Everything Else | Brendon/Shane | NC-17 | 25 000 words | Part One
Notes | Part One | Part Two | Part Three
"Last show," Brendon sings, holding the 'o' until his breath runs out. He looks over his shoulder, giving a quick check around the room. Spencer's pushing at his bangs as he adjusts his headband; Jon's sipping from a red cup; Ryan's smoothing his fingers over the front of his vest. Shane is on the couch, his camera up to his face.
"What are you filming?" Brendon asks.
"You," Shane says. "Any last words before your final show?"
"We're going to rock tonight!" Brendon shouts, throwing up his fist and bouncing around the room.
Spencer whoops loudly, and Jon raises his cup in a salute.
Brendon advances toward Shane, bending at the waist so that he can get his face right into the camera. He always likes to help Shane get the really awesome closeups of his nose.
Staring straight into the lens, he says in a low voice, "We sure are in for a show tonight," then pulls back in one quick motion, wiggling his eyebrows the whole time.
Ryan groans loudly and throws a half-full water bottle at Brendon's head.
--
It's always a little embarrassing to just walk into clubs. Ryan loves it, though, so he leads. The bouncer recognizes them and nods, holding the door open. It wouldn't work everywhere, but they can definitely get into Vegas clubs without too much trouble. As Brendon walks up the short set of stairs, he can hear a guy pestering the bouncer, "But how do I get it back?"
"We don't give fake IDs back," the bouncer says.
"It's not, it's not fake," the guy says, talking in a low voice.
"You made it on your printer."
And then Brendon's inside the building and the music is too loud to hear the rest of the conversation.
There isn't a VIP section or anything, but they walk inside and someone gestures them over to a booth, which is miraculously empty even though the place is totally packed. Ryan and Keltie, and Spencer and Haley sit on one side of the booth. Jon has a flight back to Chicago tomorrow, and he orders a round of Dr. Peppers for the whole table.
"Where's Regan?" Brendon shouts, leaning in close to Shane. "Is she going to be here soon?"
"Oh, shit, I forgot to call her," Shane says, and then they all have to shuffle over so that he can get out of the booth, pulling his phone out of his pocket and looking for somewhere quiet.
By the time he gets back, the drinks are there and everyone's trying to explain to Haley how to drink it. She isn't 21 yet, and she usually just laughs while Spencer gets wasted, but it's always more fun when everyone's drinking.
Brendon picks up the shot glass and waits for Shane to pick up his so that they can clink the glasses together. They drop the glasses into the beer and the rest of the table cheers as they duck down to try and suck up the head before the drinks overflow. Brendon pretty much manages, but Shane's slops over onto the table.
Brendon picks up his glass and slams the rest of his drink.
"Everyone's coming back to our place after we're done here," Brendon tells Shane. He laughs at the face Haley makes when her drink starts to foam up, Spencer leaning in and touching her wrist to try and encourage her to drink faster. "Smoke some chronic before bed."
"Yeah, sweet," Shane says. He sets his empty glass back on the table.
Brendon just had a couple of beers backstage, which means that it's after midnight and he's still only half-buzzed, and fuck that.
"You wanna go to the bar and do a couple of shots?" he asks, speaking loudly enough that everyone will be able to hear him, but looking mainly at Shane.
"Sure," Shane says. Brendon does a cursory glance around the table, but no one else is done their drink yet.
"I want, like, rye," Shane says.
"The fuck?" Brendon asks. "You're an old man now?"
"What, we're going to do body shots again?" Shane asks, rolling his eyes.
"I'm not licking your hairy arm," Brendon says.
"You can lick my hairy ass," Shane says.
"Ooh, promise?" Brendon deadpans. "Jager?"
"Ugh," Shane says. Then, "Yeah, okay, fine."
--
Brendon ends up doing body shots off of Michelle, who has breasts that are all squished up to create this soft, like, shelf - heh, rack, that's probably why they call it that - that Brendon keeps trying to put the empty shot glasses on.
He tries to set another one down, but all three end up falling off. At least they land on the bar instead of falling onto the ground. Brendon is totally going to head back to his table, soon. He just has to finish up here first. He knocks back another shot, not even tequila anymore because they've run out of limes, then holds up the shot glass, blinking a couple of times while the burning in his throat fades away slowly.
He squints at her cleavage, then carefully tucks the glass in between her breasts, because he's a genius. He runs his fingers around the small rim of the glass, just checking that it's secure, then lets his fingers trail down sticky skin. Maybe he should have been more careful to check that the shot glasses were completely empty.
He looks up at Mary and beams. She rolls her eyes, but her cheeks are flushed which either means that she's amused or that she's drunk, and either way Brendon is totally golden here.
The fabric of Melissa's top digs into her skin and there's this bulge of boob that Brendon doesn't want to stop fingering. He doesn't know how it's possible that her nipple hasn't popped out, but breasts have many magical qualities that he knows better than to question. Brendon's hands are very far away from his body and he's not even quite sure what his fingers are doing, but really what he wants is to just squeeze them together, and, man. He had his hand up her skirt earlier. She'd grabbed his wrist, just holding, not pulling him away, and he wasn't sure if that had meant 'stop' or not. He could feel that she was wet, but the angle was awkward, so he stopped before too long.
He glances around the room, looking to see if there's a bathroom nearby. It looks like there's a line up to the bathroom. Somewhere along the way he's lost Shane, but he can see where the rest of the guys are sitting at the booth.
"Listen, listen, Miranda," he starts.
Her body goes tight and she starts to frown. Brendon pulls his hands away, grudgingly.
"Marie," she says.
"Marie," Brendon repeats, smiling winningly. "Marie, listen. We should totally go outside and get some air. Seriously, just to get some air."
Her face is still all skeptical, so Brendon cups his hand gentle around her arm, just above her elbow, and strokes soft circles with his thumb. He ducks his head down, leaning in even closer so that he doesn't sound so much like he's yelling.
"It's a nice night," he says. "We could just go for a little walk."
"It is a little stuffy in here," she says.
"Yeah," Brendon agrees. "So stuffy."
--
"Jesus," Brendon says. "Yeah, yeah, just like that."
Brendon probably wouldn't have actual-sex outside a club - mostly because it would be difficult to find a girl who was tiny enough that he could actually hold her up against a wall; that is just much more difficult than it looks in movies - but there's nothing wrong with getting a blowjob. He still has his pants on and everything, they're just unzipped and pulled down a little. This hardly even counts as public sex.
Marie has really pretty hair on the top of her head. Brendon can't see much more than that, but he can totally see her hair. Probably if it were sunny right now, her hair would be shiny. It's not sunny though; it's night and also Brendon tried to find the darkest spot he could when he first pushed Marie up against the wall and kissed her. The good thing about hooking up with girls after they've had a few drinks is that their lipstick has worn away. Sometimes lip stuff tastes good - Ryan had this coconut-y stuff that Brendon used to steal and lick straight out of the tube - but mostly it's all weirdly sticky. Brendon doesn't like when he gets lipstick smeared all over his chin. It's like when he goes down on a girl and his whole face gets wet, even the top of his cheeks, and then it feels all tight when it dries, and what the heck is that stuff anyway? It's not like when guys come; it's just something that's there, and kind of slimy, but then when it dries it gets all flaky, which is really just weird.
Marie might be deep throating him, but Brendon keeps getting distracted listening for sounds. They're at the bottom of the staircase leading out of the back of the club, which means that they'd probably have a bit of warning before someone came down, unless the person came from the street, and then Brendon doesn't know if he'd actually hear anything.
Marie gives good head and Brendon is totally going to be coming pretty soon. The thing about girls is that the ones who make the most fuss about following him to somewhere private are totally the girls who give the best head. The eager girls who ask if he wants to go to the bathroom or whatever always end up being the ones who have to use the toilet to throw up, or who get all shy when he unzips his jeans, or something, but Marie put up just enough fuss and now she's bobbing up and down in this tight rhythm and Brendon is totally going to come. He's right on the edge and the moment stretches on and on and he doesn't know when he's actually going to shoot, but he knows it's going to be soon. It's harder to judge an orgasm from a mouth than from a hand; easiest yet to judge how long before he comes when he's fucking someone.
He's been gone from the table for a while now, so he should probably focus on coming. He considers touching her hair, but it's kind of bouncy and curly, which probably means that his fingers would get stuck, and while most girls don't make a fuss if he pulls their hair, it's still best not to.
He pushes his hands flat against the wall and tips his head back. He doesn't even really think about anything in particular, just focuses on the warmth and the way the flare of pleasure from when she licks over the head of his dick spreads all the way down, how it makes everything tighter, wrenching up the tension another notch, and then another, and then he grits his teeth and comes, forgetting to make a noise to warn her. They're outside, anyway, so she can just spit onto the ground if she wants to.
He doesn't actually know what she ends up doing, but her mouth stays on his dick the whole way through orgasm, and it's good and by the time Brendon's brain turns back on, she's standing up, leaning against the wall beside him. Her makeup is smeared around the eyes, and her face is shiny, like from sweat or from drinking too much. Brendon definitely knows that he's sweating, and he's probably had too much to drink as well.
He turns toward her, reaching for her cheek. He'll kiss her now. It's not as if he likes kissing someone after they've just gone down on him, but it's a good thing to do so he doesn't mind. She just pecks him on the lips, which is nice. If she had started trying to make out with him, that would mean that she wanted more, and it's not like there's much he could do in a back alley. Plus, he totally has to get back to the table now. Everyone's going back to Shane and his place afterwards, so it's not like he'd lose them, but still. It sucks having to take a cab back by himself.
She doesn't open her mouth, just pecks him on the lips and lets him lead her back into the club. He means to ask for her phone number - he does - but Shane's right there when he walks toward the table, saying in an annoyed voice, "Dude, we're going. Get your shit from coat check already," and then Brendon has to run off to collect his coat and then they're hailing a cab, two cabs because there are too many of them for just one, and as he sits in the back seat, sandwiched between Shane and Jon, he realizes that he has forgotten to say goodbye.
Whoops, he thinks, then giggles to himself, just because he's drunk and warm between Shane and Jon and they're done with the tour and it was awesome, and his body is all loose and blowjobs are awesome, and he didn't even have to deal with promising to call her tomorrow or anything.
Tonight's a good night.
--
*
--
Brendon wakes and has to squint at the clock for a long minute before he can confirm that it really is only ten a.m., what the fuck? He's not wearing his glasses, so he wonders if maybe the zero is actually a two - not that noon would be much better than ten - but, no. It's totally ten a.m. and Brendon's fucking awake, and people didn't even start leaving until after six this morning.
He flings himself over, lying on his other side and burrowing his head into the pillow. The sheets are sticking to his skin and he's sweating like a motherfucker. His tongue is so dry that he can't even swallow, and when he finally works up a trickle of saliva, his throat clenches and burns when he forces a swallow.
He pushes the sheets away, but he's kind of cold so he ends up pulling them back up. He wishes he didn't have so much hair, because his bangs are sticking to his forehead and his scalp is itchy and damp.
He lies on his back and pulls his hands up to rub at his face, trying to push his hair away. His fingers smell like smoke and kind of like spunk, but he didn't even jerk off last night so that must be from when he slid his hand up that chick's skirt when they were sitting at the bar. Has it really been that long since he washed his hands?
Brendon hates the smell of old smoke on his skin, and his eyes start to sting after he rubs them. He needs a fucking shower, but it's the first day off he's had in weeks and weeks and Brendon had planned on sleeping until dinner time.
At least there's no one else in bed with him; Brendon fucking hates waking up with someone else when he's hung over.
He lies in bed for another fifty minutes trying to will himself back to sleep, before giving up and stumbling to the shower. The first moment under the hot water feels so good that his eyes roll back in his head.
He leans against the tiled wall, squinting at the drain and trying to decide if he's going to throw up. It's a little touch and go when he starts washing his hair - has his shampoo always smelled so strongly?- but he makes it through the shower and crawls back into bed feeling three million times better.
--
He wakes a few hours later, sweating like a motherfucker. The sheets are sticking to his skin again. At least his scalp doesn't feel gritty anymore.
--
"I want to, like, fucking burn my sheets or something," Brendon says. He and Shane are on the couch, both of their feet up on the coffee table. Brendon is slouched down so low that his ass is almost off the edge. "They smell like, like, fucking, like toxins," Brendon says, slowly.
"They smell like your skanky ass, you mean," Shane says. His hands are resting on his stomach and his chin resting on his chest. He totally isn't watching TV at all.
"You wish you could smell my skanky ass," Brendon says. "Anyway, suck my dick. I can totally smell you from all the way over here."
"We're like two feet apart," Shane says.
"And I can smell you," Brendon says.
"Sorry I wasn't able to shower," Shane says. "It might have been because you were in there all fucking morning. How many times do you have to jerk off in one day? Jesus."
Brendon lifts one hand, then lifts one finger.
They sit in silence until finally Brendon says, "I think I want to eat, but then I might have to go puke in your underwear drawer."
"Have another banana and shut the fuck up," Shane says. His eyes are closed.
"You're doing to paralyse yourself if you sleep like that," Brendon says. He stands, then tugs on Shane's foot, guiding him over to the couch. Shane lies down on his back and Brendon heads to the kitchen for another banana.
--
"What do you wanna do tonight?" Brendon asks, lying on Shane's bed.
Shane turns his head. He's standing in front of his closet, hanging up shirts, his open suitcases on the floor beside him.
"Hmm," Shane says. "Gee, yeah, that's a hard call."
Brendon rolls his eyes. "After you finish acting like a little bitch, I mean. How long can unpacking take?"
"Why don't you unpack your shit and then let me know," Shane says. He holds up a shirt, shakes it a few times, then holds it up again. "Is this mine?" he asks.
"There's no point in unpacking since everything needs to be washed anyway," Brendon says. "You're hanging up dirty clothes. I don't know if that shirt is yours, but I do know that it smells like ass."
"Some of us did laundry on tour," Shane says.
"Yeah, Zack."
Brendon flaps one hand then drops his back onto the bed. He's lying like a starfish, his legs spread and his arms out to the sides.
He takes deep breaths, using his diaphragm to pull air in, his belly lifting with each inhalation. His head hurts and his skin feels tight, but at least he's not nauseated any more.
"Shane," he says, after not too many minutes. "Should we go somewhere? Do you maybe want to try and catch a show or something?"
"Oh my god," Shane says, walking over from the closet. He shoves Brendon's leg out of the way and sits on the bed, saying, "You're such a little bitch when you first get off tour."
"I'm antsy," Brendon says. He's actually so fucking tired that he thinks he might die, and not even just from being hung over; his body is all tight and shivery and the house is fucking quiet.
"I know," Shane says. "But if we go out again tonight then you're going to be even worse tomorrow. You need to get some fucking sleep, and then tomorrow we need to get groceries and get Dylan from Regan."
"I can't sleep," Brendon says. "It's only ten."
"Then just go lie quietly," Shane says, smacking Brendon's belly, just gently, with his open hand.
Brendon rolls his eyes. That's what his parents used to tell him all the time when he was a kid.
"I'm not going to fall asleep," he says, which is also what he always used to say.
Shane makes little tickly fingers and Brendon squirms away, rolling off the side of the bed and landing on his feet. He nearly trips over one of Shane's suitcases on his way out.
He stands in the doorway to his bedroom, glaring at his messy bed with the skanky toxic sheets before remembering that they actually have more than one set of bedding for each bed.
He changes his sheets, leaving the dirty ones in a pile on the floor, then wanders to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He doesn't know how long the mouthwash has been sitting on the counter, but that's probably not the kind of thing that goes bad, so he gargles anyway.
The clean sheets make his bed much nicer, but the house is still all quiet and annoying. Brendon lies on his back and wonders if he should go to the kitchen and get a glass of water, and in the time it takes him to decide, he falls asleep.
--
*
--
Brendon remembers that he thought he had packed light for this tour, but the pile of dirty clothes rises all the way up to his knee. He stands in the room with the washer and the dryer, studying the pile. Are those really all his clothes? He leans back against the dryer, and the machine rumbles. At least their laundry detergent smells totally awesome.
He doesn't hear the door open, but he does hear the little patter of claws on linoleum, and Shane shouting, "Guess who's home?"
"Dylan!" Brendon yells, and as usual, the dog ignores him.
Brendon runs into the living room and chases Dylan around until he trips over the coffee table and knocks over a dirty plate, knife, fork, and two beer cans. He sets them back onto the table then flops onto his back, lying on the floor, while Dylan hops up onto the couch, resting her head on Shane's lap.
Brendon and Shane had promised each other that they wouldn't let the dog onto the couch, but when Shane starts scratching behind Dylan's ears, Brendon doesn't make a fuss.
He squirms around on the floor until he can turn his head and look up at Shane. Dylan is staring up at Shane, too, making puppy eyes and blinking slowly. Shane has this warm grin on his face. His hair is tucked behind his ears, and his face looks soft and sleepy and warm.
Brendon rubs his cheek against the prickly grain of the carpet and sighs.
"Where's Regan?" he asks, after a few minutes.
"Huh?" Shane says, not looking away from the dog.
"I thought she'd come back with Dylan tonight."
"Oh," Shane says. "I think she had to work."
Brendon stretches his legs out straight, rocking his feet back and forth then knocking them together.
"We should go for a walk," he says. "Take Dylan to the park or something."
"Yeah," Shane says. "Yeah, let's do that.
--
*
--
"I don't know if he's even booked a flight yet," Brendon says, holding his phone to his ear with one hand and using the other to drive. "You should just ask Jon."
Ryan grumbles.
"Haven't you talked to him since we went on break?" Brendon asks.
"No, of course I've talked to him," Ryan says. "This morning, for example."
"But you couldn't ask him when he's going to come to Vegas so that we can start recording?"
"We already know when we're going to start recording," Ryan says. "On the- the, oh fuck, it's like three weeks from now, or. Something. Spencer knows."
"Oh, did he end up calling to book the studio time?" Brendon asks.
"Yeah, I think so."
Brendon holds the phone awkwardly in between his shoulder and his ear, using both hands to make a left turn.
"So what's the problem, then?" Brendon asks once he has a free hand again. He glances in the rearview mirror then changes lanes, driving across three lanes to get into the right turning lane.
"Nothing," Ryan says, quickly.
"Aw, does someone miss Jon?" Brendon teases, spinning the steering wheel with his open palm as he makes a right turn. "If you want Jon to fly in early so that you can hang out, you should just tell him."
"Shut up," Ryan says, and then hangs up on him.
Brendon holds his phone up, checking that the call really has been ended, then starts laughing out loud, sitting in his empty car.
He clicks a couple of buttons on his speed dial then says, "Yeah, hey Spence. You should give Jon a call or something. Ryan's being shy."
Spencer snorts. "He called you too?"
"Yup," Brendon says.
"Has Jon called you yet?"
Brendon laughs. "No, why, did he call you?"
"Uh huh," Spencer says. "He said he was just wondering how things were going, and did I think that maybe he should fly in a little early so that we could practice before he head into the studio."
Brendon's phone beeps. He lifts his away from his ear to glance at the screen, then tells Spencer, "That's totally Jon on the other line. I'll call you back later."
"Later, dude," Spencer says, laughing.
"Hey, Jon," Brendon says, after switching the lines.
--
"So Jon's flying out next week," Brendon says, opening up a couple of bottles of beer while Shane stirs the boiling pot of spaghetti.
"That's cool," Shane says. "You guys ready to record already?"
"Nah," Brendon says. "Not for a couple of weeks yet. I think we're just doing a couple of weeks in the studio to record what we wrote on tour at the end of the month, and then maybe we'll go somewhere else to record the rest of the songs, or maybe we'll just stay there. I guess we're going to see how it goes."
"At least you guys did some writing while you were on tour," Shane says.
"Yeah, that's true," says Brendon. "We got a bit of a head start."
"Do you think this is done?" Shane asks, holding out a spoon, with a string of spaghetti draped over the end.
Brendon opens his mouth up wide and catches the noodle between his teeth, slurping it into his mouth.
"Mhh, maybe three more minutes," he says after chewing.
--
*
--
Brendon slips his boxers back on and says, "So, my roommates going to be back soon-"
Janine - Janet? Something like that - stares at him for a minute before rolling her eyes and nodding. "Sure thing, babe," she says.
Brendon waits while she gets dressed and follows her down the hall, kissing her again when they're at the door.
"You want my number?" she asks.
"Umm, sure," Brendon says.
"You have a pen?" she asks.
"Just tell me," Brendon says. "I'll remember it."
She rattles off her phone number, and then leans in for another kiss, and then Brendon closes and locks the front door.
He turns around and as he walks back toward his bedroom, he sees Shane sitting at the table, eating a bowl of cereal. In total silence, apparently.
"Ack," Brendon says. "I didn't know you were home."
"I'm home," Shane says, and crunches his Frosted Flakes loudly.
"You want company?" Brendon asks.
Shane says, "Not especially," so Brendon walks back to his room and slides into bed.
--
*
--
"You wanna go see the new Transformers tonight?" Brendon asks when he passes Shane in the hallway.
"How about tomorrow?" Shane asks.
"Yeah, that's cool," Brendon says. "What do you wanna do tonight?"
"I'm doing stuff with Regan," Shane says.
"Stuff?" Brendon asks. "She could come to see Transformers with us."
"Dude," Shane says. "Date stuff. You can go hang with the littlest douchefag tonight or something."
"Hmm," Brendon says, turning his back to Shane and calling over his shoulder, "Cash's on tour right now, so no I can't."
--
Brendon can't decide who to call. He doesn't really want to hang out with a couple, and Spencer takes Haley everywhere with him. Ryan has all these weird friends that he hangs out with constantly. Brendon considers calling Jon, just to see how things are going in Chicago, but instead he wanders to the room with the computer. He and Shane both have laptops, but they have all the good computer shit in one room: the computer with two monitors and whatever else Shane needs to do video editing, like ram or something, Brendon doesn't really know how computer things work.
He means to sign onto AIM, but when Shane calls out, "What are you doing?" maybe an hour later, Brendon says, "I'm watching the one with the blonde and the anal fisting."
"The one where she fists herself, or with the weird moustache dude?" Shane yells. "Also, stop watching porn on the communal computer, you dick."
"I'm totally going to jerk it right here, so look out for the keyboard tray when you come in next time," Brendon says. "Also, I'm not going to wash my hand before using the mouse, just so you know."
"If you get the keyboard sticky I'm going to jerk off into your pillow case," Shane says. Brendon can hear him shuffling around in the hallway, but Shane never opens up the door to the room.
"Anyway, I'm going now," Shane says. "Have fun."
"Oh, I am," Brendon says.
--
Shane comes home before eleven.
Brendon is still lying on the couch. He's had a shower, and he's definitely planning on doing something other than watching reruns of The Office, but he hasn't quite decided what he wants to do yet.
"What are you doing home?" he asks, craning his neck to try and look up at Shane.
Shane walks past the room and doesn't answer, just gives a tight shrug and keeps walking.
When Brendon hears him heading down the hall, he yells, "I left you a little present."
"What?" Shane yells. "Where?"
Brendon grins to himself, and waits for, "Holy shit, Brendon, did you leave - is that- Brendon!"
Brendon starts laughing loudly.
Shane comes storming down the hall, back into the TV room. He stands, speechless, for a minute, before says, "Dude."
Brendon continues to cackle.
"Did you seriously leave your, your- your jizz Kleenex on the desk?" Shane asks.
Brendon chokes on his own spit and starts coughing, even as he continues to laugh. Shane keeps a straight face for a moment longer before he breaks down as well.
"Imagine," Brendon gasps. "Imagine, imagine if you used them!"
"You're a fucking sick puppy," Shane says.
"You know, like, like Kleenex with moisture or whatever? Cream stuff for your nose? This would be-" Brendon breaks down laughing before continuing, "Would be a, a facial in a tissue," and then he loses it again, laughing so hard that he tips right off the couch and onto the floor.
Shane snorts, then starts to cough, and it's a whole lot of minutes before they both settle, lying side by side on the floor.
Shane turns his head and says, "I'm not cleaning those up," his eyes still all crinkly at the corners.
"Don't even front," Brendon says. "I know you're going to put them in your special treasure box."
Shane rolls his eyes, then sighs.
And sighs again.
"I think me and Regan broke up," he finally says.
"Dude, what?" Brendon says, sobering suddenly.
Shane shrugs, his shoulders barely moving on the floor.
"It's always hard coming back, you know, but this time it's just- I don't know." Shane sighs again.
Brendon sits up, awkwardly. "Dude," Brendon says, again. "Was it just a bad fight, do you think?"
"I dunno," Shane says.
The Office is still playing on the TV. Shane pushes himself onto his feet, and Brendon hurries to do the same, both of them sitting down on the couch.
Brendon squirms around for a minute, then reaches for the remote control, passing it wordlessly to Shane. Shane takes it, sighs, then starts flipping through the channels. He changes the channel about a million times, and ends up settling back on The Office in the end.
"Aren't you going out tonight?" he asks, looking forward at the TV.
Brendon shrugs and makes vague noises. "I was biding my time," he says. "Waiting to see what wonders and mysteries the night has and, like-"
"You are such a lazy fucker," Shane says.
"I drank too much to drive is the problem, I think," Brendon says.
"You need a ride somewhere?" Shane offers.
"I dunno," Brendon says. "I'll keep you posted."
--
Shane's phone rings before the show finishes, and he rises off the couch and stands in the hallway to talk. Brendon can't hear what he's saying, but he can hear the low murmur of his voice. He's speaking quickly and he keeps cutting himself off.
Brendon doesn't know if he should turn the volume of the TV louder, or turn it down, and in the end he does neither.
Shane's on the phone for a long time, and when he finally finishes, he just pokes his head back into the room to say, "I'm going to get something to drink. You want anything?" leaving again before Brendon has the chance to answer.
Shane comes back with a couple bottles of beer, passing one over to Brendon.
"You okay?" Brendon asks, fiddling with the label on his bottle, then taking a long sip.
"Yeah, just tired," Shane says.
Brendon nods. He finishes his beer.
Shane stares off into space for a long time, and when he finally snaps himself out of it, he asks, "Oh, did you need a ride somewhere?"
"Nah," Brendon says. "Unless you want to go somewhere?"
"I don't, um," Shane says, his voice cracking a little. "I don't think-"
"Hey, dude," Brendon says, scooting across the couch until he's sitting right beside Shane, their legs pressed together. "Hey, it's okay."
Shane nods, then slouches forward, his shoulders curling in. He rests his elbow on his knee and holds his forehead with his open palm, his wrist covering his eyes.
"It's okay," Brendon says again, moving even closer. Shane gives a little nod and Brendon reaches his arm around Shane's shoulders, giving him a squeeze.
He rubs his palm up and down Shane's back, sitting close beside him and listening to the swish swish his t-shirt makes when Brendon's hand rubs over it.
Brendon gives him another squeeze then lets go.
"You wanna watch a movie?" he asks. "Or play a video game or something?"
"Maybe a movie," Shane says, rubbing his forehead then combing his fingers through his hair, pushing it away from his face. He sits heavily, leaving against the back of the couch.
"Whatever you want to watch," Brendon says. "Pick something and I'll go find snacks."
"I'm not really hungry," Shane says.
"No, no, it'll be good," Brendon says.
Brendon can't find anything in the kitchen - he doesn't know what he was expecting to find. What, there would suddenly and magically be brownies? The only time they've ever had brownies was that night that Ryan came over and they baked some special brownies. Brendon doesn't think that special brownies would help right now, although, really, they wouldn't likely make it worse, but it doesn't even matter since there are none. - so he ends up grabbing a couple more beers and the bag of tortilla chips. He would have grated some cheese onto them to make nachos, but they totally don't even have any cheddar cheese. They've been back from tour for almost a month now; are they really that bad at grocery shopping?
He passes Shane one beer, setting the other on the coffee table so that he can open up the bag of chips.
"Tortilla chips?" Shane asks, wrinkling his eyebrows.
"Salt," Brendon says. "You know, like they have peanuts in bars because of the salt, and these chips are salted, so it's just about as good as having potato chips, right, and probably the point is just to have something crunchy. So, um, crunchy and also salty. And- beer! With the beer, it's good to have, um." Brendon trails off, finishing with, "Salty and crunchy when you're drinking beer," before forcing his mouth shut.
He leans forward and picks up his bottle. He takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly, in between sips of beer.
Shane is sitting beside him on the couch, holding his beer. It looks like he's had a couple of sips, and Brendon even saw him take a few chips, so he's fine. He's going to be fine. His face isn't even red or anything; he probably is just kind of tired, and then he'll wake up tomorrow and Brendon will figure out a bunch of awesome shit that they can do to get themselves out of the house, and it will be fine.
Brendon is normally pretty good when people are upset, it's just that it's Shane, and Shane doesn't really get upset. He doesn't get bummed out, and now he's sitting on the couch, his mouth this tight, thin line, and Brendon doesn't have any practice with being there for Shane like this.
"Do you want to order pizza?" Brendon asks, his voice louder than he means it to be.
"I'm really not that hungry," Shane says. "Did you forget to eat dinner or something?"
"Nah, I ate. Just, you know, pizza tastes better at night, right, so, we could order some, maybe, if you wanted to."
"Dude," Shane says. "The only reason you think that pizza tastes better at night is because the only time we order it at night is when we have the munchies."
"You think so?" Brendon asks. "Cause, like. Hamburgers, you know, they always taste better at night. There really are different times of day that food tastes better."
"When's the last time you have a hamburger after midnight when you weren't drunk?" Shane asks.
"Umm," Brendon says, thinking for a minute, but then starting to talk again before the silence stretches on for too long. "I haven't even had a hamburger in so long though, so I don't, you know, really think that's a fair question."
Shane snorts, and his mouth stretches out a little bit. Not a smile, but something of a loosening of the muscles. "We had burgers last week," Shane says. "Remember, after we went to, fuck, what's it called? The place down by-"
"Oh yeah," Brendon says. "We were totally drunk that night."
Shane lifts his hand up and says, "That's what I'm saying."
"Kay, so is what you're trying to tell me that you want to smoke up now?" Brendon asks.
Shane stares at him briefly, then rolls his eyes.
"Is that a... yes?" Brendon asks.
Shane finally smiles, rolling his eyes again before saying, "Well, maybe a little before bed to help me sleep."
--
*
--
Brendon doesn't know what exactly people are supposed to do after they go through breakups, so he just makes sure to keep Shane as drunk as possible, as often as possible. Numb the pain and all that. It's a plan that Shane seems to be down with.
It's a few weeks after the break up and they're sitting on the deck. They've got the fan pointed outside so that the smoke blows away from the open door, instead of back into the house. Brendon's mom keeps making comments about how she wants to see the place - she's seen it, but maybe not since Brendon first moved in - so now they're on operation: make the house stop smelling like weed. Having to smoke up outside all the time kind of sucks, but it's Vegas, and Brendon always liked being outside at night, anyway.
He leans back, the plastic of his lawn chair squeaking under the weight of his ass. The lawn chairs were probably the best present he'd ever been given; Spencer is awesome. It's too bad that they aren't those rad ones with the built-in cupholders so that he could have his beer within finger reach, instead of having to set it on the ground, but whatever. Brendon is totally not the sort to look a gift horse in the mouth. Horses have huge fucking heads and probably really big teeth too.
Brendon squirms, trying to find a more comfortable position, and the chair squeaks some more. It's kind of an annoying sound, and Brendon experiments, leaning backwards, arching his back, shifting his hips around, trying to determine where the noise is coming from.
"I'm going to push your chair over," Shane warns, his voice all low and sing-song-y.
Brendon wrinkles up his nose and scowls at Shane, crossing his eyes until his brain starts feeling all weird inside of his head.
He relaxes his face, then shakes his head. He leans his head back, letting the weight of his skull work with gravity, dropping his head back and back, and his neck folds over into this fucking crease, and "Whoa," he says, jerking his head upright.
He looks side to side, then drops his head backwards again, just to see if he can still feel the crease. Again he can feel the line where his neck is folding back. It feels like his spine has been snapped back at a right angle and there's a flap of skin stuck between the edge of the break.
"Shane," he whispers, holding his head still. "Shane, Shane, look at how my neck's broken! What the fuck?"
"Huh?" Shane says.
"Try it!" Brendon says. "Just, like, drop your head back and you can feel where it bends and there's like. You can feel it and it's fucking weird."
There's a moment of silence before Shane says, "Whoa, dude. What the fuck, that's fucked up shit."
Brendon straightens his neck, sitting back up and blinking. He reaches his hand to the back of his neck and gives a little rub. He can't feel a line where the crease was. It's funny how he can feel something without there being outer signs of it.
Shane keeps flicking his lighter, which should be annoying, but there's actually something about the sound of the flame igniting that Brendon finds comforting.
Brendon rests his hands on his belly, his fingers folded together. His thumbs rest just at the bottom of his rib cage, and he can feel where his stomach meets the bones. He can feel his own heartbeat, and also these other little things, like maybe where his food is being digested. Does he have food in his belly that's still being digested? How long has it been since he last ate? Probably a really long time, because he's actually fucking starving right now.
"Dude, do you know what we should buy?" Brendon asks, feeling little tremors of excitement wriggling down his thighs just at the thought. "Fucking- fucking chocolate fudge Pop-Tarts."
"Mhh," Shane hums. Then, "Wait, what?"
"There was an ad for Pop-Tarts when I was watching TV yesterday, and ever since then I've been craving them."
"What the hell were you watching on TV that they played ads for Pop-Tarts?"
"Reruns of the Spiderman cartoons. Anyway, Pop-Tarts. We never got to eat those when I was a kid," Brendon says, sighing. His tongue rasps against the roof of his mouth. He gropes around for his beer bottle, but when his fingers close around the neck, he lifts it up and realizes that it's empty already. He's not sure how drunk he wants to get tonight; maybe he should just get a cup of water.
"I don't know how you managed to survive under conditions of such deprivation," Shane says.
Brendon ignores the tone of Shane's voice and nods. "It was hard."
Shane snorts, then says, "Pop-Tarts are fucking disgusting, if you want to make up for lost time we should get Twizzlers."
"How is that even relevant?" Brendon asks. "Twizzlers are fucking licorice. Pop-Tarts are - for toasters. We're not even talking about the same category of food."
"Sugar foods," Shane says, peacefully. He's staring off, probably staring at the stars and thinking about moonlight or some shit like that. Shane just drifts off somewhere else sometimes, and Brendon knows that Shane's seeing something that Brendon isn't. Brendon can't even see any stars tonight. Too much neon in Vegas.
"You're totally baked," Brendon says. He stretches out his leg and pokes at Shane's foot with his toe.
Shane hums. "I'm feeling good."
"Your cheeks are getting all splotchy," Brendon says, looking sideways at Shane. "Are you drunk, too?"
"No," Shane says. "Suck my dick."
"Sorry, I choke on small objects," Brendon says, then bursts into laughter. "Dude, that thing doesn't even make sense. Why would you choke on small things?"
Shane gives him a look. "Dude, like. Little plastic pieces. Little kids totally choke on small things."
"Oh," Brendon says. "Oh, yeah, I get that now."
"Dude, who have you been choking with your dick, you inconsiderate bastard?"
"Hey now," Brendon says, leaning toward Shane and maintaining eye contact. "I'm always a gentleman."
Shane stares right back at him, and there's this weird moment where time stretches back and forth between them, all elastic and smooth, pulling tighter and tighter until Brendon finally blinks, and it snaps apart.
He blinks again, then sits back in his chair.
"What did you do with the blunt?" Shane asks, after a long pause of silence.
"It's in the ashtray," Brendon says.
--
*
--
Part Two