Three-A Three-B Four Five-A Five-B Six-A Six-B Seven-A Seven-B
“Hey you! Sitting around pining away for me?” Brendon giggles and Gerard smiles into his phone.
“Every second of every day, Queen Bee.” Gerard smirks and puts down his watercolor pen.
There’s a confusion of voices and laughter and background noise before Brendon’s voice comes through louder. “Geez, sorry. I’ve locked myself in the bathroom and they can just deal. So, anyway. I have news Gerard Way!”
Gerard shoves away his notebook and takes out his cigarettes, lighting up. “News huh? Care to share?” He exhales and his grin grows.
“Guess who has a photo-shoot in New York next week?” Brendon’s voice is sing-songy and makes Gerard laugh outright.
“Umm…Christina Ricci?” He says mock-innocently.
“Nope! Try again!”
“Oh! I know! Zooey Deschanel. Is it Zooey Deschanel? She’s sort of insanely hot.” Gerard tips ash into an abandoned Diet Coke can and looks at the twilight sky through the half moon window above his desk.
Brendon snorts and says, exasperated, “Gerard! Me! It’s me. Well, Panic, really, but I’m in Panic so…”
Picking up a pencil, Gerard taps it against the beveled edge of his old drawing table and says, “Thanks for clearing that up, Bee.”
“Oh my God you are so ruining my fun and amazing announcement. Hush and lemme finish!” Gerard closes his eyes and clamps down on the laughter that’s bubbling in his chest. He can clearly picture Brendon, foot tapping and hand on her jutted out hip, impatient. “Yes, so guess what else I know that a little birdie who may or may not be named Bob Bryar told me?” She doesn’t wait for Gerard’s guess this time, just steamrolls ahead, “That? When I’m in New York getting all pictorial, you will be in Jersey, doing the rest of the DVD.”
Gerard sits up and Brendon now has his full attention, “Hey! Yeah, that’s true.”
“Dude, I know, right? And? Panic at the Disco is fucking finished writing for the new album -- well for now anyway, we have more studio time booked in the fall. So?” Brendon’s voice is rising and Gerard can feel her enthusiasm coming through his cell phone.
“So?”
“So! I showed you mine, now you show me yours!” Brendon bursts into a fit of giggles.
That? Is not what Gerard was expecting her to say. “What?”
“Ahahaha! I so got you! I mean I showed you around Vegas, now you show me around Belleville.”
“Ah. That should be the most exciting half hour of your life. Bring your Kevlar.” Gerard deadpans. “But, spending time with you would be cool.”
Brendon’s voice is soft when she says, “I know right? Exactly. Exactly! The shoot is on Tuesday and Bob says your show is on Thursday, right? So I’ll call you when I know the details and let you know?” There’s some thumping and muffled yelling and Brendon hastily adds, “I gotta go, Gerard. I love you.”
Gerard just stares at his phone. Brendon loves him. Well, holy shit!
Brendon’s eyes go wide with shock. She raises her hand to her mouth like she’s trying to stuff the words back in. That? Was really not at all how she imagined she’d tell Gerard she loves him. But, breathless butterflies aside, she doesn’t want to take it back. She loves Gerard. She’s never been shy when it comes to telling people how she feels. She giggles and shoves her Sidekick into her hip pocket. “Okay you fucker, sorry to cut into your beating off time,” Brendon yells and whips open the door, shoving past Spencer and back into the practice space.
* * *
Spencer and Jon are sprawled on lawn chairs in Ryan’s backyard. Their beer bottles sweat in their palms as they occasionally raise them, sipping lethargically. “Go ahead and say it, Spencer.” Jon scratches at the side of his nose and wipes his forehead across his arm.
Exhaling sharply, Spencer’s mouth flattens into an unamused line. He clears his throat and, picking at the beer bottle’s label says, “What the fuck’s your problem?”
“She broke my phone!” Jon flings an arm out towards the house in exasperation.
Spencer takes a sip of beer and then licks his lips. “She didn’t do it on purpose.”
“Yeah, Hey! I wonder what happens if you flip it this way? Ooops sorry! Totally not on purpose.” Jon picks up the joint resting on the edge of the ashtray and takes a hit, then passes it to Spencer.
Spencer holds the smoke, then exhales slowly, his voice high and thin, “She’s gonna fix it. She said she’s sorry!” He glares at Jon, and scratches at his beard.
“She broke my brand new phone,” Jon leans back into his lawn chair in a petulant sprawl.
“Oh yeah, well you broke her heart, I think that’s worse.” Spencer extends his leg and kicks at Jon’s chair.
Jon sits upright, choking on smoke, “What? I never…I don’t…what?”
Sighing and fixing Jon in his stare, Spencer takes a long swallow from his bottle, before clearing his throat. “You don’t get it at all, do you? Brendon is…she’s the best person I know, you know?”
“No, I don’t. I really, really don’t get what the fuck it is you’re trying to say. Why don’t you fuckin’ enlighten me?”
Spencer stares down at the smoke curling around his fingers. “She’s the reason you’re in this band. Bet you didn’t know that, did ya? She…Brendon, she thinks you’re the shit, man, and usually I totally agree with her.”
“Usually?” Jon smirks and snorts, aiming for levity.
Wriggling his bare toes against the sun-warmed patio stones, Spencer says quietly, “She fuckin’ worships you man, and the things you say to her, the way you talk to her sometimes, it’s just---it’s mean.”
“Dude, I’m totally joking! You and Ryan talk shit to her all the time!” Jon’s voice is rising in frustration and confusion. He shakes his head, trying to understand.
“You call her names, and you say mean things, and Ryan and I have never, not even once called her a slut or a whore or any of that bullshit, kidding or not.” Spencer taps out a rhythm against the metal patio table with his beer bottle. “She tries so fucking hard to please you, Jon, to do things that make you smile or laugh. And okay, sometimes she’s annoying as fuck and goes too far but, you just,” Spencer stops, frustrated by his lack of words to explain what he means. He taps a counter-rhythm with his long fingers, “I don’t get what the fuck she could ever do to make you think it’s okay to say that shit. Like, Cassie would nail your ass to the wall, man. But Brendon, she just takes it, like she takes shit from no one else. She just laughs it off. But it hurts her, I can see it. Ryan sees it.”
Jon frowns, tossing his beer back and forth between his palms, and watches the bubbles turn to foam. “When her and Tom-“
“No!” Spencer’s voice is loud, and Hobo looks up, sleepy from where she’d been napping in the sun.
“What?”
Making a chopping motion with his hand, Spencer continues, “Whatever happened between Brendon and Tom is between Brendon and Tom. And it’s over, and none of our business. I have no right to talk about it, and you have no right to talk about it.” He sets his beer down to scratch behind Hobo’s long ears when she waddles over.
“Tom’s my best friend,” Jon says dumbly, bending over and snapping his fingers close to the ground, trying to get the little beagle’s attention.
“And Brendon’s mine,” Spencer answers, making sure to look directly into Jon’s eyes. “You didn’t really know her then, Jon Walker. You didn’t see her-what happened to her. She changed, man. She was trying so hard to do what Tom wanted, and be who Tom wanted, it was almost like she forgot how to be her.” Spencer pulls Hobo into his lap, chuckling at her happy wriggle when he pets her belly. “It was bad. You have no idea how bad. And I know she was all in love with him, or whatever, but she loves you, which makes the things you say that much more shitty.”
“Fuuuck.” Jon exhales. “I had no clue. I honestly thought we were just joking around. What can I do?”
“Just stop being mean,” Spencer shrugs and stands, “I’m goin’ swimming. It’s too fucking hot for this bullshit.” He steps off the patio, Hobo following at his heels.
* * *
Gerard finds the warehouse in Queens, no problem. As he gets out of the cab and heads to the front doors, he pulls out his phone and sends a quick text: I’m here. And, yeah, okay, he can admit it-he’s nervous. It’s been a week since he’s talked to Brendon, their schedules have been crazy, and they somehow have never managed to connect. It’s been a week since the last thing Brendon said to him was “I love you,” and he’d sat there stupidly staring at his phone. It’s been a week where Gerard thought maybe Brendon was avoiding him. And, okay, yeah, Gerard can admit it’s totally lame, but none the less, the thought had crossed his mind. He stares down at his phone when in buzzes weakly in his hand; Brendon’s texted back Yay!
It’s been a week and Gerard still has no idea what to say in reply.
Just inside the entrance, a security guard sits at a huge old wooden desk. Gerard strolls up and says, “Um, hey. I’m here for Brendon Urie? She’s doing a photo shoot…”
The security guard--who’s barely five feet tall and weighs slightly more than Gerard’s right leg--yawns, teeth bright white and Gerard can count each and every one of the guy’s six fillings. He flips a clipboard across the desk, “Sign in,” he says in the clipped tones of South Asia. He picks up a two-way radio and mumbles into it as Gerard hands him the clipboard back. The guy flicks his wrist, checking the time and then recording that in the log as well. “Follow me,” he stands, hiking up the waistband of his pants.
Doing as bidden, Gerard follows the security guard down a narrow hallway. “Wait here,” the guard barks as he raps on the door and shoots Gerard a look that says, loud and clear, that he will take no shit.
“Uh, okay. Thanks,” Gerard shrugs his reply and leans against the wall, waiting and doing as he’s told. The guard gives him a dismissive glare as he turns to walk back to his station.
Humming a tune under his breath, soon enough Gerard hears the clacking of high heels on concrete, and the door is thrown wide. “Gee!” Brendon exclaims as she slides through the open doorway.
Gerard only has a brief few seconds to survey Brendon before he’s got his arms full of her. Her hair is stiffly spiked and shining with thick gel, her eyes smoky and dark and huge beneath shadow and liner, and her teeth are made even whiter than usual by the red lipstick painting her mouth. “Hiya, Queen Bee,” he doesn’t even try to hide the appreciative gaze that travels up from her black stiletto Mary Jane’s to an extremely tight, high waisted pencil skirt, and the bow on her sheer white silk blouse that serves to draw attention to her breasts.
Brendon laughs at Gerard’s open ogling and then pouts exaggeratedly, “We are, of course, running behind. Gimme, like, fifteen minutes?”
Managing to drag his attention away from where his hands are squeezing her hips, Gerard nods dumbly and Brendon presses a dark crimson kiss to his cheek. “Gotta get out of this fuckin’ skirt!” She turns, laughing again, and heads back through the door. “Walk like a penguin!” she snorts and Gerard drops his attention from the play of fabric over Brendon’s still fucking fantastic ass to see what she means. The skirt is so tight she can only take tiny, mincing steps, and the shoes are so high she wobbles as she trots, arms outstretched for balance. Gerard laughs, and Brendon turns in the doorway, blowing a kiss over her shoulder. The door glides shut and Gerard jams his hands in the front pockets of his jeans, and waits.
A burst of laughter heralds Brendon’s return-flanked by the rest of her band and the ever-present Zack. The photo shoot femme fatal has been replaced with what Gerard is somewhat shocked to realize he’s come to think of as his Brendon; skinny jeans and a t-shirt-this time paired with a tiny denim vest-and purple and yellow basketball shoes. “So, hey guys, you remember Gerard, right?” Everyone smiles and nods in acknowledgment.
Gerard smiles in return and says, “Hey,” as Brendon sidles up to hip bump him and loops her fingers casually around his belt. “Since these assholes ate all the good shit from catering, I’ve decided that we need food. Now. Before I fucking die of starvation.”
Smiling indulgently, Gerard nods, agreeing. “Yeah, lunch sounds good. What are you guys up to now?” Gerard manages to bite back his laugh as Ryan, Jon, and Spencer turn as one to look at Zack, seeking direction and approval.
“Yeah, yeah, there’s a few hours before you two,” Zack smirks and lifts his chin to indicate Jon and Spencer, “have to be at the airport. And Ryan, I don’t know what your plans are…”
“I can call Keltie, see if she wants to come meet us, once we pick a place.” Ryan blinks slowly, speaking carefully before he sucks on his bottom lip and focuses his attention to sending a text.
Spencer’s smile widens and he says, “Uh…well…” in a slow drawl. He scratches at his nose and sweeps the fall of his hair out of his eyes, “There is this pizza place I heard of that’s not too far from here.”
“Project Pizza!” Brendon crows and knuckle bumps Spencer. “Spencer’s on a one man mission to find the best pizza in each and every state!”
Spencer smirks and nods and Gerard smiles at him, “Man, I think I know exactly where you mean.”
“So, we agree? Pizza?” Zack turns to address each of his charges. “Jon Walker?”
Jon shrugs, the ties of his gray hoodie bouncing, “Who doesn’t like pizza? And who am I to keep Spencer Smith from achieving Food Network level glory and satisfaction?” He punches Spencer affectionately on the arm, and they all head to the parking lot.
When everyone is finally settled in the van, amidst mumblings from Zack about herding cats, Gerard turns back from where he’s sitting shotgun and asks Spencer, “You mean Pizza Sam, right?”
“Yeah! It’s supposed to be awesome, Sicilian with like, wood ovens and stuff,” Spencer smiles enthusiastically.
“Okay, so then you want to head right,” Gerard instructs Zack at the same time Zack says, “Ryan Ross, no smoking in the rental!” which makes Ryan scowl and put his Parliaments back into his vest pocket. Sulking, he takes out his Sidekick instead, and jabs at the keys.
Brendon is scowling from her seat in the back of the van, unimpressed that her stealthy plan of alone time--or at the very least cuddle time--with Gerard, who she hasn't seen in two whole weeks, has been foiled. She mumbles under her breath, cursing Gerard's need to be polite and helpful. The van has a GPS, for fuck's sake! Gerard should be back with her! She scowls when he meets her eyes in the rearview mirror, tugging at her vest and pretending to stare out the window.
They arrive without incident at the restaurant, Zack ushering them along in a neat row; a mother duck tending her ducklings. “Mmm, there you are!” Brendon stops, slipping her arm through Gerard’s and squeezes, smiling at him as they head into the restaurant, Zack bringing up the rear.
“Yup, here I am,” Gerard grins into Brendon’s hair as he presses a kiss to her forehead. “I know I was hard to find all the way up there in the front seat and all.”
Brendon cuddles into Gerard’s touch and nods, her eyes dancing as she smiles, “It’s true! Too far away!” She kisses him and Gerard stops, pulling her close and firmly brushing his lips over her mouth.
“Okay you two, food!” Zack comes to stand beside Brendon, hand at her shoulder.
Gerard’s cheeks turn an embarrassed pink in the low light, and Brendon giggles, “Okay, we’re coming! Pizza! Yay!” She skips after the group and Gerard rolls his eyes, shoving his hands into his back pockets and striding after them.
“Keltie’s gonna meet me at Grand Central, later,” Ryan announces like he is imparting great wisdom, looking up at the group as they scan the giant menus the hostess has passed around. They’re seated in an over-sized booth, elbowing and jostling as they settle into place.
Zack nods, making note of what Ryan’s told him, and everyone else appears to be lost in a vast array of crusts and sauces and toppings. “Ohhh! Garlic knots!” Brendon grasps Gerard’s forearm enthusiastically. “We should totally get garlic knots! I love that shit.”
Brendon’s statement sets off a round of eager comments and debate amongst her bandmates, which mostly consists of cheesy bread versus garlic knots , when Gerard adds, “Why don’t we just get both? I mean, there are enough of us,” and shrugs.
“See?” Brendon beams and pecks Gerard on the cheek, “He’s a genius!” The others all roll their eyes, but when the bored looking waiter comes over, wiping his hands on his stained white apron and taking out an order pad from his pocket, they do, in fact, order both.
Then the debate about wine begins, Jon and Spencer bantering back and forth, while Gerard orders a Diet Coke and Zack says, “Water, for everyone is fine,” smiling beatifically as he grabs the menus from three sets of hands.“You’re getting on airplanes soon, gentlemen. Once you’re out of my sight you can do what you want,” he responds to their glares.
When the waiter returns with their drinks, and they manage to place an order without incident, Gerard settles back and watches The Panic Show, Brendon nestled close beside him, their hands clasped beneath the table and resting on his thigh. Brendon’s band is hilarious. They fight constantly about everything, and joke around and fill in every breath and gap and slight space with constant chatter and opinions. Every once in a while when it’s something he has a clue about, Gerard comments, but for the most part he’s happy to sit back and listen. The pizza-he and Brendon are sharing a garden veggie and Gerard is prodigiously picking off the broccoli and piling it on Brendon’s plate-is pretty damn good, Gerard’s got to admit.
“Hey Bren, bat your eyelashes and shake your boobs and get the waiter’s attention, we need more napkins,” Jon elbows Brendon and a slow grin spreads across his face as he licks sauce from his fingertips. Gerard frowns and waits for Brendon to say something, to call him on his bullshit, but she just grins and giggles, even if there is something unreadable in the slant of her dark eyes. Spencer, on the other hand, shoots Jon an icy glare Gerard didn’t know existed outside the Justice League, and Ryan frowns but doesn’t stop texting. Jon’s grin turns sheepish and he shrugs his shoulders.
Gerard grunts and raises his hand, flagging their server.
Four pizzas, orders of garlic knots and cheesy bread, and many, many rounds of (decidedly non-alcoholic) drinks later, lunch is history and Zack stands to pay the bill. “Hey, lemme get this,” Gerard says, fishing his wallet out of his jacket pocket. Zack gives him a stern look and promptly forks over a fistful of bills to the cashier. Brendon raises an eyebrow and stage whispers, “Don’t try to steal the big guy’s thunder.” She nods knowingly and pats Gerard’s thigh.
“Where am I dropping you two?” Zack asks as he makes his way back to the table.
Gerard wipes sauce from the corners of his mouth and rolls the napkin into a ball, “Uh, nowhere. I mean, we can cab back to the PATH station and we can get another cab back to my place over in Jersey. You guys don’t need to go out of your way, really.” He looks at Brendon, eyebrow cocked in a question.
“Yeah, dude, you just take these assholes wherever they need to go. I’ll grab my shit and we’ll book.” Brendon stands and stretches, her tiny tee rising with the effort, revealing a small sliver of her toned stomach. She flops one arm around Gerard’s neck and smiles at him.
Zack shrugs and they all troop out of the restaurant, quiet for once, due to the magic of stomachs full of carbohydrates. Ryan brings up the rear, engrossed in a text messaging conversation, probably with Keltie. Any time he’s talking to her is the only time he doesn’t feel the need to relay everything that’s being said to everyone sharing space with him.
They get back to the van and Zack hands Brendon her bags; a medium sized travel case and a smaller back pack that she slings over her shoulder before Gerard can grab it. He does take the travel case though, extending the handle and wheeling it around so he can hold Brendon’s hand. Brendon leans forward to smack a kiss to Zack’s cheek and says, “I’ll see you in a couple days, Zackie H!” then, turning to her bandmates, “Be good!” She waggles her finger at Spencer and laughs when he scoops her into a massive hug.
“You too, Bear. Love you,” Spencer mumbles. Brendon turns to hug Ryan, who clings for a long time, then Jon. She blows kisses at them as she and Gerard walk to the curb.
“I love you crazy kids!” she yells, waving enthusiastically as the big white van zips out of the restaurant’s lot and down the street.
Gerard hails a cab and holds the door open for Brendon before depositing her bags into the trunk. He slides in beside her and she enthusiastically shifts to be as close to him as possible. “So, you survived lunch with my boys. Hope they didn’t scare you too much.” She kisses him, smiling.
“Nah, they’re pretty much puppies.” Gerard laughs and brushes her hair away from her face.
“It’s true!” Brendon nods enthusiastically, fishing a pack of grape gum out of her purse and offering it to Gerard. She pops a piece into his mouth and then takes one for herself. “They like you! I’m glad they like you, ‘cause I really, really like you.” Brendon kisses Gerard’s cheek. “Well, maybe they don’t like you like I like you, which is good, I think. Well, maybe Ross--you can never be sure that his fanboy fires have been extinguished!” She laughs when Gerard’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline.
Gerard chews thoughtfully for a moment, watching the storefronts zip by. “Except Walker. What the fuck’s his problem?”
“Huh?” Brendon stops in the midst of blowing a bubble and runs her tongue across her bottom lip, freeing the little bits of gum that have gotten stuck there.
“He’s just,” Gerard runs his hand up and down Brendon’s neck, just under her hairline, “he’s kind of an asshole.”
Giving Gerard a thoughtful look, Brendon finally flicks her sunglasses down from her hair and over her eyes. She just shrugs and giggles deprecatingly, “He’s one of the cool kids. I’m…sort of not, in case you haven’t noticed,” she shrugs again and wrinkles her nose. Running a hand through her hair over and over, Brendon says, “I choose to believe he thinks he’s amusing. He lets me sit at his table in the cafeteria, so to speak, which is big news in Brendon Urieland. And…he loves kittens. No on who loves kittens can ever be a truly horrible human being.”
Brendon dips her chin in an emphatic nod and shrugs again before leaning into Gerard.
Gerard wraps his arms around Brendon, pulling her to him in a hug. He can’t really argue with her logic, and she seems content to let things go, so instead he kisses her.
Resting her head against Gerard’s shoulder, Brendon says, “You live in West New York, right?”
“Yeah,” Gerard is slipping the strands of Brendon’s hair, some still stiff with gel, between his fingers and staring out the window.
“And that’s across the river, right?”
“The Hudson, yeah, across from Manhattan.”
“Which is in New Jersey, right?”
“Right again!” Gerard chuckles.
“So, West New York, New Jersey?” Even without looking, Gerard can tell Brendon’s face is contorted in an expression of exaggerated confusion. “They name a town, that’s west of New York, West New York? Way to be original, name-giving people.”
Gerard smiles and brings Brendon’s hand to his lips, kissing her fingertips. “Welcome to New Jersey. Not a lot about it makes much fucking sense.” They both laugh and lapse into comfortable silence as the cab continues its way to the PATH station.
* * *
The cabbie sets Brendon’s bags down in the driveway and Gerard pays their fare. Brendon looks up at the neat row of town houses and smiles, “Well, this kind of beats the shit outta basement dwelling, huh?”
“Pretty much,” Gerard gently wrestles Brendon’s luggage from her, grinning. “So yeah, home sweet home. As much as I’m every really home, anyways.” He hip bumps the door open and with a sweep of his free arm, ushers Brendon inside.
“Oh!” Brendon gasps in delight, stopping short in the entry way.
Gerard just manages to set the bags down, avoiding crashing into her. Setting a hand on her hip for balance he says, “Huh?”
Excitement thrums through Brendon’s entire body, “You have a piano!” She turns to Gerard, squeezing his fingers in hers.
“Yeah, it was my Grandma’s,” Gerard’s voice is quiet and fond.
“It’s gorgeous!” Brendon sweeps a reverential hand across the polished wood of the upright. “Can I?” she points to the keys, a huge smile cleaving her lips.
“Yeah, yeah sure,” Gerard shrugs and stuff his fisted hands into the front pockets of his jeans.
Clapping her hands in pleasure, Brendon skips the small distance over to the piano and takes a seat on the embroidered bench. Once, during one of their many late night/early morning phone calls, Brendon had told Gerard about realizing she couldn’t be Mormon any more. She’d said that she knew, every time she listened to music, every time she held a guitar in her hands, or laid her hands on the keys of a piano, and especially every time she’d sung, that believing in anything else was a lie.
Music is her religion.
As he watches her now, Gerard believes her. Brendon’s sitting, posture perfect, back straight, with her hands poised over the keys. She tilts her head--just a little--jutting her chin and closing her eyes, giving the appearance that she’s listening to something, searching, even though she hasn’t played a note. Then, breathing deeply, she moves her hands and begins to play, and it’s nothing like Gerard’s ever seen or heard before. She’s passionate and playful and her expression is all closed eyes and inward focus. It’s beautiful. Gerard stands in the hallway, Brendon’s bags at his feet, and listens.
When the last notes die away, Gerard can’t help but clap. Brendon looks up at him, pink cheeked and smiling. “That was…wow. Amazing,” he can’t think of anything else to say.
Giggling, Brendon holds up her hands, waggling her fingers, “Rachmaninoff,” she supplies helpfully, “Prelude in C sharp minor. Good to warm up with!” She huffs out a small self-conscious laugh. Setting her hands back on the keys, she beings to play again; something softer, gentler this time, and she moves in a gentle sway with the music. Brendon’s still smiling when she finishes, hands neatly folded in her lap.
“More Rachmaninoff?” Gerard steps closer to the piano bench, and runs his palm over the top of Brendon’s head.
Tilting her head to look up at Gerard, she snorts and says, “Nope, Sufjan Stevens!”
“Oh,” Gerard blushes. “If you’d played, like, Madonna or the Cure, I would have totally gotten that!”
“Sorry, next time,” Brendon snags Gerard’s hand in her own. Face going serious and fond, she softly says, “Your Grandma must have loved you very much,” and she tugs, pulling Gerard down on the cushion beside her.
Gerard kisses the tip of Brendon’s nose and, tracing the shape of her jaw, he says, “Yeah, and I loved her.”
“Do you play?” Brendon squeezes Gerard’s thigh with one hand and runs the fingers of her other across the piano’s keys.
He laughs and leans in to rest his chin on Brendon’s shoulder, watching the precise movements of her hands. “A little Chopsticks, a little Heart and Soul, and if I’m feeling fancy, maybe a little Twinkle Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.” He twirls his finger in the air, grinning.
“Oooh, play it!” Brendon’s eyes go wide and she squeezes at Gerard’s hip.
“Twinkle Twinkle Little Star?” Gerard laughs.
“Yes! Do it! Please?”
Gerard shrugs and swings his legs around to the right side of the piano bench. “Okay, lemme see here,” he studies the keys, considering, and then gingerly places his fingers on them.
Haltingly, he begins to play, glancing at Brendon--smiling beside him--out of the corner of his eye. Just as he’s finishing, Brendon sets her fingers on the keys, playing notes over top of what Gerard’s playing. She nudges him to keep going and the music builds and swells; their elbows and shoulders knocking together as they play. Brendon’s shaking with amused, silent laughter when they finish, and as the final strains of the music fade on the air Gerard says, “Well, shit. Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. We rocked the fuck out. Who knew?”
Still laughing, Brendon kisses Gerard, smackingly loud, “Saint-Saëns, actually.Carnival of the Animals.”
“Whatever,” Gerard mumbles as he leans towards Brendon, bracing his arms on either side of the bench. He brushes his lips against hers, teasing and light, stroking his tongue across the plumpness of her bottom lip.
Brendon sighs, happy, and strokes her hands along Gerard’s jaw and throat. She deepens the kiss, and Gerard’s arms wrap around her waist, pulling her close. So,” Brendon says, leaning her forehead against Gerard’s chin, “Take me to bed?”
Gerard raises an eyebrow, “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Brendon nods, eyes dancing.
* * *
"I never meant to be so bad to you! One thing that I said that I would never do! One look from you and I would fall from grace..." Brendon sings loudly and enthusiastically as she trots down the staircase to the kitchen. She swings open the refrigerator door and wriggles her naked ass to the beat of the song in her head as she searches for whipped cream, or Nutella or, as she’d lewdly told Gerard, something spreadable. She stops abruptly, emitting a startled screech and hides herself behind the open fridge door. "Um...hi?"
There's a woman standing in the middle of the kitchen -- mid-fifties, bottle blond, fake-and-baked within an inch of her dermal life -- with her arm around the green plastic pot of a palm tree. "Hi, dear. I'm Gerard's mother!" The woman adjusts her Michael Buble concert tee over her acid wash jeans and hikes the plant higher in her arms, smiling at Brendon.
Clinging to the open door for dear life, or maybe just a shred of her dignity, Brendon blushes a deep and painful red and says, "Um...I'm Brendon. I'm just gonna..." she flaps one hand towards the back staircase. "You know, go see if it's actually possible to die of humiliation. Or like, find some pants..." Streaking through the kitchen doorway, Brendon rockets up the stairs and into the bedroom. "Gerard!" She hisses, searching through the jumble of clothes on the floor for something to put on.
"Uhn, honey you took so long!" Gerard mumbles through clenched teeth. Brendon darts a glance at him, noticing the belt still loosely looped around one of his wrists, but no longer secured to the slats of the headboard. "Couldn't wait," he grunts, sliding the curled fingers of his belted hand along his erection.
"Gee! Oh my God! Gerard! You gotta get up! Your Mom's here!" Brendon has hopped into her Tinkerbell pajama pants and is frantically searching for her camisole.
Gerard turns his head to look at Brendon, his eyes almost brown in their sleepy confusion. He continues to stroke himself, hips rocking in a steady rhythm as his fingers swirl pre-come into blood-flushed, sensitive skin.
Brendon clutches her cotton top in one hand as she kneels on the mattress. "I said; Get up! You fucker! Your Mother is here!" she growls in a fierce whisper. Because God, wouldn't that be perfect, if Donna Way decided to come on up and say hi right about now? Brendon reaches across Gerard, placing her own hand over his, and with a few skilled strokes she coaxes Gerard's orgasm from him, come splattering against his hip and the twist of sheet around his legs.
Barking out a cough, Gerard's face contorts and he sits up, breathing hard and glaring at Brendon. "What the fuck did you do that for?" he says in a confused, sulking voice.
"I did that because your Mother, and a big fucking palm tree, are currently in your kitchen. And, dude, you need to get dressed and get your ass down there. Now. Before she comes up here!" Brown eyes huge, Brendon shuffles Gerard to sitting and, after sniffing them and deeming them acceptable, chucks a pair of boxer shorts and a t-shirt at his head. She slips her own top on and stands guard in the door way waiting for Gerard to catch up with her.
"The belt!" she flaps at Gerard's hand as he gets tangled in his shirt. Running over to the bed she undoes the loose knot and fusses with his Motorhead shirt.
"What the fuck is my Mom doing here, at like, ass o'clock?" Gerard runs his hands repeatedly through his sleep tousled hair.
Brendon tugs Gerard down the stairs, and shoving him slightly in front of her says, "How should I know? Ask her!"
Donna has abandoned the potted plant by the stove and is humming happily as she fills the sink with water to do the few dishes left scatter-shot around the kitchen. "Morning sweetie!" She chirps happily.
Protectively keeping Brendon behind him in the doorway with a warm hand on her hip, Gerard yawns, mouth cavernous, and says, "Hey Ma. What are you doing here?"
Stopping her ministrations, Donna leans against the counter, eyebrow arching in an all too familiar Way family gesture. "I brought you that plant you've been supposed to pick up from Mrs. Randazzo for weeks now. Daddy and I were just on our way to church, before work, and I thought I'd bring it by."
"You call your Father Daddy?" Brendon snickers quietly in Gerard's ear, her arm snaking around his waist from where she's hidden.
"Ma. You and Pops haven't been to church since Grandma's funeral...So, what gives? You been talking to Mikey?" Gerard scratches at his nose and returns the cock of his Mother's eyebrow with one of his own, his eyes narrowed and appraising.
Affecting a perturbed stance, Donna crosses her arms in front of her, huffing out an offended breath. "Listen Mister Smarty-pants, your Father and I do go to Wednesday mass from time to time! And of course I've been talking to Michael! He is my son. And unlike certain other sons of mine he actually calls me to let me know how he's getting on in life."
Gerard walks over to his mother, trailing Brendon by the hand behind him. "Okay, Mother, spare me the guilt trip. What I mean is; you talked to Mikes and he told you Brendon was here this week, didn't he?"
"He might have mentioned something about you having a friend visiting." Donna leans her cheek in Gerard's direction for a kiss.
Huffing out a long suffering sigh, Gerard pitches forward and does as bidden. “Mother, this is Brendon,” Gerard keeps a hold of Brendon’s hand as she steps tentatively towards Donna.
“We’ve met!” Donna picks up the dish towel and continues to wipe at the cups in the sink.
A sheepish smile on her face, and giving a tiny wave, Brendon says, “Hi Mrs. Way. This is what I look like, um, clothed.” Brendon’s cheeks burn and Gerard rolls his eyes.
“Oh Brenda sweetie, call me Donna, everyone does.” “Ma,” Gerard rolls his eyes, harder this time, “Her name is Brendon.”
“Oh, of course, dear. Now, since you and Michael are home and your little video project isn’t until tomorrow, Daddy and I are going to have you both over for dinner. I’m making roast chicken!” Donna beams at her son.
“Ma…Brendon’s veg…”
“Very excited at the prospect of home cooked food! Doesn’t happen very often!” Brendon squeezes Gerard’s arm and rubs her stomach exaggeratedly, beaming. “We’d love to come for dinner, wouldn’t we, Gee?”
“Speak for yourself,” Gerard mumbles.
“Good, so we’ll see you tonight at seven!” Donna sets down the cloth and swipes her hands over her jeans. She pecks a kiss to Gerard’s cheek as she heads towards the kitchen door, her fingers fanning out in a wiggly fingered wave.
The door shuts and Gerard exhales a sharp, “Fuck,” giving Brendon a run for her money in the pouting department.
Brendon wraps her arms around Gerard’s waist and pecks kisses along his jaw, “Aww Sailor, what’s the matter?"
Gerard kisses her, his hands roaming down to squeeze at the swell of Brendon’s ass. “Dinner with my family isn’t exactly how I’d envisioned spending tonight.” He leans back against the kitchen counter, pulling Brendon with him.
“Gerard,” Brendon’s voice turns low and serious, “Your mother invited us for dinner. After she saw me in my birthday suit, I might add. We could not say no. But, we do have the rest of the day, to do what ever it was you did have in mind,” to emphasize her point, Brendon sways her hips against Gerard’s thighs and tugs the thin skin under his jaw between her teeth.
Continuing to stroke his hands up and down Brendon’s back, Gerard groans, fingers squeezing at her shoulder blades. “Mmmph,” he kisses Brendon, pressing his lips to hers and grinning when he feels her clever tongue darting along the inside of his mouth.
His eyes blink open suddenly when the warmth of Brendon’s mouth on his disappears. “Wha...” his says in sleepy confusion.
Brendon grins at him from where she’s slipped to the floor, “I believe I owe you one, from before we were rudely interrupted.” She tugs at the waist band of his boxer shorts, freeing his half-hard cock and exposing the pale skin of his hips and thighs.
“Shit,” is all Gerard says as his grip on the counter top tightens. Brendon’s alternating sucking bites into the tops of his thighs with teasingly light licks across the head of his cock. “Bren,” in almost slow motion Gerard brings a hand away from the counter to weave his fingers through the short, soft strands of Brendon’s hair.
Pressing her cheek to the sparse, curled hairs of Gerard’s thigh, Brendon opens her eyes, smiling up at him. “Breakfast of champions,” she snorts out a laugh before teasing the tip of her tongue to Gerard’s slit.
He makes a high pitched noise through his nose, which turns into a low chuckle. “Jesus,” he tugs a little on her hair, “I can’t believe you fucking said that.”
“Dude, I’m about to suck you off. I can say whatever the fuck I want and you’ll thank me.”
Gerard’s thumb flicks along her jaw, “That’s true.”
“Yup,” Brendon nods affirmatively, taking Gerard’s hardening cock into her mouth. She swirls her tongue around and around the head, sucking at the bundle of nerves there and Gerard can’t help the twitch and pop of his hips. She doesn’t close her eyes, but keeps her gaze half-lidded and sleepy, the trace of a smile lingering in the tilt of her lips as she sets an unhurried rhythm. The hand she’s using to pet looping circles across Gerard’s hip and thigh lowers between his legs, cupping his balls, fingers dilatory against the fragile skin. She feels him hardening in her mouth, glancing off her hard pallet and she smirks as the taste of his pre-come slicks across her tongue. She sucks harder then, speeding up the movement of her mouth along his swollen shaft and between his legs. His breathing is loud in the kitchen and he bites off a nasal keen, throwing his head back, and filling her mouth and throat with his come.
* * *
Continue to Eight B