Dirty Deeds (Done Dirt Cheap) | Brendon Urie/Jon Walker | Part 5/6

[repulsive_x]

MP | Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Extras

*

When Brendon wakes up in the morning, he’s in a hotel bed. His first instinct is that the body draped along his back is Jon, but when he turns he’s met with Alex’s face, snoring soundly with drool dripping from the corner of his parted lips. Brendon feels a wave of panic wash over him, sweat prickling up the back of his neck, until he realizes that they’re both still fully clothed, and slowly, his heart rate begins to slow. However, it still doesn’t explain why he’s not in bed with Jon instead.

Brendon leans back into his pillow, letting the nausea and the pounding in his head to ripple over him, attempting to recall the events of last night. It doesn’t happen very often, where Brendon blacks out completely, but it’s not like he ever really has anything to worry about either - until now. Now, he has this uneasy feeling, mixing with the alcohol churning in his stomach, and a vague memory of Jon getting angry with him, and it’s just not good. Brendon’s been known to do some pretty stupid things when drunk.

It takes him awhile, but eventually he finds enough energy to pull himself out of bed, sneaking into the washroom before Alex or the two remaining lumps in the bed next to theirs stir. Brendon blasts the tap on cold, splashing water over his face as he watches himself in the mirror. He looks awful, with bloodshot eyes, bags and skin pale as a corpse, but it could’ve been worse, he could be puking all the contents of his stomach out into the toilet.

Brendon’s just about to turn to leave the washroom when his gaze lands on a large, purple mark, decorating the side of his neck. He stares at it, a deep, sinking feeling setting in his stomach, telling him that it wasn’t Jon who had put it there.

Brendon pulls his gaze from the mirror, heart now thumping wildly in his ribcage, and he leaves the hotel room, the snores of the others still loud, ringing out through the small room. The lights in the hall are excruciating, making his already aching head pound more, and he has to squint to keep himself from falling over. He’s not sure what time it is, his phone dead in his pocket, but he has a faint suspicion that it’s early - too early - as he heads down the hall until he reaches room 309, the room he was supposed to be in with Jon.

Brendon pats his pockets, searching through his wallet until he comes across the plain white, plastic card, the hotel name scrawled across the bottom in maroon. He’s not quite sure what he’s expecting, but with the nerves churning uneasily in his gut, he’s scared it won’t be anything good.

When he pushes the door open, he’s instantly met with Ryan’s face, complete with furrowed eyebrows and clenched teeth. “You need to leave.”

“What? No. This is my room.”

“No,” Ryan corrects, “this is Jon’s room and he doesn’t want to see you.”

“What? Why?” He attempts to push past Ryan, into the adjoining room where he can only assume Jon is, but Ryan quickly shoves him back, causing his back to hit the door with loud thud. He inhales sharply, staring back into Ryan’s glaring eyes, throat swelling.

“Ryan, please,” Brendon pleads, lowering his voice a few octaves. “I just want to talk to him. I don’t even know what I did.”

“That’s the thing, you should fucking know. Think about it.” He shakes his head, the creases in his forehead growing deeper. “I fucking warned him. I told him this would happen. People like you don’t all of a sudden decide to remain monogamous and pure, but he never fucking believed me, and now look at him! He’s hurt because you’re nothing but a goddamn slut who can put on a good act.”

People like you. Slut.

Brendon can feel his throat grow tighter and tighter, choking him, and he manages to take a small breath, tears prickling at his eyelids. “I - please - fuck, can I just talk to him? Just for a second?”

Ryan opens his mouth, most likely to deny him again, but Jon appears behind him, looking haggard and a little bit distraught. “Ryan, it’s okay,” he mumbles. “Just let me talk to him for a minute.”

Ryan snaps around to face him, and Brendon’s eyes find the floor, too ashamed and disgusted with himself to look up to meet Jon’s. “But - ”

“Ryan,” Jon says sternly, and there’s silence for a moment, maybe two, Brendon still not able to bring himself to look up at their faces.

Eventually, Ryan lets out a long, frustrated sigh, and says, “Fine, but call me if you need me. I’ll be next door.”

“I know. Thanks.”

Brendon makes the mistake of lifting his gaze from the floor when Ryan passes to leave, and if looks could kill, Brendon would surely be a bloody mess on the floor. Brendon jumps, just slightly, when Ryan slams the door behind him, and when he looks up, Jon’s disappeared back into the dim room, the only light pouring in through the half-drawn curtains.

Brendon follows behind, cautious, and every last bit of him wishes he could go back to last night. He doesn’t want to deal with this - the way Jon looks, or what he can only assume is coming next.

Jon’s sitting on the bed, slouched back towards Brendon, hands wrung together between his legs. Brendon takes a struggled breath, and says, “Jon - look, whatever I did, I’m so sorry. I don’t even remember and - ”

“Is that supposed to be some excuse?” Jon speaks up hoarsely.

“No, but -”

“And you’re telling me this is the first time you’ve ever cheated on me?”

Brendon flushes, heat creeping up the back of his neck. “Jon -” he starts, desperate, but then stops, not able to find it in himself to lie anymore.

“Yeah,” he says softly, voice breaking. “That’s what I thought.” He shakes his head, and runs the palms of his hands over his face. “Everyone told me but I just didn’t want to believe them. I didn’t want to believe that you were actually like they said. I thought you actually cared about me. I was stupid for thinking it was different with me.”

“I do care about you,” Brendon insists, inching closer to Jon. “God, I do so fucking much, you have no idea. What I said - I meant it. I did. I love you.”

“Then why would you do this? If you care about me - love me - as much as you claim, then you wouldn’t have gone and hurt me like this. You wouldn’t have gone behind my back and continued to fuck other guys, and then tell them they have to keep it a secret from me. Like - why, Brendon?”

“But - I know, okay? I’m terrible. That’s who I am, that’s all I know. I don’t know how to be a boyfriend. I know how to be a slut, and I was trying so hard to change and -”

“Oh, for fuck sakes, you can’t keep using that as an excuse, Brendon,” he snaps. “You’re still a person. You can’t tell me that there’s something in you that’s making it physically impossible for you to be a loyal, honest person.” Brendon swallows, and says nothing, scared that if he does, he might start bawling - and he’d like to hold that off as long as possible. If there’s one thing Brendon hates the most, it’s crying; it’s feeling vulnerable. “I wanted so bad not to believe it. I knew you were sleeping around, but I just kept telling myself that you meant it when you said you loved me, and that you wouldn’t do that to me. I wanted to see it for myself before anything, and now that I have, look at me. It’s my fault I guess, for being so stupid and naïve, and giving you so much trust that you didn’t deserve.” He clears his throat, and says, “I can’t keep standing around and watch you get used by guys who don’t give a shit about you.”

That’s the last straw for Brendon, the ball in his throat now too large to try and swallow down, and the tears poking at his eyes are rapidly multiplying, slipping between his closed eyelids, burning their way down his cheeks. “Jon, please,” he begs, voice coming out raspy and broken. “I can stop. I will. Please, just. God, Jon. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me and I’ve never had someone care about me like you do and I just - please, I swear to you, I can change. I can stop sleeping around if it means not loosing you. God, Jon. Please.”

There’s a long pause, and Brendon’s heart skip a beat or two in hope, until Jon shakes his head, letting out a long, distressed exhale of breath. “What makes you think you’re capable of doing that now if you couldn’t before?”

“Because, I - ” he stops, and shakes his head, not knowing what else to say. He feels the panic, the dread, every last awful emotion expand in his stomach, and explode, trickling over inch of his body, paralyzing him.

For the first time since the start of the conversation, Jon looks up and meets Brendon’s eyes, his own red-rimmed and wet. He says, voice so soft that Brendon has to strain to hear it - and when he does, he wishes he hadn’t, “I just can’t do it. It’s not going to work.”

Brendon’s heart plunges into his gut, lower and lower, until he’s not even sure it’s there anymore. He grips onto the dresser behind him, leaning his weight against it, and closes his eyes, choking back air. “Jon - ”

“No, Brendon, I’ve made up my mind.” He stops, like he’s waiting for Brendon to say something else, give him a valid reason why he shouldn’t, but Brendon can’t find the words in his brain to speak so he remains silent. “I think you should leave.” He pauses again, a little shorter than the first, and adds, a finality in his voice, “the tour, I mean. I think it’s for the best. Fall Out Boy’s on tour with The Academy, maybe you could go with them.”

Go with them. Just ship him off, like he’s an object.

Another tear falls from his eyes, hot and thick, down his cheek, and no. No, he doesn’t want to go on tour with fucking Fall Out Boy; he can’t just ship him off, like he’s an object. We don’t want you anymore, so why don’t you go with them? But -

But hasn’t that what his life has always been like? Getting moved around from place to place, but never really being wanted, no matter where he goes? Being with Jon was the first time he’s felt like he belonged in years, and now, it’s over. It’s over from one night that Brendon can’t even remember properly.

“Brendon, please. Can you please just go?” Jon asks, voice high and choked. His backs turned to him again, head hung, his face in his hands.

“I - ”

“Brendon,” he repeats, suddenly firm, “I’ll call Zack.”

Brendon stares, watches the rise and fall of Jon’s back, the careful shake of his shoulders, feeling as several more tears drip down his cheeks and chin. This, it can’t be happening. He can’t - it can’t be over. Jon, he can give him a second chance, cant he?

“I’m serious, Brendon. You need to leave.”

“Jon - ”

He picks his head up from his hands, reaching into his pocket for his sidekick. He gives Brendon one final look, eyes heavy, and he knows that he’s not kidding. “Okay,” Brendon says, wiping at his cheeks, defeated. “Okay, I’ll go.”

Jon bites his lip, and looks away, sliding his phone back into his pocket.

“Bye, I guess,” he mumbles as he picks his feet up from the ground, making his way over to the door, dreading every step. Jon doesn’t reply, but Brendon wasn’t expecting him to. “I love you,” he whispers once he reaches the door, his hand on the doorknob. He’s not sure Jon can hear him, but a part of him still hopes.

In the hallway, not knowing where else to go, Brendon drops to the ground, just outside of his door, back pressed against the wall. He pulls his legs to his chest, squeezing them tight against him as he drops his head between his knees. For the first time in a long time, he finds himself wishing he was back home again. He wants to be ten again, when everything was okay. He wants to start all over again. He wouldn’t have started hanging out with Katy, he wouldn’t have gone to that Fall Out Boy concert for the first time and blown Pete; he wouldn’t be where he is right now, bawling his eyes out while hung-over because a guy he never deserved in the first place dumped him for being a whore. If he could, he’d still be Brendon, the good, little Mormon kid, mommy’s little boy. He’d be in college right now, studying to be a doctor. He’d still have friends, and a family, people that loved him. Maybe he wouldn’t be completely happy, but he’d be close, closer than he is now; he wouldn’t have a gaping hole in his chest where his heart is supposed to be.

A door closes a few feet down, and before he knows it, footsteps are padding closer to him, until they come to stop, just in front of him. Brendon lifts his head, just enough to see Spencer and Ryan at Jon’s door. They’re both looking away, pretending they don’t notice him, Ryan banging away on the door, calling Jon’s name while Spencer looks off in the opposite direction, down the hall, lip between his teeth. The door opens, and Ryan goes straight inside, not offering a single glance at Brendon. Spencer does, however, gaze landing on him briefly, pity thick in his eyes before disappearing behind him.

Brendon listens to the door close, and once again, he’s left alone.

*

Brendon catches a red eye to Boston to meet up with Fall Out Boy the next day.

Jon doesn’t say goodbye, and Brendon can’t say that he expected him to.

*

Brendon’s been on tour for over two weeks now, and for the most part, it hasn’t been so bad. Then again, to be fair, Brendon has spent the better half of his days on one mind-altering substance or the other. It’s okay though, because Brendon’s missed it. While with Jon he missed out on all the drinking, the drugs, the partying, but now he’s back. He’s back to being good, old Brendon, the groupie.

The other day, Pete had come up to him, and said, softly into his ear so no one could overhear, “Jon’s doing okay,” without Brendon even having to ask. It helped a little, for the most part, knowing that Jon’s doing okay. Unlike him, Jon doesn’t deserve to suffer.

What Brendon deserves is just what he has now; on his knees on dirty bathroom floors, pants to knees, bent over expensive leather in dressing room or crammed inside small bunks while four other guys pretend not to listen. There are a lot of groupies now, more than he remembered, ones that come and go, and some that stay more often than others. In the beginning, when Brendon had first arrived, they had tried to include him, in their little gossiping circles where they bragged about who did what to them, but eventually, they had given up, after he all but hissed and growled whenever they tried to approach him.

Basically, besides the sparse ten minute conversations with Katy, where she spends half the time giggling with Ian in the background, he doesn’t really have anyone else but the band guys, the ones who have better things to do than sit and chat with Brendon unless they want somewhere to stick their cock. And maybe, maybe it’s always been like this, maybe it’s only now he’s starting to care enough to realize, now that he’s experienced something so much better - but, he guesses, in the end, it doesn’t really matter anyway.

Brendon though, he’s going to be okay. He is.

At least - at least, he hopes.

*

A week later, while in Detroit, a bunch of them decide to visit a bar a block or so away from the hotel they’re staying at. It’s not the nicest bar Brendon’s ever been to, but it’s not the worst either.

Brendon gets fairly drunk, fairly quickly, choking back beer after beer, plus the vodka, the whiskey and whatever else anyone had happened to hand over to him. He shares a joint or two out back with some of the guys from the tour, and a few others, boys with baseball caps and girls with bright red lipstick, people he’s never seen before.

Brendon’s in the middle of rolling a joint on a closed off table near the back of the room when one of the guys comes over, and says, “So, you in a band too?”

He shakes his head, cheeks heating, giving him no other clues as he licks along the glue on the paper.

“Roadie?”

He shakes his head.

He takes a moment, a confused look sprouting up over his face before he’s throwing his head back and letting out a loud howl, “Shit, don’t tell me you’re a groupie or something.”

“I’m not a groupie,” he starts, but it’s pointless. The band-aid thing just isn’t the same without Katy around.

The guy doesn’t respond, and Brendon doesn’t say anything to urge him on as he twists off the edges of the perfectly rolled joint. No matter how drunk he is or how little he can see, he can always, always, roll a perfect joint.

A minute passes before he says, “So, what? Do you just fuck famous people?”

Brendon looks up, sees the suggestion in his curved eyebrow. The guys good-looking, hot even, and maybe if it was before, Brendon would be all for it, but now the thought of it only makes him feel sick to his stomach. He shakes his head, focusing back to his joint, “Yeah.”

“Shame.”

Brendon rolls his eyes, and stands up, shoving the tightly rolled paper into his back pocket. He doesn’t bother saying anything to the guy, he just leaves, and finds William on the dance floor, a girl with a skinny waist and big boobs grinding up against him. Brendon doesn’t have to do much but flash the joint in front of his face, and he’s following behind him like an obedient puppy, drool dripping from the corners of his mouth.

“That guy totally wants you.” William smirks once they’re out back, smoke pouring from between his curved lips.

Brendon shrugs, reaching forward to take the joint from between his fingers. “Whatever,” he mumbles.

William laughs, deep and slow, like liquid. “Have you ever fucked anyone who hasn’t been in a band, Urie?”

He thinks over the question while sucking onto the end of the joint, letting the sweet smoke fill his lungs. He blows the smoke out into the night sky, and says, “Once.” He smiles vaguely to himself, and adds, “Because he looked like Jon.”

William laughs louder this time, more sound filling the air, and it seems to shake the concrete beneath Brendon’s feet. “No shit.”

Brendon smiles wistfully, and presses his head against the concrete wall, staring up into the brightened night sky. “Mm-hmm. I’ve never told anyone that before. Not even him, y’know, so feel honored.”

“You’re drunk.” William giggles.

“Yeah, so?” he mumbles, tracing his fingers against the dips where the bricks are held together. “You are too.”

William raises a mischievous eyebrow, taking another hit from the joint. “And also high as a motherfuckin’ kite.” He goes to hand the joint back to Brendon, but he shakes his head, refusing.

“Save it for later,” he says. “I just want to get more wasted.” With that, he disappears into the bar, William’s laugh fading behind him.

An hour later, he can’t see.

*

It’s William that comes up to him, breath sticky on his neck as he murmurs something about going into the washroom. Brendon’s always liked William; he’s always been nice to him, treated him at least like some kind of a person, so he agrees.

William’s always been easy, especially when it’s in places like bar bathrooms because all he ever wants is head, so Brendon doesn’t have to worry about going into some awkward position while whoever it is fucks him without lube. Those are never his favorites, so a blowjob, he can deal.

It’s sloppy, considering his current state, but William doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seems to enjoy it quite a bit as he tugs on the loose ends of Brendon’s hair, moans spilling out from between his lips for the entire bar to hear. He finds it a little hard to keep focused, his mind slipping in and out of consciousness, and eventually he settles with concentrating on a single, wiry hair just below his belly button, that helps only slightly.

William gives a rough tug on his hair, and Brendon lets out a tiny whine, partly in pain but mostly in pleasure. Brendon knows that most people hate when the person they’re giving head to pulls their hair, but Brendon’s always had a thing for it - especially lately, he’s found. It helps to remind him of who he is.

Brendon doesn’t have a clue how long it’s been when William finally comes, some in his mouth, the rest dribbling down his chin. William pulls up his pants, does up his belt, and ruffles his hair, like his older brother used to do to him when he scored a goal in soccer. It makes Brendon feel warm inside, but empty at the same time. “You coming, Urie?” he asks as he unlocks the stall door.

Brendon presses his back against the wall, now sitting on his ass, and shakes his head, vision blurred. “No, I think I’m just gonna. I’m just gonna chill out here. You know, chill.”

William raises an eyebrow and chuckles. “Alright, suit yourself.”

“Mmkay,” he mumbles, rubbing at his eyes like a sleepy child. He blinks, once, twice, but his vision still doesn’t clear. The vague memory of loosing his contacts enters his mind, then disappears a second later.

He feels tired, like he could sleep forever and ever and ever. Maybe he will. It’s big enough, being in a handicap stall. It could fit five wheelchairs, he thinks. Hundreds. He could curl up and nap for a little while. Yeah, right here, he feels comfy. The floors comfy, like a bed. It’s comfy like Jon’s bed, like Jon. “Mmm, Jon,” he murmurs out loud, to no one but himself, hugging his stomach at the thought.

He closes his eyes, mind on repeat as it says, over and over, JonJonJonJonnyJonJonathonJonnyJonWalker, and with that, he passes out.

*

Brendon awakes to hands on his hips and unfamiliar voices.

“What?” he moans, trying to bat away the grabbing hands, “Whaddya want? Wanna sleep. Lemme sleep.” He hears some shuffling, some faint murmuring and the muffled sound of blasting music from the other side of the thin wall. A moment passes, and Brendon finds himself starting to drift off again when he feels something press against his lips, pushing inside against his tongue. Brendon’s far too familiar with the feel, the taste, not to know what it is, even in his state. He gags, and pulls away while pushing his hands flat against flushed skin. “No,” he whines. “I wanna sleep.” He opens his eyes, just barely, just enough to look up at the intruder, and even through his blurred vision, he can see enough to know he’s never seen this man before. There’s another man behind him, but he’s too far away for Brendon to make out a face.

The man grabs the back of Brendon’s head, fingers threading through his hair as he pushes his cock back into his mouth, and Brendon cant find it in himself to do much more than oblige. “Yeah,” Brendon hears, “you like that don’t you, slut? Yeah, you suck on that real good.”

Brendon’s able to focus for a whole two seconds before his mind begins to cloud over again, his eyes begin to shut, on the brink of unconsciousness, but the man doesn’t seem to mind. He continues to fuck into his mouth, the back of Brendon’s head smacking against the concrete wall with every thrust. He counts to the fourth thrust and then everything goes black.

When Brendon comes to again, he’s on his stomach, face pressed against the hard, dirty floor. It doesn’t take long for the overwhelming sensation of being ripped apart to spill over him, or for the loud grunts towering above to come clear. He’s drunk, barely capable of moving, but the small part of his brain that isn’t soaked in alcohol still knows what’s going on.

He lets out a small sound, a whimper, but it gets lost in the tiles of the floor, and Brendon gags when something wet touches his lip.

“Hey, he’s awake,” a voice hisses.

“Yeah. Yeah,” another replies, breathless. “He’ll pass out again in a second.”

“Fuck off, man. It’s my turn.”

A second, two, three thrusts, black.

*

This time, when Brendon comes to, he’s alone. He’s still on the dirty bathroom floor with his pants pulled halfway down his ass, mind you, but alone and breathing. He can hear the music through the walls still, but the bathroom itself is silent.

It takes Brendon a few minutes to find enough strength to sit up and pull up his pants the rest of the way, and when he does, he feels the disgusting layer of what Brendon can only assume is dried come flake against the material. He closes his eyes, feels the nausea rush over him before he’s quickly sliding over to the toilet, and vomits into the bowl, all alcohol and nothing else. He can feel the dull ache in his ass, spreading up his spine, and he hasn’t hurt this bad after sex since that time Butcher and Sisky took him at the same time.

He wonders how long he’s been in here for. Has it been an hour? Two? Three? Why hasn’t anyone come looking for him? Didn’t anyone in the washroom stop to think to tell someone? Didn’t they know some unconscious guy was getting fucked unwillingly by two strangers?

Brendon spits into the toilet and wipes his mouth with a wad of toilet paper. He feels groggy and gross, and way too drunk to deal with the fact that he more or less just got raped, and that he’ll never be able to do anything about it.

He hears the bathroom door open and close, the sound of a zipper being pulled undone and piss hitting the urinal. Brendon presses his cheek against the cool porcelain seat, and he doesn’t even think twice about how dirty it is - he’s filthy enough anyway.

He stays there for a long, long time, listening to people come and go, distant voices, laughter, music, oblivion. He keeps his eyes wide open, watching as his vision becomes clearer, and doesn’t move from where he sits, cheek pressed against the toilet.

He finds that nothing particular is going through his mind, but everything at the same time. He just keeps seeing those blurry figures over and over again, hears their voices. He sees Jon too. When he closes his eyes and thinks hard enough, he can even feel him, smell him, but when he opens them again, he’s gone and he’s back in the handicap stall in some bar in Detroit. He’s Brendon, so far down that he doubts he’ll ever be able to get back up.

By the time the bartender finds him, Brendon’s still in the same place, covered in dirt, puke and come. He wrinkles his nose, looking almost frightened as he says, “Hey man, you okay?”

“M’fine,” he mumbles, voice muffled by the plastic.

“Well, you’re going to have to get up, the bars closed,” he replies, and he sounds nice. Brendon’s relieved; he doesn’t meet enough nice people. “Do you want me to call you a cab?”

Brendon shakes his head. “No,” he slurs. “M’friends are here.”

The bartender shifts, uncomfortable, resting his jutted hip against the stall. “No, I don’t think they are. The bar cleared out about ten minutes ago.”

Brendon closes his eyes, feels his stomach rumble under his fingertips. “They left.”

“Hey, look, I’ll just call you a cab.”

“They left,” Brendon repeats, deadpanned, gaze fixed on the words SLUT printed out in thick sharpie on the wall. “Fitting,” he says, mostly to himself, “Slut.” When he looks up, the bartender is gone, and for a minute he thinks he almost imagined him, but then a minute later, he’s back.

“I called you a cab,” he explains. “It should be here in ten minutes.”

“Don’t have any money for a cab,” he mumbles. “Don’t have a job. Imma slut. That’s all. S-L-U-T. Like on the wall. See. Slut.” He jabs his finger towards the word, and then pulls himself up, moving close enough to trace his fingers over the letters.

“Uh, look, here. I’ll help you up, and I’ll get you some water while you wait for your cab, okay?”

“No,” he whines, and shakes his head, running the tip of his index finger over the curve of the S. “I told you, I don’t have any money.”

The bartender says something, but Brendon’s too transfixed on the word on the wall to hear. Before he knows it, arms are circling around his armpits, hoisting him up, away from the simple statement that is so, so fitting. Somehow, he manages to get him over to the bar, which Brendon finds amazing because from what he can see, the bartenders fairly small, small as him even. He sits Brendon down on one of the chairs, and says, “I’ll get you some water.”

“No.” He shakes his head, and stands, a tad too wobbly on his feet alone. He feels the sharp pain shoot up from his ass, and he winces before carefully swallowing it down. If it hurts this much now, Brendon can only imagine how much more it will hurt in the morning. “M’fine, I’ll just walk.”

“No, I don’t think so,” he says from behind the bar where he fills up a glass with ice cold water. “Not like that you aren’t.”

“I’m fine,” he repeats, a little more soundly, but not by much, “Really. My hotel’s just like, a block away.”

“Here,” he says, sliding a large cup in front of Brendon, condensation running down the sides and onto the table, “drink this. I’ll be right back.”

Brendon barely manages to gather enough energy to nod, let alone take the cool glass between his hands, and by the time the bartender returns, Brendon has gotten more water on his shirt and face than actually into his mouth and down his throat. After a moment, the bartender asks slowly, as if not quite sure it’s place to say anything, “Hey, are you sure you’re okay? You look like you’re in pretty rough shape.”

Brendon goes over what the truth would sound like in his brain, the ‘I’m fairly positive I just got raped in the handicap stall in the washroom by two guys I couldn’t even make out the faces of because I was too drunk and was unconscious half the time, and no one did shit all to stop it,’ and the ‘to top it all off, the people I came here with, the people that I thought cared at least a little bit about me, left without me.’ In the end, Brendon decides against it, laughing to himself over how ridiculously pathetic his whole life turned out to be. Plus, the bartender seems like such a nice guy, what’s the point in burdening him? Especially over someone like Brendon. It’s not like it’s a surprise anyway, it was bound to happen one day. Is it possible for someone like him to even be raped in the first place, anyway? “M’fine,” he states instead.

The bartender looks him over, unsure, but doesn’t press on as Brendon acts oblivious to it all, going for his second attempt at drinking the water. This time, he’s slightly more successful, but not by much as some water dribbles down his chin.

Brendon’s just finishing up the last gulp, when the bartender comes around to his side of the bar, and says, “Okay, come on.”

Brendon frowns up at him, and asks, “Where?” but doesn’t protest as he pulls him up from the barstool and all but carries him towards the front door. Brendon figures he’s finally just kicking him out, like he should’ve done in the first place, leaving him to walk back to the hotel, but when they get outside, the cool, fall air hitting their skin, he sees a taxi waiting out on the street.

He pulls away from his grip, shaking his head. “No,” he says with a bit of frustration, “I told you! I don’t have any money!”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, opening the backdoor for Brendon, waiting for him to get inside. Brendon stares up at him, confused, but finally, after no reaction, he gets into the backseat - but with a high amount of struggle, mind you.

He closes the door behind Brendon, then walks around to the drivers window where the cabbie sits, waiting expectantly. He listens to the first few seconds of their conversation, until his mind drifts off, back to earlier that night with the blurred figures and the thick cock against his tongue. Brendon can still taste the salty bitterness in his mouth, and he finds himself gagging over the mere thought of it.

When Brendon looks up, he realizes both the cabbie and the bartender are looking back at him, expectantly, as if waiting for an answer. He blinks.

The cab driver sighs, obviously annoyed, Brendon most likely the umpteenth drunk customer of the night, and asks, “What hotel you staying at?”

Brendon racks his brains, giving off what he hopes is the correct hotel, praying he’s not mixing it up with one of many others he has stayed at previously. The cab driver seems familiar with it however, because he nods and goes back to the bartender. Brendon watches as he passes a few bills through the crack in the window, and into the cabbies waiting hands.

It’s nice of him, he thinks, for a bartender that probably has to deal with this shit every night. Most would just kick him out onto the street the second they found him lying in the stall without a word of explanation. He rolls down the window just as the bartender goes to walk away, back into the bar to finish his cleanup, and manages to slut out a grateful thank you.

He nods back, pity swirling in his eyes as he says, “Get back safe,” before the cab rolls away into the night.

*

After the cab drops him off in front of his hotel, Brendon doesn’t go straight inside. Instead, he settles on the curb out front, flipping open his phone. It crosses his mind to call Katy, her being the most obvious choice, the most smart. However, Brendon’s never been one for making smart decisions, so he scrolls down to Jon’s name, pressing talk without a second thought. He knows that the chances of Jon picking up are low, but he figures it’s worth a try anyway. He just wants to hear his voice, wants to tell him how stupid he is for losing him. He wants to tell him that he loves him, that he misses him, that he cant fucking function properly without him, and maybe it’s pathetic, but at least it’s the truth.

The phone rings, and rings, and rings, until it hits voicemail, Jon’s voice ringing out warm and cheerful, like always, and it makes something in Brendon twist painfully. He listens for Jon to finish telling everyone to leave a message and to have a good day, listens for the beep, and then he’s saying, “Hi. So, I know you probably don’t want to hear from me. No, no, you don’t want to, and I know. I know that, but. But I just needed to hear your voice. I needed to know that you were happy, just like Pete said, and you are, aren’t you? Pete tells me sometimes. He tells me without me asking, which is nice, I guess, but it also makes me feel sad. I wanted to hear for myself, just so I could know, but you seemed happy from your answering machine. You cant fake that, can you? Maybe. No, you are, I know that. You wanna know why I know that, Jon Walker? Because you’re strong. You are so strong. Do I sound happy to you, Jon? I try to be, you know, but it’s hard. It’s really, really hard. Everyone left me at the bar today. I passed out in the washroom. The bartender was really nice and paid for my cab though.”

He pauses, and closes his eyes, feeling a single tear slip from between his eyelid. “I feel so numb, Jon,” he says shakily. “I’ve always felt this way, a little, but now it’s worse. Now I can really feel - or can't feel it, whichever way you look at it, I guess. These guys came into the washroom tonight; I don’t know who they were. I deserved it, I know, and I’m wondering, does it even count as rape if it’s someone like me? Would I have said no if I could? I’m sorry, I’m rambling. My brains all messed up. Maybe I shouldn’t have even called you. No. No, you don’t need to hear from me. I’m sorry. Okay, this is the last time you’ll hear from me, promise. I hope you find someone who deserves you way more than I ever did. Someone who’s not like me. I always wondered, you know, what you saw in someone like me. Everyone else did too; I saw it, they all thought, ‘what is someone as great as Jon Walker doing with a worthless slut like Brendon?’ Maybe you’re thinking that right now. Yeah, you probably are. You’re listening to this message right now and laughing, thinking, ‘how pathetic.’ I just want you to know that no matter what you think about me right now, you’re still the best thing that ever happened to me and that I just want you to be happy. I don’t want you to ever cry again, okay?”

Brendon takes a deep breath, and kicks a single pebble out onto the street. “Bye Jon, I promise you’ll never hear from me again.”

It’s only when he hangs up does Brendon realize the tears streaming down his cheeks.

He sits there, until he sees soft, pink light peak out from between the buildings.

*

The next day, no one says a word to Brendon about the previous night, they don’t ask where he disappeared to or what had happened. Nothing. As far as he’s concerned, none of them even noticed he hadn’t come back with them.

Brendon remains silent as everyone goes on with their lives, the memories of last night torturing him as they reply hazily in his mind, over and over again.

*

Things get worse as the days go on, and this time, Brendon can’t ignore it.

Jon doesn’t call, which Brendon didn’t expect, but a part of him had still hoped. Everyday, the numbing feeling, the one that nearly consumes all of him grows worse and worse, and he looks around at all the people around him, having fun, laughing, being happy, and he thinks, would anyone even care if I was gone?

Katy has called him a few times since that night, but Brendon’s ignored everyone. It’s not that he doesn’t want to talk to her; he just doesn’t think there’s anything he could think of to talk about without that night flashing before his eyes. It’s nothing he can’t deal with on his own. Plus, he’s already told one person, and he didn’t even care enough to call to see if he’s okay, and that’s fine, because, after all, that’s how it should be.

November 2007

It’s a week before the tour ends when Pete calls him. Brendon’s just about to say he isn’t in the mood (he hasn’t been since that night) and to call up one of the other groupies when he asks him to meet him in the hotel bar so they can talk. Brendon feels the uneasy churning in his stomach, not able to recall any time when Pete just wanted to talk, but he agrees anyway.

Pete’s already there when he arrives, sitting in one of the corner booths, sipping on a coke. He looks up when Brendon approaches and gives him a smile that causes the knots in his stomach to tighten. “Hey, Brendon, how’s it going?”

He takes a cautious seat across from Pete, and folds his hands together, placing them on his lap. “Good,” he says, and he’s lying, a little.

Pete says nothing for a moment or two as he looks over Brendon, an unreadable expression on his face. He takes a deep breath, rubbing at the sides of his temples with his fingers as he begins, voice slow, “Look, Bren, there’s no easy way for me to tell you this but - but maybe it’d be a good idea if you went back home, even just for a little bit.”

Brendon blinks, and he feels as if the tiny bit that was still left of his entire world, all comes crashing down at once. He waits, until he can breathe again, and forces out a shaky, “What?”

“It’s just that you’ve been on tour for a long time now, and you don’t seem as into it anymore. Which, I mean, is understandable.” He pauses, and then adds, “Plus, I know you just lost someone that you really cared about, and I know how much that sucks. I just think that it would be better for you if you took a break from it all for awhile.”

“No,” Brendon refuses, shaking his head fervently. He’s prepared to get down on his knees and beg if he has to. “Please, no. I am still into it. I really am. I just haven’t been feeling well lately, but I’m fine. Seriously. You can’t send me home.” He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and oh god, oh god, this can’t be happening. It fucking can’t.

When he opens his eyes, Pete’s looking at him with a saddened expression. “I’m sorry, Brendon…”

Brendon feels a wave of nausea rush through him, tears prickling behind his eyelids. “Pete, please,” he tries again, voice rising in panic, “you don’t understand. I don’t have anywhere I can go.”

“I’m sure Katy would be fine with you staying with her for awhile,” he says, “wouldn’t she?”

Brendon shakes his head, pressing the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. Oh god, he thinks, this is not happening. This can’t be happening, Where is he going to go? He can’t just go to Katy’s. She has a boyfriend now, a life that doesn’t involve Brendon. She’s happy; she doesn’t need him bringing her down.

“I already booked you a flight for Monday morning, I know it’s a few days before the tour comes to an end, but the families and girlfriends and such usually come for the last couple of days, and well… you know how that is,” he explains somberly. After a moment or so passes, with no reply from Brendon, Pete says, “I’m only looking out for you.”

Brendon stares down at the tabletop, counting the heavy beats of his heart through his eardrums, one, two, a hundred, before he’s pulling himself up from his seat. He swallows back the tears, and mumbles, “I gotta go,” before rushing off without another word.

Pete doesn’t even try to stop him.

*

Brendon spends the next two days, all the way up to the moment he gets driven to the airport, praying that Pete will change his mind, telling him that he can stay. That it was just a momentary lapse of judgment, he didn’t know what he was thinking.

It doesn’t come though. Instead, he gets a pat on the back and rueful, “Take care, man,” and Brendon knows he won’t be seeing him outside of a television set or the pages of a magazine again. The realization hits him like a sack of a thousand pound bricks.

He spends the entire three hour flight home, forehead pressed against the window, while a baby wails soundly next to him. Fitting, he thinks, and it is.

*

The first person he sees when he arrives in Las Vegas is Katy. Before either of them can get a word out, she throws her arms around him, pulling him close against her skinny frame. The hug for a long time, squeezing each other like they never want to let go - and a part of Brendon doesn’t. He realizes then, as a subtle warmth fills him, that he hasn’t felt this safe since Jon.

Ian comes up behind them, and whispers gently into Katy’s ear, hand on the nape of her back, that the baggage is beginning to make its way around. They pull apart, but Katy keeps her hand wound tightly in his, thumb running against the back of his hand.

Later that night, in the comfort of Katy’s arms, Brendon cries, everything he planned on never saying, pouring from between his lips.

*

Maybe it shouldn’t be surprising, but when Brendon wakes up the next day to see his phone is disconnected, he gets that sinking feeling in his stomach, the voice telling him that it really is over.

He doesn’t get out of bed that day.

*

It’s the fourth day back when Brendon decides that he can’t stay with Katy and Ian forever. He can see himself getting in the way, interrupting the flow that’s been built after these past few months. As often as they insist that he can stay there as long as he needs, he knows that he can’t, that he doesn’t belong there. They don’t need some washed up groupie interrupting their happiness.

This is how Brendon ends up on his parents doorstep, hands shoved in his pockets while his mother stares back at him, mouth hung open in shock. Brendon smiles sheepishly, and says, “Hi, mom.”

*

“If you were to come back, there would be a lot of rules you’d have to follow, Brendon,” Mr. Urie explains sternly, watching over the dark frames of his glasses. “It certainly would not be like the last time.”

Mrs. Urie nods affirmatively, and takes a careful sip of her tea before adding, “There would be no drinking, no drugs, and no sex. You would have a curfew, and you’d have to get a job.”

Brendon nods back, knowing better than to put up a fight over the fact that he’s twenty years-old and going to have curfew. It’s either that or the streets, and he figures it doesn’t really matter whether he has a curfew or not anyway, because who does he really have to see besides Katy and Ian?

She pauses, takes a quick glance at Mr. Urie, then says, “Maybe it’d be for the best if you got some professional help too.”

Brendon inhales sharply, staring back at his mother, eyes wide. Professional help? He didn’t think he was that messed. “Yeah, sure,” he mumbles regardless. If it means having a roof over his head, then he thinks he can survive a few one-hour sessions. Who knows, maybe it’ll actually help.

“Any breaking of these rules and you won’t be able to live here,” Mrs. Urie says. “You should be thankful we’re even allowing you to live here in the first place, seeing as what happened when you were younger.”

“Yeah, I know,” he replies, and after a moment, he adds softly, “Thanks.”

They exchange glances, something unreadable to Brendon, before they’re turning back to face him, tight smiles across their lips. Mrs. Urie squeezes her husband’s hand as he says, “Welcome back to the family, Brendon.”

*

A week later, Brendon gets his first job ever, and for the first time in a long time, Brendon feels something other than hate for himself. Sure, it’s only a job serving at the local diner that his parent’s friends own, but still, it’s something.

Katy stops in sometimes, the diner only a few blocks away from where she works as a telemarketer. Sometimes Brendon likes to pretend they’re teenagers again, that they just graduated from high school and the past two years of their lives never happened. That they live a normal life just like everyone else, that this how it’s always been.

Besides that, Brendon doesn’t see her as much as he’d like, not with all the hours he puts in at the diner, chores around the house or church with his parents. Plus, Katy has her new friends now, she has Ian, and Brendon knows he doesn’t quite fit there.

He makes some of his own friends from the diner; Shane, Amanda, Jessica, and they’re a refreshing change from the people he’s been accustomed to. He likes being liked for who he is, not for how hard he parties or how well he takes a cock. Because, for awhile there, Brendon had stopped believing it was possible.

*

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