Through Adversity to the Stars
Through Adversity to the Stars
Band(s): Panic, FOB, TAI, MCR, CS, TC, THS, GCH, and a few other familiar faces.
Pairing(s): Ryan/Brendon, Pete/Patrick (and plenty of hints at other various pairings)
Word Count: 31,000
Rating/Warnings: PG-13, religion, sexual intolerance, historical inaccuracies.
Summary: England, 1667. After being swept off of the dirty streets of England, Brendon is recruited into a traveling thespian troupe, lead by Peter Wentz, that is in need of a leading boy for a few plays. Once introduced, he realizes that he's fallen into an... interesting crowd. Among the boy players in their dresses and the suggestive jesting all around, he meets Ryan Ross, the fairest boy player of them all.
Soon, the group begins catching the eyes of theatre owners and nobles, especially one noblewoman set on having Brendon for herself. Refusal is not an option. Their only hope is escape.
A story about love, hope, family, and adventure. And Ryan Ross in a dress.
Bonus Tracks/Enhanced Content
Fanart:
[It was a long walk with Jon back to a place nearly in the middle of the forest where a fire was blazing within the confines of a circle of large stones. Before Brendon could even see the fire, he could hear the voices surrounding it, all laughing or talking too excitedly and too loudly to be proper.] by angelchildr
And hey! I did a little art of my own. [Brendon could barely breathe. Ryan was close, so very close, their hair almost brushing together at the proximity. He was beginning to get lightheaded and the world felt like it was spinning beneath him.]
Fanmix:
Fanmix by seratonation
Extras Post:
A list of terms and (at least vague) historical evidence of things mentioned throughout the story.
Epic thanks to gypsycaravan for being one rad beta, and also to buildyourwalls for helping me when I didn’t know where to go with this.
Part One -- Part Two -- Part Three
* * *
Brendon’s life was no fairy tale.
There were no witches or goblins or fairy godmothers. He had no poisoned fruits or rats turned into horses, and when the clock struck midnight, he only hoped to be soundly asleep in his bed.
In fact, Brendon was quite easily one of the most typical and boring young boys you could ever meet. At least he thought so. The only distinguishing mark he could claim was that his father had once been a clergyman. Of course, this really only meant that saying grace over meals took twice as long as other families, and Brendon’s bedtime stories mostly consisted of Old Testament readings. But after his father had been forced out of the church by a Claredon Code that Brendon never really understood, his life just continued its descent past mediocrity and down into abysmal poverty.
His life was neither magical nor desirable. In fact, he disliked it so much that he set out on his own in search of a better one, which happens to be where our story begins…
* * *
It was cold. It was that wet, frigid cold that he could feel all the way down to his bone marrow as the wind blew right through him. What once was soft, powdery snow on the grass was now welded together to make great sheets of ice over the ground, some patches slippery enough to bring a person face-down onto the frosty, unforgiving ground.
The wind picked up and blew a fresh gust of icy breathe through Brendon’s tattered winter coat. He rubbed his arms and attempted to walk straight while shivers wracked his body, making his legs unsteady. When he stubbed his toe on a rock in his path, there was no pain. He could hardly feel his own legs to move them, one in front of the other. He could hardly feel anything at all, in fact.
The one sharp, clear feeling Brendon could make out was the strongest sense of regret he had ever known. His father used to call him a foolish child on a fairly regular basis, mostly in jest, but Brendon had never considered himself a fool until that day, walking through the crowded, grimy streets in search of some form of shelter. He was exhausted and had no place to get in out of the wind. He feared he might collapse and die from the cold if he did not rest soon.
“Stupid,” he muttered to himself as he shuffled down the street. “Senseless. Insane.”
He avoided the eyes of others like himself-dirty, hopeless individuals just barely surviving-and nestled himself by the door of the closest shop. When the door would swung open with outgoing customers, Brendon could feel a little of the warmth coming from the fire that was sure to be burning within.
He should never have left. He should never have been naïve enough to think that there was hope for something better. No one was going to take on an apprentice so young, especially not one trolling the streets like a vagabond. He would have been wiser to stay in the tiny hut with the rest of his family. However, he couldn't change the fact that he had left. And every time his lips turned blue or his fingers went dead numb, he regretted leaving home. Every rib he could see through his own skin hated him for it.
He let his discouragingly light knapsack slip off the edge of his shoulder and hit the ground with a muted thump. He kept it close to his side, though, for fear of someone trying to take it, and he pressed his back up against the cold wall of the shop.
His eyes were falling shut without his permission, and his head slowly rolled to the side as he scooped up his sack and wrapped his arms around it protectively.
The smell of the city was rank. If the cold did not keep him from sleep, the stench would. But before Brendon had very much time to think about sleep, there was a shrill female voice above him and a bristly broom batting at his shoulder. He rose to his feet frantically and stumbled away from the shop, the loud threats of the shop mistress following behind.
He looked up at the sky, cloudy and growing darker with the setting sun, and quoted woundedly, “Why have you forsaken me?”
* * *
Two weeks after leaving home, Brendon was still miraculously scraping by. He measured the time by the holes in his clothes. It felt like a new one appeared every day.
At least after two weeks, he had learned how to keep himself alive. The trash pit that he used to wrinkle his nose at so fiercely had become the main thing keeping him sustained. Scavenging had become a valuable skill, as had guile. When he wasn’t curled up in some unnamed alley, he spent every spare moment trying to outwit shopkeepers and steal what morsels of food he could to keep himself from starving. He’d quickly become a little street urchin, it seemed.
But something odd happened one early evening while Brendon was huddled against the side of a tavern. He was waiting for the pretty barmaid to throw out the scraps of the night, just in case he might find something to salvage. He hoped she came soon, because he knew it was only a matter of time before the owner came out and shooed him away like everyone else. Thus was the perpetual cycle of his current, pathetic life.
He saw a small but robust man strolling down the street one night in mix-matched clothing. His beard was thick and his hair was tangled and unmanaged, but his eyes looked kind when they fell upon Brendon.
The man slowed his step when he saw the boy and cocked his head to one side. Brendon stared at the ground but could feel the man taking him in, looking much closer than Brendon was used to people doing, almost to the point of being rude.
“Evening to you,” the stranger said in a surprisingly pleasant manner. He had a faint accent that Brendon wasn’t used to hearing. Brendon nodded in return, a few snowflakes fluttering out of his hair.
“A bit nippy out, isn’t it?” the man continued with a self-indulgent chuckle. Brendon was too miserable to be anything but irritated by it.
When Brendon offered no answer, a silence stretched over a few moments. The man spent most of this time staring at Brendon a little more.
"May I ask how old you are, boy?" asked the man in a slightly drawling voice.
Brendon hesitated. He blew warm air into his cupped hands and said, "I'm sixteen, sir.”
"Shouldn’t you be at home with your family?"
Unsure of why the man was so curious, Brendon raised one skeptical eyebrow and slowly said, "My family's back in Liverpool. I’m out here on my own.” It was only after he’d spoken the words that he worried if it had been foolish to admit he was alone.
The man's eyes twinkled with sympathy and he gave Brendon a warm smile. Brendon did not return his warmth. If living on the streets had taught him anything, it was to be suspicious of everyone’s kindness.
"What's your name?" he asked, taking a few steps closer. The muscles in Brendon's neck tensed and his arms waited to shield him from an assault. He had heard the stories about young boys and girls being raped and robbed in shady alleyways. The man may have looked harmless, but Brendon was not about to be foolish and take him for face value.
"Brendon Urie, sir," he responded tightly.
"Are you hungry, Brendon? Let me take you into the Green Gentleman here and get you something to eat."
The moment food was mentioned, a squirmy feeling of excitement rolled around in his empty stomach, but his wariness held it down. "What would it cost me?"
"Only a few moments of your time," the man said.
Brendon's stomach rumbled thunderously and answered for him. The man held his hand down to him to help him up.
Brendon would come to realize that the best thing he ever did was take it.
* * *
The man was only modestly generous with the meal, but hearty stew and half-stale bread felt like a feast after spending weeks eating near to nothing. It was so profoundly satisfying. He tried to enjoy it while he could, feeling happier than a bird in a bath next to the fire with his bowl of stew.
He and the man kept up polite conversation, in which Brendon learned that the man’s name was Jon Walker and he was primarily a carpenter and a musician. His father’s voice in the back of his head was scoffing at the word musician being used as a profession. “Musicians don’t make money,” his father would say. And in the time and age they were in, there was nothing more important than the money. Clergyman or not, his father still valued money over God on most days.
Still, Brendon was slowly beginning to like Jon through their light conversation. Jon seemed to have a pleasant nature, and Brendon found that more precious than gold.
As Brendon finished slurping down the last drop of his stew, Jon asked over the buzz of half-drunken conversation floating around the tavern, "Feel better?"
"Much better, thank you," Brendon said politely, as his mother had taught him. It was easier to be polite when he had finally deemed Jon a friendly chap. To Brendon’s surprise, Jon had explained that he was only a few years older than Brendon himself. The beard was certainly enough to convince him otherwise. That and his manner of carrying himself-so calm and light. Like a content old man who feels he has so little left to be afraid of in the world.
"I have a proposition for you, Brendon," Jon said casually. The soft way he glazed over his S’s caught Brendon’s ears. He waited for Jon to offer this proposition, his eyes watching the logs glowing orange in the fireplace. It spit tiny embers and sparks happily.
“If you would agree, I'd like to take you to travel with my cohort and me," Jon said slowly. "We'll feed you and clothe you and get you off the streets, which is what you need more than anything else in the world right now.”
Brendon’s defenses shot up like a reflex, and the very first word out of his mouth was a curt, “Why?”
“The streets are dangerous for anyone, but especially for an innocent, young thing like you," Jon tried to explain. Brendon wanted to spit back that Jon was hardly his senior.
Instead, he waved his hand and said, “No, no. I meant, why do you want me to come with you? I may be young, but I’m not a fool. I know you could be kidnapping me and taking me to a workhouse for the rest of my life. Or worse.” He narrowed his eyes at Jon and waited.
Jon leaned back in his chair and considered Brendon with an amused look on his face that made Brendon angry. Brendon knew that this was how they lured young people away. They fattened them up, made them feel safe, and then they whisked them away to brothels in the dark corners of large cities.
Jon's face turned surprisingly jolly as he said, “Rest assured, I'm not here to make you a work slave or a prostitute. We are a group of performers. And we're in desperate need of someone like yourself."
"Like myself how?" said Brendon with crossed arms.
"Young, handsome, vibrant. We're thespians, man, but none of us can convincingly play a charming young man on stage if we’re older and grisly. You're too young to even have whiskers yet," Jon said as he reached over and rubbed Brendon's chin playfully. Brendon jerked his head away but couldn’t help laughing just a little with Jon.
“And why are you not fit to be a lead? You’re no grisly old man. Cut your beard and you could look years younger. And you seem charismatic.”
“Ah, never did have the voice for it,” Jon said, the faint lisp catching near the end of his statement. “But with a little bit of work, we could train you up to be a right good prince charming.”
Brendon let his piquing interest get the better of him, and he asked, "So… do you perform plays?"
"Among other things, yes. We’re merely inn-yard players, but one must start small. We plan to begin a new series of folk tales transformed into plays," Jon said, taking a gulp from his pint. Brendon's suspicions extinguished like a candle in the rain, and he leaned forward, enthralled in what Jon had to say. "We need a boy to play a few leads. And from what I've seen, you have a clear voice and a lively spirit. Or at the very least, the potential for one. In time, my dear Brendon, you could be just the lad that we need."
A slow smile spread across Brendon's face as he thought of all the times he’d passed street performers on the side of the road. The awe and wonder he had felt towards them, no matter how much his father berated them. He had put away those dreams for the practical need of food and shelter, but they still nudged at the back of his mind from time to time. People watching him, staring at him with that same wonder in their eyes.
He took a breath and tried not to sound too eager when he said, “I might give it a try.”
* * *
It was a long walk with Jon back to a place nearly in the middle of the forest where a fire was blazing within the confines of a circle of large stones. Before Brendon could even see the fire, he could hear the voices surrounding it, all laughing or talking too excitedly and too loudly to be proper. It brought up old, dusty memories of what home used to be like.
Around the fire sat a motley team of odd-looking characters, all male. There was a man with darker skin and wiry hair who looked like he could tower over Brendon if they stood together. Next to him was another man of great stature, but his features were soft and feminine, long hair curling loosely around high cheekbones. Brendon looked across the circle of strange people and saw a man even smaller than himself with jet-black hair and a mischievous glint in his eye sitting beside a timid looking man with spectacles and hair matching the firelight, hat atop his head. There must have been more than twenty of them all sitting around the fire pit. Some of them sang songs together and others talked animatedly. It was almost as if they barely needed the fire to keep warm; their spirits were warming them anyway.
The group barely quieted when Jon approached with Brendon on his heels. They greeted him, some getting up to embrace him and slap him on the back. Then they noticed Brendon following.
"You picked up a little urchin?" said a gangly, foreign-looking man with dark hair curling from under his hat. He looked Brendon up and down with a gleam in his dark eyes that was hardly innocent. Brendon started to wonder if he had made the wrong decision by going with Jon.
"His name is Brendon. I brought him to perform the new productions with us. Pete had been talking about conscripting someone so I…" Jon explained slowly, tapering off at the end, as if he was afraid of the response he might receive. They all became very quiet.
A boy with long, dirty brown hair and shining blue eyes spoke delicately. "Jon, you know you're supposed to ask Pete before you bring someone in."
"Yes, I know, but I wish you had heard him back at the taphouse. Boy’s got a strong spirit with such a clear, resonant voice. And just look at him!" argued Jon, motioned toward Brendon.
When all eyes came to rest on him, Brendon lowered his gaze. They sat there with squinted eyes and tilted heads, looking at him the way Jon had in the alley outside the pub. It was nerve wracking to be looked at so closely.
The man with black hair stood up and sauntered over to Brendon, looking at him head to toe with critical eyes. Jon stood back as the man walked in a circle around Brendon, prodding him in certain places and brushing fingertips along others, like Brendon was livestock or a potential bride. Humming thoughtfully as he scrutinized the boy, he pulled the cap off of Brendon's head and flicked a finger through the thick hair as if he was fixing it into place. He lingered on Brendon's face, thumb softly tracing his cheekbones and jaw line with a far-off look on his face. Brendon felt the man’s finger run along his bottom lip, and his heart raced like it sensed danger. The air finally rushed back into Brendon's lungs when the gentleman stepped away.
"What do you think of him, Peter?" Jon asked hopefully. The entire circle seemed eager to know as well. They all waited for a verdict. Brendon was distracted by the prickly feeling of blood rushing back into his fingers from being so close to the gloriously warm fire. Or perhaps it had been fear that had stopped the blood in his veins, not the cold.
When Brendon looked up, he saw the man-Peter-smiling.
"Have you had any practice being on stage, Brendon?" said Peter, his voice surprisingly cordial.
"No, sir." replied Brendon.
"Would you like to make a stab at it?"
Brendon's eyes lit up as he nodded eagerly. Peter threw his head back and laughed. Then he flung an arm around Brendon's shoulders as if they were dear friends and gave him a firm, affectionate squeeze.
"I think you'll fit right in," Peter said. “Welcome to Decaydance.”
When Brendon looked around the circle, the faces looking back were smiling gaily.
* * *
Decaydance, as Brendon soon learned, was a troop of performers who had stories much like his own. They were not from rich or highly respected families, and none that he knew of had lived in any sort of luxury. Truth be told, some of them had only joined Decaydance for the sake of survival, which was a completely legitimate reason to join almost any group, as far as Brendon was concerned. It was his own reason, after all. But whether it was out of necessity or free will, they were so dedicated.
The head of it all was a man named Peter Wentz, a bright, young mind with a hand in just about every aspect of a production, from costumes to scripts to sets. His companion, Patrick, was his partner in all of these, and he joined with an assistant named Ryland for directing each play. Peter knew virtually everything and everyone, and he could tell Brendon anything he wanted to know. Initially, it was frightening having this omniscient figure looking over him. It soon turned into comforting, knowing that he would never be left in the dark just so long as he would ask.
Peter was not the most intimidating person according to his stature or his inviting smile, but there was something odd about him that demanded respect. And not even so much demanded it but just received it anyway. Brendon believed that behind the nonsensical jokes and the unusual markings that hid under his sleeves, Peter had brilliance constantly brewing. He was one of the mysteries of the group that Brendon was anxious to solve.
Another mystery was Brendon’s place in all of this. It was quite an assorted group he was in. Every shape, size, and color you could need for a character was right there at Peter’s disposal. Brendon couldn’t stop asking himself why they would need someone like him if they had so many talented men who were just as beautiful, if not more so. That was one thing Brendon couldn’t seem to make sense of on his own.
Did he even have a place in all this? Or was he as expendable as he assumed?
With everything in him, he hoped it was the former.
* * *
Just two days after his introduction, he had learned everyone’s names and Peter was showing him the tricks of the trade. Their first play was being put on in a matter of days and Brendon was to play the charming prince in a story called Cinderella. He was thrilled, but carried more than a healthy sense of apprehension.
As Peter gave him acting tips and a worn, hand-written script, the blue-eyed boy from the first night by the name of Spencer was taking approximate measurements for his costumes. Pulling from the long cut of twine looped around his wrist, Spencer made dark marks on the pale string according to loose measurements of Brendon’s body. Spencer was a humorous boy with a smart mouth and a radiant smile that made Brendon feel at ease immediately. He only hoped everyone else was just as enjoyable.
“You’re the new lead boy, right?” Spencer said conversationally.
Brendon nodded.
Spencer gave a perplexing sort of laugh, like he had been let in on something that Brendon had not. All he said was, “This is going to be interesting.”
Brendon wanted to ask him what he meant, but the measurements were finished and Pete was back to coaching him on performance basics.
Things were moving at a break-neck pace and Brendon hoped he could keep up. He wondered how gracious they would all be if he began to lag a little but was too afraid to even risk finding out.
At the very least, Jon was always patient with him. Most of the time, Jon was in charge of getting things aligned for the show. He was a main stagehand who helped fix up the set before each scene, and he often helped build the various structures they needed for the sets and scenery with a man named The Butcher-a talented painter despite his gruesome name. In addition to all that, he was a general helping hand. If someone’s wig was falling to the side or their costume tore, it was always Jon running up to secure them. Between run-throughs, Brendon would chat with Jon, laughing about something ridiculous that Peter might have done, or just casually conversing. Brendon liked Jon. Jon made him feel a little less strained in such an odd, unfamiliar environment. Because, make no mistake, Decaydance was chocked full of all sorts of peculiar characters.
And if the bizarre personalities attached to each person weren’t enough, one thing Brendon had trouble getting past, at first, was the boy players acting the female parts. Brendon had gotten brief glimpses of plays being performed on the streets at festivals and he knew that all the actors were men, but sometimes it was difficult to think of them as male entities. It was just as difficult when he was the one acting with them, having to pretend to waltz with them and kissing their hands. He was just glad it wasn't him in the skirt and corset.
They were an easy-going group, however, and it was not as disastrous as Brendon could have imagined. They laughed and made jokes, poking fun at the costumes and the idea of being "lady-like." The occasional groping wasn't strange for anyone but Brendon, it appeared. Every so often, a hand would find its way to the colorful bodice of a dress, which was often stuffed with rags to imitate breasts. While Brendon's eyes would widen and his mouth would drop open, the others would laugh or make suggestive jokes in response. It was shocking, to say the least, going from a highly religious home where even joking about two men being together was grounds for punishment.
Then there were incidents where Brendon really had no idea when anyone was being playful or serious.
“Billy,” Gabe purred into William’s hair, sliding up behind him. “Billy, I hear your tent has a tear. Come share mine, love.”
“Always trying to sully my virtues,” William sighed long-sufferingly. “Have you no respect for my honor, Gabriel?”
Gabe slapped a hand over his heart in false pain. “I’m only being chivalrous! I wish you not to catch cold from the draft.”
“You have yet to prove that you can keep me warm enough at night, sir,” William said before strutting away, combing his fingers through his hair and pushing it out of his face.
Gabe looked over at Brendon and waggled his eyebrows, as if he hadn’t been entirely refused. Or, had he?
Something in his head was beating against the edges of his mind, telling him this was not right. Regardless, the most important thing to Brendon was keeping his head down and staying useful. Food and a place to sleep were promised if he went along with it. He would be an idiot to pass all of that up after what he experienced living on the streets alone. Besides, the more Brendon observed the way they interacted with each other, the less offensive the whole concept seemed. It just came so naturally to them.
At first, everyone seemed to regard him warily when they would make jokes like that. They peered at him like they were waiting for something, some reaction that he was supposed to deliver. He mostly just darted his eyes around and smiled uncertainly, not knowing what else he could possibly do for them. Still, they all seemed to watch him closely, aside from Jon, as if they were waiting for him to run away or condemn them.
Brendon just didn’t want to get thrown out on the streets again, that was all.
* * *
Playing the wicked stepmother in the play was William, the feminine man Brendon had seen at the fire at his induction. His height gave him the advantage of looking older even though he was just a few years ahead of Brendon. The stepsisters were two boys named Alexander Deleon and Alexander Marshall (mostly referred to by their surnames), boys whom Brendon had gotten along with from the moment they spoke to each other. It astonished him, really, how girlish they looked in their dresses when they would rehearse. Yet, when they would take them off, they were unmistakably boys again.
The most astonishing of all, however, was the boy cast as Cinderella. Ryan Ross.
Petticoats or not, he had a rare sort of beauty about him. Something about him made him seem so… soft, as if he’d been treated like a prince all his life. His gently curving cheekbones and cherub nose made it easy for him to pass as a girl in his costumes. He was shyer than most of them, but witty and comical all the same. Jon said the only difference was that his wit came in short, sporadic bursts that might surprise those who didn’t know him well. Peter had told Brendon the first day that he would probably be playing opposite Ryan in a great number of shows. He was their star boy player.
And when Brendon first saw him in full costume, he didn't need to wonder why. When he came out dressed as the Cinderella heading for the ball in a gold and silver gown, Brendon's breath caught in his throat and his heart seized for just a moment. The skirts rustled with the tiny steps Ryan took, looking more like he was floating than walking. Gold and black pigment swept over his eyelids and swirled out past his eyes in sparkling curlicues and pretty patterns, and his lips were stained pink. His eyelashes fluttered sweetly against the tops of his cheekbones, making Brendon's insides twist and coil like they had a mind of their own. The wig secured to Ryan's head had brown curls spilling over his shoulders, shiny as silk. If Ryan had been a young lady, Brendon would have gotten down on one knee and asked to marry her at that very moment. He was simply enchanting.
And then he spoke.
In a voice much too deep for a woman and much too flat for an actor, he looked at Brendon and said, “You’re not as tall as I had anticipated.” One very unimpressed eyebrow arched at Brendon.
A bit taken aback, Brendon replied in a rather juvenile fashion, “You’re not as charming as I had anticipated.”
Ryan chuckled and let his smirk spread across his whole mouth until it changed into a grin. The daunting eyebrow smoothed along his forehead comfortably. “My name is Ryan.”
“I’m Brendon.”
Ryan was already walking away when he lifted his voice an octave to his stage voice, and he said, “I know.”
Yes, it was very strange that the men dressed like women. The moment Ryan was out of costume, dress put away and make-up washed off, his entire personality was different. No longer was he that alluring thing hiding behind a fan-he was a boy rolling through the dirt and wresting with Spencer like normal boys did. In character, Ryan had eyes that literally locked Brendon’s knees. As himself, Ryan's eyes seemed guarded-if they were anything other than dull, that is. It was confusing and frustrating, quite frankly, and Brendon soon gave up trying to understand it. Ryan remained another mysterious part of Peter’s entourage.
* * *
The days went on and they continued rigorously practicing until and they made it to their first performance date. It was outside under the grey clouds of March, at the smallest inn-yard in town, that Brendon began his life as an actor. When he strutted onstage-a stage only comprised of a barely elevated wooden platform-with that princely air, the women in the audience tittered and murmured amongst themselves with their hands hiding their bashful smiles. Off to the side, Peter was smiling in satisfaction. Brendon’s hands never stopped shaking through the entire play.
During his line (that Peter had very self-indulgently added to the story) about wanting to marry for love, he looked out into the audience and caught the eye of one young lady about his age, and she sighed as she stared at him dreamily. Brendon's lips twitched in a swift, private smirk and he continued with his performance.
Being a performer meant having a certain power over people to make them feel or believe whatever he wanted them to, at least for a moment. That girl in the audience, for just a few seconds, was in love with him, his character. Swaying someone’s mind to think what you want them to was an exhilarating practice.
When they reached the scene at the ball where Ryan descended the shaky wooden steps that were meant to be castle steps, Brendon was ready. He looked at Ryan in awe and admiration as he had rehearsed and held out his hand for the boy to take. As they danced, Ryan held Brendon's eyes with a look of wonder, one Brendon had seen every rehearsal, but never lost its shine. It made his heart beat faster than a woodpecker in a tree, and he felt his legs going light. The look in Ryan's eyes, the perfect curve of his smile-he was so, so radiant that Brendon could barely keep his head about him. And when it came time for their stage kiss, they had rehearsed Brendon craning his neck around so the audience only saw the back of his head. Their foreheads would touch instead of their lips, but the crowd watching would know what they were pretending. However, as Brendon looked down at Ryan, seeing Ryan gazing back up at him with something hidden behind the make-up, he leaned in that inch separating their mouths and kissed him gently. For one glorious moment, he felt Ryan’s soft lips part ever so slightly under his, and Brendon forgot he was standing on a wooden stage with people watching his every move. The entire world had suddenly shrunk to only fit Ryan, Brendon, and the ghost of the kiss still tingling on Brendon’s lips.
When he pulled away, feeling like he was on a cloud, he saw Ryan's eyes staring up at him, large and terrified. Brendon's stomach dropped as he realized what he had done. Fear seized him like freezing air, and he stood there petrified for a moment as the weight of his actions started falling upon him-big, heavy boulders of consequences he might face.
He could go to jail for this. He could be put to death for this. Even if he lived, he would have to keep performing with Ryan and live with this shame, and that was a fate worse than death.
Thankfully, Ryan was used to improvising and staying in character. He didn't let the kiss disturb his performance. The show went on and Brendon did what he could to follow his lead. The production went on as planned, but Brendon felt off for the rest of the show. The audience gave them a loud applause as they bowed at the end, but Ryan avoided eye contact for the rest of the night.
As Brendon came off the stage, he felt like he was walking to his execution.
* * *
Peter pulled him off to the side just as Brendon had expected. Whilst everyone else was tearing down the stage and changing back into their normal attire, eyeing him carefully, Peter took him a comfortable distance away from the group to stand under a withering old oak.
Perhaps Brendon had gotten too comfortable with something that should not have been touched on. Perhaps the jokes and teasing everyone else took part in had gotten to his head, given him some wrong impression of how things were within Decaydance. Perhaps Brendon had made some grave error in assuming that their jokes originated from an acceptance of it all.
Whatever had happened, he was in trouble.
"Brendon," he said, sounding like a warning. Brendon lowered his head and waited for the hand to come flying across his face. His shoulders drew together as he anticipated the blow, or at least the extremely hard scolding. "I will not ask you why you did it, but I will ask you to be careful. You could get yourself into a bloody lot of trouble if you do things like that, especially under so many eyes. So I suggest you be more cautious in the future."
Brendon waited for more, but Peter had finished so quickly. Brendon looked up, confused, and said, "You're not going to hit me?"
Peter’s face turned from mild exasperation to almost sympathetic amusement. He chuckled and looked around before leaning in and whispering, "We're not your normal folk, Brendon. The people in their seats didn't see what you did, but it would have been catastrophic if they had. It's dangerous to behave as such in front of most people."
Brendon knew. He had seen men dragged away by soldiers and taken to the castle where they were held in jail or the torture chambers. His brother told him stories about convicted men being impaled or given the Pear of Anguish. Oh, Brendon knew how dangerous it was, which was why Peter's mercy towards his senselessness didn't quite make sense.
"But... what about you? Aren't you angry?" asked Brendon, still not understanding.
Peter placed a hand on his shoulder and said, "Actually, I found it rather entertaining. Never seen Ryan so shaken up, and that boy could use some more excitement in his life. And maybe one day it won’t be a thing to be ashamed of. Until then, you're safe here, Brendon. You did nothing wrong."
Brendon let out a breath that had been practically holding him frozen and said with the utmost sincerity, “Thank you, Peter.”
“Oh, you’re welcome to call me Pete, if you should like. Peter makes me sound so much more proper. And dull.”
With that, he went to see that everything was securely in place before they left to continue on traveling. The others went about their way, pretending they had not been trying to eavesdrop.
When they set up camp that night just off the rural road, Spencer and Jon told him that all the performers had seen the kiss. And instead of telling Brendon what an abomination he was, they laughed about how Ryan's eyes went as big as saucers and Brendon looked like he had been having a religious experience. And for the first time since Brendon came, there was no caution in their eyes when they looked at him. Maybe this slip had been a good thing.
"I'm surprised I’m not fearing for my life at this very moment," Brendon said honestly. Jon patted his shoulder and Spencer smiled.
"We're a different sort of people, you see," Spencer said. He kept his eyes down, like he was holding a secret in them that he didn't want anyone to see.
"Like Pete said," Brendon thought to himself.
Jon laughed and said, "Let me tell you something, Brendon. When Pete used to play leads, he never let anyone else but Patrick play his lady.”
“Or vice versa,” Spencer added, laughing through his nose.
Jon continued, “Take that as a comfort. He would never let you be hurt for something like what you did today."
Brendon cast a glance over to where Pete was curled up against Patrick, head in the redheaded man's lap, and things started making more sense.
* * *
Things went on as usual, or as usual as they could have been considering the group he was gallivanting around England with. Brendon slowly started realizing what sort of crowd he had fallen into. They really were not your normal folk, as Pete tactfully put it. Perhaps it was that comment, the closest thing to acknowledgment that he could hope for, that fully opened his eyes.
Every night, Pete and Patrick slept in the same tent. Jon and Spencer gave each other secret looks when they thought no one else was paying attention. William went back and forth between Gabe and Travis, flirting like a regular coquette. Of course, Gabe made advances on just about everybody. And that was just the start of it.
There were, what most people might have called, “normal folk” amidst the others. They fit in just fine with the rest of them, never making the snide remarks that Brendon was used to hearing about men of that sort. In fact, they seemed to encourage it even if they never participated.
Brendon was unsure about Ryan’s stance on it all. At the very least, he was not bothered by it or else he would not be in Decaydance. Maybe Ryan wasn’t quite the different sort, and that was what has upset him so much. Brendon didn’t know which group he identified himself with. The thought had never crossed him before.
Never in his life had Brendon thought he’d be in a situation like this. His world felt tipped onto its head, and he had to relearn things he thought he knew about men like these. Every horrible thing he had been taught about people of this sort seemed a bit ridiculous. They were people. Nothing more. Even after sixteen years of strict teachings on the matter, things made much more sense when he looked at it like that.
And perhaps all of this helped ease Brendon’s mind as he spent the next week looking at Ryan in his frilly dresses and gorgeous make-up, pining for something he didn’t quite understand yet. He tried not to dwell on that, especially when Ryan was present, but it was there, creeping around the shadowy corners of his mind.
* * *
When Pete told everyone that Petrosinella was to be their next production, he seemed to be especially excited over the idea. Brendon just assumed that Pete took a strange pleasure in playing the nasty, old witch who keeps Petrosinella-Ryan locked up in the tower. Decaydance enjoyed a bit of irony from time to time.
Of course, Brendon was playing the prince that comes to rescue Petrosinella in her tower and run away to elope. It was a very standard role, as Pete had explained to him. All he had to do was act charming and heroic and the rest of the play would carry him on its shoulders. To be quite frank, Brendon didn’t have a hard job being the princely figures. Sometimes Pete would cast him as very different characters, which were interesting only because they were new. Pete liked the popular stories the best. He had an appreciation for the more obscure folk tales, but the ones that had the best reactions from the audience where always what he capitalized on.
Brendon favored the shows that made it necessary for Ryan to wear the most elaborate costumes. As much as he loved the sweet little peasant girl dresses, it was positively marvelous to see Ryan looking like a pretty flower blossoming in his ruffles and fancy make-up, petals of velvet and silk blooming from a corset stem. Whenever Ryan came out in a new costume, it was always an extra little thrill to see how wonderful he looked this time.
And when Brendon rounded the cart one afternoon to see Ryan sitting in their makeshift tower in full costume, he nearly tripped over himself. They had braided a golden blonde wig into the end of a thick, similarly colored rope that hung out of the window and coiled on the ground below. His dress was colored cerulean and trimmed with white lace fluttering around the collar. The sleeves settled just barely off Ryan’s shoulders in a manner that was stunning-if not provocative-on Ryan, whose narrow shoulders and gentle collarbones always made him look a little softer and smoother than regular boys.
Gabe was already at the foot of the tower when Brendon arrived, calling up to Ryan, who was laughing and rolling his eyes. Gabe liked to make a scene when Ryan first came out in costume. This mostly included songs he had improvised and quotes from poets about ravishing beauty and such. The way Gabe would giggle quietly after almost every line made Brendon realize that he was only fooling, but sometimes it was hard to tell when someone was serious or not in this crowd. Especially Gabe.
They favored Ryan, meaning he was the one they poked fun at the most, following it with harmless smiles or playful slaps.
Outside of rehearsals, Pete had taken to using his witch voice whenever he deemed appropriate, particularly around Ryan, curling his fingers in Ryan’s short, boy hair and petting the side of his face. Ryan joked along with him. If Brendon hadn’t known better, he would have supposed that Pete fancied Ryan. Of course, Brendon couldn’t blame him if he truly did. And Ryan seemed to be very fond of Pete in response.
He had once asked Spencer and Jon why Pete liked to dote so much upon Ryan. Spencer had just given him a little chuckle and said, “Pete has always liked young, pretty things. Though he may never prefer Ryan over everyone else, he will always favor Ryan a little because he’s Pete’s young, pretty thing. Also, I think Pete thinks he’s found a kindred spirit in Ryan. Besides, Ryan never stops treating him like he hung the moon…”
He trailed off, seemingly confused, then turned to Jon and said, “Come to think of it, why doesn’t Pete fancy Ryan?”
Jon ruffled Spencer hair and said, “Patrick. They may be beautiful or smart or the bloody Prince of Wales, but no one will ever be Patrick, as far as Pete’s concerned.”
* * *
Petrosinella was a smash hit like Cinderella had been. The audiences were gracious in their applause and sincere in their praise afterwards. Brendon rarely had the opportunity to watch Pete play a character, so that was special. He did a particularly good job as the eerie little witch, which Brendon always found rather amusing. Brendon was ashamed to be surprised when he observed that Pete had a way of working the crowd that was unlike any of the other performers. Though, when Brendon thought about it, it wasn’t even really that he was more talented than the rest of them. Regardless, Pete always drew people’s eye to himself. Brendon still did not understand why.
There were no accidents like what had happened with Cinderella, but Ryan had this wary look in his eyes when Brendon leaned in for their stage kiss that night. It was like he was expecting it ever since Brendon’s first momentary lapse of judgment, and Brendon felt embarrassed every time Ryan narrowed his eyes and flinched as Brendon was pressing their foreheads together. However, he thought it was a tad unfair that Ryan be so overly cautious around him after only one slip. Brendon had never made advances on him any other time, so there was no need for Ryan to be so guarded. During practices, Ryan was always calm and seemingly comfortable, but performances were always like this. Perhaps Ryan thought Brendon might try it while they performed because he knew Ryan wouldn’t back away. For the sake of the play and staying in character, Ryan would never pull away and disrupt the scene. If Brendon were a lower creature, he would have used that to his advantage.
As the days went on and they performed the production in different inn-yards, Ryan slowly settled. By their final night, he was at ease enough to smile up at Brendon when they stage-kissed like one does when they are laughing at the absurdity of something. Brendon smiled back but felt a tiny twinge of some unhappy feeling. It lasted only a moment, and then the show went on.
* * *
Weeks passed, and Brendon forgot what month they were in anymore. He vaguely knew they were in the midst of spring by the looks of the thawing countryside, but he didn’t know how far in they were. Time stopped meaning much besides the pattern of the sun. There was something soothing about living with no sense of time. No stressful dwelling on the future. There was only now, whatever was happening that day. The farthest ahead Brendon ever looked was to their next performance. He enjoyed living day-to-day.
And with the people he’d been traveling with, day-to-day living was the only thing they seemed to know. Only Pete and Patrick had these moments that made Brendon believe that they were plotting something in those daft heads of theirs, things that would take years to make real. Or sometimes, while they would all be traveling down the road, dusty path stretched in front and behind, Pete would look back at all the people following behind him and smile in that secret way that looked like he’d gotten something he’d been planning his whole life. Or perhaps more than he had ever imagined.
There had been one night in the woods with everyone huddled around the fire when Pete had told Brendon what his eventual dream was for Decaydance.
“A theatre here in England, bigger than you can imagine. I’ve traveled to the theatres and opera houses in France and Italy and I will never, in all my years, forget how beautiful they were,” said Pete, leaning his back against Patrick’s shoulder. Then he looked at Brendon with a resolute smile and said, “We can do it better.”
Brendon couldn’t help but believe him.
The way Pete talked about it, stars in his eyes, made Brendon want it too. And he didn’t care that he would be practicing and performing his arse off just to scrape by, some nights. The important thing was that he was doing something he adored with people he cared about, people who loved their art more than bread, more than comfort or social standing. They were artists.
Brendon liked the sound of that.
* * *
After practices, Brendon, Ryan, Spencer, and Jon would clump together and titter about the rehearsal that day. Often times, it was over cards. Sometimes they would just sprawl out on the grass as everyone else pitched their shoddy tents and talked.
Brendon liked those three boys the most, he decided. Everything felt so easy when he was with them.
“I’m attempting to mend that tear in your dress for the day after tomorrow,” Spencer said to Ryan over his hand of yellowing cards. “But I was told to inform you to stop being so clumsy or else your roles are going to be given to William. Pete’s words, not mine.”
“Surely.” Ryan rolled his eyes. He looked sideways at Brendon and said, “If someone hadn’t tripped me.”
“Complete accident, I assure you,” Brendon said innocently. Ryan snorted sarcastically and rested his elbows on the old crate they had centered their game around.
“And really,” Ryan said, “can you imagine putting Brendon next to William?” He put his cards down to raise his hands, palm down, at two very different levels.
Jon and Spencer tried to restrain laughter while Brendon gave them sour looks. In order to play opposite Ryan, who was an inch or so taller than Brendon, they always put Ryan in flat slippers and Brendon in thick-heeled boots to at least level things out. Ryan was proportioned in a way that made him look like he was supposed to be small anyway. That helped a little.
Spencer picked up a card from the deck and discarded another one from his hand. “Pete’s trying to think about the next play. He wanted to know if we had any suggestions.”
They were thoughtfully quiet for a few moments, and Brendon tried to consider a tale he’d like to perform. He couldn’t remember his parents telling him many folk tales.
They sat in pensive silence until Ryan hesitantly said, “I need a rest.”
“Set your cards down and we won’t go too far into the game without you,” said Jon, waving his empty hand towards the crate.
“No, I was referring to performing,” Ryan said, even quieter than before. Brendon wasn’t sure if Ryan was afraid to say it or uncertain if that was really what he wanted. He sounded conflicted.
Jon scratched his beard. The corners of his mouth dipped downward and he tilted his head, almost as if he was shrugging without using his shoulders. “I suppose no one would mind as long as you took on some other task instead. You can always do the make-up like you used to.”
“Will Pete consent to that?” asked Brendon.
“When you’ve been with Decaydance as long as some of us have, Pete starts trusting your judgment better than his own,” explained Jon with a fond smile.
“Good thing for that, eh?” Spencer added.
* * *
The next play they put on put Spencer opposite Brendon.
“Ha,” Spencer barked out when he had first heard. “We need to find stilts for our tiny little prince.”
“You have to be a real man to be able to handle Spencer,” Jon noted, earning him a sideways glance from Spencer and a private smile that Brendon pretended he didn’t catch. Though, he did laugh when Spencer punched Jon in the arm and knocked him off balance.
When the night of the performance came, all the night lamps lit in the inn-yard and the crowd gathering with curiosity, Brendon felt… off. Something felt strange and unbalanced for a reason he could not pinpoint, and it was no different when he got on stage. Even in character, he felt like something was wrong.
It was Spencer. Spencer was great; he knew his lines and knew how to execute them, but something wasn’t right about him playing opposite Brendon. Things just did not fall into place like they usually did onstage for Brendon.
The show ended with mediocre applause from a crowd that had thinned through the performance. Brendon was struck with guilt. If he had only stayed in character, everything would have been fine. He should not have let something as tiny as unfamiliarity with Spencer get the best of him.
Thankfully, Gabe had turned out to be an excellent gambler, bringing in more money than they had earned for the performance. The money may not have been as good as normal, but Decaydance had run on less. Still, Brendon sulked as he helped load up the carts afterwards.
“Everyone has bad nights, Brendon,” Pete said, handing him a wide plank of wood painted like a rosebush.
Brendon shrugged and wedged the fake bush between two costume trunks, careful to avoid splinters. “I feel I could have done better.”
“The chemistry was wrong,” Pete decided. “You were both performing fine, but the audience couldn’t feel it like they should in good theatre.”
“I’m sorry.” Brendon didn’t know what else to say.
“The fault is not yours. It’s mine. I should have noticed in rehearsals that it wasn’t right. Actually, I should have known even before that,” Pete said with a knowing smirk.
Brendon looked back at him blankly.
Pete’s smirk bloomed into a full grin as he said, “Everyone is very aware that you work best with Ryan. There’s good chemistry.”
Brendon’s eyes fell to the ground and he walked away muttering, “He’s just… a talented actor.”
* * *
Part One -- Part Two -- Part Three
Band(s): Panic, FOB, TAI, MCR, CS, TC, THS, GCH, and a few other familiar faces.
Pairing(s): Ryan/Brendon, Pete/Patrick (and plenty of hints at other various pairings)
Word Count: 31,000
Rating/Warnings: PG-13, religion, sexual intolerance, historical inaccuracies.
Summary: England, 1667. After being swept off of the dirty streets of England, Brendon is recruited into a traveling thespian troupe, lead by Peter Wentz, that is in need of a leading boy for a few plays. Once introduced, he realizes that he's fallen into an... interesting crowd. Among the boy players in their dresses and the suggestive jesting all around, he meets Ryan Ross, the fairest boy player of them all.
Soon, the group begins catching the eyes of theatre owners and nobles, especially one noblewoman set on having Brendon for herself. Refusal is not an option. Their only hope is escape.
A story about love, hope, family, and adventure. And Ryan Ross in a dress.
Bonus Tracks/Enhanced Content
Fanart:
[It was a long walk with Jon back to a place nearly in the middle of the forest where a fire was blazing within the confines of a circle of large stones. Before Brendon could even see the fire, he could hear the voices surrounding it, all laughing or talking too excitedly and too loudly to be proper.] by angelchildr
And hey! I did a little art of my own. [Brendon could barely breathe. Ryan was close, so very close, their hair almost brushing together at the proximity. He was beginning to get lightheaded and the world felt like it was spinning beneath him.]
Fanmix:
Fanmix by seratonation
Extras Post:
A list of terms and (at least vague) historical evidence of things mentioned throughout the story.
Epic thanks to gypsycaravan for being one rad beta, and also to buildyourwalls for helping me when I didn’t know where to go with this.
Part One -- Part Two -- Part Three
* * *
Brendon’s life was no fairy tale.
There were no witches or goblins or fairy godmothers. He had no poisoned fruits or rats turned into horses, and when the clock struck midnight, he only hoped to be soundly asleep in his bed.
In fact, Brendon was quite easily one of the most typical and boring young boys you could ever meet. At least he thought so. The only distinguishing mark he could claim was that his father had once been a clergyman. Of course, this really only meant that saying grace over meals took twice as long as other families, and Brendon’s bedtime stories mostly consisted of Old Testament readings. But after his father had been forced out of the church by a Claredon Code that Brendon never really understood, his life just continued its descent past mediocrity and down into abysmal poverty.
His life was neither magical nor desirable. In fact, he disliked it so much that he set out on his own in search of a better one, which happens to be where our story begins…
* * *
It was cold. It was that wet, frigid cold that he could feel all the way down to his bone marrow as the wind blew right through him. What once was soft, powdery snow on the grass was now welded together to make great sheets of ice over the ground, some patches slippery enough to bring a person face-down onto the frosty, unforgiving ground.
The wind picked up and blew a fresh gust of icy breathe through Brendon’s tattered winter coat. He rubbed his arms and attempted to walk straight while shivers wracked his body, making his legs unsteady. When he stubbed his toe on a rock in his path, there was no pain. He could hardly feel his own legs to move them, one in front of the other. He could hardly feel anything at all, in fact.
The one sharp, clear feeling Brendon could make out was the strongest sense of regret he had ever known. His father used to call him a foolish child on a fairly regular basis, mostly in jest, but Brendon had never considered himself a fool until that day, walking through the crowded, grimy streets in search of some form of shelter. He was exhausted and had no place to get in out of the wind. He feared he might collapse and die from the cold if he did not rest soon.
“Stupid,” he muttered to himself as he shuffled down the street. “Senseless. Insane.”
He avoided the eyes of others like himself-dirty, hopeless individuals just barely surviving-and nestled himself by the door of the closest shop. When the door would swung open with outgoing customers, Brendon could feel a little of the warmth coming from the fire that was sure to be burning within.
He should never have left. He should never have been naïve enough to think that there was hope for something better. No one was going to take on an apprentice so young, especially not one trolling the streets like a vagabond. He would have been wiser to stay in the tiny hut with the rest of his family. However, he couldn't change the fact that he had left. And every time his lips turned blue or his fingers went dead numb, he regretted leaving home. Every rib he could see through his own skin hated him for it.
He let his discouragingly light knapsack slip off the edge of his shoulder and hit the ground with a muted thump. He kept it close to his side, though, for fear of someone trying to take it, and he pressed his back up against the cold wall of the shop.
His eyes were falling shut without his permission, and his head slowly rolled to the side as he scooped up his sack and wrapped his arms around it protectively.
The smell of the city was rank. If the cold did not keep him from sleep, the stench would. But before Brendon had very much time to think about sleep, there was a shrill female voice above him and a bristly broom batting at his shoulder. He rose to his feet frantically and stumbled away from the shop, the loud threats of the shop mistress following behind.
He looked up at the sky, cloudy and growing darker with the setting sun, and quoted woundedly, “Why have you forsaken me?”
* * *
Two weeks after leaving home, Brendon was still miraculously scraping by. He measured the time by the holes in his clothes. It felt like a new one appeared every day.
At least after two weeks, he had learned how to keep himself alive. The trash pit that he used to wrinkle his nose at so fiercely had become the main thing keeping him sustained. Scavenging had become a valuable skill, as had guile. When he wasn’t curled up in some unnamed alley, he spent every spare moment trying to outwit shopkeepers and steal what morsels of food he could to keep himself from starving. He’d quickly become a little street urchin, it seemed.
But something odd happened one early evening while Brendon was huddled against the side of a tavern. He was waiting for the pretty barmaid to throw out the scraps of the night, just in case he might find something to salvage. He hoped she came soon, because he knew it was only a matter of time before the owner came out and shooed him away like everyone else. Thus was the perpetual cycle of his current, pathetic life.
He saw a small but robust man strolling down the street one night in mix-matched clothing. His beard was thick and his hair was tangled and unmanaged, but his eyes looked kind when they fell upon Brendon.
The man slowed his step when he saw the boy and cocked his head to one side. Brendon stared at the ground but could feel the man taking him in, looking much closer than Brendon was used to people doing, almost to the point of being rude.
“Evening to you,” the stranger said in a surprisingly pleasant manner. He had a faint accent that Brendon wasn’t used to hearing. Brendon nodded in return, a few snowflakes fluttering out of his hair.
“A bit nippy out, isn’t it?” the man continued with a self-indulgent chuckle. Brendon was too miserable to be anything but irritated by it.
When Brendon offered no answer, a silence stretched over a few moments. The man spent most of this time staring at Brendon a little more.
"May I ask how old you are, boy?" asked the man in a slightly drawling voice.
Brendon hesitated. He blew warm air into his cupped hands and said, "I'm sixteen, sir.”
"Shouldn’t you be at home with your family?"
Unsure of why the man was so curious, Brendon raised one skeptical eyebrow and slowly said, "My family's back in Liverpool. I’m out here on my own.” It was only after he’d spoken the words that he worried if it had been foolish to admit he was alone.
The man's eyes twinkled with sympathy and he gave Brendon a warm smile. Brendon did not return his warmth. If living on the streets had taught him anything, it was to be suspicious of everyone’s kindness.
"What's your name?" he asked, taking a few steps closer. The muscles in Brendon's neck tensed and his arms waited to shield him from an assault. He had heard the stories about young boys and girls being raped and robbed in shady alleyways. The man may have looked harmless, but Brendon was not about to be foolish and take him for face value.
"Brendon Urie, sir," he responded tightly.
"Are you hungry, Brendon? Let me take you into the Green Gentleman here and get you something to eat."
The moment food was mentioned, a squirmy feeling of excitement rolled around in his empty stomach, but his wariness held it down. "What would it cost me?"
"Only a few moments of your time," the man said.
Brendon's stomach rumbled thunderously and answered for him. The man held his hand down to him to help him up.
Brendon would come to realize that the best thing he ever did was take it.
* * *
The man was only modestly generous with the meal, but hearty stew and half-stale bread felt like a feast after spending weeks eating near to nothing. It was so profoundly satisfying. He tried to enjoy it while he could, feeling happier than a bird in a bath next to the fire with his bowl of stew.
He and the man kept up polite conversation, in which Brendon learned that the man’s name was Jon Walker and he was primarily a carpenter and a musician. His father’s voice in the back of his head was scoffing at the word musician being used as a profession. “Musicians don’t make money,” his father would say. And in the time and age they were in, there was nothing more important than the money. Clergyman or not, his father still valued money over God on most days.
Still, Brendon was slowly beginning to like Jon through their light conversation. Jon seemed to have a pleasant nature, and Brendon found that more precious than gold.
As Brendon finished slurping down the last drop of his stew, Jon asked over the buzz of half-drunken conversation floating around the tavern, "Feel better?"
"Much better, thank you," Brendon said politely, as his mother had taught him. It was easier to be polite when he had finally deemed Jon a friendly chap. To Brendon’s surprise, Jon had explained that he was only a few years older than Brendon himself. The beard was certainly enough to convince him otherwise. That and his manner of carrying himself-so calm and light. Like a content old man who feels he has so little left to be afraid of in the world.
"I have a proposition for you, Brendon," Jon said casually. The soft way he glazed over his S’s caught Brendon’s ears. He waited for Jon to offer this proposition, his eyes watching the logs glowing orange in the fireplace. It spit tiny embers and sparks happily.
“If you would agree, I'd like to take you to travel with my cohort and me," Jon said slowly. "We'll feed you and clothe you and get you off the streets, which is what you need more than anything else in the world right now.”
Brendon’s defenses shot up like a reflex, and the very first word out of his mouth was a curt, “Why?”
“The streets are dangerous for anyone, but especially for an innocent, young thing like you," Jon tried to explain. Brendon wanted to spit back that Jon was hardly his senior.
Instead, he waved his hand and said, “No, no. I meant, why do you want me to come with you? I may be young, but I’m not a fool. I know you could be kidnapping me and taking me to a workhouse for the rest of my life. Or worse.” He narrowed his eyes at Jon and waited.
Jon leaned back in his chair and considered Brendon with an amused look on his face that made Brendon angry. Brendon knew that this was how they lured young people away. They fattened them up, made them feel safe, and then they whisked them away to brothels in the dark corners of large cities.
Jon's face turned surprisingly jolly as he said, “Rest assured, I'm not here to make you a work slave or a prostitute. We are a group of performers. And we're in desperate need of someone like yourself."
"Like myself how?" said Brendon with crossed arms.
"Young, handsome, vibrant. We're thespians, man, but none of us can convincingly play a charming young man on stage if we’re older and grisly. You're too young to even have whiskers yet," Jon said as he reached over and rubbed Brendon's chin playfully. Brendon jerked his head away but couldn’t help laughing just a little with Jon.
“And why are you not fit to be a lead? You’re no grisly old man. Cut your beard and you could look years younger. And you seem charismatic.”
“Ah, never did have the voice for it,” Jon said, the faint lisp catching near the end of his statement. “But with a little bit of work, we could train you up to be a right good prince charming.”
Brendon let his piquing interest get the better of him, and he asked, "So… do you perform plays?"
"Among other things, yes. We’re merely inn-yard players, but one must start small. We plan to begin a new series of folk tales transformed into plays," Jon said, taking a gulp from his pint. Brendon's suspicions extinguished like a candle in the rain, and he leaned forward, enthralled in what Jon had to say. "We need a boy to play a few leads. And from what I've seen, you have a clear voice and a lively spirit. Or at the very least, the potential for one. In time, my dear Brendon, you could be just the lad that we need."
A slow smile spread across Brendon's face as he thought of all the times he’d passed street performers on the side of the road. The awe and wonder he had felt towards them, no matter how much his father berated them. He had put away those dreams for the practical need of food and shelter, but they still nudged at the back of his mind from time to time. People watching him, staring at him with that same wonder in their eyes.
He took a breath and tried not to sound too eager when he said, “I might give it a try.”
* * *
It was a long walk with Jon back to a place nearly in the middle of the forest where a fire was blazing within the confines of a circle of large stones. Before Brendon could even see the fire, he could hear the voices surrounding it, all laughing or talking too excitedly and too loudly to be proper. It brought up old, dusty memories of what home used to be like.
Around the fire sat a motley team of odd-looking characters, all male. There was a man with darker skin and wiry hair who looked like he could tower over Brendon if they stood together. Next to him was another man of great stature, but his features were soft and feminine, long hair curling loosely around high cheekbones. Brendon looked across the circle of strange people and saw a man even smaller than himself with jet-black hair and a mischievous glint in his eye sitting beside a timid looking man with spectacles and hair matching the firelight, hat atop his head. There must have been more than twenty of them all sitting around the fire pit. Some of them sang songs together and others talked animatedly. It was almost as if they barely needed the fire to keep warm; their spirits were warming them anyway.
The group barely quieted when Jon approached with Brendon on his heels. They greeted him, some getting up to embrace him and slap him on the back. Then they noticed Brendon following.
"You picked up a little urchin?" said a gangly, foreign-looking man with dark hair curling from under his hat. He looked Brendon up and down with a gleam in his dark eyes that was hardly innocent. Brendon started to wonder if he had made the wrong decision by going with Jon.
"His name is Brendon. I brought him to perform the new productions with us. Pete had been talking about conscripting someone so I…" Jon explained slowly, tapering off at the end, as if he was afraid of the response he might receive. They all became very quiet.
A boy with long, dirty brown hair and shining blue eyes spoke delicately. "Jon, you know you're supposed to ask Pete before you bring someone in."
"Yes, I know, but I wish you had heard him back at the taphouse. Boy’s got a strong spirit with such a clear, resonant voice. And just look at him!" argued Jon, motioned toward Brendon.
When all eyes came to rest on him, Brendon lowered his gaze. They sat there with squinted eyes and tilted heads, looking at him the way Jon had in the alley outside the pub. It was nerve wracking to be looked at so closely.
The man with black hair stood up and sauntered over to Brendon, looking at him head to toe with critical eyes. Jon stood back as the man walked in a circle around Brendon, prodding him in certain places and brushing fingertips along others, like Brendon was livestock or a potential bride. Humming thoughtfully as he scrutinized the boy, he pulled the cap off of Brendon's head and flicked a finger through the thick hair as if he was fixing it into place. He lingered on Brendon's face, thumb softly tracing his cheekbones and jaw line with a far-off look on his face. Brendon felt the man’s finger run along his bottom lip, and his heart raced like it sensed danger. The air finally rushed back into Brendon's lungs when the gentleman stepped away.
"What do you think of him, Peter?" Jon asked hopefully. The entire circle seemed eager to know as well. They all waited for a verdict. Brendon was distracted by the prickly feeling of blood rushing back into his fingers from being so close to the gloriously warm fire. Or perhaps it had been fear that had stopped the blood in his veins, not the cold.
When Brendon looked up, he saw the man-Peter-smiling.
"Have you had any practice being on stage, Brendon?" said Peter, his voice surprisingly cordial.
"No, sir." replied Brendon.
"Would you like to make a stab at it?"
Brendon's eyes lit up as he nodded eagerly. Peter threw his head back and laughed. Then he flung an arm around Brendon's shoulders as if they were dear friends and gave him a firm, affectionate squeeze.
"I think you'll fit right in," Peter said. “Welcome to Decaydance.”
When Brendon looked around the circle, the faces looking back were smiling gaily.
* * *
Decaydance, as Brendon soon learned, was a troop of performers who had stories much like his own. They were not from rich or highly respected families, and none that he knew of had lived in any sort of luxury. Truth be told, some of them had only joined Decaydance for the sake of survival, which was a completely legitimate reason to join almost any group, as far as Brendon was concerned. It was his own reason, after all. But whether it was out of necessity or free will, they were so dedicated.
The head of it all was a man named Peter Wentz, a bright, young mind with a hand in just about every aspect of a production, from costumes to scripts to sets. His companion, Patrick, was his partner in all of these, and he joined with an assistant named Ryland for directing each play. Peter knew virtually everything and everyone, and he could tell Brendon anything he wanted to know. Initially, it was frightening having this omniscient figure looking over him. It soon turned into comforting, knowing that he would never be left in the dark just so long as he would ask.
Peter was not the most intimidating person according to his stature or his inviting smile, but there was something odd about him that demanded respect. And not even so much demanded it but just received it anyway. Brendon believed that behind the nonsensical jokes and the unusual markings that hid under his sleeves, Peter had brilliance constantly brewing. He was one of the mysteries of the group that Brendon was anxious to solve.
Another mystery was Brendon’s place in all of this. It was quite an assorted group he was in. Every shape, size, and color you could need for a character was right there at Peter’s disposal. Brendon couldn’t stop asking himself why they would need someone like him if they had so many talented men who were just as beautiful, if not more so. That was one thing Brendon couldn’t seem to make sense of on his own.
Did he even have a place in all this? Or was he as expendable as he assumed?
With everything in him, he hoped it was the former.
* * *
Just two days after his introduction, he had learned everyone’s names and Peter was showing him the tricks of the trade. Their first play was being put on in a matter of days and Brendon was to play the charming prince in a story called Cinderella. He was thrilled, but carried more than a healthy sense of apprehension.
As Peter gave him acting tips and a worn, hand-written script, the blue-eyed boy from the first night by the name of Spencer was taking approximate measurements for his costumes. Pulling from the long cut of twine looped around his wrist, Spencer made dark marks on the pale string according to loose measurements of Brendon’s body. Spencer was a humorous boy with a smart mouth and a radiant smile that made Brendon feel at ease immediately. He only hoped everyone else was just as enjoyable.
“You’re the new lead boy, right?” Spencer said conversationally.
Brendon nodded.
Spencer gave a perplexing sort of laugh, like he had been let in on something that Brendon had not. All he said was, “This is going to be interesting.”
Brendon wanted to ask him what he meant, but the measurements were finished and Pete was back to coaching him on performance basics.
Things were moving at a break-neck pace and Brendon hoped he could keep up. He wondered how gracious they would all be if he began to lag a little but was too afraid to even risk finding out.
At the very least, Jon was always patient with him. Most of the time, Jon was in charge of getting things aligned for the show. He was a main stagehand who helped fix up the set before each scene, and he often helped build the various structures they needed for the sets and scenery with a man named The Butcher-a talented painter despite his gruesome name. In addition to all that, he was a general helping hand. If someone’s wig was falling to the side or their costume tore, it was always Jon running up to secure them. Between run-throughs, Brendon would chat with Jon, laughing about something ridiculous that Peter might have done, or just casually conversing. Brendon liked Jon. Jon made him feel a little less strained in such an odd, unfamiliar environment. Because, make no mistake, Decaydance was chocked full of all sorts of peculiar characters.
And if the bizarre personalities attached to each person weren’t enough, one thing Brendon had trouble getting past, at first, was the boy players acting the female parts. Brendon had gotten brief glimpses of plays being performed on the streets at festivals and he knew that all the actors were men, but sometimes it was difficult to think of them as male entities. It was just as difficult when he was the one acting with them, having to pretend to waltz with them and kissing their hands. He was just glad it wasn't him in the skirt and corset.
They were an easy-going group, however, and it was not as disastrous as Brendon could have imagined. They laughed and made jokes, poking fun at the costumes and the idea of being "lady-like." The occasional groping wasn't strange for anyone but Brendon, it appeared. Every so often, a hand would find its way to the colorful bodice of a dress, which was often stuffed with rags to imitate breasts. While Brendon's eyes would widen and his mouth would drop open, the others would laugh or make suggestive jokes in response. It was shocking, to say the least, going from a highly religious home where even joking about two men being together was grounds for punishment.
Then there were incidents where Brendon really had no idea when anyone was being playful or serious.
“Billy,” Gabe purred into William’s hair, sliding up behind him. “Billy, I hear your tent has a tear. Come share mine, love.”
“Always trying to sully my virtues,” William sighed long-sufferingly. “Have you no respect for my honor, Gabriel?”
Gabe slapped a hand over his heart in false pain. “I’m only being chivalrous! I wish you not to catch cold from the draft.”
“You have yet to prove that you can keep me warm enough at night, sir,” William said before strutting away, combing his fingers through his hair and pushing it out of his face.
Gabe looked over at Brendon and waggled his eyebrows, as if he hadn’t been entirely refused. Or, had he?
Something in his head was beating against the edges of his mind, telling him this was not right. Regardless, the most important thing to Brendon was keeping his head down and staying useful. Food and a place to sleep were promised if he went along with it. He would be an idiot to pass all of that up after what he experienced living on the streets alone. Besides, the more Brendon observed the way they interacted with each other, the less offensive the whole concept seemed. It just came so naturally to them.
At first, everyone seemed to regard him warily when they would make jokes like that. They peered at him like they were waiting for something, some reaction that he was supposed to deliver. He mostly just darted his eyes around and smiled uncertainly, not knowing what else he could possibly do for them. Still, they all seemed to watch him closely, aside from Jon, as if they were waiting for him to run away or condemn them.
Brendon just didn’t want to get thrown out on the streets again, that was all.
* * *
Playing the wicked stepmother in the play was William, the feminine man Brendon had seen at the fire at his induction. His height gave him the advantage of looking older even though he was just a few years ahead of Brendon. The stepsisters were two boys named Alexander Deleon and Alexander Marshall (mostly referred to by their surnames), boys whom Brendon had gotten along with from the moment they spoke to each other. It astonished him, really, how girlish they looked in their dresses when they would rehearse. Yet, when they would take them off, they were unmistakably boys again.
The most astonishing of all, however, was the boy cast as Cinderella. Ryan Ross.
Petticoats or not, he had a rare sort of beauty about him. Something about him made him seem so… soft, as if he’d been treated like a prince all his life. His gently curving cheekbones and cherub nose made it easy for him to pass as a girl in his costumes. He was shyer than most of them, but witty and comical all the same. Jon said the only difference was that his wit came in short, sporadic bursts that might surprise those who didn’t know him well. Peter had told Brendon the first day that he would probably be playing opposite Ryan in a great number of shows. He was their star boy player.
And when Brendon first saw him in full costume, he didn't need to wonder why. When he came out dressed as the Cinderella heading for the ball in a gold and silver gown, Brendon's breath caught in his throat and his heart seized for just a moment. The skirts rustled with the tiny steps Ryan took, looking more like he was floating than walking. Gold and black pigment swept over his eyelids and swirled out past his eyes in sparkling curlicues and pretty patterns, and his lips were stained pink. His eyelashes fluttered sweetly against the tops of his cheekbones, making Brendon's insides twist and coil like they had a mind of their own. The wig secured to Ryan's head had brown curls spilling over his shoulders, shiny as silk. If Ryan had been a young lady, Brendon would have gotten down on one knee and asked to marry her at that very moment. He was simply enchanting.
And then he spoke.
In a voice much too deep for a woman and much too flat for an actor, he looked at Brendon and said, “You’re not as tall as I had anticipated.” One very unimpressed eyebrow arched at Brendon.
A bit taken aback, Brendon replied in a rather juvenile fashion, “You’re not as charming as I had anticipated.”
Ryan chuckled and let his smirk spread across his whole mouth until it changed into a grin. The daunting eyebrow smoothed along his forehead comfortably. “My name is Ryan.”
“I’m Brendon.”
Ryan was already walking away when he lifted his voice an octave to his stage voice, and he said, “I know.”
Yes, it was very strange that the men dressed like women. The moment Ryan was out of costume, dress put away and make-up washed off, his entire personality was different. No longer was he that alluring thing hiding behind a fan-he was a boy rolling through the dirt and wresting with Spencer like normal boys did. In character, Ryan had eyes that literally locked Brendon’s knees. As himself, Ryan's eyes seemed guarded-if they were anything other than dull, that is. It was confusing and frustrating, quite frankly, and Brendon soon gave up trying to understand it. Ryan remained another mysterious part of Peter’s entourage.
* * *
The days went on and they continued rigorously practicing until and they made it to their first performance date. It was outside under the grey clouds of March, at the smallest inn-yard in town, that Brendon began his life as an actor. When he strutted onstage-a stage only comprised of a barely elevated wooden platform-with that princely air, the women in the audience tittered and murmured amongst themselves with their hands hiding their bashful smiles. Off to the side, Peter was smiling in satisfaction. Brendon’s hands never stopped shaking through the entire play.
During his line (that Peter had very self-indulgently added to the story) about wanting to marry for love, he looked out into the audience and caught the eye of one young lady about his age, and she sighed as she stared at him dreamily. Brendon's lips twitched in a swift, private smirk and he continued with his performance.
Being a performer meant having a certain power over people to make them feel or believe whatever he wanted them to, at least for a moment. That girl in the audience, for just a few seconds, was in love with him, his character. Swaying someone’s mind to think what you want them to was an exhilarating practice.
When they reached the scene at the ball where Ryan descended the shaky wooden steps that were meant to be castle steps, Brendon was ready. He looked at Ryan in awe and admiration as he had rehearsed and held out his hand for the boy to take. As they danced, Ryan held Brendon's eyes with a look of wonder, one Brendon had seen every rehearsal, but never lost its shine. It made his heart beat faster than a woodpecker in a tree, and he felt his legs going light. The look in Ryan's eyes, the perfect curve of his smile-he was so, so radiant that Brendon could barely keep his head about him. And when it came time for their stage kiss, they had rehearsed Brendon craning his neck around so the audience only saw the back of his head. Their foreheads would touch instead of their lips, but the crowd watching would know what they were pretending. However, as Brendon looked down at Ryan, seeing Ryan gazing back up at him with something hidden behind the make-up, he leaned in that inch separating their mouths and kissed him gently. For one glorious moment, he felt Ryan’s soft lips part ever so slightly under his, and Brendon forgot he was standing on a wooden stage with people watching his every move. The entire world had suddenly shrunk to only fit Ryan, Brendon, and the ghost of the kiss still tingling on Brendon’s lips.
When he pulled away, feeling like he was on a cloud, he saw Ryan's eyes staring up at him, large and terrified. Brendon's stomach dropped as he realized what he had done. Fear seized him like freezing air, and he stood there petrified for a moment as the weight of his actions started falling upon him-big, heavy boulders of consequences he might face.
He could go to jail for this. He could be put to death for this. Even if he lived, he would have to keep performing with Ryan and live with this shame, and that was a fate worse than death.
Thankfully, Ryan was used to improvising and staying in character. He didn't let the kiss disturb his performance. The show went on and Brendon did what he could to follow his lead. The production went on as planned, but Brendon felt off for the rest of the show. The audience gave them a loud applause as they bowed at the end, but Ryan avoided eye contact for the rest of the night.
As Brendon came off the stage, he felt like he was walking to his execution.
* * *
Peter pulled him off to the side just as Brendon had expected. Whilst everyone else was tearing down the stage and changing back into their normal attire, eyeing him carefully, Peter took him a comfortable distance away from the group to stand under a withering old oak.
Perhaps Brendon had gotten too comfortable with something that should not have been touched on. Perhaps the jokes and teasing everyone else took part in had gotten to his head, given him some wrong impression of how things were within Decaydance. Perhaps Brendon had made some grave error in assuming that their jokes originated from an acceptance of it all.
Whatever had happened, he was in trouble.
"Brendon," he said, sounding like a warning. Brendon lowered his head and waited for the hand to come flying across his face. His shoulders drew together as he anticipated the blow, or at least the extremely hard scolding. "I will not ask you why you did it, but I will ask you to be careful. You could get yourself into a bloody lot of trouble if you do things like that, especially under so many eyes. So I suggest you be more cautious in the future."
Brendon waited for more, but Peter had finished so quickly. Brendon looked up, confused, and said, "You're not going to hit me?"
Peter’s face turned from mild exasperation to almost sympathetic amusement. He chuckled and looked around before leaning in and whispering, "We're not your normal folk, Brendon. The people in their seats didn't see what you did, but it would have been catastrophic if they had. It's dangerous to behave as such in front of most people."
Brendon knew. He had seen men dragged away by soldiers and taken to the castle where they were held in jail or the torture chambers. His brother told him stories about convicted men being impaled or given the Pear of Anguish. Oh, Brendon knew how dangerous it was, which was why Peter's mercy towards his senselessness didn't quite make sense.
"But... what about you? Aren't you angry?" asked Brendon, still not understanding.
Peter placed a hand on his shoulder and said, "Actually, I found it rather entertaining. Never seen Ryan so shaken up, and that boy could use some more excitement in his life. And maybe one day it won’t be a thing to be ashamed of. Until then, you're safe here, Brendon. You did nothing wrong."
Brendon let out a breath that had been practically holding him frozen and said with the utmost sincerity, “Thank you, Peter.”
“Oh, you’re welcome to call me Pete, if you should like. Peter makes me sound so much more proper. And dull.”
With that, he went to see that everything was securely in place before they left to continue on traveling. The others went about their way, pretending they had not been trying to eavesdrop.
When they set up camp that night just off the rural road, Spencer and Jon told him that all the performers had seen the kiss. And instead of telling Brendon what an abomination he was, they laughed about how Ryan's eyes went as big as saucers and Brendon looked like he had been having a religious experience. And for the first time since Brendon came, there was no caution in their eyes when they looked at him. Maybe this slip had been a good thing.
"I'm surprised I’m not fearing for my life at this very moment," Brendon said honestly. Jon patted his shoulder and Spencer smiled.
"We're a different sort of people, you see," Spencer said. He kept his eyes down, like he was holding a secret in them that he didn't want anyone to see.
"Like Pete said," Brendon thought to himself.
Jon laughed and said, "Let me tell you something, Brendon. When Pete used to play leads, he never let anyone else but Patrick play his lady.”
“Or vice versa,” Spencer added, laughing through his nose.
Jon continued, “Take that as a comfort. He would never let you be hurt for something like what you did today."
Brendon cast a glance over to where Pete was curled up against Patrick, head in the redheaded man's lap, and things started making more sense.
* * *
Things went on as usual, or as usual as they could have been considering the group he was gallivanting around England with. Brendon slowly started realizing what sort of crowd he had fallen into. They really were not your normal folk, as Pete tactfully put it. Perhaps it was that comment, the closest thing to acknowledgment that he could hope for, that fully opened his eyes.
Every night, Pete and Patrick slept in the same tent. Jon and Spencer gave each other secret looks when they thought no one else was paying attention. William went back and forth between Gabe and Travis, flirting like a regular coquette. Of course, Gabe made advances on just about everybody. And that was just the start of it.
There were, what most people might have called, “normal folk” amidst the others. They fit in just fine with the rest of them, never making the snide remarks that Brendon was used to hearing about men of that sort. In fact, they seemed to encourage it even if they never participated.
Brendon was unsure about Ryan’s stance on it all. At the very least, he was not bothered by it or else he would not be in Decaydance. Maybe Ryan wasn’t quite the different sort, and that was what has upset him so much. Brendon didn’t know which group he identified himself with. The thought had never crossed him before.
Never in his life had Brendon thought he’d be in a situation like this. His world felt tipped onto its head, and he had to relearn things he thought he knew about men like these. Every horrible thing he had been taught about people of this sort seemed a bit ridiculous. They were people. Nothing more. Even after sixteen years of strict teachings on the matter, things made much more sense when he looked at it like that.
And perhaps all of this helped ease Brendon’s mind as he spent the next week looking at Ryan in his frilly dresses and gorgeous make-up, pining for something he didn’t quite understand yet. He tried not to dwell on that, especially when Ryan was present, but it was there, creeping around the shadowy corners of his mind.
* * *
When Pete told everyone that Petrosinella was to be their next production, he seemed to be especially excited over the idea. Brendon just assumed that Pete took a strange pleasure in playing the nasty, old witch who keeps Petrosinella-Ryan locked up in the tower. Decaydance enjoyed a bit of irony from time to time.
Of course, Brendon was playing the prince that comes to rescue Petrosinella in her tower and run away to elope. It was a very standard role, as Pete had explained to him. All he had to do was act charming and heroic and the rest of the play would carry him on its shoulders. To be quite frank, Brendon didn’t have a hard job being the princely figures. Sometimes Pete would cast him as very different characters, which were interesting only because they were new. Pete liked the popular stories the best. He had an appreciation for the more obscure folk tales, but the ones that had the best reactions from the audience where always what he capitalized on.
Brendon favored the shows that made it necessary for Ryan to wear the most elaborate costumes. As much as he loved the sweet little peasant girl dresses, it was positively marvelous to see Ryan looking like a pretty flower blossoming in his ruffles and fancy make-up, petals of velvet and silk blooming from a corset stem. Whenever Ryan came out in a new costume, it was always an extra little thrill to see how wonderful he looked this time.
And when Brendon rounded the cart one afternoon to see Ryan sitting in their makeshift tower in full costume, he nearly tripped over himself. They had braided a golden blonde wig into the end of a thick, similarly colored rope that hung out of the window and coiled on the ground below. His dress was colored cerulean and trimmed with white lace fluttering around the collar. The sleeves settled just barely off Ryan’s shoulders in a manner that was stunning-if not provocative-on Ryan, whose narrow shoulders and gentle collarbones always made him look a little softer and smoother than regular boys.
Gabe was already at the foot of the tower when Brendon arrived, calling up to Ryan, who was laughing and rolling his eyes. Gabe liked to make a scene when Ryan first came out in costume. This mostly included songs he had improvised and quotes from poets about ravishing beauty and such. The way Gabe would giggle quietly after almost every line made Brendon realize that he was only fooling, but sometimes it was hard to tell when someone was serious or not in this crowd. Especially Gabe.
They favored Ryan, meaning he was the one they poked fun at the most, following it with harmless smiles or playful slaps.
Outside of rehearsals, Pete had taken to using his witch voice whenever he deemed appropriate, particularly around Ryan, curling his fingers in Ryan’s short, boy hair and petting the side of his face. Ryan joked along with him. If Brendon hadn’t known better, he would have supposed that Pete fancied Ryan. Of course, Brendon couldn’t blame him if he truly did. And Ryan seemed to be very fond of Pete in response.
He had once asked Spencer and Jon why Pete liked to dote so much upon Ryan. Spencer had just given him a little chuckle and said, “Pete has always liked young, pretty things. Though he may never prefer Ryan over everyone else, he will always favor Ryan a little because he’s Pete’s young, pretty thing. Also, I think Pete thinks he’s found a kindred spirit in Ryan. Besides, Ryan never stops treating him like he hung the moon…”
He trailed off, seemingly confused, then turned to Jon and said, “Come to think of it, why doesn’t Pete fancy Ryan?”
Jon ruffled Spencer hair and said, “Patrick. They may be beautiful or smart or the bloody Prince of Wales, but no one will ever be Patrick, as far as Pete’s concerned.”
* * *
Petrosinella was a smash hit like Cinderella had been. The audiences were gracious in their applause and sincere in their praise afterwards. Brendon rarely had the opportunity to watch Pete play a character, so that was special. He did a particularly good job as the eerie little witch, which Brendon always found rather amusing. Brendon was ashamed to be surprised when he observed that Pete had a way of working the crowd that was unlike any of the other performers. Though, when Brendon thought about it, it wasn’t even really that he was more talented than the rest of them. Regardless, Pete always drew people’s eye to himself. Brendon still did not understand why.
There were no accidents like what had happened with Cinderella, but Ryan had this wary look in his eyes when Brendon leaned in for their stage kiss that night. It was like he was expecting it ever since Brendon’s first momentary lapse of judgment, and Brendon felt embarrassed every time Ryan narrowed his eyes and flinched as Brendon was pressing their foreheads together. However, he thought it was a tad unfair that Ryan be so overly cautious around him after only one slip. Brendon had never made advances on him any other time, so there was no need for Ryan to be so guarded. During practices, Ryan was always calm and seemingly comfortable, but performances were always like this. Perhaps Ryan thought Brendon might try it while they performed because he knew Ryan wouldn’t back away. For the sake of the play and staying in character, Ryan would never pull away and disrupt the scene. If Brendon were a lower creature, he would have used that to his advantage.
As the days went on and they performed the production in different inn-yards, Ryan slowly settled. By their final night, he was at ease enough to smile up at Brendon when they stage-kissed like one does when they are laughing at the absurdity of something. Brendon smiled back but felt a tiny twinge of some unhappy feeling. It lasted only a moment, and then the show went on.
* * *
Weeks passed, and Brendon forgot what month they were in anymore. He vaguely knew they were in the midst of spring by the looks of the thawing countryside, but he didn’t know how far in they were. Time stopped meaning much besides the pattern of the sun. There was something soothing about living with no sense of time. No stressful dwelling on the future. There was only now, whatever was happening that day. The farthest ahead Brendon ever looked was to their next performance. He enjoyed living day-to-day.
And with the people he’d been traveling with, day-to-day living was the only thing they seemed to know. Only Pete and Patrick had these moments that made Brendon believe that they were plotting something in those daft heads of theirs, things that would take years to make real. Or sometimes, while they would all be traveling down the road, dusty path stretched in front and behind, Pete would look back at all the people following behind him and smile in that secret way that looked like he’d gotten something he’d been planning his whole life. Or perhaps more than he had ever imagined.
There had been one night in the woods with everyone huddled around the fire when Pete had told Brendon what his eventual dream was for Decaydance.
“A theatre here in England, bigger than you can imagine. I’ve traveled to the theatres and opera houses in France and Italy and I will never, in all my years, forget how beautiful they were,” said Pete, leaning his back against Patrick’s shoulder. Then he looked at Brendon with a resolute smile and said, “We can do it better.”
Brendon couldn’t help but believe him.
The way Pete talked about it, stars in his eyes, made Brendon want it too. And he didn’t care that he would be practicing and performing his arse off just to scrape by, some nights. The important thing was that he was doing something he adored with people he cared about, people who loved their art more than bread, more than comfort or social standing. They were artists.
Brendon liked the sound of that.
* * *
After practices, Brendon, Ryan, Spencer, and Jon would clump together and titter about the rehearsal that day. Often times, it was over cards. Sometimes they would just sprawl out on the grass as everyone else pitched their shoddy tents and talked.
Brendon liked those three boys the most, he decided. Everything felt so easy when he was with them.
“I’m attempting to mend that tear in your dress for the day after tomorrow,” Spencer said to Ryan over his hand of yellowing cards. “But I was told to inform you to stop being so clumsy or else your roles are going to be given to William. Pete’s words, not mine.”
“Surely.” Ryan rolled his eyes. He looked sideways at Brendon and said, “If someone hadn’t tripped me.”
“Complete accident, I assure you,” Brendon said innocently. Ryan snorted sarcastically and rested his elbows on the old crate they had centered their game around.
“And really,” Ryan said, “can you imagine putting Brendon next to William?” He put his cards down to raise his hands, palm down, at two very different levels.
Jon and Spencer tried to restrain laughter while Brendon gave them sour looks. In order to play opposite Ryan, who was an inch or so taller than Brendon, they always put Ryan in flat slippers and Brendon in thick-heeled boots to at least level things out. Ryan was proportioned in a way that made him look like he was supposed to be small anyway. That helped a little.
Spencer picked up a card from the deck and discarded another one from his hand. “Pete’s trying to think about the next play. He wanted to know if we had any suggestions.”
They were thoughtfully quiet for a few moments, and Brendon tried to consider a tale he’d like to perform. He couldn’t remember his parents telling him many folk tales.
They sat in pensive silence until Ryan hesitantly said, “I need a rest.”
“Set your cards down and we won’t go too far into the game without you,” said Jon, waving his empty hand towards the crate.
“No, I was referring to performing,” Ryan said, even quieter than before. Brendon wasn’t sure if Ryan was afraid to say it or uncertain if that was really what he wanted. He sounded conflicted.
Jon scratched his beard. The corners of his mouth dipped downward and he tilted his head, almost as if he was shrugging without using his shoulders. “I suppose no one would mind as long as you took on some other task instead. You can always do the make-up like you used to.”
“Will Pete consent to that?” asked Brendon.
“When you’ve been with Decaydance as long as some of us have, Pete starts trusting your judgment better than his own,” explained Jon with a fond smile.
“Good thing for that, eh?” Spencer added.
* * *
The next play they put on put Spencer opposite Brendon.
“Ha,” Spencer barked out when he had first heard. “We need to find stilts for our tiny little prince.”
“You have to be a real man to be able to handle Spencer,” Jon noted, earning him a sideways glance from Spencer and a private smile that Brendon pretended he didn’t catch. Though, he did laugh when Spencer punched Jon in the arm and knocked him off balance.
When the night of the performance came, all the night lamps lit in the inn-yard and the crowd gathering with curiosity, Brendon felt… off. Something felt strange and unbalanced for a reason he could not pinpoint, and it was no different when he got on stage. Even in character, he felt like something was wrong.
It was Spencer. Spencer was great; he knew his lines and knew how to execute them, but something wasn’t right about him playing opposite Brendon. Things just did not fall into place like they usually did onstage for Brendon.
The show ended with mediocre applause from a crowd that had thinned through the performance. Brendon was struck with guilt. If he had only stayed in character, everything would have been fine. He should not have let something as tiny as unfamiliarity with Spencer get the best of him.
Thankfully, Gabe had turned out to be an excellent gambler, bringing in more money than they had earned for the performance. The money may not have been as good as normal, but Decaydance had run on less. Still, Brendon sulked as he helped load up the carts afterwards.
“Everyone has bad nights, Brendon,” Pete said, handing him a wide plank of wood painted like a rosebush.
Brendon shrugged and wedged the fake bush between two costume trunks, careful to avoid splinters. “I feel I could have done better.”
“The chemistry was wrong,” Pete decided. “You were both performing fine, but the audience couldn’t feel it like they should in good theatre.”
“I’m sorry.” Brendon didn’t know what else to say.
“The fault is not yours. It’s mine. I should have noticed in rehearsals that it wasn’t right. Actually, I should have known even before that,” Pete said with a knowing smirk.
Brendon looked back at him blankly.
Pete’s smirk bloomed into a full grin as he said, “Everyone is very aware that you work best with Ryan. There’s good chemistry.”
Brendon’s eyes fell to the ground and he walked away muttering, “He’s just… a talented actor.”
* * *
Part One -- Part Two -- Part Three