Dirty Deeds (Done Dirt Cheap) | Brendon Urie/Jon Walker | Part 2/6
MP | Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Extras
*
They’re in Berlin, at some bar, and Brendon, he’s a little wasted and maybe a lot stoned.
He’s in the washroom, washing his hands when Spencer comes stumbling in. Brendon looks up at him through the water-stained mirror, and Spencer looks right back at him, eyes thick with want, lust, hunger. Yeah, Brendon knows that look all right.
Spencer doesn’t waste any time as he all but lunges forward, hands grabbing at Brendon’s hips as he spins him around and pins him flush against the sink. He grips at his arms, stubby fingernails digging into his skin, and he looks at him once more, with the same expression in his eyes, maybe a little more intense, a little more predatory, and Brendon looses his breath for a second.
Spencer pulls him into him, crashes their mouth together, tongue slipping past his lips. He tastes like expensive whiskey and cheap peanuts. “Don’t tell Ryan,” he murmurs, deep and hoarse into his lips, and Brendon wants to laugh.
Spencer moves backwards, pulling Brendon with him, mouth’s still feverishly attached. His back hit’s the door, causing it to go flying open as they stumble inside, uneasy and drunk, while hands fumble at each other’s belts. Spencer laughs, and Brendon pulls away, locks the stall door and gets down on his knees.
He knows how to get to the point.
Brendon’s got his pants down to his ankles, and Spencer’s already threading his fingers through his hair, tugging. Brendon’s not going to lie, he had a feeling this was coming, that Spencer was going to cave one day.
He’s barely got his mouth wrapped around Spencer’s head, and already he’s bucking into his mouth, hands still pulling roughly at his hair. Brendon expected this too, after hearing all those stories from Katy.
Spencer’s already hard, hard as a rock, and it makes Brendon wonder how long he sat out there in the bar, aroused under the wooden table; whether he got it from him, imagining this, or something, someone entirely different. Either way, Brendon will probably never know.
When Spencer comes, it’s not Brendon’s name that he moans out; it’s Haley. Brendon shouldn’t be surprised, but he is in a way, because Katy had never told him about that. It’s not like it’s anything new though - a big deal - because Brendon’s had plenty of guys moan out someone else’s name on him, and it’s really nothing he takes to heart.
When Brendon pulls off, Spencer wipes off the tiny bit of come on his stomach that Brendon had missed with a piece of toilet paper, while Brendon stands up, and does the same to his mouth and chin.
Spencer doesn’t apologize, and Brendon doesn’t expect him to. He doesn’t thank him either, doesn’t say anything in fact, and Brendon also doesn’t expect that.
They’re fixing themselves in the mirror when Spencer eyes his Ryan bracelet (the one he’s wearing just for Ryan’s sake, just for this week) and says, “thank you for humoring him.”
Brendon raises an eyebrow. “You’re… welcome?” he tries, unsure.
Spencer laughs, long and deep, eyes glazed over and pupils dilated, much like his own. “I tried to, you know, tell him that it’s not like that, but. Ryan… he believes what he wants to believe.” He stops, scratches at his hairline, and says, with a consoling pat on the shoulder. “He’ll find someone else, and leave you alone soon enough.”
When they get back to the table, Jon looks right at him.
He doesn't look away for the rest of the night.
*
Sure enough, two days later, in Paris, Ryan meets a blonde dancer, who’s on tour with her dance troupe.
Ryan leaves Brendon alone after that. Mostly.
*
And Jon, he still stares.
March 2007
Three days in Vegas, and Brendon runs into his mother at the grocery store.
Katy’s at home, sick with a flu she picked up in Europe, so Brendon’s left to deal with his mother completely and utterly alone.
“Oh, Brendon,” she says, a little awkward, a little nervous, and Brendon can tell from the look in her eyes that she’d rather stick a pin through her forehead than be here standing in a grocery store, across from her son she hasn’t seen in two years.
Brendon, he can’t say he blames her.
“Oh, hey… mom,” he coughs, scratches behind his ear, jiggles his leg. “How’s it, uh, going?”
Mrs. Urie hasn’t changed much. She still has her shoulder length, brown hair, the same color as Brendon’s, wearing the same pastel colored clothes and still, above everything, looks just as tired. If anything, she has a few more wrinkles, and a few more strands of grey hair peaking out between the brown. Brendon wonders if he looks any different.
“Good.” She nods tightly. “Good.”
“That’s…. good,” he stammers, and gazes over the different brands of soup. “I, uh, called you on Christmas Eve, but there was no answer.”
“Oh.” She pauses for a second or two, and then says, “Yes, we were at your grandfathers.”
“Oh.” Brendon attempts to message Katy telepathically, to call him for some fake emergency that he has to immediately rush home for.
“You’re still living at Katy’s house?” she asks, and Brendon can hear, even now after all these years, the disdain in her voice when she says Katy’s name.
“Yeah,” he answers, “kind of. We’re on the road a lot.”
Mrs. Urie presses her lips together in a thin, tight line, and nods. Brendon’s never told her what they do when they’re on the road, but he’s sure she, unlike Katy’s parents, knows. She tucks some hair behind her ear, smoothes out her blouse and says, “Well, I better get going. I have to pick Jeremy up at soccer practice for your sister.”
“Oh, alright,” Brendon replies, a vague hint of disappointment leaking through. He wanted her to go, so bad that he was attempting to send telepathic messages to his friend who is over four blocks away and asleep, but now that she is, Brendon finds himself wanting the exact opposite and he’s not so sure why.
For a split second, Mrs. Urie almost looks like she’s going to lean forward and give him a hug, something she hasn’t done since he was fifteen years old, but then before Brendon has a chance to blink, she backs out. She settles with a tight smile, and says, “It was nice seeing you, dear. You should call sometime soon; I’d like to hear from you more often.”
Brendon highly doubts that, but he nods despite himself. “Yeah,” he says, “I will.”
Once his mother scurries off, Brendon leans back against the shelves, closes his eyes and catches his breath.
*
Panic isn’t a part of this tour, and Brendon tries to tell himself that he’s okay with that. That it’s good even - no, great.
Cobra Starship and Gym Class Heroes are there instead, and while Gabe has been known to make Brendon feel uneasy from time to time, and Gym Class Heroes have their own set of bootylicious, ghetto-fabulous groupies that follow them around, it’s actually pretty okay.
Brendon had blown Travis once before, back when they had been on tour with Fall Out Boy last year, when him and Katy had first came on the road, and he had sworn it had been the best he had ever, ever received. Brendon had taken that as quite a compliment at the time, and remembers it fondly even to this day as the first time he was aware of just how talented his mouth really was.
The first night, Travis looks at him with a curious expression, like he can’t quite place where he knows him from, but wants to.
On the second night, Travis approaches him with a suggestive smile on his face, and says, “Hey, I remember you!”
Brendon blows him twice that night.
*
Brendon starts to see Jon everywhere. Backstage, in the crowd, in clubs, bars, parties, the hotel lobby, when he’s taking a fucking piss. The only problem though is that it’s not actually him.
It’s never him, it’s just some guy - some guy that doesn’t even really look like him; he might just have some scruffy hair on his chin and cheeks, or messy brown hair, or big, expressive eyes. Sometimes, there’s really nothing similar at all between the two of them, it’s just his mind playing cruel tricks on him, telling him it’s Jon, and it’s not fucking funny anymore. Every single time, no matter if he thought he saw Jon five minutes ago or two seconds ago, Brendon always thinks it’s actually him this time.
The thing Brendon would never, ever admit, not to himself, not to Katy, not to anyone, is the feeling he gets when he sees ‘Jon’ for the hundredth millionth time; the sweaty palms, quickened pulse, the light headedness. It’s stupid, really, and Brendon hates himself every time because it’s like, Brendon’s never even kissed the guy, hasn’t even really come close, so he doesn’t understand why he feels like some lovesick puppy all of the time.
Jon’s just another guy. Another guy in a band, another bassist. Another guy who wears flip-flops, even in minus degree weather. Another guy who values Disney just as much as he does, is freakishly good at crosswords and can make Brendon feel like wanting to throw up whatever it is that is fluttering obnoxiously around in his stomach. He’s just another guy that Brendon doesn’t like.
It’s just. It really bothers him. How Jon will look at him like he does, with this look in his eye that makes Brendon feel like he’s actually someone, actually worth something, like he’s the only person who’s ever existed. It bothers him that Jon looks at him like this but not once has he ever made a move to do anything else.
It bothers him because Brendon doesn’t deserve to be looked at in that way - not by Jon, not by anyone.
*
They’re at a club in what Brendon thinks is somewhere in Missouri, maybe Virginia. Brendon doesn’t know, and he doesn’t really think it matters anyway.
There’s a guy a few seats down at the bar with brown hair, a scruffy beard and brown, mousy eyes. He’s been cruising on him all night while Brendon stays pressed against Ryland, returning his glances over the rim of his rum and coke.
By one, after two hours of exchanging heated glances, Brendon gets up and excuses himself to the washroom. He passes by the guy, feels his eyes following him, and Brendon makes a certain point to sway his hips even more than usual.
The guy chugs back the rest of his drink, stands up and follows Brendon through the pulsing crowd of people.
Brendon heads right past the washrooms, the line of people, and right through the emergency exit to the back lane. Brendon’s never really been the type for back alley sex, but he figures there’s a first for everything.
The guy emerges a moment later, and immediately lands his gaze on Brendon. He stays there for a moment, eyes sweeping over him, taking in every last inch, ravishing, before he takes a steady step forward, closer.
They don’t give any formal greetings, don’t introduce themselves, they don’t say anything, they just lunge at each other instead, lips and tongues meeting halfway. Brendon maneuvers them back, carefully, back to a darkened corner, tucked behind the building where no one could see them unless they were looking for it.
The guy’s already hastily reaching for Brendon’s belt as he backs him even further into the brick wall, trapping him in. He slips a thigh between Brendon’s and presses as he moves his lips down to his neck, teeth scraping against his Adam’s Apple. Brendon tries not to laugh at the feeling of his beard tickling his chin and cheeks. “Was that your boyfriend?” he asks, voice muffled and breath labored. He pops the button on Brendon’s pants open and tugs down his zipper.
Brendon laughs into his mouth. “No, no.” He stops, and then adds, just in case, just so this guy knows, even though he really doubts he cares, “I don’t do those."
He laughs, warm and deep from the pit of his stomach, like Jon’s. Brendon’s heart leaps, just a little and he quickly pushes the thought to the back of his brain. “Good,” he says, and yeah, good. He tugs Brendon’s jeans down, leaving them to bunch halfway across his thighs, and kisses him once more, wet and dirty, before turning him around, pressing his stomach against the wall.
Brendon spends a few moments, forehead against the brick, attempting to get his breathing back on track. He hears a wet pop from behind him, and then there’s a rough, slicked up finger pushing at his entrance, circling. Brendon counts to two, and the guy pushes a single finger past the ring of muscle, inside of him. “Hmm…” the guy hums, curls his finger, “you’re loose.”
Brendon wants to laugh, because yeah, no surprise there; Butcher had fucked him not even fifteen minutes before they had left for the club. Yeah, Brendon, he really is a slut.
He pushes in a second, and leans in real close to Brendon’s ear, hissing, “You’re a little slut, aren’t you? I could tell right away.” His fingertips brush against his prostate, and Brendon mewls, slamming his head against the rough brick. “I like that,” he breathes into the back of his neck.
He chuckles, and twists his fingers around a few times, curls them, then pulls them out completely. Brendon can hear him shuffle around behind him, hears the Velcro of his wallet, the unzipping of his pants, the tearing of the condom wrapper and the spitting into his hands. Brendon closes his eyes and realizes that for the first time in a year and a half, this will be the first time he’s going to be with someone who isn’t, at least, semi-famous.
The guy’s hands grab at his hips underneath his thin t-shirt, fingernails imprinting half-moons into his skin as pushes in at once. Brendon’s forehead scrapes against the brick as he grunts, and wonders if anyone has even noticed he’s gone.
He picks up the pace behind him immediately, thrusting in long and deep; he doesn’t try to be gentle or slow, not even for a second, and Brendon’s grateful for that. He can take it, and he hates when guys pretend to care when they really don’t at all.
He moves his hips, and thrusts back into him on a slight angle, hitting his prostate. Brendon moans and when he thrusts in again, Brendon feels his knees begin to shake. He needs something to hold onto, anything, but all he’s got is a straight wall of bricks in front of him, so he settles with grabbing onto the guys wrists on his hips, sinking his nails into the flesh.
The guy pushes in again, harder than before, and Brendon’s leaking cock scrapes against the wall. He lets out a strangled moan, loud, a mixture between pain and pleasure. He snakes one hand down and grabs onto his own cock, knowing the guy - this stranger - won’t, and begins to stroke, fast and hard, matching his thrusts as his knuckles bump against the wall.
Brendon hears voices at some point, some laughter, but he doesn’t care and neither does the other guy it seems because he just keeps on thrusting. A couple minutes later, the laughter subsides.
Brendon comes, hard, all over his hands and the wall. He doesn’t say a name, although he’s close - really close - to saying Jon’s, as much as he hates to admit it. It was right there, right at the tip of his tongue but he had quickly swallowed it down before it had the chance to sneak out.
The guy comes a few thrusts later, a few strangled curses coming from his mouth. When he pulls out, he ties the condom in a knot and tosses it onto the ground carelessly. He pulls his pants up, zips and buttons them up.
Brendon’s not really sure what to do with the come coating his hands, and he looks around the two of them, trying to find something to wipe them off on, but in the end, he settles for the front of his underwear.
The guy opens his cell phone, the dim light illuminating his face, and all Brendon sees is Jon so he quickly forces himself to look away, down to the littered grown. He slides his phone back into his front pocket, and says, “That was good. Thanks,” like he’s simply just thanking him for telling him the time.
Brendon scrapes his teeth over his lips, and nods.
They head back into the club together, silent, and they give each other a small nod and nothing else before going their separate ways.
Brendon realizes, a few minutes later, that he didn’t even ask for his name.
April 2007
Jon shows up at the concert in Chicago, alone.
Brendon’s pressed against the wall, making out with Alex when he opens one eye, almost instinctively, and sees him across the room chatting with one of the roadies, eyes right on him. At first Brendon thinks he’s just seeing things again, just like all the other times, but when he blinks, once, twice, three times, he remains there, looking an awfully Jon-like, and yeah, this time, Brendon is pretty positive that this time it is him.
Brendon doesn’t pull apart from Alex (not right away, anyway, he has to do it casually, subtly. He can’t let Jon know how excited he is to see him), instead he just continues to lick into his mouth for a few, good minutes, while his eyes may or may not stay on Jon the entire time. Before he has a chance to pull away though, to make an excuse, someone calls Alex’s name and tells him it’s three minutes till show time.
Alex kisses him again, slips in some tongue, and promises to finish later. Brendon’s not really listening though, he’s too busy looking over at Jon, trying to figure out how he’s possibly going to get up enough nerve to go and talk to him.
Jon doesn’t immediately come over, not like Brendon had hoped. No, instead he just continues to stand there and sneak glances at him while he tries to remain interested in the conversation he’s having. Brendon considers going over there and saying hi, but just the thought makes Brendon want to hurl. He also considers going somewhere else, instead of standing there alone staring at Jon like a brain-dead idiot, but he quickly decides against that too because what if Jon can’t find him later? What if Jon only came for a little bit, and then leaves without talking to Brendon? What if Jon doesn’t come and talk to him at all (oh god, Brendon doesn’t even want to think about that one)?
Brendon’s too busy freaking out; too busy with the internal argument he’s having with himself, that he almost doesn’t realize Jon excuse himself from his conversation and make his way across the room towards Brendon. He hears the crowd erupt, and Gabe’s voice scream from the other side of the curtain while Jon gets closer, closer, and closer and eventually Brendon has to look away, heart thumping wildly in his chest.
“Hey,” Jon says, his voice warm, and deep, and beautiful, and it takes Brendon all that’s in him not to fall over and swoon.
Brendon fidgets, taps at his thigh and keeps his gaze somewhere on Jon’s cheek. “Hi,” he says, and nope, his voice didn’t waver at all, not even a little. “What are you doing here?”
“We’re on a break for a couple of weeks,” he replies, shoving his hands into his pockets and Brendon kind of hates him for always being so calm, so nonchalant, while he’s standing there freaking the fuck out for God knows why. “And I live here, so. I decided to come visit.”
"Oh... sweet."
“So? How’s it going?” he asks, rocking back and forth on the balls of his heel.
“Good…” Brendon responds, slow. “Good.” He pauses, scratches behind his ear and asks, “You?”
Jon smiles, baring some teeth, and Brendon kind of wants to run his fingers through his hair, his beard, wants to run his tongue over the curves of his lips. “Pretty great.” Brendon hopes for the ‘now that you’re here’ but it never comes. He waits for the ‘I’ve been thinking about you’, but that doesn’t come either. He tries really hard not to be disappointed because really, why would he say that? Brendon’s just some stupid, little slut to him, some slut that turns into a blabbering, blushing mess around him, and Jon, he’s just humoring him. Why would someone like Jon ever even sort of, kind of like someone like Brendon, some guy who has slept with mostly all of his friends at some point in time? Why would he ever say something like that to him?
Jon leans forward, pulls his hands from his pockets and tugs on Brendon’s sweater strings. Brendon completely and totally forgets how to breathe. “New sweater,” he observes.
Brendon laughs, at least he tries, but it comes out all choked and nervous, and way, way too high. Jon’s right, it is, thanks to William, and he wasn’t really aware Jon paid any attention to his clothing. “Yeah,” he coughs awkwardly.
“It looks good,” he says, and damn Jon to hell for saying something like that so casual, so indifferent like it’s no big deal - like he’s purposely not trying to kill him.
“Uh…” Brendon’s face burns, turns redredred, and yeah, that’s what he’s doing alright, killing him, very slowly. “Thanks?”
He smiles, sincere, and Brendon kind of wants to punch his pretty face in for putting him through all this torture. “It’s good to see you,” he says after a moment, voice soft, almost in a whisper.
“You too,” Brendon squeaks, and yeah, he’s now dead.
Jon cocks his head to the side, and sends him a lopsided grin, an inquisitive look on his face. “Really?” he sounds a little surprised, and Brendon’s not sure if he’s just teasing him or seriously questioning the validity of his statement.
“Yeah…” he replies with a shaky puff of air. “Really.”
Jon grins, big and white. He looks at him through his eyelashes and says, “Good. That’s what I was hoping for.”
*
They’re staying at a hotel for the night, and everyone’s piled into Gabe and Ryland’s room, while the music blasts and the drugs and alcohol flow. This, this is what Brendon lives for.
Jon’s still there, somewhere, at least he thinks. Brendon’s not quite sure, he hasn’t seen him in awhile, and he really, really hopes he didn’t leave without saying goodbye because he doesn’t know how long it’ll be until he sees him again. It could be months, and Brendon doesn’t know if he can handle that.
Katy comes up to him while he’s tucked away in the corner, getting himself another beer from the mini fridge, and whispers into his ear, a little sharply, “I’m not stupid, Bren. I see the way you look at him, and I see the way you change when he’s gone.”
Brendon’s face burns, throat tightens, and he pulls the cap off the bottle, shaking his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lies, and turns to push past her, back to the party, maybe to find Jon, but Katy puts a hand on his arm, stopping him.
“Brendon, I’m serious,” she says, eyes sweeping over the room, over the drugs, alcohol. “You’ll only end up hurt in the end.”
Brendon turns, meets her eyes. She looks back at him, and squeezes his arm, sympathetic, and Brendon knows she’s only looking out for him; she only means good. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.
And Brendon, he knows she’s right.
*
“I need some ice,” Jon says, and pulls himself up from where he’s pressed between Gabe and Vicky-T. He sways a little to the side, and his eyes land dead on Brendon’s as he says, “would you like to join me?”
Brendon’s mind is a tad fuzzy (okay, maybe a lot), but he’s is still quite aware of the fluttering in his stomach, making its way into his chest, up his esophagus. He looks around, tries to see if Katy heard; if she’s there to send him a warning death look his way or scold, but she’s not so he gets up and follows.
Jon stumbles and sways as he makes his way down the hotel hallway, swinging the ice bucket back and forth in his hand, and Brendon follows close behind, eyes going from tracing the weird patterns on the carpet to Jon’s ass. Jon’s rambling on about something, starfishes he thinks, but Brendon’s mind is a bit too jumbled from all the alcohol, weed and maybe a pill or two to focus. Either way, he’s pretty far gone, and from the looks of it, so is Jon.
Jon walks right on past the ice machine, and Brendon has to stop him and go, “hey, it’s the ice machine. You need ice.”
Jon stops, turns, and walks back over, stopping a couple feet in front of Brendon, “Right. Yes. Yes, I did.” He pulls the hotel card from his pocket, and fumbles around with it, attempting to stuck it into that stupidly, tiny slit for a minute or two, maybe longer, shorter - Brendon’s not really sure, he spaced out for awhile there. Jon furrows an eyebrow, and Brendon watches as his tongue pokes out, pressing against his bottom lip in concentration, wets it. Brendon tries really, really hard not to pop a boner right there.
Jon turns, notices Brendon staring at him, and Brendon is a bit too fucked, and too mesmerized to look down and pretend he wasn’t. Jon cocks his head to the side, smiles that goofy, lopsided smile of his. “Are you staring at me, Brendon?”
“Mm-hmm…” Brendon nods with no shame. “I’m just returning the favor.” He’s not too sure if that makes any sense at all, but Jon seems to get it as he laughs, thick and liquid.
“Yeah?”
Brendon wants to kiss him real bad. “Yeah,” he confirms.
Jon’s eyes are red and half-lidded with dilated pupils and if Jon’s not stoned, Brendon doesn’t know what is.
“I see you staring at me all the time, Jonny Walker,” Brendon mumbles, slurred. “I caught you.” He jabs a drunken finger in his direction.
“I do, huh?” He smirks humorously, and takes a step forward, ice ignored.
“Mm-hmm, I see you,” Brendon repeats, staying still as he breathes heavily from his nose.
“And what if I wanted to be caught, hm?” Jon takes one last step forward, stopping inches away and places both hands on Brendon’s hips, solid.
Brendon nearly falls over, and he thinks he probably would have if it wasn’t for the wall behind them.
Jon’s so close, so close that he can see every hair, every pore, and the chicken pox scar just above his eyebrow, the tiny hole under his lip where a ring used to be. Jon breathes out, heavy, and it dances across Brendon’s face in hot puffs of air.
Brendon blinks, and says, a little stupidly, “are you gonna kiss me now?”
Jon laughs and leans forward even closer, and god, his lips are right there, so close. “I don’t know,” he whispers smugly, “do you want me to?”
Brendon nods vigorously, because yeah, of course he fucking wants him to.
Jon smirk turns into a smile as he leans forward, even further, lips hovering just over Brendon’s. His eyes search Brendon’s, as if he’s looking for further approval; like he’s thinking it over.
Brendon can’t take it anymore, so he just surges forward, crashing his lips against Jon’s, so hard that it hurts, in a completely marvelous, wonderful, beautiful way that Brendon wasn’t even sure existed until now. He snakes a hand around Jon’s neck, pressing his palm flat against the warm skin of his neck, pulling him closer as he parts his lips.
Jon stumbles forward, right into Brendon, teeth knocking against his lip as he slips his tongue in, meeting his. It’s a little sloppy considering the situation, but it’s all Brendon’s ever wanted.
He puts a hand to Jon’s stomach, fingers pressing along the cloth of his thin t-shirt, feeling his belly move up and down as he breathes. Brendon wonders if he feels the same that he does, wonders if his stomach’s fluttering too.
He doubts it, but he can wish, can’t he?
They kiss, and kiss, soft and sloppy, perfect, and Brendon could do this forever, just standing here, right now, kissing Jon. However, at some point, Brendon’s mind does kick in, reminding him that they are making out in the middle of a hotel hallway where anyone could walk by and ruin it all. He pulls away, runs a finger across Jon’s bellybutton and says, breathless, “my room should be open, so -”
Jon pulls back, removes his hand from Brendon’s waist, and Brendon can see something flash before his eyes; change. He shakes his head, and looks away.
Brendon forces himself not to reach forward to grab him, or whimper from the loss of contact. “What -”
“Don’t you ever want anything more than sex?” Jon asks, voice low, muffled by the tips of his fingers.
Brendon stares, face heating, and heart dropping. He takes a choked breath, and says, “What?”
Jon looks up and meets his eye for a split second before he’s shaking his head, letting out a long sigh, “Nothing. Never mind. Forget it.”
Brendon’s drunk, really drunk, and he can’t deal with Jon kissing him, after all this fucking time, and then doing this, confusing him even more. He takes a careful step forward, and reaches out to brush his fingers against Jon’s arm, chewed fingernails snagging the tiny hairs. He flinches, and steps away, and Brendon, he kind of wants to cry, really hard. “Jon, what -”
Jon pushes his palms into his face, digging into his forehead, causing little half-shaped moons to form on his skin. A few, long minutes pass, and Brendon sniffs, swallows, a dull throbbing pain rapidly forming in his brain. Finally, Jon pulls his hands from his face, and says, “Brendon, how do you feel about me?”
Brendon stares back, heart caught in his throat, and what is he even supposed to say to that? He can’t possibly tell Jon how he’s been feeling these past two weeks. That he’s missed him, seen him everywhere. That he fucked some random guy he didn’t even know the name of in some bar just because he looked like him. He can’t, it’s against the rules, and Brendon will not ruin everything him and Katy worked so hard for.
"Am I just another guy in a band to you?"
Brendon shakes his head, because he’s not, at all, not even close. He’s so much more, and he knows he can’t lie about that.
Jon takes a step forward, finally, and Brendon can feel him, the heat of his body. “Brendon,” he says softly. He reaches for his hand, and says, “I like you.”
Now Brendon, he really thinks he might puke; it’s Jesse all over again. “Jon,” he says, unstable, yanking his hand from his grip and tries to ignore the pained expression that comes across his face. “I - ” God, he is so drunk, so high and that pill he took is starting to kick in, sending these weird, shocking tingles from his fingertips to his toes. He wants to curl up in a ball in a corner somewhere, and sit this out until morning, maybe forever. “How can you like me?” He lets out a small laugh, and it comes out a little sadder, a little more pathetic than intended.
Jon reaches forward again, towards him, and Brendon knows that look - pity, he’s gotten it so many times before.
Brendon steps backward, just before Jon’s hand meets his arm, back hitting the wall with a loud thud. “I’ve slept with all your friends. How can you possibly like me?”
“Brendon.” Jon reaches towards him, presses his fingertips to his wrist, and this time, Brendon has nowhere to escape to. “You’re not an object. You’re a good person. You could do so much better.”
Brendon would laugh if he didn’t want to slit his throat. It’s the drugs and alcohol talking; he knows it is. There’s no way those words could ever come out of someone’s mouth with them actually meaning it.
“It’s true,” Jon insists, taking another step forward, his chest flush against Brendon’s. He moves his other hand up, strokes his jaw. “It pains me to know you can’t see that.”
Brendon stares back at Jon, back into his eyes, red and dilated, and it’s all pity; pity and sympathy. He’s just Jon’s charity case, what else could it be? Jon couldn’t actually like someone like him, he couldn’t feel that way. It’s Jon; perfect, fantastic, amazing, hot Jon. People like him don’t like people like Brendon, it’s just not how it goes.
Brendon’s had enough, he has. He pushes Jon away, and slips out from where he’s wedged between the wall and his body. “I can’t do this,” he mutters as he starts off down the hallway, fast paced. “I can’t,” he repeats. “I can’t do this.”
“Bren -”
“No, Jon,” he snaps, throat closing and eyes watering, and fuck, he can’t even comprehend this right now. How dare Jon go and do this to him; spring this shit on him when he’s in the state he is. Doesn’t he know that he doesn’t have to pull this crap with him? That Brendon will sleep with him anyway because that’s what he’s here for, that’s what Brendon is.
He hears Jon call his name a few more times, voice muffled by the distance, but he can’t really hear over the rushing, crashing and pounding in his brain anyway.
Jon obviously doesn’t care too much, not enough to go chasing after him because when he pulls his key card out from his back pocket, he fumbles with it for a minute, three, ten, eyes blurred a little from the alcohol, maybe a little from the tears, and Jon doesn’t come. And it’s stupid because why is he even crying? Because Jon apparently likes him? Fucking fuck, he is so pathetic.
The light blinks green, and Brendon pushes the door open, letting it slam behind him as he’s greeted by darkness. Brendon’s surprised to see that he’s alone, seeing as he shares a room with three other people - Katy and two roadies - but he’s also very, very glad because he’d rather not have to explain why he’s in tears while fucked up on drugs. Especially when Brendon’s still not even sure why he’s crying himself.
As far as Brendon’s concerned, he hasn’t had someone ‘like’ him since he was sixteen, and he was okay with that, more than okay. He never wanted a relationship, never wanted to be like his parents who were married and unhappy. He didn’t want to be like the kids at school who broke up and got back together. To Brendon, relationships were always just something to make people feel better about themselves but always end up hurt in the end. Brendon just never saw the appeal, but now Jon, he had to go and change that all, didn’t he? He’s got a little part in Brendon questioning it, thinking, oh, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad… but it would, it so would.
Things are going so good for him and Katy right now, perfect. They’re touring with their favorite bands, having the time of their lives, doing things that most people can only dream of. He doesn’t need some guy in some band telling him that he likes him, that’s just stupid and fucked up. Jon’s only confusing him even more. What did he even expect anyways when he told him? That he’d just drop everything and confess his undying love? That he’d stop sleeping with his friends, stop being a groupie (yes, a fucking groupie, okay?) and that they’d live happily ever after? Is that what he thought?
Brendon collapses onto his bed, clothing and all, and he spends a long time tossing and turning, allowing the heavy silence to wash over him.
That night, he dreams he’s in his parent’s house, the one he spent the first seventeen years of his life in, cooking. He’s wearing a flowered apron, much like the one his mother used to wear, tied snugly around his waist. He’s exhausted, so fucking exhausted from cooking pounds upon pounds upon pounds of food. He just wants to sit down, take a break, but he can’t stop, and he’s not even sure why he’s cooking all this food, but he knows that he has to.
He hears a door slam close and someone yell, “Honey, I’m home!”
There’s a bang and a crash, then what sounds like a hundred footsteps running his way, getting closer but Brendon just can’t stop cooking. Then there’s all these little hands grabbing at him, wrapping around his legs, feet, his waist, and they’re all screaming, “Daddy! Daddy!” at the top of their lungs.
Brendon looks down, and there are a dozen kids, maybe more, all standing there, looking up at him. They all, whether it’s a boy or a girl, look exactly the same, with his eyes, his nose, and a beard.
Jon appears at the doorway, dressed in a suit with a briefcase in one hand. He says, “The kids are happy to see you.”
Brendon wakes up in a cold sweat, Katy clinging to his side.
*
The next morning everyone meets in the hotel restaurant for breakfast before they head back on the road.
Jon’s nowhere in sight, probably left earlier on that morning, or maybe even last night after Brendon had run away from him, either way, Brendon can’t decide whether he’s relieved or not. In the end, he decides to go with relieved because after last night, then with the dream on top of it, Brendon doesn’t think that he ever wants to see Jon again.
Except for the fact that he totally does.
*
They’re in the middle of the highway when Brendon gets a text from an unknown number. It says, “if you’re not too long, I will wait here for you all of my life.”
He smiles to himself, heart lodging in his throat and saves the number under Jon.
He doesn’t reply.
*
A day passes, two, maybe three, and Brendon doesn’t get another text.
He tries not to let himself get too worked up over it, tries not to get disappointed, or spend every minute staring at his phone, waiting, attempting to telepathically get Jon to text him another quote that will make him swoon. Even a ‘hi’ would be enough.
By the fifth day, at four o’clock in the morning, he gets a text that says, “The truth is rarely pure and never simple.”
Brendon’s not quite sure what to think about that one, but he saves it anyway, along with the first.
May 2007
A journalist comes on tour to follow around The Academy for a couple of weeks. His names Ian, he’s thirty, good-looking, single.
By the third day, Katy can’t stop smiling.
*
When the tour ends and they go back home, Katy spends a lot of time on the phone, giggling and blushing; a Katy that Brendon had never seen before.
There’d be times when Brendon would wake up in the late hours of the night to Katy sitting on their bedroom windowsill, phone pressed to her ear, laughing and chattering away. Brendon would flip open his own phone, the last text with a tiny lock beside it reading, “I can resist everything but temptation.”
Brendon, he can’t say he didn't know then.
June 2007
Ian flies to Vegas to visit Katy. Brendon doesn’t have anything against him, he’s a good guy and he makes Katy happy, it’s just, they’ve already been in Vegas for three weeks, and Brendon’s sick of it. It’s also, not really his idea of fun sitting around while Katy and Ian make goo-goo faces over each other all day long. Especially while some guy - some guy that he doesn’t like - texts him, almost everyday, famous quotes from his favorite author and nothing else.
So, when Brendon hears that Cute is What We Aim For is playing a show with a new band signed to FBR, (and, okay, maybe Panic too, but the reason he decides to go has nothing to do with them. At all) he jumps at the chance.
Brendon doesn’t really have any problems getting backstage, not with pretty much everyone on the road crew familiar with him by now. He tries not to let his nerves get the best of him, tries not to think about how he’s going to see Jon for the first time since that night.
Brendon had replied to one of his texts, once, more or less to let Jon know that he has actually been getting them. The text had said, “For it was not into my ear you whispered, but into my heart. It was not my lips you kissed, but my soul.”
It was unfamiliar to Brendon so he replied with, “Oscar Wilde?”
Jon had responded an hour and twenty-one minutes later with, “No, Judy Garland.”
Brendon had managed to laugh while his insides jumped and twisted. He saved the text, number ten.
Brendon’s not exactly sure what he’s supposed to do when he sees Jon, whether he should approach him or wait for him to approach him, if he should thank him for the texts or not mention them at all.
By the time Brendon sees Jon, not even five minutes later, he still hasn’t come to a conclusion, but thankfully, Jon doesn’t see him so he has enough time to scurry off and think this over a little more. He finds Ryan and Spencer in their dressing room, along with a girl he recognizes as Keltie, the girl Ryan met in Europe, and a couple other unfamiliar people just lounging about.
Spencer’s the first to look up and notice him. “Oh hey, Brendon!” he grins, and stands up, making his way over to the door where Brendon stands awkwardly, hands shoved in pockets. “What are you doing here?”
Brendon breathes a tiny sigh of relief, grateful that Jon didn’t tell them what had happened between them - or at least, that if he did, that it didn’t seem to change anything. “Oh, I was home and I noticed that you guys were playing tonight so I decided to stop by and see how you guys were doing.”
Spencer looks over Brendon’s shoulder, subtly, and asks, “Where’s Katy?”
She’s just at home,” he explains, and shrugs. “Um, this guy - this journalist who was following The Academy around for awhile, he’s uh - he’s visiting.”
Spencer frowns. “Really? Are they seeing each other?”
Brendon shrugs again, uncomfortable. He was never quite sure how Spencer felt about Katy, and the last thing he wants to do is hurt the poor kid’s feelings. “Um, I’m not really sure. I guess, yeah, kind of.”
He’s quiet for a moment as he thinks it over, and then says, “Oh, well, good for her.” Brendon’s not sure, but he thinks that he sounds pretty genuine which is good because the last thing Katy needs is Spencer crushing on her. Brendon’s pretty sure that his whole situation with Jon is enough to make up for the both of them.
Brendon says hi to Ryan and then to Keltie, and Ryan gives him a look behind her back, something along the lines of ‘don’t tell her about us’, but Brendon’s not stupid, he’s met enough girlfriends to know what to do and what not to do.
Spencer introduces him to Keltie’s friend, another dancer, and then to the two other guys, Cash and Alex from the newly signed band, The Cab.
Brendon’s sitting on one of the chairs having quite an interesting, in-depth conversation with Cash about Spiderman 3, when Jon comes walking in, singing A Whole New World at the top of his lungs.
Jon doesn’t notice him at first, with the chair he’s sitting in facing the opposite direction of the door. Brendon only knew it was him from his voice, his footsteps, he’d like to say his breathing, and just because the fact that Brendon’s never really known any other grown man to sing Disney.
“A whole new world! A dazzling place I never knew!” Jon belts out, and he’s right there, feet away from Brendon with his back to him as he sings to Spencer, right up in his face, and god, what Brendon would give to be him right now. “But when I’m way up here, it’s crystal clear!” Jon, he looks happy, from what Brendon can see anyway, and he’s not quite sure how he feels about that seeing as he’s been completely miserable ever since that night (his misery only taking a small, miniscule break the second he receives and reads Jon’s texts, of course).
Jon turns just a little, just enough to catch Brendon while he’s in the middle of belting out, “that now I’m in a whole new world with you!” and stops halfway. He straightens up, smoothes down his already wrinkle-free shirt and says, “Oh. Brendon, hi.”
The whole room falls silent as they stare at him while still pretending to look away at the same time, and Brendon doesn’t get it, because they can’t all know - can they? “Hi,” he says, voice surprisingly calm and level, considering all he can hear is the steady hammering in his chest, heart, ears, nose, arms, hands, elbows, knees, ankles.
Jon shoves his hands into his pockets. “What’s up?”
“I just - I stopped by to see the show.” He shrugs, feeling a bit helpless, a bit in the spotlight, and never so awkward in his life.
“Oh.” He nods, nice and slow. It takes him a moment before he’s looking around the room, just now noticing everyone awkwardly fidgeting around them. “Oh, I - Okay.” He clears his throat, and runs his hands through the back of his hair. It’s shorter than the last time he saw him, Brendon sees. “I was going to order some Chinese,” he says, “if anyone wants any.”
They exchange uneasy glances, like they all want something but are too scared to say anything. Finally, Spencer mumbles something about sweet and sour chicken balls, and then they all pipe up, Jon mentally taking it all in, repeating everyone’s orders after them. Once everyone’s finished, Jon looks over at Brendon, gaze meeting his eyebrows, and asks, “You want anything?”
Brendon shrugs, ignoring the growl in his stomach. “No,” he says. “No thanks.”
Jon shrugs, and leaves the room.
A half an hour later, Jon slides a plate of vegetable Chow-Mein onto his lap without a single word before scurrying off.
Brendon stares down at it, forcing back a smile, and wonders how he knew.
*
That night after the show Brendon’s just on his way out the door, back home to Katy and Ian, when Spencer stops him and says, voice low, “how about you stay? Come on the road with us? We all miss you.”
When he looks up to meet Spencer’s eyes he notices they’re not suggesting, not expecting, they’re just friendly, knowing. Brendon wants to, he does, because it sure as hell beats staying at home with the newlywed couple but. “But Jon…” he says uneasily.
Spencer smiles, amused, and says, “I’m sure he won’t have a problem with it. Trust me.”
Brendon’s face burns five shades of red, and he really has no choice to accept.
The bus takes a quick detour on the way out of the city to Katy’s house, and Brendon doesn’t so much as pack as shove everything in a duffel bag. Katy gets up halfway through from where she was curled up next to Ian, and watches him, dressed in nothing but an over-sized shirt.
When she walks him to the door, Brendon tries not to think about how this is the first time that he’ll be going on tour without her. Something in his stomach churns, and he wonders if this is what it feels like to be homesick.
He tucks some pale blonde hair behind her ear, and she looks up at him through thick eyelashes. “Have fun,” she says. “Be careful.”
Brendon laughs, barely, and says, “Promise.” He gives her a kiss, a quick peck on the lips, and opens the front door. “I’ll see you, okay?” he says even though it was never a question.
She nods, a weak smile across her lips, “Yeah, duh.”
Brendon smiles back and the door just about closes behind them when she says his name, voice rushed, as if something just struck her now.
"Yeah?"
She looks him in the eye, searching, and then says, after a moment, "Fuck the rules."
*
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