[fic] brand new hero [pete/brendon, nc17]
Brand New Hero
Pete/Brendon, Brendon/Spencer. NC-17. 6,666 words (!). AU.
Originally started off of a prompt halftone ganked from Googlism. brendon is also an active and successful artist exhibiting his work in solo and group exhibitions. thanks to disarm-d and chopsticknoodle for babysitting and encouraging me. and thanks to ficklish for looking it over at the last. ♥, y'all.
Brendon's sitting by the lake. He was over in the park earlier, but he's pretty easily distracted and decided that he wanted to record the sound of the water.
He figures maybe later, he'll take some time to relax and tune out all the sounds he's listening to. Right now, though, he's dragging Spencer all over the place and recording shit. Spencer's only along because Brendon gave him twenty bucks, and because Spencer didn't have anything better to do. The first few times, Spencer helped for free, but Brendon started feeling guilty making him help cart around so much equipment.
Every time, Spencer tries to turn down the money, and every time Brendon just laughs and tucks it into Spencer's pocket with a wink. It's routine to the point where they have lines, where Spencer rolling his eyes is prescripted. Brendon is looking up at the clouds, but he looks over at Spencer for a second. They're keeping quiet so Brendon can record ambient noise.
Spencer looks back. He looks sort of bored, Brendon thinks.
Brendon stops the tape. He says, "What do you think it'd sound like if I played what I just got backwards?"
"I don't know; it's probably not that interesting."
"We won't know until we try," Brendon says.
"True. Go for it, then."
"I will," Brendon says. "So hey, I've got that opening tomorrow; it's not quite set up, though. Are you -- can you help out tonight? Like, I'll even pay for dinner after, if you want, since I'm making you work so much. There's this new Italian place I heard of, though, you know the one? There was some newspaper article and, I don't know, I thought maybe we could check it out."
"Uh," Spencer says. "I was going to go to dinner with -- you've met Kate, right? It's gonna be our three month anniversary. She thinks it's important, I guess."
"Oh," Brendon says. "Oh. Right. Okay."
"Sorry," Spencer says. "I can help until five? If that makes any difference."
"I guess," Brendon says. "I'll just. No, it's fine, I can figure something out. Don't worry about it. Have fun."
Spencer says, "I'll see if she wants to come to the opening tomorrow night, though."
"Yeah, sure," Brendon says.
"Sure what?"
"I don't know. Sorry." Brendon says, "I think I've got enough for today."
"Okay, sweet. Let's get this stuff home."
"Yeah," Brendon says. "Hey, you know, I guess the exhibition'll be like a nice surprise this way. That's cool."
"Yeah. I'm looking forward to seeing what you've been doing." He hasn't asked to see any of Brendon's work for a while now.
Brendon always manages to sell a decent amount of art, for a decent amount of money, but he prefers the chance to do gallery exhibitions, just because then he can choose exactly where everything goes, make it all look and sound like he imagines it should. Arranging his pieces, whatever media he's decided to work in, is his favorite part.
(He doesn't do as much traditional work; some collage and found-object sculpture, mostly, with the occasional charcoal sketch or whatever. His favorite thing is sound.)
This exhibition is dark and scratched-up, speakers hanging suspended from the ceiling and tilted at different angles in competition with each other, a grainy video projected against a dark wall, all held together with string.
At the opening that night, Brendon drinks more than he should. The wine's free, though, paid for the gallery owners, and he doesn't mind.
(Spencer called, earlier, said, "She's not really into art -- I know, I know! but she's nice -- so we're going to go see Hairspray tonight. Sorry. I'll -- hopefully it'll be done before the opening's over."
"Yeah," Brendon says. "Okay." He still hasn't seen it. He and Spencer had standing plans that keep getting pushed back for one reason or another.)
So Brendon's lurking in the corner working on his sixth glass of wine, staring up at a charcoal drawing he'd done, pretending to appreciate it.
"Hey," someone says, tapping him on the shoulder. "You hiding out, or what?"
"Oh, hey Pete," Brendon says. "Yeah, a bit."
"Come on, this shit is awesome. I mean, though -- how recent is all of this?" Pete has come to every single one of Brendon's openings for the past three years, even though Brendon never tells him when or where they are.
"Like, within the past three months," Brendon says.
"Hm," Pete says, and his posture shifts. His expression softens a little, maybe. "It's good stuff, man. I'm getting a little creeped out by the -- that other room, the main one? What the hell'd you do when you were mixing the sound stuff in there, man?"
"Some of it's backwards," Brendon shrugs. "Hey! Hey, Pete, you wanna mess with people's heads?"
"What? Sure, I'm always game for that. What're we doing?"
"Performance art," Brendon says, dragging Pete out to the slightly busier main room and kissing him, one hand in Pete's hair and the other at his waist.
Pete laughs into it, and lets Brendon bend him over backwards.
They finally straighten up again. Brendon can smell his own breath, heavy with alcohol. He says, "Come on, let's go."
"What?" Pete says. "Seriously?"
Brendon says, "Nah, we'll just make 'em think it."
Pete laughs again, and pulls Brendon outside by the hand. He says, "Seriously, you don't usually drink, do you?"
"No."
"So what's up?"
"Nothing. Thought someone'd show up but they didn't. Still."
"Aha," Pete says. "I'll be your stand-in for now, if you want. I don't have anything better to do. You want to hit up some other galleries and bitch about how much modern art sucks?"
"Yeah," Brendon says. "Dude, that is -- yes. We have to. But I look too trendy to hate art. What do I --"
Pete starts tucking in Brendon's shirt without asking. "Ditch the glasses, if you can, they're too scene. And here, let's make your hair look bad," he says, spitting in his palm and smoothing Brendon's hair down. "Okay, I think you're almost dorky enough to hate art. Let's roll."
Brendon says, "That was quick."
"Yeah, well, not hard to make you look like a dork, dork," Pete grins.
"Hey! Be nice. I'm not a dork, I'm a tortured artistic soul or something."
"Well, I don't know about all that," Pete says, elbowing Brendon in the side. "You are pretty fucking awesome, though, so I guess I give you permission to keep rocking the art world if you really want to."
"Uhm," Brendon says. "Thanks."
"And I'm not just saying that," Pete says. "You're gonna be in Art History textbooks some day, man."
They hit all the most crowded galleries.
"Oh, come on," Brendon says. "That's not art. I could have done that."
Pete cracks up, and everone else just gives them dirty looks.
At another gallery, Pete says, "That belongs in a god damn comic book, not in an art gallery. What's the world coming to these days?"
Brendon says, "A new era."
After offending half of Chicago's art community, Brendon says, "Hey, can I ask you a favor?"
"Yeah, sure," Pete says. "You can ask. Doesn't guarantee I'll do it, but you know."
"No, I get that. Would you mind if, like -- could you come by my place sometime? I want to have you read something, this spoken-word thing, and it'd just be easier at my studio."
The hairs at the back of Brendon's neck rise, like they always do right before he gets a call on his cell. He turns his phone off, and at Pete's questioning look, says, "Didn't want my phone to ring and mess it up."
They're in a cab back to Brendon's place.
"What?"
"Once we get up to do that recording," Brendon says. "I don't want my phone to ring."
"Aha," Pete says. "It's a bit early. Making sure you don't forget?"
"Yeah, I always do and it totally screws things up. Well, this one time it was kind of cool, but letting it happen again'd be redundant. Although, maybe not, since it's, you know, an element of chaos? I don't know. I'll leave it off; it wouldn't work for this thing."
"Right, cool," Pete says. "So what am I doing again?"
"Reading," Brendon says. "You know how, right?"
"Totally." Pete says, "Haha, what the fuck, was that a serious question?"
"No. Hey! Come on."
"Okay. I had to check."
"Come on," Brendon says, slumping back in the seat a little, and Pete just grins at him.
It takes twelve takes to get the recording right, but finally Brendon finds one that he really likes on playback, and says, "Yeah, dude, this is it exactly."
"Awesome," Pete says. "Glad I could be of service. Did you write that?"
"Uhm? Oh, no, this kid I went to school with did. Ryan. He's -- I think he's been in a couple group shows lately. He paints sometimes. Anyway, no, he wrote it for me."
"Oh, that's cool. I wonder if I know him."
"You might. Oh, whoa. Sorry I kept you so late, holy shit," Brendon says, having only just looked at the clock. It's nearly three.
"No, it's cool," Pete says. "I don't actually sleep. I'm like a super villain."
"Oh, well, that's cool," Brendon says. "Oh man. Actually, now that I think about it, I don't know any superheroes. The city's doomed."
Pete says, "I can probably still be redeemed, though. It'll be a two-volume story arc; real crazy shit, you know. Maybe a random hookup'll save my life."
"Oh yeah?" Brendon grins, benign. "How?"
"Hey, I haven't gotten that far. It just seemed like a possibility."
"Oh, yeah, of course." Brendon says, "Wait. That was an invitation, right?"
"Yeah, it totally was."
"I had to check," Brendon says. "I'm no good at this."
"It's cool," Pete says, and he's smiling into this kiss too. It's more genuine, more urgent this time, just for the two of them and not for a room full of strangers.
Brendon sighs and leans into it, his hands cupping Pete's face, thumbs pressed against the corners of Pete's jaw and fingers all caught up in the scruffy hair at the back of Pete's neck.
Pete says, "So hey. Want to head to your bedroom?"
"Yeah. Probably a good idea," Brendon says, so they do, and Brendon pushes Pete down and Pete laughs and lets him.
When Pete tugs at the hem of Brendon's shirt, Brendon leans back and lifts his arms to let Pete pull it off. He says, "You too, right?" but Pete's already halfway there. Brendon helps him the rest of the way, when he gets his head tangled in his clothes because he's trying to take off his vest and t-shirt in one fell swoop.
Pete's upper arms, right above where the shirt sleeves stop, are traced with raised white lines like silverfish. They're still visible under tattoos that haven't taken well to the damaged tissue. Brendon doesn't say anything, just bumps his nose against Pete's shoulder and tries to taste the skin there, like he expects anything other than salt and skin. Every breath, it takes him longer to inhale than exhale.
He breathes in, breathes in, breathes in. He's fascinated by the thorns around Pete's neck but avoids them, skirts around them with his lips like they can hurt. He pushes Pete down and Pete lets Brendon straddle him, puts a hand to Brendon's waist and tries to pull him closer. Brendon splays a hand against Pete's stomach, heel of his hand resting in the dip of Pete's bellybutton, and they kiss again, just for a little while.
Brendon likes the feel of Pete, the not-quite-smooth of his skin and the skinny ribs and the bones of his wrists. He's fascinated. He holds Pete's wrists down above his head, and Pete hmms, makes this thoughtful noise up at him.
"Is this okay?" Brendon asks.
"Yeah," Pete says. "Yeah, hey," and wriggles a little.
Brendon shifts back, grinds his hips down against Pete's. They've both still got on too-tight indigo dyed jeans, over-cool and trying too hard to pretend they get fashion. Pete takes in a sharp breath; it takes him longer to breathe out than in, opposite of Brendon.
Pete breathes in deep, down to the diaphragm, his stomach rising with it. His rolls his hips, up, up, sideways, and Brendon can feel it through his jeans, doesn't want to feel it through his jeans.
He sits up for a second, lets go of Pete's wrists so he can quickly undo the button and zipper on his pants and so Pete has a chance to do the same.
Brendon gets off of Pete just long enough so Pete can wriggle out of his pants easier, takes off his own in the meantime and then finally, finally after two long crashes their lips and hips together again (teeth scraping hard against already-bruised and swollen skin).
Pete manages, "You can -- if you want, you can fuck me," but Brendon just shakes his head, mouths, no it's okay into the curve of Pete's shoulder. Pete's fingernails dig into Brendon's outer thighs.
Brendon's heart is hurrying faster than the rest of him, going quicker than the tentative rhythm of grinding hips. They're both quiet, except for their breathing, except for the slide of their stomachs, the scrape of fingers over skin.
Pete comes first, just from the friction. He shudders with it, eyes closed and head tilted back, Brendon's name silent on his lips. He jerks Brendon off the rest of the way, after, and Brendon doesn't say anything, just sort of melts into it, rests warm and boneless and content on top of Pete.
By the time Brendon decides he's ready to move again and clean up, things are just cold and sticky and Pete's asleep, so Brendon takes the chance to shower.
Pete looks more troubled in his sleep than he ever does awake.
In the morning, Brendon makes pancakes with his dinosaur cookie cutters.
Pete doesn't leave until ten.
-
Brendon's up late that night in the studio, mixing tracks. He spends even more time converting the audio he got at the lake to digital, and listening to what all he has. It's just ambient noise but he's making sure he didn't catch any conversation. Sure enough, there's nearly fifteen minutes worth, and at the end he forgot to hit stop.
-
"Oh, hey, Ryan!" Brendon says. "So I got someone to read that thing you wrote."
"Oh?" Ryan says.
"Yeah, my friend Pete. I don't know; I've recorded myself enough. It sounds good though. When I get finished with the whole track I'll e-mail it to you or something." He says, "Hey, so we should hang out some time."
"Like when?" Ryan says.
"I don't know. Next week sometime?"
They get a date and time hashed out, then Ryan says, "So what do you want to do?" and Brendon can't think of anything.
"Oh, wow, I seriously can't even," Brendon says. "I have no idea. Seriously. I don't know why I can't think of anything. Uhm. Sorry."
"It's okay," Ryan says. "We can just hang out at my place. I just got a new TV; it's high definition and everything. Flat screen. It's pretty sweet."
-
They watch bad TV on Ryan's big-screen high-definition flat screen television, but eventually Ryan ends up asking him, "Are you alright?"
"What?"
Ryan shrugs.
"Yeah, no, I'm fine," Brendon says. "What?"
"Nothing," Ryan says.
Brendon says, "I'm just kinda tired."
"Okay."
Ryan's phone rings, and his face lights up. "Hey! Hi, Keltie. What? No. Sorry; can we go some other night? It's cool, I'm just hanging out with a friend right now. Yeah, no, that's cool. I'll see you later."
-
When he gets home, Brendon calls Pete. The line is busy.
-
Brendon has a part-time job, only works three days a week most of the time because he likes having time open to do his art. He manages to support himself on it and his art, with a little help from an unexpected inheritance from a dead relative he could have sworn disowned him years ago.
He's lucky his boss loves him, because he gets away with a week's notice for his vacation.
He figures some time off from his minimal responsibilities will be nice.
Rather than working, which is what he usually does on time off, he ends up sitting on his bed eating soup and watching soap operas. Times like this, he almost wishes he wasn't vegetarian, just so he could have chicken noodle soup. He's almost considering finding some hyper-ethical free range farmer to make it for him, make sure he's as responsible as he can be, but he'd still feel bad. So.
Brendon lives off of smoothies and soup for three days and ends up totally addicted to The Young and the Restless. He thinks maybe he should get some real food.
"Save me, Pete Wentz," is the message he leaves on Pete's machine, and Pete calls back twenty minutes later and says sure, let's go to Vegas. Brendon was born and brought up there and doesn't feel like going back, and says as much, so Pete books a flight to Miami and they head there instead. ("You've got the week off, right?" he says, "because I'm already on Priceline and we can get a really fucking awesome deal, so you should get someone to cover for you if you're not.")
Now that he's thinking about it, Brendon isn't sure what Pete does for a living.
-
Brendon only has three days in Miami, because he wants to be back and rested for his first day back at work. He doesn't have much money to spend, so they spend most of their time at the beach. Brendon got a terrible sunburn once when he was a kid, so he's adamant about the sunblock.
"Come on, you've got to help me out," Pete says, so Brendon slathers his back with sunblock, then spends a long, long time rubbing it in.
Pete says, "Come on, don't you want to get out to the beach?"
"You're all tense," Brendon says. "I'm helping."
"Oh," Pete says. "I guess I can let that slide. As long as you let me return the favor later."
They leave for the beach not long after that, and build the coolest sand castle the world's ever seen. There's seashell gates and seaweed banners, and they even manage to talk a waterfront restaraunt into giving them a few mini umbrellas for the sitting area outside the castle gates but inside the moats.
The tide rises high enough to wipe it out, eventually. Pete says, "We should have tried building above the tide line."
"I don't know," Brendon says. "It's easier to work when you've got wet sand."
Pete says, "So hey, Brendon Urie. How am I supposed to save you?"
Brendon says, "What? Oh, hey! Hey, 3:10 to Yuma, that looked cool from the ads. That theater has it. We should go."
The movie isn't as good as Brendon hopes. He can't get himself to pay attention, but maybe that's just because of Pete's hand on his thigh. They're near the back of the theater, even though Brendon usually likes to sit right in the middle, and a quarter of the way into the movie they start making out and -- and maybe that's why the movie doesn't live up to Brendon's expectations, because he only sees part of it.
Anyway, he's pretty sure that over an hour of making out is a better way to spend time.
They spend the rest of the night on the beach, looking up at the stars.
"Is -- which constellation is Draco, do you remember?" Pete says.
"Uhm. I don't know, actually. Why?"
"Too much Harry Potter," Pete says. "I'm not sure where Sirius is, either. Somewhere near Orion, right? I can't even find Orion."
"I'm not sure it's even visible in summer," Brendon says. "Well. I mean, it's almost fall, but still. I don't think we can see it from here right now."
"That explains so much," Pete says. "I can't find anything up there, man."
Brendon says, "Well, okay, hey. Hey, look -- you see those there?" He wriggles in closer to Pete, and points up at the sky. "That kind of x-shape?"
"Yeah," Pete says.
"And that really bright star right about it? Okay. Well. That's a truck stop waitress. She's even got, hey! That star there is totally her tray of pancakes."
Pete laughs. "Dude, I'm pretty sure there's no waitress constellation."
"Oh, there totally is. Man, who do you think keeps the other constellations from starving to death?"
Pete says, "Okay, okay. That star there's her kid. He's a bit of a rebel, wants to run off with some hot star girl he met yesterday."
"That's a unicorn," Brendon says.
"That line of stars is Gerard Way's feather boa," Pete says. "You remember that one he lost?"
"Oh man, he lost that thing? That sucks," Brendon says.
"Yeah, well, it's in the sky now. Watching over him. It's like, a guardian spirit for the feather boas of the world."
Brendon laughs. "Okay, okay. Well, that's -- that's a guy on a cell phone."
"I think that's an airplane."
"It's a guy who dropped his cell phone off a cliff, then," Brendon says. "He decided to forsake all modern technology. He just found out his daughter ran off with the waitress' son."
Pete smiles at him. Then he sort of rolls his shoulders, looks back up at the sky. They lie there on the beach for hours, sometimes talking about the stars and sometimes not, until a police officer comes around and shoos them off back to the hotel.
-
On the flight home, Pete sleeps with his head on Brendon's shoulder, and Brendon reads Sky Mall the entire time.
-
"Hey, what's up?" Brendon says, finally picking up his phone on the third ring. He had to dig around in his dirty clothes to find it.
"Hi. Fuck, so -- yeah, I don't know," Spencer says.
"What?"
"Can I come over?"
"Yeah, sure," Brendon says. "Sure, no problem. I was just about to watch Labyrinth again; I can wait to start it, if you want."
"Yeah, yeah okay," Spencer says.
So Brendon waits fifteen minutes or so, then makes popcorn. The popcorn's still popping in the microwave when Spencer knocks at the door, but it's done by the time he's inside.
"Hey," Brendon says. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine," Spencer says. "Just bored tonight; plans got canceled and all. Kate and I broke up, so."
"Oh," Brendon says, and feels guilty about not feeling bad. "That's too bad."
"Yeah, it's cool though," Spencer says. "I guess. Just."
"Yeah."
Spencer says, "So, how about that movie."
"Yup," Brendon says, and grabs the popcorn. He says, "If you wanna go out drinking instead, that's cool." Brendon's pretty sure, from TV and stuff, that that's how a lot of dudes deal with breakups.
"No, it's cool," Spencer says. "Seriously, let's just hang out here."
"Okay."
Apparently just sitting next to Spencer makes Brendon's chest clench up, and he's really not sure why. Spencer's his best friend, mostly, even though Spencer's been busy a lot lately; that's just how life is, Brendon figures, sometimes people are too busy. But, Spencer's here now and Brendon isn't even making him help out with a project, he's there of his own will, and still Brendon feels bad about it.
He says, during a quiet moment, "Seriously, you're sure you just want to be here and not out -- I don't know, doing something?"
"What? I like spending time with you. And. I haven't seen you much lately. It's fine."
Brendon keeps up a near-constant stream of idle banter after that and tries to keep Spencer smiling, because every now and then, if Brendon's quiet too long, Spencer's attention will drift and he'll look introspective and lonely and. And Brendon's here, damn it, he's not going to let Spencer feel lonely.
So it's not Brendon's fault that he kisses Spencer, and it's not his fault Spencer doesn't even complain. Spencer kisses back, even, after a little while, and when he does he is desperate and hurried and needy, he opens his mouth and uses his teeth. He gets aggressive.
Spencer sort of grunts and pulls Brendon onto his lap, and in the background the ending credits are playing.
This isn't how Brendon wanted it to be, all hurried and rough and frantic, but this way is good, it's fine too. Spencer's teeth dig in hard at the side of his neck, Spencer's hands are too-tight on his hips. The rhythm Spencer sets is quick and steady, then Spencer's got a hand between them, undoing Brendon's pants and slipping in under his boxers.
Brendon feels overheated, too-hot so he pulls of his shirt and tries to shimmy out of his pants without losing contact with Spencer, but it's not easy, and Spencer gives him a second and then his hand is back, their mouths are crushed back together.
Brendon closes his eyes.
He feels sort of guilty, though, because Spencer's the one who's lonely, and it's Spencer doing all the work, and.
And so, okay, Brendon's a guy, he's not going to lie and say he doesn't appreciate the grip of Spencer's hand around his cock, can't even begin to pretend that he's somehow offended by the quick, easy strokes up and down or the way Spencer kind of varies the pressure. It's actually pretty different from how Brendon usually jerks off, but he's getting ideas for the future. Mostly he's thinking, oh, shit, wow and variants on that, but a tiny corner of his brain is filing this away for future use.
He tucks his sense of fairness to the side until he comes, sudden and messy on Spencer's hand and shirt, and Brendon says, "You want me to blow you?"
Spencer blinks at him, like Spencer's realizing it's Brendon he just jerked off. Spencer looks, suddenly, a lot more composed than he did a moment ago, though his hair's still just a little mussed and he's still glossy with sweat. "Oh, uhm," Spencer says.
"I really want to," Brendon says. He doesn't say, if it would make you feel better. "Seriously, I'm pretty great at it! So you should let me."
"How do you know you're good?" Spencer sort of snorts, one corner of his mouth twisting up into a wry grin.
"I have my ways."
Spencer just rolls his eyes, and Brendon takes that as an invitation to duck his head down. He undoes the zip with his teeth, bracing himself against Spencer's thigh with one arm.
Spencer doesn't watch, just closes his eyes and fists his hands into Brendon's hair.
-
Brendon yawns, stretching his arms out above his head. Smiling, he squints his eyes open, twists himself up into a sitting position and mumbles a sleepy, "Good morning, you."
The bed is empty.
-
Brendon curls up under his covers, a pillow over his head, and stays there for three hours. He's supposed to be doing something on commission, but the person who asked for it doesn't want it until Monday. It's still Sunday morning; he'll just stay up late and drive it over in the late afternoon.
He's making up excuses and trying to think about other things. He's trying to go back to sleep. He doesn't know what he's doing, but it's not helping.
After a while, he pulls the pillow off of his head and gets up and works frantically on something for himself, a conte crayon sketch of the mess inside his head right now. He finishes that and then finally, finally picks up his phone.
"Hey," he says. "Hey, Spencer?"
"Who's -- Brendon? Hi. Uh."
"So uhm," Brendon says. "Did you. Are you at work? Sorry if I'm bothering you at work. I just, you know, wanted to know how you're doing."
"I don't work Sundays, come on. You know that," Spencer says, amused. Then he's quiet for a long time. "I should have just said I had work. Look, the train I'm on is about to go underground; I'll call you back as soon as --"
The connection cuts out, and Brendon says, "Hello?" to a dead connection a few times before giving up.
He showers and does his hair, and digs in his closet until he can find one of his nicer, unembellished suits. Brendon hasn't gone to church in a long, long time.
Brendon feels a little calmer, after; he calls Pete, because he can't think of who else to call.
"Hey," Pete says. "So who was that who picked up your phone last night, dude?"
"Oh," Brendon says. "Uhm. I didn't know -- oh," he says again. "I didn't know anybody called."
"Huh," Pete says. "Well, I'm glad I didn't wake you up or anything. Dude said you were asleep; I felt kind of bad. He sounded tired too."
"Oh," Brendon repeats. "That was. Spencer."
"Spencer, huh?"
"Spencer," Brendon agrees. "He's just some guy I know." He feels sort of sick, saying that. "I must have fallen asleep; we were watching Labyrinth. I've seen it before, you know?"
"Oh. Right. Sure, yeah, totally," Pete says.
Brendon says, "I have to go. Sorry. I'm -- sorry. Fuck. Bye."
-
Brendon almost tries asking for another week off of work, but he eventually sucks it up and goes in anyway.
The only reason he's keeping track of days anymore is because of his job, and even with that he's not really sure where he is on the calendar anymore. He's just sort of letting time flow over and around him, isn't even being carried with it or anything.
Ryan calls, eventually. Brendon's not sure how long that takes. "Oh hey!" he says. "Ryan. What's up?"
"Not much," Ryan says. He sounds wary. "How are you?"
"What? I'm fine. You know, the usual thing; doing art and stuff." He hasn't, actually, been doing all that much art. He's made one new print, did a small run of that, and he's sort of fiddled with some of his sound pieces but not finished any. The lake piece still has that conversation with Spencer at the end, and he just doesn't feel like working on the spoken-word thing he recorded with Pete. "Why?"
"I just hadn't heard from you in a while," Ryan says.
"Oh, okay."
Ryan says, "Do you want to come over?"
Brendon likes Ryan, because Ryan's not just straight, he's in love with Keltie and that makes him safe. It makes Brendon a little jealous, sometimes, but mostly he just likes that things with Ryan are so concrete and solid. They're friends, and nothing else, and neither of them's ever wanted it to be anything besides that.
Brendon curls up at Ryan's side and Keltie makes popcorn for them and gives them space, and they all three watch Moulin Rouge for a while. Brendon freaks out a little, though. It takes a while going through Ryan and Keltie's shared movie collection before they find something else to watch, because the only Disney movie Ryan has is Peter Pan and nearly everything else is weird and foreign, but eventually it turns out that Keltie has a copy of Empire Records somewhere and they watch that.
After the movie, Keltie says, "Hey, guys, I'm going to go buy some groceries so we can have something other than popcorn for dinner, okay? I'll be back in a bit."
Ryan reaches out, and Keltie laughs and presses their fingertips together. Ryan says, "Get some shallots."
"Do you even know what those are?"
"I read the word earlier," Ryan says. "Just get some; I'm curious."
"So you have no clue what they are?" Ryan shakes his head, and Keltie says, "I'd just tell you what they are, but that'd ruin the surprise."
Brendon says, "Ryan! You've never had shallots before? Not in anything?"
"They go in things?" Ryan says, "I was just reading some culinary journalism. The writer wasn't very specific about them."
"Ryan, seriously," Keltie says, shaking her head. She walks past to grab her jacket, ruffling both Ryan and Brendon's hair in the process. "I'll be right back."
Ryan says, "So," after she's gone.
"So?"
"So," Ryan says again.
Brendon says, "It's nothing big, you know, I'm fine," and smiles at Ryan. Ryan just looks horrified. "What?"
"Worst fake smile ever, Urie, seriously."
"Nuh-uh, this is the worst fake smile ever," Brendon says, scrunching up his nose and baring his teeth.
"Okay, I'll give you that. Still, it was pretty bad."
Brendon says, "Just, it's weird, I don't know. I want to be back in Miami."
"You could go again?"
"No, like. I want to be there when I was there before."
"Wait, when did you go to Miami?" Ryan says.
"A little while ago."
"Why?"
"Somebody asked me. Or. I asked somebody. Sort of. It was weird, I don't know. It was kind of random."
"Huh."
"I just. It was nice, is all. Like, I kind of wish it could just. Be like that forever."
"Okay," Ryan says.
Brendon says, "It was the best vacation ever, Ryan Ross."
"Just saying it was the best isn't going to convince me it actually was."
"Are you saying I'd lie to you, Ross? I mean it! We went to the beach, and. And. Had dinner at this little Cuban place, like, neither of us speaks Spanish and they hardly spoke English? And. I guess we didn't actually do that much. Still. It was really nice." Brendon curls in on himself, limbs folded up close. He sort of leans against Ryan, a little. "And just. I'm never -- like, I could go back to Miami technically, but I don't know if I'll ever be able to. Go back to Miami. You know what I mean? I don't know, it's stupid."
"Huh," Ryan says. "Did you get in a fight or something?"
"Not really?" Brendon says, "I mean, it's not like we got into an argument or anything, just that I did something stupid and now we're probably never going to speak to each other again. It's not like it wasn't my fault, though, so I don't blame him or anything."
Ryan puts an arm around Brendon's shoulder, and they just sit there like that until Keltie gets back.
-
It's been a few weeks, and Brendon, it turns out, is lucky his neighbors aren't the sort to steal things. Because one Monday afternoon, he's on his way out to buy a new tube of cadmium yellow paint, something he hasn't done since he was still in school. He doesn't usually paint, but he's felt like doing something different lately, since it seems like he's fucked up so many of his routines already. He only notices the package on his doorstep when he comes back. He has no way of knowing how long it's been there. He also hasn't left the house for a few days. So.
So he picks it up, hefts it under his arm as he fights with the lock. He holds the bag with the paint in it in between his teeth. When he gets inside, he manages to set everything down, then sits on the edge of his bed to open up the box.
The little box is plain cardboard, and built sort of like a sturdier version on an envelope, with a a little cartoon dog drawn in place of where a stamp might go. There's no name or address on it.
Inside, there's a folded up square of paper, and it takes Brendon a second to realize it's a CD case.
He turns it over and opens it up before he even notices the little drawing on the back.
The headphones sort of resemble a pair he owns, and Brendon's beginning to get the hint, even though he's not quite sure why anyone would draw him as a mouse. Inside the original box, though, he realizes there's a booklet, too, illustrated in the same style as the CD case, made out of the same sort of paper and printed in light blue ink. The front of it just says, Don't listen until you've got time to hear it all, in a little text bubble being spoken by the same dog from the front of the CD case.
Brendon cooks dinner, but he lets it go cold while he sits and listens.
(The very last track comes up as untitled on his computer, with no artist listed, and Brendon doesn't recognize the singer but he can tell exactly who it is screaming.)
-
Brendon's really cold. The cement's barely warmed up under him, and it's been hours and the sun went down a little while ago, and. He's cold.
He forgot his jacket, is the thing, and he doesn't want to go back, just in case. He's waiting.
A couple people step around him where he's sitting on the steps, but then he almost gets tripped over, and.
"Brendon?" Pete says. "Hey. Hey, are you okay?"
Brendon keeps his hands shoved deep into his pockets as he gets up, which is a little awkward, balancewise, but he manages it, and says, "Uhm, yeah, I didn't know when you got home so I was just waiting, and, hi, yeah. I'm -- I'm really sorry, okay?"
"What?" Pete says. "Dude, you're shivering. Hey, come on, let's -- hey." Brendon's holding on tight, just pulled him into a hug, and Pete rubs at his back, says, "No, come on, let's go up to my apartment, okay? It's warmer up there."
"Oh. Right," Brendon says. "That makes sense. Okay!" He pulls away, sort of shaking himself off. "Okay, let's go."
They go upstairs, and Pete grabs Brendon a blanket and orders him to sit down. Pete disappears into the kitchen for a while, then comes back with hot chocolate. Warming his hands on the mug, Brendon says, "Thanks. I -- sorry."
Pete sits down next to him and watches the steam rise off his own mug for a while, before sitting back and turning on the TV.
"Okay," Brendon says, hesitantly, and just takes the chance to savor the drink. "This is good."
"Yeah, it's this mix made by, like, some monks or something. I don't know."
"Huh!" Brendon says, looking down then looking over at Pete. "Like, up in a monastery? Man, whenever I think of monks, I think of like. England in the thirteenth century. Copying down the Bible and stuff."
"I don't really know. That's just what it says on the tin."
They're both quiet again for a long, long time, until Pete finally says, "I didn't even make the CD myself. My friends just got tired of me bitching. I couldn't even get it right, you know? So. They helped out." He says, "I thought, you know. Nothing I did would ever be good enough or whatever. So."
"Oh." Brendon says, "Pete. Just. Pete." He leans over, setting his hot chocolate down on the end table, then he carefully takes Pete's mug and does the same. Pete stares at him stupidly, until Brendon pulls him into a hug, mumbling Pete's name against his neck.
Brendon says, "I thought you were gonna hate me forever. Pete. Pete." He buries his face against Pete's shoulder, closing his eyes. He brings his arms up to rub at Brendon's back again.
"Fuck, that's so," Pete cuts himself off. "Hey. Do you -- we can give this another go, right? Forget all this shit and start again or whatever?"
Brendon says, "We could go back to Miami. If you want."
"We could totally go back to Miami," Pete says.
( bonus material roundup post - complete with extra scenes! really!)
Pete/Brendon, Brendon/Spencer. NC-17. 6,666 words (!). AU.
Originally started off of a prompt halftone ganked from Googlism. brendon is also an active and successful artist exhibiting his work in solo and group exhibitions. thanks to disarm-d and chopsticknoodle for babysitting and encouraging me. and thanks to ficklish for looking it over at the last. ♥, y'all.
Brendon's sitting by the lake. He was over in the park earlier, but he's pretty easily distracted and decided that he wanted to record the sound of the water.
He figures maybe later, he'll take some time to relax and tune out all the sounds he's listening to. Right now, though, he's dragging Spencer all over the place and recording shit. Spencer's only along because Brendon gave him twenty bucks, and because Spencer didn't have anything better to do. The first few times, Spencer helped for free, but Brendon started feeling guilty making him help cart around so much equipment.
Every time, Spencer tries to turn down the money, and every time Brendon just laughs and tucks it into Spencer's pocket with a wink. It's routine to the point where they have lines, where Spencer rolling his eyes is prescripted. Brendon is looking up at the clouds, but he looks over at Spencer for a second. They're keeping quiet so Brendon can record ambient noise.
Spencer looks back. He looks sort of bored, Brendon thinks.
Brendon stops the tape. He says, "What do you think it'd sound like if I played what I just got backwards?"
"I don't know; it's probably not that interesting."
"We won't know until we try," Brendon says.
"True. Go for it, then."
"I will," Brendon says. "So hey, I've got that opening tomorrow; it's not quite set up, though. Are you -- can you help out tonight? Like, I'll even pay for dinner after, if you want, since I'm making you work so much. There's this new Italian place I heard of, though, you know the one? There was some newspaper article and, I don't know, I thought maybe we could check it out."
"Uh," Spencer says. "I was going to go to dinner with -- you've met Kate, right? It's gonna be our three month anniversary. She thinks it's important, I guess."
"Oh," Brendon says. "Oh. Right. Okay."
"Sorry," Spencer says. "I can help until five? If that makes any difference."
"I guess," Brendon says. "I'll just. No, it's fine, I can figure something out. Don't worry about it. Have fun."
Spencer says, "I'll see if she wants to come to the opening tomorrow night, though."
"Yeah, sure," Brendon says.
"Sure what?"
"I don't know. Sorry." Brendon says, "I think I've got enough for today."
"Okay, sweet. Let's get this stuff home."
"Yeah," Brendon says. "Hey, you know, I guess the exhibition'll be like a nice surprise this way. That's cool."
"Yeah. I'm looking forward to seeing what you've been doing." He hasn't asked to see any of Brendon's work for a while now.
Brendon always manages to sell a decent amount of art, for a decent amount of money, but he prefers the chance to do gallery exhibitions, just because then he can choose exactly where everything goes, make it all look and sound like he imagines it should. Arranging his pieces, whatever media he's decided to work in, is his favorite part.
(He doesn't do as much traditional work; some collage and found-object sculpture, mostly, with the occasional charcoal sketch or whatever. His favorite thing is sound.)
This exhibition is dark and scratched-up, speakers hanging suspended from the ceiling and tilted at different angles in competition with each other, a grainy video projected against a dark wall, all held together with string.
At the opening that night, Brendon drinks more than he should. The wine's free, though, paid for the gallery owners, and he doesn't mind.
(Spencer called, earlier, said, "She's not really into art -- I know, I know! but she's nice -- so we're going to go see Hairspray tonight. Sorry. I'll -- hopefully it'll be done before the opening's over."
"Yeah," Brendon says. "Okay." He still hasn't seen it. He and Spencer had standing plans that keep getting pushed back for one reason or another.)
So Brendon's lurking in the corner working on his sixth glass of wine, staring up at a charcoal drawing he'd done, pretending to appreciate it.
"Hey," someone says, tapping him on the shoulder. "You hiding out, or what?"
"Oh, hey Pete," Brendon says. "Yeah, a bit."
"Come on, this shit is awesome. I mean, though -- how recent is all of this?" Pete has come to every single one of Brendon's openings for the past three years, even though Brendon never tells him when or where they are.
"Like, within the past three months," Brendon says.
"Hm," Pete says, and his posture shifts. His expression softens a little, maybe. "It's good stuff, man. I'm getting a little creeped out by the -- that other room, the main one? What the hell'd you do when you were mixing the sound stuff in there, man?"
"Some of it's backwards," Brendon shrugs. "Hey! Hey, Pete, you wanna mess with people's heads?"
"What? Sure, I'm always game for that. What're we doing?"
"Performance art," Brendon says, dragging Pete out to the slightly busier main room and kissing him, one hand in Pete's hair and the other at his waist.
Pete laughs into it, and lets Brendon bend him over backwards.
They finally straighten up again. Brendon can smell his own breath, heavy with alcohol. He says, "Come on, let's go."
"What?" Pete says. "Seriously?"
Brendon says, "Nah, we'll just make 'em think it."
Pete laughs again, and pulls Brendon outside by the hand. He says, "Seriously, you don't usually drink, do you?"
"No."
"So what's up?"
"Nothing. Thought someone'd show up but they didn't. Still."
"Aha," Pete says. "I'll be your stand-in for now, if you want. I don't have anything better to do. You want to hit up some other galleries and bitch about how much modern art sucks?"
"Yeah," Brendon says. "Dude, that is -- yes. We have to. But I look too trendy to hate art. What do I --"
Pete starts tucking in Brendon's shirt without asking. "Ditch the glasses, if you can, they're too scene. And here, let's make your hair look bad," he says, spitting in his palm and smoothing Brendon's hair down. "Okay, I think you're almost dorky enough to hate art. Let's roll."
Brendon says, "That was quick."
"Yeah, well, not hard to make you look like a dork, dork," Pete grins.
"Hey! Be nice. I'm not a dork, I'm a tortured artistic soul or something."
"Well, I don't know about all that," Pete says, elbowing Brendon in the side. "You are pretty fucking awesome, though, so I guess I give you permission to keep rocking the art world if you really want to."
"Uhm," Brendon says. "Thanks."
"And I'm not just saying that," Pete says. "You're gonna be in Art History textbooks some day, man."
They hit all the most crowded galleries.
"Oh, come on," Brendon says. "That's not art. I could have done that."
Pete cracks up, and everone else just gives them dirty looks.
At another gallery, Pete says, "That belongs in a god damn comic book, not in an art gallery. What's the world coming to these days?"
Brendon says, "A new era."
After offending half of Chicago's art community, Brendon says, "Hey, can I ask you a favor?"
"Yeah, sure," Pete says. "You can ask. Doesn't guarantee I'll do it, but you know."
"No, I get that. Would you mind if, like -- could you come by my place sometime? I want to have you read something, this spoken-word thing, and it'd just be easier at my studio."
The hairs at the back of Brendon's neck rise, like they always do right before he gets a call on his cell. He turns his phone off, and at Pete's questioning look, says, "Didn't want my phone to ring and mess it up."
They're in a cab back to Brendon's place.
"What?"
"Once we get up to do that recording," Brendon says. "I don't want my phone to ring."
"Aha," Pete says. "It's a bit early. Making sure you don't forget?"
"Yeah, I always do and it totally screws things up. Well, this one time it was kind of cool, but letting it happen again'd be redundant. Although, maybe not, since it's, you know, an element of chaos? I don't know. I'll leave it off; it wouldn't work for this thing."
"Right, cool," Pete says. "So what am I doing again?"
"Reading," Brendon says. "You know how, right?"
"Totally." Pete says, "Haha, what the fuck, was that a serious question?"
"No. Hey! Come on."
"Okay. I had to check."
"Come on," Brendon says, slumping back in the seat a little, and Pete just grins at him.
It takes twelve takes to get the recording right, but finally Brendon finds one that he really likes on playback, and says, "Yeah, dude, this is it exactly."
"Awesome," Pete says. "Glad I could be of service. Did you write that?"
"Uhm? Oh, no, this kid I went to school with did. Ryan. He's -- I think he's been in a couple group shows lately. He paints sometimes. Anyway, no, he wrote it for me."
"Oh, that's cool. I wonder if I know him."
"You might. Oh, whoa. Sorry I kept you so late, holy shit," Brendon says, having only just looked at the clock. It's nearly three.
"No, it's cool," Pete says. "I don't actually sleep. I'm like a super villain."
"Oh, well, that's cool," Brendon says. "Oh man. Actually, now that I think about it, I don't know any superheroes. The city's doomed."
Pete says, "I can probably still be redeemed, though. It'll be a two-volume story arc; real crazy shit, you know. Maybe a random hookup'll save my life."
"Oh yeah?" Brendon grins, benign. "How?"
"Hey, I haven't gotten that far. It just seemed like a possibility."
"Oh, yeah, of course." Brendon says, "Wait. That was an invitation, right?"
"Yeah, it totally was."
"I had to check," Brendon says. "I'm no good at this."
"It's cool," Pete says, and he's smiling into this kiss too. It's more genuine, more urgent this time, just for the two of them and not for a room full of strangers.
Brendon sighs and leans into it, his hands cupping Pete's face, thumbs pressed against the corners of Pete's jaw and fingers all caught up in the scruffy hair at the back of Pete's neck.
Pete says, "So hey. Want to head to your bedroom?"
"Yeah. Probably a good idea," Brendon says, so they do, and Brendon pushes Pete down and Pete laughs and lets him.
When Pete tugs at the hem of Brendon's shirt, Brendon leans back and lifts his arms to let Pete pull it off. He says, "You too, right?" but Pete's already halfway there. Brendon helps him the rest of the way, when he gets his head tangled in his clothes because he's trying to take off his vest and t-shirt in one fell swoop.
Pete's upper arms, right above where the shirt sleeves stop, are traced with raised white lines like silverfish. They're still visible under tattoos that haven't taken well to the damaged tissue. Brendon doesn't say anything, just bumps his nose against Pete's shoulder and tries to taste the skin there, like he expects anything other than salt and skin. Every breath, it takes him longer to inhale than exhale.
He breathes in, breathes in, breathes in. He's fascinated by the thorns around Pete's neck but avoids them, skirts around them with his lips like they can hurt. He pushes Pete down and Pete lets Brendon straddle him, puts a hand to Brendon's waist and tries to pull him closer. Brendon splays a hand against Pete's stomach, heel of his hand resting in the dip of Pete's bellybutton, and they kiss again, just for a little while.
Brendon likes the feel of Pete, the not-quite-smooth of his skin and the skinny ribs and the bones of his wrists. He's fascinated. He holds Pete's wrists down above his head, and Pete hmms, makes this thoughtful noise up at him.
"Is this okay?" Brendon asks.
"Yeah," Pete says. "Yeah, hey," and wriggles a little.
Brendon shifts back, grinds his hips down against Pete's. They've both still got on too-tight indigo dyed jeans, over-cool and trying too hard to pretend they get fashion. Pete takes in a sharp breath; it takes him longer to breathe out than in, opposite of Brendon.
Pete breathes in deep, down to the diaphragm, his stomach rising with it. His rolls his hips, up, up, sideways, and Brendon can feel it through his jeans, doesn't want to feel it through his jeans.
He sits up for a second, lets go of Pete's wrists so he can quickly undo the button and zipper on his pants and so Pete has a chance to do the same.
Brendon gets off of Pete just long enough so Pete can wriggle out of his pants easier, takes off his own in the meantime and then finally, finally after two long crashes their lips and hips together again (teeth scraping hard against already-bruised and swollen skin).
Pete manages, "You can -- if you want, you can fuck me," but Brendon just shakes his head, mouths, no it's okay into the curve of Pete's shoulder. Pete's fingernails dig into Brendon's outer thighs.
Brendon's heart is hurrying faster than the rest of him, going quicker than the tentative rhythm of grinding hips. They're both quiet, except for their breathing, except for the slide of their stomachs, the scrape of fingers over skin.
Pete comes first, just from the friction. He shudders with it, eyes closed and head tilted back, Brendon's name silent on his lips. He jerks Brendon off the rest of the way, after, and Brendon doesn't say anything, just sort of melts into it, rests warm and boneless and content on top of Pete.
By the time Brendon decides he's ready to move again and clean up, things are just cold and sticky and Pete's asleep, so Brendon takes the chance to shower.
Pete looks more troubled in his sleep than he ever does awake.
In the morning, Brendon makes pancakes with his dinosaur cookie cutters.
Pete doesn't leave until ten.
-
Brendon's up late that night in the studio, mixing tracks. He spends even more time converting the audio he got at the lake to digital, and listening to what all he has. It's just ambient noise but he's making sure he didn't catch any conversation. Sure enough, there's nearly fifteen minutes worth, and at the end he forgot to hit stop.
-
"Oh, hey, Ryan!" Brendon says. "So I got someone to read that thing you wrote."
"Oh?" Ryan says.
"Yeah, my friend Pete. I don't know; I've recorded myself enough. It sounds good though. When I get finished with the whole track I'll e-mail it to you or something." He says, "Hey, so we should hang out some time."
"Like when?" Ryan says.
"I don't know. Next week sometime?"
They get a date and time hashed out, then Ryan says, "So what do you want to do?" and Brendon can't think of anything.
"Oh, wow, I seriously can't even," Brendon says. "I have no idea. Seriously. I don't know why I can't think of anything. Uhm. Sorry."
"It's okay," Ryan says. "We can just hang out at my place. I just got a new TV; it's high definition and everything. Flat screen. It's pretty sweet."
-
They watch bad TV on Ryan's big-screen high-definition flat screen television, but eventually Ryan ends up asking him, "Are you alright?"
"What?"
Ryan shrugs.
"Yeah, no, I'm fine," Brendon says. "What?"
"Nothing," Ryan says.
Brendon says, "I'm just kinda tired."
"Okay."
Ryan's phone rings, and his face lights up. "Hey! Hi, Keltie. What? No. Sorry; can we go some other night? It's cool, I'm just hanging out with a friend right now. Yeah, no, that's cool. I'll see you later."
-
When he gets home, Brendon calls Pete. The line is busy.
-
Brendon has a part-time job, only works three days a week most of the time because he likes having time open to do his art. He manages to support himself on it and his art, with a little help from an unexpected inheritance from a dead relative he could have sworn disowned him years ago.
He's lucky his boss loves him, because he gets away with a week's notice for his vacation.
He figures some time off from his minimal responsibilities will be nice.
Rather than working, which is what he usually does on time off, he ends up sitting on his bed eating soup and watching soap operas. Times like this, he almost wishes he wasn't vegetarian, just so he could have chicken noodle soup. He's almost considering finding some hyper-ethical free range farmer to make it for him, make sure he's as responsible as he can be, but he'd still feel bad. So.
Brendon lives off of smoothies and soup for three days and ends up totally addicted to The Young and the Restless. He thinks maybe he should get some real food.
"Save me, Pete Wentz," is the message he leaves on Pete's machine, and Pete calls back twenty minutes later and says sure, let's go to Vegas. Brendon was born and brought up there and doesn't feel like going back, and says as much, so Pete books a flight to Miami and they head there instead. ("You've got the week off, right?" he says, "because I'm already on Priceline and we can get a really fucking awesome deal, so you should get someone to cover for you if you're not.")
Now that he's thinking about it, Brendon isn't sure what Pete does for a living.
-
Brendon only has three days in Miami, because he wants to be back and rested for his first day back at work. He doesn't have much money to spend, so they spend most of their time at the beach. Brendon got a terrible sunburn once when he was a kid, so he's adamant about the sunblock.
"Come on, you've got to help me out," Pete says, so Brendon slathers his back with sunblock, then spends a long, long time rubbing it in.
Pete says, "Come on, don't you want to get out to the beach?"
"You're all tense," Brendon says. "I'm helping."
"Oh," Pete says. "I guess I can let that slide. As long as you let me return the favor later."
They leave for the beach not long after that, and build the coolest sand castle the world's ever seen. There's seashell gates and seaweed banners, and they even manage to talk a waterfront restaraunt into giving them a few mini umbrellas for the sitting area outside the castle gates but inside the moats.
The tide rises high enough to wipe it out, eventually. Pete says, "We should have tried building above the tide line."
"I don't know," Brendon says. "It's easier to work when you've got wet sand."
Pete says, "So hey, Brendon Urie. How am I supposed to save you?"
Brendon says, "What? Oh, hey! Hey, 3:10 to Yuma, that looked cool from the ads. That theater has it. We should go."
The movie isn't as good as Brendon hopes. He can't get himself to pay attention, but maybe that's just because of Pete's hand on his thigh. They're near the back of the theater, even though Brendon usually likes to sit right in the middle, and a quarter of the way into the movie they start making out and -- and maybe that's why the movie doesn't live up to Brendon's expectations, because he only sees part of it.
Anyway, he's pretty sure that over an hour of making out is a better way to spend time.
They spend the rest of the night on the beach, looking up at the stars.
"Is -- which constellation is Draco, do you remember?" Pete says.
"Uhm. I don't know, actually. Why?"
"Too much Harry Potter," Pete says. "I'm not sure where Sirius is, either. Somewhere near Orion, right? I can't even find Orion."
"I'm not sure it's even visible in summer," Brendon says. "Well. I mean, it's almost fall, but still. I don't think we can see it from here right now."
"That explains so much," Pete says. "I can't find anything up there, man."
Brendon says, "Well, okay, hey. Hey, look -- you see those there?" He wriggles in closer to Pete, and points up at the sky. "That kind of x-shape?"
"Yeah," Pete says.
"And that really bright star right about it? Okay. Well. That's a truck stop waitress. She's even got, hey! That star there is totally her tray of pancakes."
Pete laughs. "Dude, I'm pretty sure there's no waitress constellation."
"Oh, there totally is. Man, who do you think keeps the other constellations from starving to death?"
Pete says, "Okay, okay. That star there's her kid. He's a bit of a rebel, wants to run off with some hot star girl he met yesterday."
"That's a unicorn," Brendon says.
"That line of stars is Gerard Way's feather boa," Pete says. "You remember that one he lost?"
"Oh man, he lost that thing? That sucks," Brendon says.
"Yeah, well, it's in the sky now. Watching over him. It's like, a guardian spirit for the feather boas of the world."
Brendon laughs. "Okay, okay. Well, that's -- that's a guy on a cell phone."
"I think that's an airplane."
"It's a guy who dropped his cell phone off a cliff, then," Brendon says. "He decided to forsake all modern technology. He just found out his daughter ran off with the waitress' son."
Pete smiles at him. Then he sort of rolls his shoulders, looks back up at the sky. They lie there on the beach for hours, sometimes talking about the stars and sometimes not, until a police officer comes around and shoos them off back to the hotel.
-
On the flight home, Pete sleeps with his head on Brendon's shoulder, and Brendon reads Sky Mall the entire time.
-
"Hey, what's up?" Brendon says, finally picking up his phone on the third ring. He had to dig around in his dirty clothes to find it.
"Hi. Fuck, so -- yeah, I don't know," Spencer says.
"What?"
"Can I come over?"
"Yeah, sure," Brendon says. "Sure, no problem. I was just about to watch Labyrinth again; I can wait to start it, if you want."
"Yeah, yeah okay," Spencer says.
So Brendon waits fifteen minutes or so, then makes popcorn. The popcorn's still popping in the microwave when Spencer knocks at the door, but it's done by the time he's inside.
"Hey," Brendon says. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine," Spencer says. "Just bored tonight; plans got canceled and all. Kate and I broke up, so."
"Oh," Brendon says, and feels guilty about not feeling bad. "That's too bad."
"Yeah, it's cool though," Spencer says. "I guess. Just."
"Yeah."
Spencer says, "So, how about that movie."
"Yup," Brendon says, and grabs the popcorn. He says, "If you wanna go out drinking instead, that's cool." Brendon's pretty sure, from TV and stuff, that that's how a lot of dudes deal with breakups.
"No, it's cool," Spencer says. "Seriously, let's just hang out here."
"Okay."
Apparently just sitting next to Spencer makes Brendon's chest clench up, and he's really not sure why. Spencer's his best friend, mostly, even though Spencer's been busy a lot lately; that's just how life is, Brendon figures, sometimes people are too busy. But, Spencer's here now and Brendon isn't even making him help out with a project, he's there of his own will, and still Brendon feels bad about it.
He says, during a quiet moment, "Seriously, you're sure you just want to be here and not out -- I don't know, doing something?"
"What? I like spending time with you. And. I haven't seen you much lately. It's fine."
Brendon keeps up a near-constant stream of idle banter after that and tries to keep Spencer smiling, because every now and then, if Brendon's quiet too long, Spencer's attention will drift and he'll look introspective and lonely and. And Brendon's here, damn it, he's not going to let Spencer feel lonely.
So it's not Brendon's fault that he kisses Spencer, and it's not his fault Spencer doesn't even complain. Spencer kisses back, even, after a little while, and when he does he is desperate and hurried and needy, he opens his mouth and uses his teeth. He gets aggressive.
Spencer sort of grunts and pulls Brendon onto his lap, and in the background the ending credits are playing.
This isn't how Brendon wanted it to be, all hurried and rough and frantic, but this way is good, it's fine too. Spencer's teeth dig in hard at the side of his neck, Spencer's hands are too-tight on his hips. The rhythm Spencer sets is quick and steady, then Spencer's got a hand between them, undoing Brendon's pants and slipping in under his boxers.
Brendon feels overheated, too-hot so he pulls of his shirt and tries to shimmy out of his pants without losing contact with Spencer, but it's not easy, and Spencer gives him a second and then his hand is back, their mouths are crushed back together.
Brendon closes his eyes.
He feels sort of guilty, though, because Spencer's the one who's lonely, and it's Spencer doing all the work, and.
And so, okay, Brendon's a guy, he's not going to lie and say he doesn't appreciate the grip of Spencer's hand around his cock, can't even begin to pretend that he's somehow offended by the quick, easy strokes up and down or the way Spencer kind of varies the pressure. It's actually pretty different from how Brendon usually jerks off, but he's getting ideas for the future. Mostly he's thinking, oh, shit, wow and variants on that, but a tiny corner of his brain is filing this away for future use.
He tucks his sense of fairness to the side until he comes, sudden and messy on Spencer's hand and shirt, and Brendon says, "You want me to blow you?"
Spencer blinks at him, like Spencer's realizing it's Brendon he just jerked off. Spencer looks, suddenly, a lot more composed than he did a moment ago, though his hair's still just a little mussed and he's still glossy with sweat. "Oh, uhm," Spencer says.
"I really want to," Brendon says. He doesn't say, if it would make you feel better. "Seriously, I'm pretty great at it! So you should let me."
"How do you know you're good?" Spencer sort of snorts, one corner of his mouth twisting up into a wry grin.
"I have my ways."
Spencer just rolls his eyes, and Brendon takes that as an invitation to duck his head down. He undoes the zip with his teeth, bracing himself against Spencer's thigh with one arm.
Spencer doesn't watch, just closes his eyes and fists his hands into Brendon's hair.
-
Brendon yawns, stretching his arms out above his head. Smiling, he squints his eyes open, twists himself up into a sitting position and mumbles a sleepy, "Good morning, you."
The bed is empty.
-
Brendon curls up under his covers, a pillow over his head, and stays there for three hours. He's supposed to be doing something on commission, but the person who asked for it doesn't want it until Monday. It's still Sunday morning; he'll just stay up late and drive it over in the late afternoon.
He's making up excuses and trying to think about other things. He's trying to go back to sleep. He doesn't know what he's doing, but it's not helping.
After a while, he pulls the pillow off of his head and gets up and works frantically on something for himself, a conte crayon sketch of the mess inside his head right now. He finishes that and then finally, finally picks up his phone.
"Hey," he says. "Hey, Spencer?"
"Who's -- Brendon? Hi. Uh."
"So uhm," Brendon says. "Did you. Are you at work? Sorry if I'm bothering you at work. I just, you know, wanted to know how you're doing."
"I don't work Sundays, come on. You know that," Spencer says, amused. Then he's quiet for a long time. "I should have just said I had work. Look, the train I'm on is about to go underground; I'll call you back as soon as --"
The connection cuts out, and Brendon says, "Hello?" to a dead connection a few times before giving up.
He showers and does his hair, and digs in his closet until he can find one of his nicer, unembellished suits. Brendon hasn't gone to church in a long, long time.
Brendon feels a little calmer, after; he calls Pete, because he can't think of who else to call.
"Hey," Pete says. "So who was that who picked up your phone last night, dude?"
"Oh," Brendon says. "Uhm. I didn't know -- oh," he says again. "I didn't know anybody called."
"Huh," Pete says. "Well, I'm glad I didn't wake you up or anything. Dude said you were asleep; I felt kind of bad. He sounded tired too."
"Oh," Brendon repeats. "That was. Spencer."
"Spencer, huh?"
"Spencer," Brendon agrees. "He's just some guy I know." He feels sort of sick, saying that. "I must have fallen asleep; we were watching Labyrinth. I've seen it before, you know?"
"Oh. Right. Sure, yeah, totally," Pete says.
Brendon says, "I have to go. Sorry. I'm -- sorry. Fuck. Bye."
-
Brendon almost tries asking for another week off of work, but he eventually sucks it up and goes in anyway.
The only reason he's keeping track of days anymore is because of his job, and even with that he's not really sure where he is on the calendar anymore. He's just sort of letting time flow over and around him, isn't even being carried with it or anything.
Ryan calls, eventually. Brendon's not sure how long that takes. "Oh hey!" he says. "Ryan. What's up?"
"Not much," Ryan says. He sounds wary. "How are you?"
"What? I'm fine. You know, the usual thing; doing art and stuff." He hasn't, actually, been doing all that much art. He's made one new print, did a small run of that, and he's sort of fiddled with some of his sound pieces but not finished any. The lake piece still has that conversation with Spencer at the end, and he just doesn't feel like working on the spoken-word thing he recorded with Pete. "Why?"
"I just hadn't heard from you in a while," Ryan says.
"Oh, okay."
Ryan says, "Do you want to come over?"
Brendon likes Ryan, because Ryan's not just straight, he's in love with Keltie and that makes him safe. It makes Brendon a little jealous, sometimes, but mostly he just likes that things with Ryan are so concrete and solid. They're friends, and nothing else, and neither of them's ever wanted it to be anything besides that.
Brendon curls up at Ryan's side and Keltie makes popcorn for them and gives them space, and they all three watch Moulin Rouge for a while. Brendon freaks out a little, though. It takes a while going through Ryan and Keltie's shared movie collection before they find something else to watch, because the only Disney movie Ryan has is Peter Pan and nearly everything else is weird and foreign, but eventually it turns out that Keltie has a copy of Empire Records somewhere and they watch that.
After the movie, Keltie says, "Hey, guys, I'm going to go buy some groceries so we can have something other than popcorn for dinner, okay? I'll be back in a bit."
Ryan reaches out, and Keltie laughs and presses their fingertips together. Ryan says, "Get some shallots."
"Do you even know what those are?"
"I read the word earlier," Ryan says. "Just get some; I'm curious."
"So you have no clue what they are?" Ryan shakes his head, and Keltie says, "I'd just tell you what they are, but that'd ruin the surprise."
Brendon says, "Ryan! You've never had shallots before? Not in anything?"
"They go in things?" Ryan says, "I was just reading some culinary journalism. The writer wasn't very specific about them."
"Ryan, seriously," Keltie says, shaking her head. She walks past to grab her jacket, ruffling both Ryan and Brendon's hair in the process. "I'll be right back."
Ryan says, "So," after she's gone.
"So?"
"So," Ryan says again.
Brendon says, "It's nothing big, you know, I'm fine," and smiles at Ryan. Ryan just looks horrified. "What?"
"Worst fake smile ever, Urie, seriously."
"Nuh-uh, this is the worst fake smile ever," Brendon says, scrunching up his nose and baring his teeth.
"Okay, I'll give you that. Still, it was pretty bad."
Brendon says, "Just, it's weird, I don't know. I want to be back in Miami."
"You could go again?"
"No, like. I want to be there when I was there before."
"Wait, when did you go to Miami?" Ryan says.
"A little while ago."
"Why?"
"Somebody asked me. Or. I asked somebody. Sort of. It was weird, I don't know. It was kind of random."
"Huh."
"I just. It was nice, is all. Like, I kind of wish it could just. Be like that forever."
"Okay," Ryan says.
Brendon says, "It was the best vacation ever, Ryan Ross."
"Just saying it was the best isn't going to convince me it actually was."
"Are you saying I'd lie to you, Ross? I mean it! We went to the beach, and. And. Had dinner at this little Cuban place, like, neither of us speaks Spanish and they hardly spoke English? And. I guess we didn't actually do that much. Still. It was really nice." Brendon curls in on himself, limbs folded up close. He sort of leans against Ryan, a little. "And just. I'm never -- like, I could go back to Miami technically, but I don't know if I'll ever be able to. Go back to Miami. You know what I mean? I don't know, it's stupid."
"Huh," Ryan says. "Did you get in a fight or something?"
"Not really?" Brendon says, "I mean, it's not like we got into an argument or anything, just that I did something stupid and now we're probably never going to speak to each other again. It's not like it wasn't my fault, though, so I don't blame him or anything."
Ryan puts an arm around Brendon's shoulder, and they just sit there like that until Keltie gets back.
-
It's been a few weeks, and Brendon, it turns out, is lucky his neighbors aren't the sort to steal things. Because one Monday afternoon, he's on his way out to buy a new tube of cadmium yellow paint, something he hasn't done since he was still in school. He doesn't usually paint, but he's felt like doing something different lately, since it seems like he's fucked up so many of his routines already. He only notices the package on his doorstep when he comes back. He has no way of knowing how long it's been there. He also hasn't left the house for a few days. So.
So he picks it up, hefts it under his arm as he fights with the lock. He holds the bag with the paint in it in between his teeth. When he gets inside, he manages to set everything down, then sits on the edge of his bed to open up the box.
The little box is plain cardboard, and built sort of like a sturdier version on an envelope, with a a little cartoon dog drawn in place of where a stamp might go. There's no name or address on it.
Inside, there's a folded up square of paper, and it takes Brendon a second to realize it's a CD case.
He turns it over and opens it up before he even notices the little drawing on the back.
The headphones sort of resemble a pair he owns, and Brendon's beginning to get the hint, even though he's not quite sure why anyone would draw him as a mouse. Inside the original box, though, he realizes there's a booklet, too, illustrated in the same style as the CD case, made out of the same sort of paper and printed in light blue ink. The front of it just says, Don't listen until you've got time to hear it all, in a little text bubble being spoken by the same dog from the front of the CD case.
Brendon cooks dinner, but he lets it go cold while he sits and listens.
(The very last track comes up as untitled on his computer, with no artist listed, and Brendon doesn't recognize the singer but he can tell exactly who it is screaming.)
-
Brendon's really cold. The cement's barely warmed up under him, and it's been hours and the sun went down a little while ago, and. He's cold.
He forgot his jacket, is the thing, and he doesn't want to go back, just in case. He's waiting.
A couple people step around him where he's sitting on the steps, but then he almost gets tripped over, and.
"Brendon?" Pete says. "Hey. Hey, are you okay?"
Brendon keeps his hands shoved deep into his pockets as he gets up, which is a little awkward, balancewise, but he manages it, and says, "Uhm, yeah, I didn't know when you got home so I was just waiting, and, hi, yeah. I'm -- I'm really sorry, okay?"
"What?" Pete says. "Dude, you're shivering. Hey, come on, let's -- hey." Brendon's holding on tight, just pulled him into a hug, and Pete rubs at his back, says, "No, come on, let's go up to my apartment, okay? It's warmer up there."
"Oh. Right," Brendon says. "That makes sense. Okay!" He pulls away, sort of shaking himself off. "Okay, let's go."
They go upstairs, and Pete grabs Brendon a blanket and orders him to sit down. Pete disappears into the kitchen for a while, then comes back with hot chocolate. Warming his hands on the mug, Brendon says, "Thanks. I -- sorry."
Pete sits down next to him and watches the steam rise off his own mug for a while, before sitting back and turning on the TV.
"Okay," Brendon says, hesitantly, and just takes the chance to savor the drink. "This is good."
"Yeah, it's this mix made by, like, some monks or something. I don't know."
"Huh!" Brendon says, looking down then looking over at Pete. "Like, up in a monastery? Man, whenever I think of monks, I think of like. England in the thirteenth century. Copying down the Bible and stuff."
"I don't really know. That's just what it says on the tin."
They're both quiet again for a long, long time, until Pete finally says, "I didn't even make the CD myself. My friends just got tired of me bitching. I couldn't even get it right, you know? So. They helped out." He says, "I thought, you know. Nothing I did would ever be good enough or whatever. So."
"Oh." Brendon says, "Pete. Just. Pete." He leans over, setting his hot chocolate down on the end table, then he carefully takes Pete's mug and does the same. Pete stares at him stupidly, until Brendon pulls him into a hug, mumbling Pete's name against his neck.
Brendon says, "I thought you were gonna hate me forever. Pete. Pete." He buries his face against Pete's shoulder, closing his eyes. He brings his arms up to rub at Brendon's back again.
"Fuck, that's so," Pete cuts himself off. "Hey. Do you -- we can give this another go, right? Forget all this shit and start again or whatever?"
Brendon says, "We could go back to Miami. If you want."
"We could totally go back to Miami," Pete says.
( bonus material roundup post - complete with extra scenes! really!)