you're my human holiday | ryan ross/brendon urie | part 2 of 3

[whisperdlullaby]

part one | part two | part three

The second the front door shuts behind us, Brendon says, “We should call the agency tomorrow. It can take a really long time, and I’d like to have the baby by the time I’m thirty.” He’s still beaming, so much he’s practically glowing, and I wonder how much he’d hate me if I told him I had already changed my mind?

He tugs on my t-shirt, pulling me into him. “I don’t know why you’re suddenly doing all of this,” he murmurs into my jaw, “but - thanks.” He tilts his head up, catching my bottom lip between his. “Thank you. I’ve wanted this for so long.”

I swallow, nodding briefly. Maybe I’ll just wait to tell him.

It’s still dark inside our house, neither one of us bothering to switch on the light, and the dogs dance around our feet, yapping and jumping at our legs. Brendon slips a hand up my shirt, fingers tickling the skin around my bellybutton. “I love you,” he whispers as my back hit’s the wall. “I love you, and I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather do this with.”

The why dances at my tongue, but I swallow it back before it has a chance to escape. I nod against his mouth instead, kissing him harder. All I want to do is enjoy these kisses while they last. They’ll most likely be in very short supply once I tell him I can’t actually go through with this.

Cupping onto my jaw, he pushes his tongue mouth, warm and dirty. He re-hooks his fingers into my belt loops and begins to tug me towards the staircase, smiling against my lips. “Well, I hear celibacy is all the rage with parents,” he teases, feet hitting the back of the stairs, “so we might as well get as much in as we can now, huh?”

I laugh, cock jumping inside my jeans. It’s amazing that he can make me feel like a teenager all over again. I slip my hands up the front of his shirt, pulling it up, and groan, “Yes, please.”

Smiling, he pulls away and races me up the stairs.

*

The next day, while Brendon spends his third consecutive hour on the phone with baby agency after baby agency, I sneak out to the back porch to call Jon.

I feel nervous doing so, which is almost ridiculous to me, because, after all, the man had been one of my best friends. However, I don’t think either one of us could deny that things had gotten weird between us ever since Brendon and I had gotten back together.

When the band split, it was no question that they no longer got along. The last few months consisted of what seemed like an immature rivalry between high school cliques; Brendon and Spencer, and Jon and me. We’d separate ourselves on opposite ends of the bus, only speak to each other when forced with extra ice added, and whisper mean, biting things behind each other’s back before one day in Africa it blew up, and that was that. While I had eventually mended things with Spencer and Brendon, the same thing never quite happened with Jon. He acted like he didn’t care, that he understood, but things were never the same between us. We kept in touch with phone calls and hollow promises to visit each other, ones that we never quite met until his wedding.

When we had gotten the invitation in the mail two winters back, addressed to Ryan Ross plus one guest, Brendon took one look at it, plastered on a fake smile, and said, “Send him my best regards.” Even Spencer was invited, but he sent him his deepest condolences for not being able to attend, and spent the weekend in Disneyland with Brendon and Haley instead. So, I had flown out to Chicago alone, and when I gave Jon Brendon’s regards, he did no more than send me the same fake smile Brendon had and promptly changed the subject. For the rest of the visit, whenever he was brought up in conversation, things turned awkward, sour almost, and in the end, I flew home feeling more disappointed than anything.

Now I can only imagine what he’s going to say when I inform him that I’m not only getting married to Brendon, but also having a fucking kid with him too.

He picks up on the third ring, greeting me with a warm, overly-familiar rumble of his voice. No matter how long it’s been it still brings me the same comfort; reminding me that even after it all, even after months of not talking, he’ll always be a friend of mine. “Hey, Ross! How’s it going, bud?”

“Good, Great.” I take a deep breath. It’s better I get this over with now, or I never will. “So, look, I have some news.”

“Yeah?”

I bite onto my lip, tightening my grip on the railing. Down on the shore, two kids are playing, splashing around in the water and laughing. Further back on the beach, the parents sit, watching while spread out on towels. “I - ” I pause, then rephrase, “Well, I just wanted you to know that I, um. Well, I’m getting married.”

“Married?” he repeats in disbelief. “To who?”

“Jon. Shit.” I huff in frustration, running my hand across my forehead. This might be even more painful than I anticipated. “To Brendon.”

My reply comes in the form of silence on the other line for a minute, maybe two. I’m fairly positive he was expecting us to break up, just like we had the first time. I couldn’t really blame him at the time, because even Spencer had his apprehensions. It wasn’t the first time we had gotten back together, and then together again and once more.

Finally, after minutes of clenching and unclenching my fist from the metal rail, he says, “Oh.” Then, “Wow. Shit, man. That’s big.”

“Yeah,” I agree, forcing a nervous laugh.

“Well, uh. Congrats.”

“Thank you.” There’s another pause, awkward and thick even with the miles between us, and I say, “I’d like it if you came.”

“Oh. Uh. You sure Brendon would like that?”

I hadn’t been so sure myself. When I asked him this morning, he looked hesitant, and for a minute there I was sure he was going to say no, but then he was shrugging and smiling as he said, “I don’t care who comes. All that matters is that I’m getting married to you.” I had rolled my eyes and called him cheesy, before ducking my and smiling like an idiot to myself. I didn’t tell him I actually felt the same.

“He’s fine with it.”

“Okay,” he drags out, slowly, like he’s not so sure he wants to get himself into this. It’s a step up from him laughing in my face like I had expected, at least. “Well, when is it?”

“I’m not sure yet,” I reply, vaguely recalling Brendon saying something about a beach wedding. “Probably next the summer.”

“Okay, well - ”

“We’re also adopting a kid,” I blurt out without a second thought.

The silence that drags between us is even longer this time, and I close my eyes, listening to Brendon chat away through the screen door. I hear fiancé, and married, and family.

“What?”

“You know, like. From an agency,” I say, stupidly.

“Yeah.” He coughs. “Yeah, I got it.”

I don’t know what else to say, so I settle on saying nothing at all. I bet he’s recalling one of our drunken nights spent together, where I rambled about how I’d never have a kid, fucking them up even more than my dad did me. I’m still confused myself as to how I ended up that guy, to where I am now, with my fiancé on the phone with an adoption agency.

Eventually, after a few minutes, Jon’s the one to break the silence with, “Well, I can’t say I expected this.”

“Neither did I,” I admit.

“So, when did you decide all of this?”

“Um.” I fiddle with my ring on my finger, the early afternoon sunlight reflecting off the gold. “Pretty recently. It’s been a few months in the making.”

“Well, congratulations,” he says once again. “I’m sure you’ll love it.” I can’t quite tell whether he means it or not, but I’m not sure that I really want to know.

We make idle chat between us for awhile, but I can tell there’s a strain as we force out conversation, where I pretend I didn’t drop this bomb on him.

I hear the screen door shut behind me while Jon’s telling me about his new cat, Oscar. A warm body presses against me a moment later, arms wrapping around my chest and a head against my back. Brendon’s warm breath soaks through my shirt, and into my skin.

I cut the conversation off with Jon, telling him I have to help with lunch, and without saying it, I can tell he’s relieved. It’s still strange to me how far our lives have become when they once used to be so intertwined.

Once I pocket my phone, Brendon slides his hand up my arm, and rests it against mine, finger brushing against my ring. “So, how’d he take it?” he asks into my ear.

“Okay,” I reply, confused as to whether I’m lying or not.

He nods against my shoulder, and after a few moments of watching the kids play down the beach, he says, “We have an appointment to meet with an adoption agency tomorrow, as well as a few others this week, just so we can see what the best one out there is, you know? Just to be sure. And I emailed that couple we met in Hawaii that one time, you remember, Dane and Elie? With the two kids?“ I nod, and he continues, “Well, I asked them what agency they went with. Too bad that one was only in New York. But they told me they have friends out here who adopted, and gave me the agency name.”

“Okay,” I manage, throat suddenly dry and head racing. I take a deep breath, and turn my head, lips brushing against his cheek. “So, we’re really doing this, huh?”

“I think so,” he murmurs, a smile on his lips as they hover over mine. “We’re going to be dads.”

“Who would’ve thought.” I laugh, even though the both of us know it’s not far from the truth.

“Yeah,” he agrees softly, mouth turned up against my jaw. “Who would’ve thought.”

*

While going around from agency to agency, I figured that choosing one was the hardest part of the entire process, that after all we’d have to do is sit back and wait for the phone to ring. It’s not until after that I find out just how wrong I was.

The next couple of months are a blur of meetings, home visits, intrusive questioning, and paper after paper that I’m sure must’ve killed an entire rainforest. If I was nervous about this whole kid thing before, the constant hounding on my childhood and then my life as rockstar does not make me feel any more confidant on my parenting abilities. By the time it came to an end, even Brendon seemed exhausted and vaguely uneasy.

Now, they told us, is our time to sit back and anxiously wait. Some couples can wait for months for even a phone call, years even. It’s not that either one of us expected to have a bouncing baby in our home in a matter of weeks, but when the agency told us it could take even longer for same-sex couples, Brendon’s disappointment wasn’t hard to miss.

He smiles afterward, and while he may have had no problem fooling others, I know it’s all wrong in the matter of moments. “It’s okay, you know. That it takes awhile.” He takes my hand from across the console, and gives it a squeeze. “It gives us a chance to get married, and like, settle into it for a bit, you know?”

“Yeah, exactly.” I agree, but my mind is still somewhere stuck between filling form after form, question after question. It had been the most draining ordeal that I have ever been through, and now that it’s finally over, all I really want to do is go home and sleep for the next twenty years. Somehow, I get the feeling this whole baby-thing would be much easier if one of us was a girl. Easier, and a whole lot more fun.

“You don’t really think it’ll take years, do you?” he asks. He bites onto his lip, a worried expression on his face like he’s not sure whether he wants to know the truth.

I turn into our driveway, waiting a moment before replying. Brendon looks at me once we’ve parked, hope filled high in his eyes, waiting for reassurance. Eventually, I say, “I hope not,” and I’m surprised by my own honesty.

*

The last thing we expect is to get a call from the agency two weeks and three days later.

“I have some great news,” our caseworker says through the speaker that Brendon and I are crowded around. “There’s a young woman here who looked over your profile, and is very interested in meeting with you.”

Brendon’s hand flies out to my arm and squeezes, hard enough to stop blood flow. “Oh my god! Are you serious?” he cries, grinning madly. He looks happier than I can ever remember seeing him, and that alone causes my own grin to spread from ear to ear.

“I am!”

“Oh!” Brendon says, entire body vibrating. “This is awesome. Thank you. Oh my god.” He turns to look at me, teeth white and eyes shining.

There’s even something stirring in my own insides that feels an awful lot like excitement.

We make an appointment to meet with her the following Tuesday, and once we hang up, Brendon all but tackles me onto the couch. His hands fly to my shoulders, giving them a shake before he leans down to attack me with fervent kisses. “We’re going to be parents,” he chatters excitedly into my lips. “We’re going to have a baby. We’re going to be dads.” He beams into my lips, and says, “We’re going to be a family.”

I swallow, gut twisting. I can’t tell if it’s from my own excitement, or just nerves. Maybe both.

“Family,” I echo, and he grins, wide and breathtaking.

*

“So, I invited my parents over this weekend.”

I look up from the television, shooting him a horrified look.

He sighs. “We have to tell them. I’ve already been putting it off for weeks. Months even.” He flicks his hand in the air, ring catching the light, and I know he’s right. We’ve already been engaged for two months and three days, and he hasn’t told anyone in his family. I, on the other hand, just don’t have anyone to tell. Then again, even if my father was alive, telling him I was dating a guy would be out of the question. And getting married to one? Well, there wouldn’t even be a point because I’d be dead by the time my wedding day rolled around, anyway.

It’s not that Brendon’s parents don’t like me, it’s just that - well, okay, they don’t like me. Ever since we were teenagers, I was the bad influence with the tight pants, make-up and devil music. Goes without saying, they weren’t exactly thrilled when they found out that under bad influence, they could also add corrupted their son into liking men. If only they had opened their eyes wide enough to realize that their son was a flaming queer even before I came along.

“It won’t be so bad,” Brendon insists, but I’m not sure who out of the two of us he’s trying to convince more. Curling up to my side, he strokes a hand through my hair. “They’re only coming in Friday evening, and they’ll be driving back Saturday night so they can go to church on Sunday. Plus, they’ll be happy I’m getting married. That I’ll actually give them grandkids.”

“I don’t think that’s exactly what they were hoping for,” I add, dryly. Brendon’s face falls, shoulders slouchy, and I instantly wish I could take it back. When I said thick-headed idiot, I did mean myself. “No, I mean. You know what I mean.“ I wrap my arm around his waist, and lightly brush my mouth against his temple. “They kind of really hate me,” I murmur, nose against his skin.

“They don’t hate you,” he argues feebly. I shoot him a sceptical look, and he folds his arms over his chest, stubborn. “They don’t okay? They’re just - it’s just how they are, okay?”

I snort in disbelief, and say, turning back to the television, “I think they’d be a lot warmer to me if I was a Mormon woman.”

“Yeah, but they would also like me a lot more if I was a Mormon woman,” he points out. The sad thing is, he’s probably right.

“I just don’t think they’re going to be happy about it,” I say after a moment. On screen, Pam’s water breaks in the car, and I blink, before promptly changing to the news.

Brendon lets out another laugh as his hand finds its way back to my hair. It’s a nervous habit of his that I’ve picked up on over the years; instead of playing with his hair, he plays with mine. “It’ll be okay,” he says, tucking his knees into his chest. Against my arm, I can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest.

“Are you sure?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.

He nods, and then twirls a strand of hair hanging by my ear. A minute passes, and then he says, “You might want to get a haircut though.”

*

Brendon spends the entire day Friday cleaning every last inch of the house. I help for the first half an hour, but then I put the salt and pepper shaker in the wrong cupboard and he tells me I’m making even more of a mess and to go to Spencer’s. I don’t protest.

We take our rings off before his parents arrive, leaving them above the fridge where the dogs can’t get to them (“Knowing my parents, it’ll be the first thing they see, and I’d like to ease into it,” Brendon reasoned. Again, I wasn’t going to argue).

Five minutes before they’re supposed to come, Brendon looks seconds away from vomiting all over the sautéed mushroom steak he spent hours on. I do the only thing I can think of, and run a comforting hand along his arm, murmuring, “It’ll be fine.” He sends me an appreciative smile, relaxing into my touch, even though he knows I don’t believe a word of it myself.

They arrive at six on the dot, and Brendon greets them with hugs and a kiss on the cheek. I don’t know what else to do, so I settle with an awkward handshake. We all pretend that the smiles and ‘hello, nice to see you’s exchanged between us aren’t entirely fake.

The meal Brendon made was a recipe from Spencer, and the evening mostly consists of talk between the three of them, myself only included after one of Brendon’s numerous attempts. Even then, it doesn’t last long before they’re turning back to Brendon and asking if he’s planning on getting a job, or if he’s talking to Brianne or Chrissy or Justine from church.

Near the end of the meal, his mother asks, “How is Sarah doing? Have you seen her lately?”

Brendon chokes over his scalloped potatoes, and I try not to do the same to my own. “Sarah? Like my ex, Sarah?”

She nods, unfazed.

Brendon stares back at her, perplexed, like he can’t believe she’d ask such a thing. The only thing I’m confused about is why he’s confused. I’m not even her son, and I would’ve bet money that she’d ask something like that.

“Mom - what. No.” He shakes his head. “I haven’t talked to her in years.”

“That’s too bad,” she replies, stabbing a piece of spinach with her fork. “She was a nice girl.”

“Mom.”

“What?” She looks up at him, blankly, as if she doesn’t have a clue what she’s done wrong. Next to her, Brendon’s dad sits quietly, chewing on a piece of steak.

Brendon shakes his head, and then proceeds to stare down at his empty plate, face pulled together into a tight frown. The dinner is going awful, exactly like I expected. I wonder if he’s changed his mind on telling them yet. We can get married and adopt a kid without them ever knowing, can’t we?

Suddenly, Brendon’s lifting himself from his plate, an expression on his face that doesn’t do a whole lot more than worry me. Reaching towards me, he takes a hold of my hand over the table, in perfect view of his parents judgemental gaze. I stare down at it, cheeks reddening, as his parents do the same. His palms are sweaty.

The plan was to wait until dessert to tell them, but that’s quickly looking to not be the case.

“Mom, dad, we have something to tell you.”

Oh, shit. I blanch. Here we go.

They both stare back at us, gaze dropping to our hands then back again, hands frozen on their cutlery. They don’t say a word.

Brendon takes his bottom lip between his lip, and sneaks a glance at me, as if looking for reassurance. I’m not feeling too reassured myself, so I can’t do much but stare blankly back at him. “Uh - ” He shifts his gaze back to his parents across the table, and takes a deep breath, squeezing my fingers until they go numb. “Well, we’re getting married.” I can tell he’s trying to sound confident, but with the shake in his voice, it comes out all wrong.

I stare down at my plate.

The silence that follows is long; too long. I don’t have to look up to see both of their expressions clear in my mind.

“And we’re adopting a baby,” he adds in a moment later.

God, he’s braver than I expected.

Finally, after minutes drag on, hours even, Brendon’s mom says, “Brendon, is this some kind of joke? Because if it is, I can’t say I find it too amusing.”

“No, mom,” Brendon replies with a tensed jaw, “it’s not a joke.”

“Can you - Is that even possible?” Mr. Urie asks.

“Same-sex marriage was made legal like, two years ago,” he replies, agitation thick on his voice.

They both look shocked, like this is news to them, even though I distinctively remember the day it passed and Brendon called them. He had been so excited and bubbly when he had first gotten on the phone with them, grin spread from ear to ear, but by the time he got off, his expression was darkened, fists clenched into tight balls at his side. I hadn’t really expected anything different from them.

The conversation comes to an end after that, and while I couldn’t be more relieved, Brendon stares down at his plate in misery. I don’t think he expected it to go much better, but I’m sure he hoped for it. There are a million things I want to say them, yell to them. Why can’t they just be happy for their son? Do they have some sick enjoyment hurting him like this? I don’t say any of it though; I can’t, because as much as we can’t stand each other, I still want them to like me, for Brendon’s sake.

I do the only thing I can do with them sitting across from us, and squeeze his hand still attached to mine. He doesn’t look up from his plate, but I can feel the lightest squeeze back. It’s something, at least.

*

The next morning I wake up to an empty bed, and the faint imprint of Brendon’s body in the sheets next to me. I linger in bed awhile longer, dreading the long day to come. We have plans for an afternoon at the beach, and reservations at a popular restaurant on Sunset Strip before their drive back home. I’m not sure how any of us are going to survive the day, not with the inescapable tension as we all try to pretend that last nights conversation didn’t happen.

Finally, I force myself out of bed and tread downstairs, hoping to snag some already made coffee. There’s the sound of dishes clattering from inside the kitchen, and as I approach I can hear the muffled voices of Brendon and his mom, thickly tense, even from down the hallway. I slow once I near the doorway, stopping where I’m out of view. It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to catch onto their topic of conversation.

“I’m just not so sure it’s a good idea, Brendon,” Mrs. Urie reasons.

“And why not?” he counters, sharply.

Giving a long sigh, she says, “Marriage is one thing, but raising a child? What happens when you two split up, and then - ”

“We are not going to break-up,” he snaps. Even though I can’t see him through the wall, I can imagine what he must look like; arms crossed over his chest, face puffed in anger. It’s always been difficult for me to take Brendon seriously when he’s angry. How could I when twenty minutes after scolding the dogs for using our new, Italian sofa as a chew-toy, he was coddling them and telling them he was sorry for being mean?

“Brendon, he’s unstable,” she says in a lowered voice.

Slumping against the wall, my heart plunges, feeling like I’ve been punched in the gut. There’s a moment of silence, but even from outside of the kitchen, I can feel the words hanging heavy and unforgiving. Unstable.

I’m unstable.

“Ryan isn’t unstable, he’s perfectly fucking - ”

“Don’t swear,” Mr. Urie interrupts.

There’s another pause as Brendon sucks in a deep breath. He tries again, slow and drug out, “He’s stable, mother. He’s stable and we’re happy, okay? And if - ”

“What happens when he starts drinking again? What about drugs? He’s had problems in the past, hasn’t he? Don’t think that I don’t remember, Brendon. I remember when - ”

Blood rushes to my face, and I try to remind myself that this is Brendon’s mom. This is what she does. She’s always found reasons to hate me, to hate the band, to hate everything Brendon’s wanted to do outside of the church and her expectations. It doesn’t stop it from hurting though, it never does. It’s something I always feared was true, but hoped wasn’t, and now it’s here, flashing like a warning sign I can’t ignore.

“Mom. Would you stop? It’s not going to happen!” he snaps, voice laced with heavy frustration. “He’s probably had three drinks since we’ve gotten back together, and not once has he been drunk.”

“And - ”

“And no. There’s been no drugs, either.”

“I’m just saying, he’s been down that path before. And now you’re telling me you want to add a child, making it not only you that - ”

“Mom,” Brendon hisses with added bite. “Would you please just shut up?”

“Brendon - ” Mr. Urie warns, but Brendon ignores him.

“I know Ryan a lot better than you do, and I know it’s not going to happen. You might not approve of him or that I’m gay, but the fact is, is that I am, and I love him. I’m sorry if it’s not what you wanted. I’m sorry it’s not some nice, Mormon woman from the church. I’m sorry for disappointing you once again by treading off this perfect path you had planned out for all your children. But whether you accept it or not, it’s him I’m going to marry, and him I’m going to have a family with.”

There’s more crashing of dishes, silverware against porcelain, and if Mrs. Urie says something, I don’t hear it.

“Is it really so hard for you to be happy for me?” Brendon asks after a moment, sounding quiet and vulnerable.

“Brendon - ”

There’s shuffling and the sound of footsteps growing closer on the linoleum. I don’t have the chance to move, pretend I wasn’t eavesdropping, before Brendon appears in front of me, a plate of pancakes and coffee juggled in his hands. He stares at me, face draining of colour. I don’t know what else to do by look back at him, caught, wounded like a victim in a fight I never stood a chance in.

His parents follow soon after, stopping behind Brendon at the sight of me, alarmed expressions mirroring his. Silence falls over the four of us, tense and awkward and all too horrifying.

I force a smile, and say, “Good morning.”

Brendon looks as if he might cry, while Mr. and Mrs. Urie appear only vaguely uncomfortable. I’ve always been a horrible liar.

“Um. I just wanted to see if there was some, uh, coffee.” Without another word I duck past them, and into the kitchen.

There’s murmuring on the other side of the wall, Brendon’s harsh tone clear above the others. There’s a low, angry churning in my gut, and while I can’t place my finger on the exact feeling, I don’t like it. Everything she said is what I’ve known myself - what’s true, but no one else has had the balls to say to my face.

When Brendon comes into the kitchen a moment later, I’m leaning against the counter, staring at the large collection of photos that litter our fridge. They’re mostly of Brendon’s family, but there’s a few of us together, a few of the band, Spencer and Haley and Arianna, Zack, Shane. There’s even a small picture of my dad and I from when I was younger, tucked into the bottom corner. No matter how miniscule and hidden it is among the others, it’s still the first thing I see every time.

“Ry.” Placing the dishes on the counter, he flies over to me, wrapping his arms around my waist and burying his face into my chest. I stand there, solid, staring at the top of his head. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, voice muffled into my wrinkled t-shirt. “I didn’t want you to hear that.” I count fifty ticks of the clock, and the dogs barking in the living room before Brendon’s adding, quiet, “It’s not true, okay? You know it’s not.” He tilts his head to look at me, but I shift my gaze away, avoiding his eyes. “You know that, right? Please, Ry, they don’t know what they’re talking about.” His tone is rushed and too high, how it is whenever he becomes anxious or frightened.

I don’t want to have this conversation. Not now, not with his parents on the other side of the wall, talking in hushed voices. Talking about me. I don’t want to have this conversation ever.

“It’s okay. It’s fine. Don’t worry about it,” I lie, shrugging him off. I move over to the dishes he’s abandoned, and he watches after me, helpless. “Are these mine?”

“Ry - ”

“Brendon,” I respond, evenly, taking the warm cup of coffee into my hands. His eyes flick towards the door, and then back to mine. I hold his gaze for a second, and watch as his shoulders cave, surrendering.

He moves over to me, slowly, and rests his head back on my shoulder, breathing out through his mouth. “They’ll be gone soon,” he murmurs, “and then it’ll be back to normal.” He looks up at me, hopeful, like he already knows it won’t be that easy.

I nod, just barely, even though I know it won’t be either. It’s never that easy; not with us.

His fingers brush my ear, and quiet, sounding almost weak, he says, “Just don’t push me away, okay?”

“Okay,” I reply, throat dry.

Squeezing my arm, he sends me a brief smile, but it‘s all wrong. “The pancakes are for you too.” I nod, and he pecks me a kiss before turning and disappearing down the hallway.

The pancakes are cold.

*

The day goes as expected; long and excruciating with forced smiles and idle chat as we all pretend nothing happened like it did. In the end, Brendon’s parents cut it short, giving us the excuse of Mr. Urie’s diabetes and the long drive home. I might’ve bought it if it weren’t for Brendon murmuring in my ear, voice laced with bite, “He’s had diabetes since I was a kid. He’s never had a problem driving before.” Either way, neither of us argued.

Unfortunately, even though his parents leave, their presence doesn’t. For the next week, Brendon tiptoes around me, speaking in only a soft and kind tone, telling me I’ll make a great husband, and an even better father every chance given. Each day, his parents’ words repeat in my mind, and each day, I’m feeling less sure that this is a good choice.

We meet with Amanda, the prospective adoptive mother on Tuesday. All tension goes on hold for the day, as Brendon bounces around the house, beaming brighter than the sun the ride there. I can’t help but feel a twinge of happiness myself, Brendon’s excitement leaking into me through osmosis. I can’t help it, it’s contagious.

Brendon is full out shaking by the time we arrive at the agency office, and I have to hold my hand to his knee while wait in the uncomfortable waiting room chairs. Decorating the ocean green walls are framed photos of families and children laughing, stable and without a single thought that it will turn out to be any less than perfect. Above us is a picture of two men grinning down at a newborn baby, it’s tiny fist wrapped around one of their fingers.

“I can’t believe this is happening so soon.” I can feel Brendon’s grin against my ear as he pecks me a linger kiss below. It tickles.

Just when I’m sure Brendon might spontaneously combust with nerves, the adoption worker, Beth, tells us Amanda’s ready for us and leads us down the hallway. She tells us Amanda was interested in giving to a same-sex couple, preferably males, and ours was the second application she looked over before demanding a meeting. I sneak a look at Brendon, feeling my stomach drop, but he continues smiling, seemingly unconcerned.

She leads us into another pastel coloured room, more happy families spread across the walls. On the couch directly across from us sit’s a girl who I can only assume is Amanda.

She’s young, as expected, no older than twenty. She’s strikingly pretty, with an oval face and long, golden brown hair that reminds me of my childhood. She’s tiny, no more than 5’5, and underneath her small t-shirt, the littlest bump protrudes. For a split second, I’m worried Brendon might run up to her and start rubbing and cooing at her belly like he did to Haley. I wouldn’t put it past him.

She stands up, grinning wide and eyes shining as Beth introduces us. I know that look too well. “I’ll leave you guys alone to get to know each other,” she says. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”

As soon the door clicks shut behind Beth, Amanda’s crying, “Oh my god! It is you!”

Brendon shoots me a sideways glance, expression unreadable, although, the certain gleam in his eye has dimmed. “Um, it is?” he confirms, laughing uneasily.

“I was such a big fan.”

“Oh. Really? That’s - awesome,” Brendon falters, straining a smile, anticipation deflating.

A fan. Of course. How hadn’t we known? What had we expected when we were called after only two weeks? We should’ve known it was only a fan that came across our application, recognized our names, and decided it was a sure way to meet the members of her once favourite band. It has been a couple of years since the band went on a break, but I’m beginning to realize it never stops.

“Wow,” she says, tucking a strand of curl behind her ear. “This is so cool.”

Brendon pushes out another uneasy laugh, his disappointment written clearly across his face.

I almost expect her to whip out a camera and CD for us to sign, but instead, she takes a seat, smoothing a hand along her belly. She smiles, humorously. “Well, now that I’m done reliving my seventeen year-old self, I guess we should discuss some stuff, huh?”

Brendon knits his eyebrows together, mine mirroring without meaning. “Yeah?” he asks, tone hopeful and twined with confusion.

“Well, yeah.” She gives a strange look, laughing slightly. “I may have loved your band religiously when I was a teenager, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to give you my baby just like that.”

“You - You still want to - ” Brendon stops, looking between the two of us, eyes regaining colour. I bite back an amused smile, and reach for his hand.

For a moment she stares between our intertwined hands, awed, and I have to force myself to stay holding on despite my growing discomfort. I might be better than I used to, but still, showing my affection in front of others is not something I’ve quite mastered yet. Finally, though, she blinks up at Brendon, and frowns. “You didn’t think I just wanted to meet you and get my picture taken, did you?”

Brendon sneaks another glance at me. He shrugs, guiltily, a shameful expression darkening across his face.

Laughing, she shakes her head and motions to the chairs sitting across from her. “Sit down. Tell me about yourselves. Why I should give you my baby.” She smiles, expression soft, hand splayed across her small bump.

Brendon’s face lights up at the motion. I’m caught between feeling happy for him, and scared for myself.

Pulling his hand from mine, he practically skips over to a chair, making himself comfortable as he flashes her a wild grin. His smile is something that never changes, never ages, even as seasons pass and years go by; even as we change. It’s consistent, a comfort. Something I know that will always be there. No matter what tough times we go through, arguments, or babies that I don’t want, we can get through it. We’ll be okay.

“Well, we’ve been together for four years,” Brendon begins as I take the seat next to him, feeling tense and wound together like an old telephone chord. He sneaks a look at me, and I wonder if he can tell. “Well, like… I guess for two years or so years before that, but that was - ”

“Not official,” I add in quickly. The details of our dysfunctional past, isn’t something the woman considering us her baby wants to hear.

“Yeah. Not official. But we’re good now. Great.” He nods, vigorously. As if realizing his mistake he sneaks me another look, fear flashing through his eyes.

“We have a house in Malibu,” I tell Amanda. If Brendon starts to freak out now, any hope we have is gone. “On the beach.”

She nods, expression unreadable.

“Yeah. We lived there for a few years now. We have two extra bedrooms that are perfect for a kids room. Um. There’s a really good private school just down the road.”

“There are lots of kids around us,” I add in.

“Yeah, a lot,” Brendon agrees, nodding vehemently. “And, um, our friend, Spencer - ” he stops, noting the pleased smile sweeping across her face. “Well, yeah,” he says, laughing. “You know Spencer. Anyways, he lives just a few houses down, and he and his wife just had a baby girl not that long ago. So, the - um, well the baby would have an automatic life-long best friend. Or a secured wife, whichever.” He laughs, again, but then abruptly stops, looking at me with wide, worried eyes. “I mean, not that I’d force him or her to be friends with Arianna. They could do whatever they want. They could hate her if they wanted,” he adds, hurriedly. “It’d be completely okay. You know, what they want.”

Amanda laughs, eyes twinkling with amusement, and I don’t know what else to do but chuckle along with her. Brendon looks at me, eyes round and cheeks flushed, begging for me to save him.

“I’m sorry.” He swallows. “I’m just so nervous. I - I mean, we - we just really, really want a child. Ever since I was a kid myself I knew I wanted to be a dad, and then there was a time I realized I was a gay, where I thought I’d never get the chance. And now - now I have a fiancé, and it’s here, and it’s so close, and I’m just freaking out. I’m sorry.”

Reaching over, I take his shaking hand into mine, lacing our fingers together.

Amanda remains quiet, only leading to Brendon’s heightening anxiety as he flicks his eyes insistently between the two of us. Eventually, she looks over at me, and asks, evenly, “And you really want a baby too, Ryan?”

There’s a way she looks at me, face blank but eyes all-knowing, that makes me feel as if she unzipped me from the outside. That she can see every doubt, every flaw that decorates my insides. I swallow, feeling caught like a deer drowned in headlights. “Well, I - Yeah, of course. Of course I do.” It’s too high, too squeaky, my eyes falling from hers without constraint. In that moment, I know I’ve blown it for Brendon.

Brendon has always been a bad liar; but I’ve always been worse.

He catches my eye, but he doesn’t look scared anymore, only hurt. Guilty even. A moment passes, and he looks away, eyes falling to his lap. I stare at the top of his head, stomach twisting into knots.

We spend the remaining ten minutes, filling in the missing pieces of our lives. Our family (or, my lack of), our friends, the band, all the while a thick, tense cloud hangs above us, one that we all pretend not to notice. Although, it’s clear as Brendon sits quietly now, more reserved, eyes shifted purposely from mine.

When she asks if we’re planning on going back to music, Brendon and I meet gazes for a moment, before together we say, “No.” There’s something final to it, something I hadn’t allowed myself to think about.

Brendon doesn’t breathe a word the entire walk to the car, and when I reach for his hand, he pulls his arms to his chest without so much as a glance at me. I’ve don’t some pretty shitty things in my life, a handful of which to Brendon, but I’ve never felt as bad as I do now.

Maybe it’s not something that I wanted, but it’s something that Brendon did, more than anything, and that was reason enough.

The half an hour ride from the agency to our house is silent. Brendon keeps his eyes focused out the window, never straying in my direction. It’s rush hour, the roads full with business men, Blackberry’s attached to their ears, and young girls, applying makeup through their rear-view. He’s sitting right next to me, only inches away, but somehow we’ve never felt so distant.

When we pull into our driveway, Brendon doesn’t make a run for it and disappear into the studio until early hours of the morning like I expected. Instead, he sits perfectly still. His expression is blank, although it reads clear.

I switch off the ignition, and sit quietly next to him, waiting. If anyone has mastered the art of silent arguing, it’s Brendon. He doesn’t even have to look at you, and you’re left like a misbehaved puppy whining underneath the coffee table. On the other hand, it could also be my own guilt, magnified underneath his insufferable silence. Either way, it’s done it such a quiet, cunning way, that by the time you’ve noticed it’s months down the line and you can hardly recall what the argument was even about.

“Bren - ” I allow myself to start after minutes pass. Our dogs that were once barking and clawing at the front window when we pulled in, have now given up and disappeared out of sight.

As if all he needed was the sound of my voice to set him off, bringing his thoughts into words, he suddenly interrupts me, voice quieter than I would’ve expected. “Do you want this or not, Ry? Do you want a kid? Do you even want to get married?” He brings his eyes up to mine, suddenly so small in the leather seat. “You have to tell me now. This isn’t something we can do now, and return three years from now when you’ve decided it isn’t for you. Marriage, a child - me. It’s for life.” Hands twisting into knots on his lap, his gaze drifts back towards the passenger window, eyes reflecting in the small mirror. “Tell me what you want.”

Sighing, I press my face into the steering wheel. Into the expensive leather, I mumble, “I don’t know what I want.”

“Well, you better figure it out soon,” he replies, sharper than before.

I grip onto the wheel, waiting for my racing thoughts to slow and land, form into words that make sense. Something that will get me out of this. Pushing off the steering wheel, I lay my back flat along the seat, staring straight ahead at the house. “I do want it,” I begin carefully. “When I think about you, and how - you know, us being a family, I want that. I’ve never had that. But then I - God, I don’t know. I don’t know the first thing about how to be a family. I think about what I’ve done to you, and people that I love - I think about my dad. And - And it just doesn’t seem like a good idea. Anymore.” I can feel Brendon’s gaze running over me now, the air between us suddenly more thin, less futile, but I keep my eyes trained ahead. “I just don’t want you to end up regretting it,” I finish off, quiet and mortifyingly vulnerable.

“Ry - ” He reaches forward, hand circling loosely around my bicep.

I shrug him off, and duck my head away from him. This is exactly why I never wanted to say anything to him about it. I’m so sick of everyone looking at me like that, saying things like, ‘Poor Ryan,’ like I’m some charity case. I’m not looking for pity, just for it to go away. “Look,” I say, refusing to meet his gaze, and he doesn’t reach forward to touch me again, “it’s not that I - that I don’t want it, you know? I just - I can’t - I don’t want to be - ” I shake my head, the words caught on my tongue.

There’s a moment where Brendon says nothing, but even though I don’t look up to meet his eyes, I know he’s still looking at me. It’s probably not very long but it seems like a lifetime before he’s reaching up and cupping his hand around my neck, forcing me to look at him. “Ryan,” he says, laughing in disbelief, “you idiot. I’ve put up with too many years of your bullshit not to go all the way with you now.” He shakes his head, and laughs again, fingers dipping into the ends of my hair. “You don’t think I haven’t thought about this all before? Because I have. I’ve thought about it all, okay? And I still want to marry you, and have a family with you. I still want that stupid, white picket fence, and vacations to Disneyland. I want to grow old with you, and all the cheesy shit like that. I don’t care about your fucking dad. You’re not him. You’re already so much more than he ever was. You’ve already gotten past what he was stuck in all his life.”

Leaning forward over the console, he kisses the corner of my mouth, thumb dancing across my jaw. “You’re going to be a great dad, okay? I know it.”

When he kisses me again, I mumble as quiet as I can manage, cheeks heating with shame, “I’m scared.”

“And so am I,” he replies, softly. “You think I want to be my parents?” He laughs, and shakes his head again, dark hair falling into his eyes. “I don’t think anyone wants to turn out like their parents, but they deal with it and do their best.”

I sigh, sinking back into the seat. I suddenly feel really fucking stupid. “Why do you always have to be right?”

He smiles, hand grazing the strip where my jeans and t-shirt meet, his fingers tickling the skin. “Because you always insist on freaking out over ridiculous things.”

I laugh, faintly, knowing he’s right. Things have changed drastically over these past few years. I’ve gone from running away and fucking girls, to not being able to say ‘I love you’, to engaged to Brendon and planning on adopting a kid. And now, here I am, still trying to figure out how it all happened.

“So, we’re going to do this? For sure?” Brendon asks. “Tell me now because there’s no backing out after this. I won’t let you.”

I laugh, nudging my nose against Brendon’s. He stares back at me, eyes hopeful, and this time, there’s only one answer that’s clear in my mind. “Okay,” I murmur. “Yeah. Let’s do this.”

“Yeah?” Brendon beams against my mouth.

“Yeah.” And this time, I know I mean it.

*

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