[fic] Dear Gravity [brendon/weezy, nc-17]
Dear Gravity
Brendon/Lil Wayne. NC-17. 5,474 words.
There will never be enough high school AUs, not ever. This was beta'd by drunknballerina! Also, if you need it, I did a Lil Wayne primer a while back. Also, they both helped out during FOB's performance of "Arms Race" in the VMAs a few years back, which is justification enough I think.
And it’s not that he’s even distracted, he’s not. He’s just thinking about a lot of things, and not all of those are necessarily practice-related things. Some of those are he-made-out-with-a-dude things, and he can’t even say he did it because he was drunk. Brendon was always pretty sure that, out of all of them, Ryan Ross would be the band member most likely to have some weird sexual identity crisis, but Ryan is still dating some girl Brendon hasn’t met yet (none of them have; Brent’s theory is that this one is imaginary) and Brendon’s the one freaking out over a guy.
Brendon tells his parents he’s going over to Brent’s place to study. This isn’t entirely a lie - they spend maybe ten minutes looking over their notes, but it’s Friday and there’s a party at Pete Wentz’s place. Brendon hates lying to his parents, but telling half-truths is totally fine. He’s managed to weasel an eleven o’clock curfew out of them - it’s Friday, seriously - so he’ll have at least a little time to hang out with people.
“Ryan said he was going to come tonight, right?”
“I think his dad’s out of the hospital, so yeah.”
“Good, cool. I need to tell him I can’t make practice Sunday since I’ve got to babysit.”
“You know he’ll be pissed, right?” Brendon says.
“Mom offered to pay me, just because she knows we were supposed to practice,” Brent says. “I’ll use it to, I don’t know, buy him new guitar strings or a cooler strap or something. He can’t stay too pissed if I do that, right?”
“Go for the strings. It makes it look like you take the music more seriously.”
“Oh, yeah, good call. Look, we’re gonna be early as shit, but we might as well get going,” Brent says. His mom lets him drive his car pretty much whenever he wants, with only minimum questions and an admonishment not to get Brendon into too much trouble. Brent laughs and shakes his head -- Mom, c’mon, he’s Mormon! What am I gonna do, force-feed him Coke? and his mom just tells them to have fun.
Brent’s mom is kind of weird, but Brendon likes her anyway. She’s nice and doesn’t get mad at him when he’s being a dork or singing along with movies and commercials and the songs inside his head.
Brendon can't drink tonight because he's got to get up early tomorrow, but he's got a red cup full of Sprite and he's acting like a big enough dork that he's pretty sure everyone'll think he's been drinking anyway.
Someone catches Brent by the arm and starts talking to him, and neither of them is paying much heed to Brendon, so he just sort of wanders around for a bit, nursing his cup of soda for all it’s worth. Downstairs, some people are playing Rock Band, so he sits on the arm of the couch and watches.
Pete’s playing guitar, and Brendon’s friend Patrick is singing, with Pete’s friend - Wayne Carter or something - wailing on the drums. They get through playing Livin’ on a Prayer before Patrick decides he’s done. Brendon’s not sure how long they’ve been playing already, but there’s a sign-up sheet taped to the wall with nearly all the names crossed off.
"Pete, I am not going to sing for every single song tonight," Patrick says. "I'm going to take a break." Patrick leaves, and Pete stares after him a second before sighing and turning around.
“Man, I just got my turn, too,” Wayne says, leaning back on the stool. He exhales loudly through his nose, sounding frustrated.
“I know, dude. Oh, hey, Brendon!” Pete says, perking up. “Dude, you know Wayne, right? Weezy, this is Brendon, he kicks ass. Brendon, you wanna play?”
“I - guess so, yeah.” Brendon shrugs. “Yeah, why not?”
“Alright, look,” Pete says, handing Brendon guitar. “You can multitask, can’t you?”
“I’ve got ADD, dude, of course I can multitask.”
“Sweet.” Pete ducks around behind Brendon and rests the microphone on his shoulder. “You’ve got this, dude. Show Weezy you’re a rockstar. Weezy Baby, this kid’s hilarious, check it out.”
“Pete, you’re being retarded again,” Weezy says. “You don’t mind, do you, kid?”
“Nah,” Brendon says, ignoring it as Pete ruffles his hair and darts up the steps. “It’s all good, bro. What do you want to play next?”
“I already picked, you go.”
“Alright, okay, uh.” Brendon goes through the song list, singing along with the little snippets of songs under his breath before stopping on Duran Duran. He laughs. “Man, this shit - you mind? This song’s ridiculous.”
“Yeah, I told you to pick.”
They play for three more songs, alternating who picks, before Weezy sits back and finishes his drink. He looks up at Brendon, who’s still standing with the microphone balanced awkwardly on his shoulder and the guitar hanging from its strap. Weezy flashes him a wry little smile. "Alright, I'm out. You're too good at this shit."
Brendon shrugs, setting the mic down next to the Xbox and leaning the guitar up against a wall. "Yeah, hey, thanks for sticking around, it would've been lame as hell if I was playing by myself or whatever. I - guess my friends are around somewhere, I should go see where they are, I think I saw Brent talking to Cash earlier, and I still haven’t even seen Ryan yet, haha, so yeah, uh, I'll just. Go."
Weezy pauses for a second, eyebrows going up. "You scared or something? What're you running for?"
"What? I’m not running, I just figured you'd have better shit to do, I don't want to bother you or anything."
"You ain’t a bother, don’t worry," Weezy says with a sleepy grin. "Hey, what're you drinking?" He doesn't wait for an answer, just takes Brendon's cup - their fingers brushing - and takes a sip. He laughs. Brendon's not actually sure what he thought Weezy's laugh would sound like, but it wasn't that high, dry little sound.
"My parents'd be able to tell if I was actually drinking." Brendon shrugs, smiling self-consciously. "They're pretty strict about that shit. If they found out, I'd be stuck in the house for the rest of the year."
"Yeah, fuck that," Weezy says. "Fuck 'em. You having a good time anyway?"
"Uh - yeah? Yeah," Brendon says. "Yeah!"
“That’s good.” Weezy laughs again, putting an arm around Brendon's shoulders. He hands Brendon's cup back. "I ain't gonna hurt you, B."
"No, I know. I know. Pete'd - well, Pete couldn't kick your ass, but he'd try."
"Pete's a dumbass," Weezy says, very solemnly. "We wouldn't be friends if he hadn't have tried to help when some other motherfuckers were kicking my ass. They kicked his ass, too, so my point is, he’s a dumbass."
Brendon stares, because he's trying to imagine anyone messing with Wayne Carter and can't. "Who?"
"I 'onno. It’s not a thing anymore. Look, I'm not big. I'm compact. And I was scrawny as hell freshman year, you know? Not that Pete was any better, but shit, he tried. We're good. He's my boy; I got his back, even when he's doing dumb shit like stalking that Stump kid."
Brendon says, "Man, Patrick keeps bitching about that, but I'm pretty sure they're, like, destined to be BFF or something, you know? If Pete bothered him half as much as Patrick says he does, the dude'd know it. Patrick's so, so not above, like, strangling."
Weezy grins. "I almost want 'em to fight it out. It'd be about the most ridiculous thing, yeah? And maybe they'd get the hell over themselves, get it out of their systems and kiss an' make out."
"Kiss and make up," Brendon corrects.
"Nah, I know, I was trying to be clever," Weezy says. "I'm usually better at it. What I'm saying is, you don't think they don't want to jump each others bones 'till they haven't got skeletons anymore?"
Brendon considers his answer for a little bit, because - well, yeah, but he doesn't know Weezy that well and he seems like an okay dude but Brendon doesn't really know him well enough to say anything yet (because, yeah, half of why Patrick bitches about Pete so much is because he likes him but thinks he's outclassed, which, whatever, Patrick's dumb). "You're making less sense than Pete does, and that's saying something."
"Shit," Weezy laughs, ducking his head. He rubs at his temples, then shakes his head and rests a hand against the small of Brendon's back, pushing just a little bit. "I think I'm trying too hard. I'm gonna go get another drink. You want more 7-Up or whatever, yeah? Since I already drank like half of yours. Come on, let's go."
Brendon nods quickly, and they head up stairs together. Weezy sticks close by his side, hand still on Brendon’s back and keeping up a stream of conversation - “Man, you see that shit? I guess Travie and Katy finally hooked up. Damn, man. He’s been after her for a minute” - and Brendon spots Brent and gives him a little wave.
Wayne says, “Here, I got this,” and goes through the refrigerator looking for the bottle of Sprite.
Brent comes in, grabbing Brendon’s shoulder, and whispers, “Dude, what the fuck?”
“What?”
“That guy’s scary as shit, what are you hanging out with him for?”
“He’s friends with Pete.” Brendon shrugs, keeping his voice low. “We played Rock Band; I dunno, he seems okay.”
Weezy lets out a triumphant whoop, holding the 2 liter bottle up over his head. “Found it! Check it out, B,” he says. He twists the top open, air hissing out, and holds it out. “Hold your cup out.”
Brendon does, and Weezy pours until it’s maybe three quarters full, then steps back and does a sarcastic sort of half-bow, holding the bottle out to the side.
“Thanks, dude,” Brendon says, giving the thumbs up. “Great job. You’ll go far in the beverage-serving industry.”
“I’ll go farther than that,” Weezy says.
Brent snorts. “That’s what she said.”
Brendon says, “Hey, Brent, you guys haven’t met, have you? Brent, this is - do I call you Weezy, or - Wayne, Carter, what?”
“If you gon’ call me Weezy,” he says, all sing-song, “then you must say the Baby. Yeah?”
“Weezy fuckin’ Baby,” Brendon grins, shaking his head slightly. “Whatever, man, so look, this is my friend Brent; he plays bass in this band I’m in.”
“Yeah? What do you guys play?”
“Rock and roll,” Brent says. “No, it’s sort of - cabaret punk, is that what Ryan was calling it last time?”
“Something like that,” Brendon says. “I don’t know, we’ve got some electronic backing stuff - we haven’t tried doing anything live yet, it’s all just theoretical. We might have to take Spence’s laptop on stage and play shit off of it if we ever actually play live, I don’t know.”
“You’re probably going to want to have that figured out at some point, you ever want to do a show. Just sayin’.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Brent says. “I keep telling Ryan we need to make it simpler, but he’s like, trying to make everything ornate as possible.”
“Some baroque-ass rock, huh?”
Brendon says, “Don’t let Ryan ever hear you say that, or he’ll force me to learn the harpsichord or something.” He looks around, suddenly paranoid that Ryan will have overheard, even though Brendon hasn’t seen him yet all night.
“I don’t even know where you’d get a harpsichord. That’s some old-ass shit.”
Brent frowns, tucking his hair back behind his ears. “You’d have to go to an antique store or something. Or a piano store, maybe?”
Brendon says, “No. Don’t even talk about where to buy them. He’s got eyes and ears everywhere?”
“Who does?” Ryan asks.
Brendon jumps. “Son of a - !”
Ryan says, “Don’t worry, I don’t know where to get a harpsichord either. It’s not a bad idea, though.”
“We’re not using the synth to fake having a harpsichord, either, Ross.”
Ryan shrugs. “Anyway, I was just going to get some water for Spence. Where have you guys been? Come on.”
Brent says, “Okay.”
“I’ll be there in a minute,” Brendon says. “Wherever there is. I’ll find you guys, okay?”
Weezy smiles, and Brendon can’t help but smile back, leaning against the kitchen counter. “Your band any good?”
“The greatest.” Brendon waggles his eyebrows. “Or we will be, with a little practice, I don’t know. You want me to send you the link or something?”
“Yeah, add me on Facebook or whatever then message me with that shit.”
“Ooh, Facebook friends. I don’t know, man, seems like things’re moving a little fast.”
“You think that’s fast,” Weezy laughs. He downs a lot of whatever it is he’s drinking, and sort of steels himself before grinning again. “What’d you do if I asked you to go see a movie with me next weekend?”
Brendon pauses. “What movie?”
“Shit, I dunno. Whatever movie you want to go see.”
“Uhm,” Brendon says.
Weezy says, “Fuck it. Fuck it, you know what, I’m not waiting a week. I’m just gonna kiss you right now, if that’s okay. You good with that?”
Brendon freezes, just kind of staring, wide-eyed, because - what? What?
“You can say no. It’s alright, that’s why I’m asking first. I just figured you’d be okay with it.”
“What? No, no, that’s. Uh. I just, what?”
“Is there some way I wasn’t clear?”
“No, I got you, just. Okay. Yeah, sure.”
“Okay,” Weezy says, and he leans in and Brendon closes his eyes and tries not to wonder how this is his life because, what the hell, Wayne Carter is kissing him. He’s kissing Wayne Carter, and it’s pretty nice, and he’s leaning against Pete Wentz’s kitchen counter with one hand on Weezy’s chest and the other resting on his shoulders and he’s way more okay with the situation than he probably should be since he’s pretty sure his family is in absolutely no way going to be anywhere near okay with this.
And thinking of his family, his phone goes off, and he ignores it for a second because he’s liking this, but then he realizes that if his phone is going off that means it’s nearly eleven and he’s got to go home unless he wants to be grounded for the better part of forever.
He uses that hand on Weezy’s chest to push him away, and says, “Uh, so I - I have to go now, okay, so I’m just going to leave now, bye.”
It requires that he jogs part way, but Brendon gets home a minute past eleven, and his mother lets that slide, a fact for which Brendon is effusively thankful.
“Mom,” Brendon says, hugging her, “you’re the best.”
“Well, thanks,” she says. “It was only one minute. How’d the studying go?”
“Pretty good, pretty good.” Brendon’s still holding on, because his mom is safe and familiar and not a dude at a party. Brendon is trying really, really hard not to freak out about the fact that he made out with a dude at a party. It doesn’t help that he’s pretty sure that said dude was drunk and probably going to kick Brendon’s ass on Monday or something.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, Mom, I’m fine,” Brendon says. “My head’s all full of knowledge; wears a boy out, you know? I’m gonna get to bed.”
“Don’t forget to brush your teeth.”
“Mom.”
-
Brendon kind of wishes Brent were at practice, just because he’s known Brent longer than the other guys. They practice with a recording of the bass part played off of Spencer’s laptop, and Brendon tries hard not to be too distracted the whole time.
And it’s not that he’s even distracted, he’s not. He’s just thinking about a lot of things, and not all of those are necessarily practice-related things. Some of those are he-made-out-with-a-dude things, and he can’t even say he did it because he was drunk. Brendon was always pretty sure that, out of all of them, Ryan Ross would be the band member most likely to have some weird sexual identity crisis, but Ryan is still dating some girl Brendon hasn’t met yet (none of them have; Brent’s theory is that this one is imaginary) and Brendon’s the one freaking out over a guy.
Ryan tries to call him out on it, but Brendon makes the excuse that he’s really tired because he’s been spending so much time looking for a job. This isn’t wholly a lie. Ryan and Spencer let it slide, anyway.
-
So, Monday comes. Brendon’s late for school - he can’t actually remember why his parents aren’t letting him drive this week, but they aren’t, and he misses the bus. He slinks into class with his tail between his legs and fails to pay attention to anything for most of the day.
Second period, his history teacher yells at him for daydreaming. Third, he’s supposed to be working in a group, but they let him work on drawings for the poster instead of trying to find information.
He’s pretty grateful when lunch rolls around, because it means he can just kick back, eat some fries, and listen to Brent complain about their calculus homework. Then Brent says, “So did you ever find a job?”
“What? Oh, yeah, I’ve - I had an interview at Smoothie Hut in the mall. It went pretty good, I think.”
“Good luck, dude. As long as you weren’t too big a spazz, you’ll probably get it. You’ve got that old Mormon charm or whatever.”
“And boyish good looks,” Brendon says, agreeably. “Shit, I can’t wait until we’re famous enough that I’m not trying to get a job at the fucking Smoothie Hut to support my music habit.”
“Shit’s like drugs, isn’t it? I’d inject it intravenous if it wasn’t already in my blood,” Weezy says, sliding into the seat next to Brendon and grinning. “Speaking of, you never sent me your band’s Myspace.” He looks up at Brent. “What’s you guys’s band even called?”
“Panic at the Disco,” Brent says. “It’s from some song. There’s an exclamation point after the Panic!, though.”
“Did it get lost on the way to the end of the name or what?”
“Ryan put it on some theoretical t-shirt design,” Brent says.
Brendon says, “It just kind of stuck, you know? It looked cool, is all, and it kind of makes out names stand out. Plus, I mean, we’ve got a couple friends on Myspace because Ryan’s always whoring himself on the Internet, and some of them’ll do, like - they’ll format their name the same way. It’s pretty funny, I guess. I had my name as Brendon! At the Disco, with the exclamation and all for a little while, but then I figured it was kind of dumb if I was using my own band’s name as a, like, template or whatever.”
“That was a lot of words,” Brent says.
“I didn’t take my Ritalin today,” Brendon says. He looks down at the Styrofoam tray his lunch is sitting on and has to keep himself from staring at Weezy’s mouth.
“You haven’t taken it for years,” Brent says.
Weezy says, “Don’t do drugs. Stay in school.”
“Does weed count?” Brendon asks, contemplatively.
“It’s natural. Of course it doesn’t count.”
“Good,” Brendon says. “I don’t have to drop out.”
Brent’s staring. “Dude, when did you start smoking?”
Brendon shrugs. “It’s probably not a great idea to talk about in school, you know?”
So. Weezy starts sitting with Brendon and Brent at lunch, some of the time. He’ll come over partway through, after he’s done eating and talking with Pete and Lupe and whoever else is hanging around that table, and he’ll sit right next to Brendon, so close that Brendon can feel the warmth of his thigh even though they’re never quite touching.
Thursday after school, Weezy comes up to his locker and asks him, “So wait, do you drive?”
“Sometimes,” Brendon laughs. “My parents aren’t letting me for now. I don’t even know what I did this time. Sold my soul to rock, or something.”
“You need a ride home?”
“I - is it out of your way?”
“Fuck if I know.” Weezy leans against the locker next to Brendon’s, lifting a hand to fiddle with the straps on his backpack. “Tell me where you live, and I’ll lie and tell you it’s right on my way.”
“If you’re sure? That’d be great, man, thanks.” Brendon ducks his head and laughs. He tells Weezy what street he lives on, too.
Weezy bites his lip and smiles. “You got a curfew or anything, or do you wanna go somewhere before I take you home?”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Brendon says. He breathes in through his nose. “My parents pretty much expect me home right after school every day.”
“They wouldn’t let you out for just one night?”
“Well,” Brendon says. “I could call them and ask.”
His mom is delighted to hear he’s hanging out with someone other than Brent, and asks if Brendon’s new friend is Mormon or not and Brendon says he doesn’t know and she tells him to remember to answer any questions and be positive about his faith, and Brendon just keeps saying, “Yes, Mom, okay, I will,” until she stops and tells him to have fun. To that, he just grins into the phone and then says, “Sure, will do.”
Brendon asks, “So where are we going?”
Weezy shrugs. “You wanna go to the diner? I’m kind of feeling the French fries thing right now.”
“Dude, fries and a shake sound so good right about now. I feel 50’s as fuck.”
“Gonna go get our Happy Days on,” Weezy says, leading the way out to his car. “Man, I got money, but I don’t know if I’ve got change for the jukebox.”
“I think I’ve got a couple left over from lunch,” Brendon says. “Before we leave we have to find the worst thing there and queue it up for, like, six plays in a row or something.”
Weezy grins and, once he’s started his car, turns up the volume on the radio. Brendon rolls the window down and leans back in the seat with one arm out the window.
They get to the diner, and Brendon’s looking over the menu - “Pretty sure I want fries, but you never know, right? I mean, pancakes are bad-ass. I could go for pancakes right now, too.”
“Pancakes are better at either 3AM, or breakfast time. I don’t know about after school.”
“After school’s when you need pancakes most,” Brendon says. “But, fries are cheaper.”
“Plus you can split ‘em easier.”
“I’d share my pancakes,” Brendon says. “Pancakes for everyone.”
The waitress comes ‘round to take their orders, and Brendon goes, “Welllllll.”
Weezy’s foot prods at his ankle. Brendon looks over at him, and Weezy just opens his eyes wide and looks innocent. Brendon laughs, shaking his head. “Uh - blueberry pancakes?”
Weezy kicks him again.
“And fries. God damn, dude.”
The waitress raises he eyebrows. “Uh-huh. Anything else?”
Weezy says, “Get my boy here a milkshake. What kind of milkshake you want, B? You still want one?”
“Man, I forgot,” Brendon says. He kicks Weezy back, just for good measure. “Since I’m getting pancakes, I dunno. Can I just have a Sprite?”
“No problem, darling,” the waitress says, heading back to the kitchen.
“I’m a darling now, apparently,” Brendon says.
“I like you, but I’m not calling you darling. I’d have to be old and white.”
“Well, as long as I can keep calling you Weezy Baby.” Brendon laughs. “I can still use that one, right?”
“As long as it isn’t Weezy Darling.”
“Sure thing, Weezy Darling,” Brendon says. “You know you were asking for that one, right?”
Weezy kicks him under the table anyway. Brendon laughs, hooking his ankle around Weezy’s to try and keep from getting kicked again.
-
Weezy drives Brendon home afterwards, and leans over across the center console. He’s got a hand on Brendon’s thigh, and Brendon’s smiling back at him, maybe a touch less self-assured.
Brendon lowers his head a little, biting his lip. Their foreheads are nearly touching. “That was fun. And seriously, you didn’t have to pay.”
“It’s cool,” Weezy says. “I’ve got it covered, B.”
“I’m paying next time.”
“I won’t fight you or anything,” Weezy says. “But you know I’ve got it covered, yeah?”
“Yeah.” Brendon keeps smiling stupidly. He looks down and to the side, eyes ending up on the dashboard before darting back to Weezy’s face. He scrunches his eyes up shit and manages to land a peck on Weezy’s cheek before going for the door. “So, no, look, if my parents - I have to get going. I’ll see you at school.”
“Hey, before you go,” Weezy says. “About that movie. I meant it. Text me or something when you figure out what you want to see, alright?”
“Yeah, sure thing.” Brendon stops, leaning on the door frame. “Wait, hey, no. I don’t have your number.”
“Here.” Weezy digs around in his pocket to find a pen, then scribbles his number down on the back of a receipt. “That way I’ll have yours too, right?”
“Yeah,” Brendon says. “Hey. So that was fun. And, yeah. So I’ll see you.”
Brendon only manages to stop grinning before he gets inside because he knows just how disappointed his parents would be if they knew he was - doing whatever it is he’s doing with Weezy. It’s not like he’d get disowned, but they’d probably manage to ground him hard enough that he would have to quit the band. He’s just guessing, here, but it seems pretty likely.
-
Brendon hardly remembers what movie they see, because they spend most of it making out in the back row of the theater, and after the movie they kill thirty minutes making out in the back seat of Weezy’s car.
It’s still pretty early, because they caught the three o’clock movie, so they head over to a record store and kill time there. Brendon can’t actually remember when half the albums he’s looking forward to come out, so he leans on the counter and grills the guy about release dates for a good twenty minutes before Weezy comes over and leans an arm on Brendon’s shoulder.
“The hell are you bothering my man T-Pain for?” His smile is harmless and his tone light, so Brendon just grins back.
“I wanted to know when the new Hush Sound is coming out.”
“And the new everything else,” counter-guy - T-Pain, apparently - says.
“I didn’t realize I’d been wasting so much of your time, though,” Brendon says. “So, uh, sorry about that.”
“It’s fine. I could’ve told you to fuck off.”
Weezy stares at him, mock-serious. “You wouldn’t get fired for that?”
“I would have said it polite,” T-Pain says.
Weezy laughs. “That makes everything different, obviously.”
“Obviously.”
“So you guys are friends?” Brendon says, which - stupid question, the answer’s pretty obvious.
“We’ve even got t-shirts,” T-Pain says, nodding.
“Why do you have t-shirts?”
Weezy looks at T-Pain. T-Pain looks at Weezy. They both sort of shrug. Weezy says, “Because T-Wayne sounds ridiculous?”
“Ryan has a shirt that says Mikey Fuckin’ Way on it,” Brendon says. He’s not actually sure why he says it. He’s feeling really awkward all of a sudden. He looks down at the floor. The carpet’s a dark, vague color but looks dirty anyway. It probably hasn’t been vacuumed in a while.
“You want a t-shirt?” T-Pain asks.
“No, that’s okay,” Brendon says, because he is pretty sure wearing a T-Wayne shirt would be just plain weird.
-
Brendon is pretty sure he’s dating Weezy. The first time he really realizes it, he’s on his knees in Weezy’s bedroom. He’s maybe jerked off to this before, just the idea of it, but actually giving a blowjob is way more intimidating than he ever figured it would be.
Weezy seems to think he’s doing an alright job, though, or at least the constant mumbled encouragements would imply as much.
Anyway, Brendon at least doesn’t want to blow a guy he isn’t dating. He’s pretty sure going to the movies and making out a lot counts. The rides home and trips to the diner are probably good signs, too, at least Brendon hopes so.
“Fuck, B, I’m gonna,” Weezy’s saying, so Brendon backs off, because he’s hear jizz tastes terrible. He doesn’t really want to find out right now, not with his jaw already sort of sore.
He’s on his knees and breathless and way harder than he thought he would be. Weezy’s dick jerks and then there’s something - come, because it’s not like there’s anything else for it to be - warm and wet on Brendon’s face. He squints his eyes shut just in case, but it’s fine.
Brendon laughs a little, rocking back on his heels and wiping his face off with the back of his hand. “Ah, man.”
“Hey,” Weezy says. “I told you.”
“Yeah,” Brendon says. “Yeah, it’s okay. You got some Kleenex or something?”
Weezy leans over to grab a box off his nightstand and tosses it to Brendon, who kind of doesn’t want to catch it - seriously, there is jizz on his hands, and maybe he should have thought of that first - but whatever. It’s Weezy’s fault anyway. He wipes it off as Weezy’s tucking himself back into his boxers and doing his jeans back up.
“Hey, here,” Weezy says, raising an eyebrow and grinning. “Now I gotta take care of you.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Nah, I want to. Unless you don’t. I mean, you liked that, right? It looked like you were into it.”
“Yeah,” Brendon says, ducking his head. He stands up, legs feeling awkward under him and dick still stupidly hard in his jeans. Weezy grabs him by the hand and tugs him onto the bed, and Brendon isn’t paying a whole lot of attention to how Weezy gets his pants open. He squeezes his eyes shut and comes, like, two seconds after Weezy touches his dick, which is ridiculous, but whatever, it’s totally justified because somebody else is touching his dick for once, and that somebody has warm rough hands that squeeze just so.
“So we’re gonna do this again sometime,” Weezy says. “And we’re gonna do it right.”
“Okay.” Brendon nods. “Yes. I am all about doing this again. Are we going out?”
“The fuck kind of question is that?”
“I don’t know.” Brendon shrugs. He wonders where the Kleenex went. He kind of wants to nap.
Weezy says, “What did you think we were doing?”
“I dunno. I’m tired.”
“I asked you to the movies,” Weezy says.
“You did,” Brendon agrees, smiling. “Thanks. Let’s keep being boyfriends.”
“You’re ridiculous.” Weezy’s shaking his head, but he sounds fond, so Brendon doesn’t take it personally. He just yawns, instead, and stretches his arms over his head. “You wanna nap, or do you need to head home?”
Brendon sighs, because, oh yeah, his family’s probably expecting him for dinner. “I should probably get home. I - shit, can I take a shower or something? I don’t want them to - shit.”
“Yeah, go for it.”
“And if I could, uhm. Borrow some clean underwear.”
Weezy grins.
-
"This - did you pay money for this? Because this is the fakest shit," Weezy says. He sounds kind of concerned. "Tell me you didn't pay money for this."
"No, no, all I had to do was buy fabric paint."
"To make - a fake-ass BBC shirt?"
"Look, dude, okay, see how - you and T-Pain have those T-Wayne shirts, right? And I was thinking we should have shirts!"
Weezy stares for a long while before laughing. He manages, despite the laugther, to ask,"The fuck has Billionaire Boys Club got to do with it?"
"No, no, see, it's - so my first name's Brendon, right? And my middle name starts with B. And your last name's Carter. So it's BBC. Get it?"
"Man." Weezy laughs. "That's the most ridiculous thing I think I have ever heard in my life."
Brendon bites his lip then plasters on a grin. "Yeah, totally, right?"
"I'm not, like, insulting your intelligence or whatever it is you think I'm doing, I'm just saying that that does not make any sense."
"Because - our initials, see?"
"Maybe if we were getting married or something, sure."
"T-Wayne," Brendon says, crossing his arms.
"Are we fighting over - look." Weezy looks around. The halls are - actually pretty crowded, because first period is about to start, but he shrugs and pulls his shirt off. "Give me that. Are you gonna make me stand around naked? No - good. Thank you. There, see? I will wear this shit every day for a week if you want."
Brendon ducks his head, grinning, arms relaxing. He tucks his thumbs through his belt loops. "You could tell people your washing machine was broken or something."
Weezy grins, stepping forward and letting his hands slide down Brendon's sides to rest at his hips. "I'd just tell 'em you made it. That's a good enough reason, yeah?"
Brendon/Lil Wayne. NC-17. 5,474 words.
There will never be enough high school AUs, not ever. This was beta'd by drunknballerina! Also, if you need it, I did a Lil Wayne primer a while back. Also, they both helped out during FOB's performance of "Arms Race" in the VMAs a few years back, which is justification enough I think.
And it’s not that he’s even distracted, he’s not. He’s just thinking about a lot of things, and not all of those are necessarily practice-related things. Some of those are he-made-out-with-a-dude things, and he can’t even say he did it because he was drunk. Brendon was always pretty sure that, out of all of them, Ryan Ross would be the band member most likely to have some weird sexual identity crisis, but Ryan is still dating some girl Brendon hasn’t met yet (none of them have; Brent’s theory is that this one is imaginary) and Brendon’s the one freaking out over a guy.
Brendon tells his parents he’s going over to Brent’s place to study. This isn’t entirely a lie - they spend maybe ten minutes looking over their notes, but it’s Friday and there’s a party at Pete Wentz’s place. Brendon hates lying to his parents, but telling half-truths is totally fine. He’s managed to weasel an eleven o’clock curfew out of them - it’s Friday, seriously - so he’ll have at least a little time to hang out with people.
“Ryan said he was going to come tonight, right?”
“I think his dad’s out of the hospital, so yeah.”
“Good, cool. I need to tell him I can’t make practice Sunday since I’ve got to babysit.”
“You know he’ll be pissed, right?” Brendon says.
“Mom offered to pay me, just because she knows we were supposed to practice,” Brent says. “I’ll use it to, I don’t know, buy him new guitar strings or a cooler strap or something. He can’t stay too pissed if I do that, right?”
“Go for the strings. It makes it look like you take the music more seriously.”
“Oh, yeah, good call. Look, we’re gonna be early as shit, but we might as well get going,” Brent says. His mom lets him drive his car pretty much whenever he wants, with only minimum questions and an admonishment not to get Brendon into too much trouble. Brent laughs and shakes his head -- Mom, c’mon, he’s Mormon! What am I gonna do, force-feed him Coke? and his mom just tells them to have fun.
Brent’s mom is kind of weird, but Brendon likes her anyway. She’s nice and doesn’t get mad at him when he’s being a dork or singing along with movies and commercials and the songs inside his head.
Brendon can't drink tonight because he's got to get up early tomorrow, but he's got a red cup full of Sprite and he's acting like a big enough dork that he's pretty sure everyone'll think he's been drinking anyway.
Someone catches Brent by the arm and starts talking to him, and neither of them is paying much heed to Brendon, so he just sort of wanders around for a bit, nursing his cup of soda for all it’s worth. Downstairs, some people are playing Rock Band, so he sits on the arm of the couch and watches.
Pete’s playing guitar, and Brendon’s friend Patrick is singing, with Pete’s friend - Wayne Carter or something - wailing on the drums. They get through playing Livin’ on a Prayer before Patrick decides he’s done. Brendon’s not sure how long they’ve been playing already, but there’s a sign-up sheet taped to the wall with nearly all the names crossed off.
"Pete, I am not going to sing for every single song tonight," Patrick says. "I'm going to take a break." Patrick leaves, and Pete stares after him a second before sighing and turning around.
“Man, I just got my turn, too,” Wayne says, leaning back on the stool. He exhales loudly through his nose, sounding frustrated.
“I know, dude. Oh, hey, Brendon!” Pete says, perking up. “Dude, you know Wayne, right? Weezy, this is Brendon, he kicks ass. Brendon, you wanna play?”
“I - guess so, yeah.” Brendon shrugs. “Yeah, why not?”
“Alright, look,” Pete says, handing Brendon guitar. “You can multitask, can’t you?”
“I’ve got ADD, dude, of course I can multitask.”
“Sweet.” Pete ducks around behind Brendon and rests the microphone on his shoulder. “You’ve got this, dude. Show Weezy you’re a rockstar. Weezy Baby, this kid’s hilarious, check it out.”
“Pete, you’re being retarded again,” Weezy says. “You don’t mind, do you, kid?”
“Nah,” Brendon says, ignoring it as Pete ruffles his hair and darts up the steps. “It’s all good, bro. What do you want to play next?”
“I already picked, you go.”
“Alright, okay, uh.” Brendon goes through the song list, singing along with the little snippets of songs under his breath before stopping on Duran Duran. He laughs. “Man, this shit - you mind? This song’s ridiculous.”
“Yeah, I told you to pick.”
They play for three more songs, alternating who picks, before Weezy sits back and finishes his drink. He looks up at Brendon, who’s still standing with the microphone balanced awkwardly on his shoulder and the guitar hanging from its strap. Weezy flashes him a wry little smile. "Alright, I'm out. You're too good at this shit."
Brendon shrugs, setting the mic down next to the Xbox and leaning the guitar up against a wall. "Yeah, hey, thanks for sticking around, it would've been lame as hell if I was playing by myself or whatever. I - guess my friends are around somewhere, I should go see where they are, I think I saw Brent talking to Cash earlier, and I still haven’t even seen Ryan yet, haha, so yeah, uh, I'll just. Go."
Weezy pauses for a second, eyebrows going up. "You scared or something? What're you running for?"
"What? I’m not running, I just figured you'd have better shit to do, I don't want to bother you or anything."
"You ain’t a bother, don’t worry," Weezy says with a sleepy grin. "Hey, what're you drinking?" He doesn't wait for an answer, just takes Brendon's cup - their fingers brushing - and takes a sip. He laughs. Brendon's not actually sure what he thought Weezy's laugh would sound like, but it wasn't that high, dry little sound.
"My parents'd be able to tell if I was actually drinking." Brendon shrugs, smiling self-consciously. "They're pretty strict about that shit. If they found out, I'd be stuck in the house for the rest of the year."
"Yeah, fuck that," Weezy says. "Fuck 'em. You having a good time anyway?"
"Uh - yeah? Yeah," Brendon says. "Yeah!"
“That’s good.” Weezy laughs again, putting an arm around Brendon's shoulders. He hands Brendon's cup back. "I ain't gonna hurt you, B."
"No, I know. I know. Pete'd - well, Pete couldn't kick your ass, but he'd try."
"Pete's a dumbass," Weezy says, very solemnly. "We wouldn't be friends if he hadn't have tried to help when some other motherfuckers were kicking my ass. They kicked his ass, too, so my point is, he’s a dumbass."
Brendon stares, because he's trying to imagine anyone messing with Wayne Carter and can't. "Who?"
"I 'onno. It’s not a thing anymore. Look, I'm not big. I'm compact. And I was scrawny as hell freshman year, you know? Not that Pete was any better, but shit, he tried. We're good. He's my boy; I got his back, even when he's doing dumb shit like stalking that Stump kid."
Brendon says, "Man, Patrick keeps bitching about that, but I'm pretty sure they're, like, destined to be BFF or something, you know? If Pete bothered him half as much as Patrick says he does, the dude'd know it. Patrick's so, so not above, like, strangling."
Weezy grins. "I almost want 'em to fight it out. It'd be about the most ridiculous thing, yeah? And maybe they'd get the hell over themselves, get it out of their systems and kiss an' make out."
"Kiss and make up," Brendon corrects.
"Nah, I know, I was trying to be clever," Weezy says. "I'm usually better at it. What I'm saying is, you don't think they don't want to jump each others bones 'till they haven't got skeletons anymore?"
Brendon considers his answer for a little bit, because - well, yeah, but he doesn't know Weezy that well and he seems like an okay dude but Brendon doesn't really know him well enough to say anything yet (because, yeah, half of why Patrick bitches about Pete so much is because he likes him but thinks he's outclassed, which, whatever, Patrick's dumb). "You're making less sense than Pete does, and that's saying something."
"Shit," Weezy laughs, ducking his head. He rubs at his temples, then shakes his head and rests a hand against the small of Brendon's back, pushing just a little bit. "I think I'm trying too hard. I'm gonna go get another drink. You want more 7-Up or whatever, yeah? Since I already drank like half of yours. Come on, let's go."
Brendon nods quickly, and they head up stairs together. Weezy sticks close by his side, hand still on Brendon’s back and keeping up a stream of conversation - “Man, you see that shit? I guess Travie and Katy finally hooked up. Damn, man. He’s been after her for a minute” - and Brendon spots Brent and gives him a little wave.
Wayne says, “Here, I got this,” and goes through the refrigerator looking for the bottle of Sprite.
Brent comes in, grabbing Brendon’s shoulder, and whispers, “Dude, what the fuck?”
“What?”
“That guy’s scary as shit, what are you hanging out with him for?”
“He’s friends with Pete.” Brendon shrugs, keeping his voice low. “We played Rock Band; I dunno, he seems okay.”
Weezy lets out a triumphant whoop, holding the 2 liter bottle up over his head. “Found it! Check it out, B,” he says. He twists the top open, air hissing out, and holds it out. “Hold your cup out.”
Brendon does, and Weezy pours until it’s maybe three quarters full, then steps back and does a sarcastic sort of half-bow, holding the bottle out to the side.
“Thanks, dude,” Brendon says, giving the thumbs up. “Great job. You’ll go far in the beverage-serving industry.”
“I’ll go farther than that,” Weezy says.
Brent snorts. “That’s what she said.”
Brendon says, “Hey, Brent, you guys haven’t met, have you? Brent, this is - do I call you Weezy, or - Wayne, Carter, what?”
“If you gon’ call me Weezy,” he says, all sing-song, “then you must say the Baby. Yeah?”
“Weezy fuckin’ Baby,” Brendon grins, shaking his head slightly. “Whatever, man, so look, this is my friend Brent; he plays bass in this band I’m in.”
“Yeah? What do you guys play?”
“Rock and roll,” Brent says. “No, it’s sort of - cabaret punk, is that what Ryan was calling it last time?”
“Something like that,” Brendon says. “I don’t know, we’ve got some electronic backing stuff - we haven’t tried doing anything live yet, it’s all just theoretical. We might have to take Spence’s laptop on stage and play shit off of it if we ever actually play live, I don’t know.”
“You’re probably going to want to have that figured out at some point, you ever want to do a show. Just sayin’.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Brent says. “I keep telling Ryan we need to make it simpler, but he’s like, trying to make everything ornate as possible.”
“Some baroque-ass rock, huh?”
Brendon says, “Don’t let Ryan ever hear you say that, or he’ll force me to learn the harpsichord or something.” He looks around, suddenly paranoid that Ryan will have overheard, even though Brendon hasn’t seen him yet all night.
“I don’t even know where you’d get a harpsichord. That’s some old-ass shit.”
Brent frowns, tucking his hair back behind his ears. “You’d have to go to an antique store or something. Or a piano store, maybe?”
Brendon says, “No. Don’t even talk about where to buy them. He’s got eyes and ears everywhere?”
“Who does?” Ryan asks.
Brendon jumps. “Son of a - !”
Ryan says, “Don’t worry, I don’t know where to get a harpsichord either. It’s not a bad idea, though.”
“We’re not using the synth to fake having a harpsichord, either, Ross.”
Ryan shrugs. “Anyway, I was just going to get some water for Spence. Where have you guys been? Come on.”
Brent says, “Okay.”
“I’ll be there in a minute,” Brendon says. “Wherever there is. I’ll find you guys, okay?”
Weezy smiles, and Brendon can’t help but smile back, leaning against the kitchen counter. “Your band any good?”
“The greatest.” Brendon waggles his eyebrows. “Or we will be, with a little practice, I don’t know. You want me to send you the link or something?”
“Yeah, add me on Facebook or whatever then message me with that shit.”
“Ooh, Facebook friends. I don’t know, man, seems like things’re moving a little fast.”
“You think that’s fast,” Weezy laughs. He downs a lot of whatever it is he’s drinking, and sort of steels himself before grinning again. “What’d you do if I asked you to go see a movie with me next weekend?”
Brendon pauses. “What movie?”
“Shit, I dunno. Whatever movie you want to go see.”
“Uhm,” Brendon says.
Weezy says, “Fuck it. Fuck it, you know what, I’m not waiting a week. I’m just gonna kiss you right now, if that’s okay. You good with that?”
Brendon freezes, just kind of staring, wide-eyed, because - what? What?
“You can say no. It’s alright, that’s why I’m asking first. I just figured you’d be okay with it.”
“What? No, no, that’s. Uh. I just, what?”
“Is there some way I wasn’t clear?”
“No, I got you, just. Okay. Yeah, sure.”
“Okay,” Weezy says, and he leans in and Brendon closes his eyes and tries not to wonder how this is his life because, what the hell, Wayne Carter is kissing him. He’s kissing Wayne Carter, and it’s pretty nice, and he’s leaning against Pete Wentz’s kitchen counter with one hand on Weezy’s chest and the other resting on his shoulders and he’s way more okay with the situation than he probably should be since he’s pretty sure his family is in absolutely no way going to be anywhere near okay with this.
And thinking of his family, his phone goes off, and he ignores it for a second because he’s liking this, but then he realizes that if his phone is going off that means it’s nearly eleven and he’s got to go home unless he wants to be grounded for the better part of forever.
He uses that hand on Weezy’s chest to push him away, and says, “Uh, so I - I have to go now, okay, so I’m just going to leave now, bye.”
It requires that he jogs part way, but Brendon gets home a minute past eleven, and his mother lets that slide, a fact for which Brendon is effusively thankful.
“Mom,” Brendon says, hugging her, “you’re the best.”
“Well, thanks,” she says. “It was only one minute. How’d the studying go?”
“Pretty good, pretty good.” Brendon’s still holding on, because his mom is safe and familiar and not a dude at a party. Brendon is trying really, really hard not to freak out about the fact that he made out with a dude at a party. It doesn’t help that he’s pretty sure that said dude was drunk and probably going to kick Brendon’s ass on Monday or something.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, Mom, I’m fine,” Brendon says. “My head’s all full of knowledge; wears a boy out, you know? I’m gonna get to bed.”
“Don’t forget to brush your teeth.”
“Mom.”
-
Brendon kind of wishes Brent were at practice, just because he’s known Brent longer than the other guys. They practice with a recording of the bass part played off of Spencer’s laptop, and Brendon tries hard not to be too distracted the whole time.
And it’s not that he’s even distracted, he’s not. He’s just thinking about a lot of things, and not all of those are necessarily practice-related things. Some of those are he-made-out-with-a-dude things, and he can’t even say he did it because he was drunk. Brendon was always pretty sure that, out of all of them, Ryan Ross would be the band member most likely to have some weird sexual identity crisis, but Ryan is still dating some girl Brendon hasn’t met yet (none of them have; Brent’s theory is that this one is imaginary) and Brendon’s the one freaking out over a guy.
Ryan tries to call him out on it, but Brendon makes the excuse that he’s really tired because he’s been spending so much time looking for a job. This isn’t wholly a lie. Ryan and Spencer let it slide, anyway.
-
So, Monday comes. Brendon’s late for school - he can’t actually remember why his parents aren’t letting him drive this week, but they aren’t, and he misses the bus. He slinks into class with his tail between his legs and fails to pay attention to anything for most of the day.
Second period, his history teacher yells at him for daydreaming. Third, he’s supposed to be working in a group, but they let him work on drawings for the poster instead of trying to find information.
He’s pretty grateful when lunch rolls around, because it means he can just kick back, eat some fries, and listen to Brent complain about their calculus homework. Then Brent says, “So did you ever find a job?”
“What? Oh, yeah, I’ve - I had an interview at Smoothie Hut in the mall. It went pretty good, I think.”
“Good luck, dude. As long as you weren’t too big a spazz, you’ll probably get it. You’ve got that old Mormon charm or whatever.”
“And boyish good looks,” Brendon says, agreeably. “Shit, I can’t wait until we’re famous enough that I’m not trying to get a job at the fucking Smoothie Hut to support my music habit.”
“Shit’s like drugs, isn’t it? I’d inject it intravenous if it wasn’t already in my blood,” Weezy says, sliding into the seat next to Brendon and grinning. “Speaking of, you never sent me your band’s Myspace.” He looks up at Brent. “What’s you guys’s band even called?”
“Panic at the Disco,” Brent says. “It’s from some song. There’s an exclamation point after the Panic!, though.”
“Did it get lost on the way to the end of the name or what?”
“Ryan put it on some theoretical t-shirt design,” Brent says.
Brendon says, “It just kind of stuck, you know? It looked cool, is all, and it kind of makes out names stand out. Plus, I mean, we’ve got a couple friends on Myspace because Ryan’s always whoring himself on the Internet, and some of them’ll do, like - they’ll format their name the same way. It’s pretty funny, I guess. I had my name as Brendon! At the Disco, with the exclamation and all for a little while, but then I figured it was kind of dumb if I was using my own band’s name as a, like, template or whatever.”
“That was a lot of words,” Brent says.
“I didn’t take my Ritalin today,” Brendon says. He looks down at the Styrofoam tray his lunch is sitting on and has to keep himself from staring at Weezy’s mouth.
“You haven’t taken it for years,” Brent says.
Weezy says, “Don’t do drugs. Stay in school.”
“Does weed count?” Brendon asks, contemplatively.
“It’s natural. Of course it doesn’t count.”
“Good,” Brendon says. “I don’t have to drop out.”
Brent’s staring. “Dude, when did you start smoking?”
Brendon shrugs. “It’s probably not a great idea to talk about in school, you know?”
So. Weezy starts sitting with Brendon and Brent at lunch, some of the time. He’ll come over partway through, after he’s done eating and talking with Pete and Lupe and whoever else is hanging around that table, and he’ll sit right next to Brendon, so close that Brendon can feel the warmth of his thigh even though they’re never quite touching.
Thursday after school, Weezy comes up to his locker and asks him, “So wait, do you drive?”
“Sometimes,” Brendon laughs. “My parents aren’t letting me for now. I don’t even know what I did this time. Sold my soul to rock, or something.”
“You need a ride home?”
“I - is it out of your way?”
“Fuck if I know.” Weezy leans against the locker next to Brendon’s, lifting a hand to fiddle with the straps on his backpack. “Tell me where you live, and I’ll lie and tell you it’s right on my way.”
“If you’re sure? That’d be great, man, thanks.” Brendon ducks his head and laughs. He tells Weezy what street he lives on, too.
Weezy bites his lip and smiles. “You got a curfew or anything, or do you wanna go somewhere before I take you home?”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Brendon says. He breathes in through his nose. “My parents pretty much expect me home right after school every day.”
“They wouldn’t let you out for just one night?”
“Well,” Brendon says. “I could call them and ask.”
His mom is delighted to hear he’s hanging out with someone other than Brent, and asks if Brendon’s new friend is Mormon or not and Brendon says he doesn’t know and she tells him to remember to answer any questions and be positive about his faith, and Brendon just keeps saying, “Yes, Mom, okay, I will,” until she stops and tells him to have fun. To that, he just grins into the phone and then says, “Sure, will do.”
Brendon asks, “So where are we going?”
Weezy shrugs. “You wanna go to the diner? I’m kind of feeling the French fries thing right now.”
“Dude, fries and a shake sound so good right about now. I feel 50’s as fuck.”
“Gonna go get our Happy Days on,” Weezy says, leading the way out to his car. “Man, I got money, but I don’t know if I’ve got change for the jukebox.”
“I think I’ve got a couple left over from lunch,” Brendon says. “Before we leave we have to find the worst thing there and queue it up for, like, six plays in a row or something.”
Weezy grins and, once he’s started his car, turns up the volume on the radio. Brendon rolls the window down and leans back in the seat with one arm out the window.
They get to the diner, and Brendon’s looking over the menu - “Pretty sure I want fries, but you never know, right? I mean, pancakes are bad-ass. I could go for pancakes right now, too.”
“Pancakes are better at either 3AM, or breakfast time. I don’t know about after school.”
“After school’s when you need pancakes most,” Brendon says. “But, fries are cheaper.”
“Plus you can split ‘em easier.”
“I’d share my pancakes,” Brendon says. “Pancakes for everyone.”
The waitress comes ‘round to take their orders, and Brendon goes, “Welllllll.”
Weezy’s foot prods at his ankle. Brendon looks over at him, and Weezy just opens his eyes wide and looks innocent. Brendon laughs, shaking his head. “Uh - blueberry pancakes?”
Weezy kicks him again.
“And fries. God damn, dude.”
The waitress raises he eyebrows. “Uh-huh. Anything else?”
Weezy says, “Get my boy here a milkshake. What kind of milkshake you want, B? You still want one?”
“Man, I forgot,” Brendon says. He kicks Weezy back, just for good measure. “Since I’m getting pancakes, I dunno. Can I just have a Sprite?”
“No problem, darling,” the waitress says, heading back to the kitchen.
“I’m a darling now, apparently,” Brendon says.
“I like you, but I’m not calling you darling. I’d have to be old and white.”
“Well, as long as I can keep calling you Weezy Baby.” Brendon laughs. “I can still use that one, right?”
“As long as it isn’t Weezy Darling.”
“Sure thing, Weezy Darling,” Brendon says. “You know you were asking for that one, right?”
Weezy kicks him under the table anyway. Brendon laughs, hooking his ankle around Weezy’s to try and keep from getting kicked again.
-
Weezy drives Brendon home afterwards, and leans over across the center console. He’s got a hand on Brendon’s thigh, and Brendon’s smiling back at him, maybe a touch less self-assured.
Brendon lowers his head a little, biting his lip. Their foreheads are nearly touching. “That was fun. And seriously, you didn’t have to pay.”
“It’s cool,” Weezy says. “I’ve got it covered, B.”
“I’m paying next time.”
“I won’t fight you or anything,” Weezy says. “But you know I’ve got it covered, yeah?”
“Yeah.” Brendon keeps smiling stupidly. He looks down and to the side, eyes ending up on the dashboard before darting back to Weezy’s face. He scrunches his eyes up shit and manages to land a peck on Weezy’s cheek before going for the door. “So, no, look, if my parents - I have to get going. I’ll see you at school.”
“Hey, before you go,” Weezy says. “About that movie. I meant it. Text me or something when you figure out what you want to see, alright?”
“Yeah, sure thing.” Brendon stops, leaning on the door frame. “Wait, hey, no. I don’t have your number.”
“Here.” Weezy digs around in his pocket to find a pen, then scribbles his number down on the back of a receipt. “That way I’ll have yours too, right?”
“Yeah,” Brendon says. “Hey. So that was fun. And, yeah. So I’ll see you.”
Brendon only manages to stop grinning before he gets inside because he knows just how disappointed his parents would be if they knew he was - doing whatever it is he’s doing with Weezy. It’s not like he’d get disowned, but they’d probably manage to ground him hard enough that he would have to quit the band. He’s just guessing, here, but it seems pretty likely.
-
Brendon hardly remembers what movie they see, because they spend most of it making out in the back row of the theater, and after the movie they kill thirty minutes making out in the back seat of Weezy’s car.
It’s still pretty early, because they caught the three o’clock movie, so they head over to a record store and kill time there. Brendon can’t actually remember when half the albums he’s looking forward to come out, so he leans on the counter and grills the guy about release dates for a good twenty minutes before Weezy comes over and leans an arm on Brendon’s shoulder.
“The hell are you bothering my man T-Pain for?” His smile is harmless and his tone light, so Brendon just grins back.
“I wanted to know when the new Hush Sound is coming out.”
“And the new everything else,” counter-guy - T-Pain, apparently - says.
“I didn’t realize I’d been wasting so much of your time, though,” Brendon says. “So, uh, sorry about that.”
“It’s fine. I could’ve told you to fuck off.”
Weezy stares at him, mock-serious. “You wouldn’t get fired for that?”
“I would have said it polite,” T-Pain says.
Weezy laughs. “That makes everything different, obviously.”
“Obviously.”
“So you guys are friends?” Brendon says, which - stupid question, the answer’s pretty obvious.
“We’ve even got t-shirts,” T-Pain says, nodding.
“Why do you have t-shirts?”
Weezy looks at T-Pain. T-Pain looks at Weezy. They both sort of shrug. Weezy says, “Because T-Wayne sounds ridiculous?”
“Ryan has a shirt that says Mikey Fuckin’ Way on it,” Brendon says. He’s not actually sure why he says it. He’s feeling really awkward all of a sudden. He looks down at the floor. The carpet’s a dark, vague color but looks dirty anyway. It probably hasn’t been vacuumed in a while.
“You want a t-shirt?” T-Pain asks.
“No, that’s okay,” Brendon says, because he is pretty sure wearing a T-Wayne shirt would be just plain weird.
-
Brendon is pretty sure he’s dating Weezy. The first time he really realizes it, he’s on his knees in Weezy’s bedroom. He’s maybe jerked off to this before, just the idea of it, but actually giving a blowjob is way more intimidating than he ever figured it would be.
Weezy seems to think he’s doing an alright job, though, or at least the constant mumbled encouragements would imply as much.
Anyway, Brendon at least doesn’t want to blow a guy he isn’t dating. He’s pretty sure going to the movies and making out a lot counts. The rides home and trips to the diner are probably good signs, too, at least Brendon hopes so.
“Fuck, B, I’m gonna,” Weezy’s saying, so Brendon backs off, because he’s hear jizz tastes terrible. He doesn’t really want to find out right now, not with his jaw already sort of sore.
He’s on his knees and breathless and way harder than he thought he would be. Weezy’s dick jerks and then there’s something - come, because it’s not like there’s anything else for it to be - warm and wet on Brendon’s face. He squints his eyes shut just in case, but it’s fine.
Brendon laughs a little, rocking back on his heels and wiping his face off with the back of his hand. “Ah, man.”
“Hey,” Weezy says. “I told you.”
“Yeah,” Brendon says. “Yeah, it’s okay. You got some Kleenex or something?”
Weezy leans over to grab a box off his nightstand and tosses it to Brendon, who kind of doesn’t want to catch it - seriously, there is jizz on his hands, and maybe he should have thought of that first - but whatever. It’s Weezy’s fault anyway. He wipes it off as Weezy’s tucking himself back into his boxers and doing his jeans back up.
“Hey, here,” Weezy says, raising an eyebrow and grinning. “Now I gotta take care of you.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Nah, I want to. Unless you don’t. I mean, you liked that, right? It looked like you were into it.”
“Yeah,” Brendon says, ducking his head. He stands up, legs feeling awkward under him and dick still stupidly hard in his jeans. Weezy grabs him by the hand and tugs him onto the bed, and Brendon isn’t paying a whole lot of attention to how Weezy gets his pants open. He squeezes his eyes shut and comes, like, two seconds after Weezy touches his dick, which is ridiculous, but whatever, it’s totally justified because somebody else is touching his dick for once, and that somebody has warm rough hands that squeeze just so.
“So we’re gonna do this again sometime,” Weezy says. “And we’re gonna do it right.”
“Okay.” Brendon nods. “Yes. I am all about doing this again. Are we going out?”
“The fuck kind of question is that?”
“I don’t know.” Brendon shrugs. He wonders where the Kleenex went. He kind of wants to nap.
Weezy says, “What did you think we were doing?”
“I dunno. I’m tired.”
“I asked you to the movies,” Weezy says.
“You did,” Brendon agrees, smiling. “Thanks. Let’s keep being boyfriends.”
“You’re ridiculous.” Weezy’s shaking his head, but he sounds fond, so Brendon doesn’t take it personally. He just yawns, instead, and stretches his arms over his head. “You wanna nap, or do you need to head home?”
Brendon sighs, because, oh yeah, his family’s probably expecting him for dinner. “I should probably get home. I - shit, can I take a shower or something? I don’t want them to - shit.”
“Yeah, go for it.”
“And if I could, uhm. Borrow some clean underwear.”
Weezy grins.
-
"This - did you pay money for this? Because this is the fakest shit," Weezy says. He sounds kind of concerned. "Tell me you didn't pay money for this."
"No, no, all I had to do was buy fabric paint."
"To make - a fake-ass BBC shirt?"
"Look, dude, okay, see how - you and T-Pain have those T-Wayne shirts, right? And I was thinking we should have shirts!"
Weezy stares for a long while before laughing. He manages, despite the laugther, to ask,"The fuck has Billionaire Boys Club got to do with it?"
"No, no, see, it's - so my first name's Brendon, right? And my middle name starts with B. And your last name's Carter. So it's BBC. Get it?"
"Man." Weezy laughs. "That's the most ridiculous thing I think I have ever heard in my life."
Brendon bites his lip then plasters on a grin. "Yeah, totally, right?"
"I'm not, like, insulting your intelligence or whatever it is you think I'm doing, I'm just saying that that does not make any sense."
"Because - our initials, see?"
"Maybe if we were getting married or something, sure."
"T-Wayne," Brendon says, crossing his arms.
"Are we fighting over - look." Weezy looks around. The halls are - actually pretty crowded, because first period is about to start, but he shrugs and pulls his shirt off. "Give me that. Are you gonna make me stand around naked? No - good. Thank you. There, see? I will wear this shit every day for a week if you want."
Brendon ducks his head, grinning, arms relaxing. He tucks his thumbs through his belt loops. "You could tell people your washing machine was broken or something."
Weezy grins, stepping forward and letting his hands slide down Brendon's sides to rest at his hips. "I'd just tell 'em you made it. That's a good enough reason, yeah?"