Dirty Deeds (Done Dirt Cheap) | Brendon Urie/Jon Walker | Part 4/6

[repulsive_x]

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

*

Brendon meets Jon’s friends, all five of his very closest, the next night.

He’s starting to feel overwhelmed; with all these feelings he first felt at Jon’s mom’s still not subsiding, even two days later, to even just the fact of living with him for two weeks, to meeting his mom, to meeting all his friends and it’s all just starting to feel very, very real.

And Brendon, he still doesn’t know the first thing about trying to handle these types of things.

They’re at the bar a few blocks down from Jon’s apartment, all crowded at one table, pitchers and cups of beer crowding the surface. It’s been close to an hour since arriving, and Brendon is only now starting to feel his nerves slowly beginning to ease. They asked a lot of questions at first, like any good friends would, and while it was nerve-wracking, Brendon eventually managed to calm himself down, reminding himself that they only had good intentions. They had asked the same question Mrs. Walker had, how they had met, and Jon had given the same answer, this time a little more steady, a little more believable. In the end though, it still left Brendon with a nauseous feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Tom just texted me, he said he just got off work and he’ll be here any minute,” Jon yells over the volume of the table. Jon’s been so close to him all night, that every time he talks he can feel the warmth of his breath trickle down his neck, making him shiver.

Brendon feels his heart speed up again, the nervous twitching in his stomach start up. Jon and Tom have known each other for a long time, and Jon talks so fondly of him that it’s almost as if he’s meeting his mother all over again. In a sense, he’s just as important and it’s just as critical that Tom actually likes him. Jon has convinced him, on many separate occasions that Tom will love him, as well as all of his friends - which they do all seem to - but he still can’t help but worry.

Ten minutes later, Brendon’s in a very heated conversation with a red-head name Brittany about Radiohead, when all of the sudden the volume of the table grows considerably, and Jon’s jumping up from his seat beside him. Brendon turns to see what all the fuss is about, to see the back of Jon wrapped in a tight hug by a man that Brendon can’t quite see the face of through the dim light.

What seems like centuries later, Jon and who he can only assume is Tom, pull apart and head back over to the table, talking excitedly. When they get close enough to the table for the light overhead to illuminate Tom’s face, Brendon feels like he might actually be sick. He turns back to the table and stares down at it, attempting to set the cedar on fire.

“And this is Brendon, the guy I’ve been telling you all about,” Jon’s voice says from behind him, the palm of his hand resting on the back of his chair.

Brendon squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath before slowly turning around to face them; chin angled towards the ground in hope that maybe his hair or the shadows will leave him unidentifiable. “Hi.”

Silence draws upon them for what seems like minutes, when in reality it’s probably only a couple seconds or two before what he dreaded most comes next. “Hey,” Tom’s voice says, a curious edge to it, “don’t I know you from somewhere?”

“Uh,” he starts, entire face heating in shame, “I don’t think so,” he lies.

Tom raises an eyebrow, and looks over him as if trying to place where he recognizes him from while Jon looks between them, a confused expression on his face.

Tom takes a seat across from them, and Jon returns to his seat next to Brendon, still just as confused as Brendon keeps his gaze fixed on the table. He doesn’t understand why Jon wouldn’t tell him that Tom was that Tom. Did he not think to mention, oh hey, it’s the Tom that used to be in The Academy? How could he not, after all of this time, mention it even in passing? At least he would’ve been able to prepare himself for this.

The conversation starts up again, this time with Tom included, and Brendon can feel Jon’s eyes still searching him, confusion turning into concern while Tom also stares at him from across the table, forehead wrinkled in determination. All Brendon can think is, oh god, oh god, please do not remember me, because that’s really the last thing he needs.

But sure enough, ten minutes later, maybe fifteen, Tom’s suddenly jumping up in his chair, a triumphant look on his face as he exclaims, “Hey! I remember you! Brendon, right?”

Brendon sinks lower in his chair, and wishes he could just die. That suddenly the ceiling fan would fall and land right on him, crushing him, and taking him from what is going to be an awful, awful situation less than five seconds away.

He gives a faint nod, knowing there’s no way to possibly lie about that, and then Tom wait’s a second, three, before saying, extra slow, “aren’t you like, a groupie?”

The table falls silent, and all five of them stop to stare between Tom, Brendon and Jon, identical shocked expressions on every one of their faces. Brendon feels something churn in his stomach, the alcohol mixed with the pizza he ate earlier, and he’s really, really going to be sick. “I -”

“No,” Jon says quickly, voice cracking as he fidgets, and Brendon hates himself so much for having to put Jon through this. “No,” he repeats, and then adds in a quite mumble of, “not - not anymore.”

Brendon doesn’t look up, not even slightly. He doesn’t need to, to see the look in Jon’s friends faces, the disgust, the questions like why would Jon want to be with someone like him. A groupie. A whore.

Their table sits in silence, not a word spoken as they let the news digest, the background noise of the bar still loud and thumping around them.

Brendon’s stomach is still rumbling and churning, and it’s so loud that he’s sure the whole table can hear it. After a moment, just as Tom’s about to open his mouth and say something, Brendon jumps from his seat, hand covering his mouth as he mutters, “I have to go to the washroom,” before dashing off to the back of the bar.

There’s another man in the washroom, washing his hands in the sink when Brendon comes flying in, and he throws himself down in front of the toilet in the first stall. He doesn’t even end up puking, just spits up what he can only assume is beer.

He’s still on his knees in front of the stained porcelain when he hears the bathroom open a few minutes later and Jon’s voice call out, hesitant, “Brendon?”

Brendon makes a tiny, choked noise in reply, and Jon pushes open the unlocked stall door to see him sitting there, a pathetic lump. He gets down behind him, pressing his forehead to his back while a comforting hand rubs at his side. Brendon’s throat stings, and he realizes then that he’s been holding back tears.

They say nothing for awhile, and he stares down into the toilet, listening to the muffled music pour in through the crack under the door. Brendon, he realizes, has never felt so fucking worthless in his whole entire life.

Finally, Jon says, “we should go.”

Brendon gulps, wipes his hand across his eyes and says, “I’m so sorry, Jon.”

“Shhh,” he murmurs into his back, and that’s it.

Brendon knows the questions there, the did you sleep with him too? He knows it’s there, but he also knows Jon’s not going to ask. Not him, not Tom either.

He takes a shaky breath, and feels a single, hot tear fall from his eye and roll down the center of his cheek. “I’m sorry,” he says again, voice choked. “I’m sorry for ruining your night. I’m sorry that your friends hate me now because I’m such a fucking worthless slut.”

Jon removes his forehead from Brendon’s back, but he keeps his hand there, stilled on his hip. “Brendon…” he starts, but then stops, at a loss for words.

“No, Jon,” Brendon snaps as more tears begin to cascade down his cheeks, and he’s thinking that maybe those four beers had hit him harder than he had thought. “I’m a slut, and you know it. Don’t lie to me. I don’t even know why you’re with me. I don’t deserve you. How could you possibly say you love someone like me?”

“Brendon, that’s -” he stops mid-sentence, listening as the bathroom door opens and closes, and a pair of feet echo throughout the small room. “Look, B, let’s just go home, okay? We’re sitting in a dirty bathroom. I just - let’s not talk about this here, okay?” he pleads.

Brendon sniffs, and nods, figuring he’s probably right. Jon stands up, and he follows reluctantly. Jon doesn’t leave the stall right away though; instead he wipes Brendon’s wet cheeks with his sweaters sleeves and cups his neck into his hands, looking him straight in the eye. “None of that stuff you said is true, okay?” he says softly, pressing a kiss between his eyes. He gives Brendon a strong, steady look before leaving the stall, as if that’s supposed to stop him from arguing, and surprisingly, it does.

They ignore the strange look the guy at the urinal gives them as they exit the washroom, and Brendon says, “This is so pathetic. I go running off to the washroom after everyone finds out I’m a groupie, and now we’re just leaving after you haven’t seen your friends for months.” He shakes his head. “God,” he curses, “so much for them liking me now.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Jon assures, hand resting on the nape of Brendon’s back. “They’ll understand.”

Brendon’s about to say, “No, they won’t,” but he stops when they approach the table and every last six of them suddenly fall silent, staring up at them expectantly. Brendon tries really hard to keep his head up, to look all of them in the eye, but he fails terribly, and ends up staring down at the floor five seconds after reaching the table while Jon talks for them.

“I think we’re just gonna head out,” he says, hands shoved in hoody pockets.

“Look, dude, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to -” Tom starts, but Jon quickly cuts him off.

“No, it’s okay,” he says. “It’s not that. It’s just - he’s not feeling very well, so. Yeah. I’m really sorry, guys, but I promise I’ll see all of you at least once before I leave again.”

Brendon forces himself to look up now, looks over all their uneasy expressions, then mumbles, cheeks red and shamed, “I’m really sorry. It was um, it was really nice meeting you all though.”

They all give their goodbyes, and he even hears some ‘nice to meet you too’s which surprises Brendon at first, but then he figures it’s just because they’re trying to be nice for Jon’s sake.

Before they turn to leave, Brendon looks to see a guilt-stricken expression on Tom’s face, and he immediately feels awful because it wasn’t Tom’s fault at all. Tom was always a nice guy, and it’s not like he knew.

The car ride home is long, longer than it took to get there, and Brendon spends the entire time with his face plastered against the window, staring out at the glowing lights of Chicago. Jon doesn’t try to hold his hand this time and Brendon doesn’t expect him to.

Once they finally reach Jon’s apartment, all he really wants to do is curl under the covers and die, but of course, Jon isn’t going to let that happen. “Brendon,” he says, following him down to the hallway to his bedroom, “we need to talk about this.”

“No,” he refuses, “not tonight. Can we just talk about it tomorrow, please? I just want to go to bed.”

“Brendon,” he says firmly once they reach his bedroom, and Brendon whines, running his hands over his face in anguish. “Come on. I can’t have you saying those things you said, and then not say anything back.” He stops, waiting for Brendon’s reply, but when he doesn’t get one he says, voice dropping a few octaves, “I don’t want you thinking that.”

“But why?” Brendon asks, and takes a seat at the end of his bed, staring up at him with round, sad eyes. “It’s true, and you can’t tell me that it’s not. I’ve slept with your fucking best friend without even knowing it because I’m such a fucking whore.”

“And I cheated on you,” he adds silently. “I cheated on you for absolutely no fucking reason but to try and make myself feel better.”

Brendon watches the pained expression that comes across Jon’s face, over the thought of him and his best friend together. “I -” he starts, then shakes his head, the expression disappearing along with it, “I don’t care who you’ve slept with, okay? I don’t want you saying you don’t deserve me because you do. It fucking hurts me that you think that you don’t.”

“I’m a goddamn groupie, Jon,” he snaps, voice quivering. “Don’t you get that? That’s like one fucking step away from being a fucking hooker. And there you are, with awesome friends and an awesome mom and an awesome band, and what do I have? Nothing. I have nothing, Jon. I’m just a fucking useless slut whose own fucking parents don’t even want him. I’ve been sleeping around with guys in bands for almost two years now, thinking that if these guys want me then maybe I’ll start to feel better about myself. Maybe I’ll feel like I’ve actually accomplished something for once in my life. Even after these past two years something in me is still saying, maybe, but it never fucking gets better. No matter how much guys want me, or how fucking famous the person is, inside I still feel like nothing.”

Brendon wipes the few tears that have slipped from his eyes, and he presses his face into the palms of his hands, not wanting to see the look of disgust in Jon’s eyes. He feels pathetic, so, so pathetic. Never, in his whole entire life, has he ever spoken a word of that before; not even to Katy. He hasn’t felt this vulnerable and lost since he was a fucking child.

Jon says nothing for a long time, and the air around them is still. After awhile, Brendon thinks that Jon had finally realized, screw it, he really is a slut, and left, but then he feels the bed dip next to him, and Jon’s strong arm wrap around his waist, pulling him flush against his side. He drops his chin onto the top of his head, and says nothing; he just rubs his palm against his side and kisses the top of his hair.

Brendon continues to cry into the palms of his hand; big, long sobs that have been holding themselves in him for so long. Finally, Jon says, “Brendon, I love you. And maybe it’s stupid. Maybe you’ve slept with my best friend, and my band mates, and my friends, but, I don’t care, okay? I love you. And you’re not nothing. You’re so much more than that, I swear to you. You’re smart, and funny, and you have so much potential to do whatever you want but you don’t give yourself enough credit for it. How you see yourself is not how you are at all. You’ve let yourself believe it after surrounding yourself with people who treat you like you are for so many years. You let yourself believe that it was helping you to feel better about yourself, when in fact, it was just making everything worse.”

Brendon keeps his head down, his face in his hands, and says nothing. He doesn’t think there’s a point because no matter what he says, Jon will have some kind of rebuttal, another lie to feed him.

Jon tugs his hands off his face, and wraps them in his while pressing a feathered kiss to Brendon’s wet cheek. “I love you,” he repeats.

Brendon pushes the ‘why?’ back down his throat, and nods.

He doesn’t sleep that night.

*

The next day, Jon calls all of his friends to re-apologize for the night before. A few of them tell Jon to tell Brendon that none of their opinions have been changed, and Brendon doesn’t quite believe them, doesn’t see how it couldn’t, but he takes it anyway. By the end, they all make a plan to meet up three days from now at Cassie’s, and Brendon can already feel the nervous knots begin to situate in his stomach.

Tom is the last person Jon calls, and Brendon can hear, just faintly, through the receiver of his cell phone next to Jon’s ear, “dude, I’m so sorry. If I would’ve known I never would’ve said anything. I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”

“No,” Jon says, “it’s okay. Really. You didn’t know.”

“Yeah,” Tom says, voice distant, and after a moment he says, “but really, J-Walk? A groupie? I mean, come on, man, you can do -”

Jon braces the phone to his ear, as if he only now just realizes that Brendon can hear. He turns the volume all the way down before Brendon can overhear the rest of his sentence, even though Brendon doesn’t think he has to. “Tom,” he hisses.

Brendon falls back against the couch, head pounding.

Jon doesn’t look over at him as he remains silent while Tom talks on the other line. He keeps his forehead braced in his hands, and Brendon’s eyes sweep over the curve of his back, the pull of his t-shirt as he leans over the edge of the couch, as if he’s still worried Brendon can hear.

A minute passes, maybe not even before Jon’s saying he has to go and he’ll talk to him later, a heated tone in his voice. He clicks off the phone, and remains in the exact same position, back slouched and fist against his forehead.

Brendon wait’s a moment, and then says, “you two aren’t fighting because of me, are you?”

Jon doesn’t say anything.

“You shouldn’t,” he adds, “because it’s not like what he said wasn’t true.”

Jon lets out a long huff of breath, annoyed, then says, “Don’t start with that again.”

Brendon keeps his mouth shut, stomach flipping as he stares at the rise and fall of Jon’s back. He wants to reach out, and slide his hands under his shirt, run them over the warm expanses of his skin, but in the end, he decides against it, keeping his hands wrapped in tight balls at his sides.

A long time passes with them in absolute silence, the only sound coming from the clock ticking away above the stove, and the sounds of the cats playing somewhere in the next room. Eventually, Jon stands up, and stretches, shirting riding up against his belly, revealing the small patch of hair that disappears into the waistband of his boxers. He throws his phone onto the coffee table, and says, suddenly calm without any sense of irritation, “so, what do you want to have for lunch?”

*

They’re sitting in a park, just a few blocks away from Jon’s apartment, under a large, oak tree when Brendon breaks the content silence, and says, “Jon?”

“Hmm?” he mumbles, sprawled out on his back. He has a book across his face, The Importance of Being Earnest, shading his eyes from the hot sun rays that the branches aren’t quite blocking out.

“You remember that time when I told you that I might’ve loved you?”

Jon pulls the book from his face, looks up at where Brendon sits above him, and says a cautious, “Uh-huh.”

“Well…” he says slowly, chewing the skin off his bottom lip, “I don’t think that I did.”

Jon’s face drops noticeably, the corners of his mouth twitching downward. “What?”

“Just - just let me finish,” he says, and takes a deep breath, tilting his head upwards, looking up into the large, sweeping branches of the tree. “I’ve never been in love, so like, I don’t know what it was supposed to feel like, so I just kind of - well, you know, I just figured what I felt for you must have been it, but. I know it wasn’t now, because when we were at your mom’s, and you were with Dylan and Clover before dinner I just - I knew. All of a sudden it just hit me, and I thought, so this is what it feels like. So,” he pauses, takes another deep breath, and says, “I love you, Jon. I really do. There’s no ‘might’ in front of it this time.”

When Brendon finally forces himself to look down from the tree, Jon is now sitting up beside him, a smile tugging at his lips. He leans forward, and presses a kiss onto his lips, two, and three. He doesn’t say he loves him back; he doesn’t have to because Brendon already knows.

Jon curls a hand around his waist, kisses him deeper, bottom lip in between his, not seeming to care about all the people around them. He pulls away, and says, a shy smile on his face, “so… I was thinking, maybe when we get home, we could. Well, if you want to.”

“Could what?” Brendon blinks.

Jon stares at him, eyebrow raised in an amused matter, and he says, slowly, “…have sex. Finally.”

Brendon looks back, blinks, stares, and almost doesn’t think he heard properly. It’s been so long Brendon was really beginning to think that it was never going to come. “What? Seriously?” he asks dubiously.

Jon nods, a silly grin on his lips and a dash of pink across both cheeks.

Brendon grins, and leans forward, giving Jon a long kiss before pulling back, and joking, “So, pretty much all I had to do was tell you that I loved you without the might and I would’ve gotten sex all this time?”

Jon gives him a light punch to the shoulder, and says, teasing, “not exactly, but it might’ve helped.”

Brendon laughs, and stands up, dusting the dirt off his butt. He looks down at Jon, whose still sitting on the grass, looking up at him with round, brown eyes like he’s actually wondering where he’s going. Brendon stares at him, and says, deadpanned, “I don’t know about you but I would like to get back to your house and in your bed as soon as humanly possible.”

Jon chuckles, and shakes his head good-naturally, before allowing Brendon to pull him to his feet.

Brendon all but runs the three blocks to Jon’s, pulling him along behind him.

*

Brendon’s on his back with Jon above him, an elbow on either side of his head and mouth at his neck, beard scraping along the sensitive skin.

They’re only half-naked, their shirts thrown carelessly on the floor. Jon’s working on Brendon’s zipper, fingers brushing against his clothed erection, and Brendon gasps, digging his fingernails into Jon’s shoulder blades.

It’s taking far too long, Brendon just wants their clothes off and Jon inside of him right now, filling him and kissing him, and Brendon’s wanted this for so long that he can’t even begin to wrap his head around how it’s finally going to happen. Jon nibbles at his Adam’s apple before kissing back up to his lips, poking his tongue into his slightly parted lips.

Jon tugs his jeans down his hips, and Brendon lifts himself up, hands overlapping with Jon’s as he helps him to pull them off the rest of the way. Jon licks his lips, and kisses him again, a bit desperately, before doing the same to his underwear, leaving Brendon to feel naked and exposed while Jon is still above him, bottom half covered.

Jon straddles his hips, continuing to kiss him while tugging at his own zipper. Brendon’s brain already feels a little fuzzy, anticipation swelling in the pit of his stomach. He cups onto Jon’s neck with both hands, and kisses him deeper, tongue sliding hungrily along his.

Jon breaks apart so he can remove himself more efficiently from what remains of his clothing, and Brendon whimpers from the loss of contact. He tosses his pants and underwear onto the floor in a heap, and Brendon stares down at his exposed length, drool forming at the corner of his mouth and it takes everything in him not to reach out and touch it. Jon presses back into him, cock sliding against his, finally, and oh. Oh god.

He runs his hands over Brendon’s shoulder blades, his chest, his waist, hips, thighs and Jon’s all over him, every inch of his body tingling, and the feeling is something Brendon can’t even begin to describe.

Jon pulls away, and pecks a quick, slightly amused kiss to Brendon’s lip when he whimpers. He sits up, knees on either side of Brendon’s hips as he reaches over into the bedside table beside the bed, digging through the contents until he locates a small bottle of lube and a condom.

Brendon stares at it, and thinks, oh god, it’s actually happening.

Jon kisses him once more, just because, before popping the cap off the lube and squirting some into the palm of his hand, rubbing it into his thick fingers. Brendon whimpers at the sight, arching his hips into Jon above him. He smirks, and situates himself between Brendon’s legs, resting his hand that isn’t lubed up onto his hip and a soft kiss to his stomach, just below his bellybutton.

A few moments linger of Jon not doing anything, and Brendon’s about five seconds from yelling at Jon to just go already, when Jon hooks his leg on his waist, and Brendon feels a single, slippery digit push at his entrance a second later. Brendon lets out a tiny moan from the back of his throat, and says, breathless, “Come on.”

Jon obeys, pushing his finger in past the tight ring of muscle, slowly until he reaches his knuckle, and Brendon all but mewls, spreading his legs wider and pushing himself further down into it. Brendon’s always had a thing for fingering, likes the first initial stretch and the press of fingertips against his prostate. Sure, it’s not as good as sex, but it’s always nice. Too bad it never lasts for long, with the men that Brendon sleeps with usually more interested in their own cocks than him.

Jon appears to be different though, not that Brendon expected any different, feathering kisses along his stomach as he moves his finger in and out, twisting it around a few times before adding another, making sure to brush his fingertips against his prostate every time.
Jon presses in a little further, past his knuckles just as Brendon pushes down, and all of a sudden there’s tiny, little bolts of electricity spreading all over his body, warming him. Brendon gasps, color exploding behind his eyelids as he moans Jon’s name into the thickening air around them.

Jon kisses down from his stomach; nose inching into the tiny, wiry hairs leading to Brendon’s leaking length. He presses a wet kiss to his head whilst adding in a third finger.

Brendon whimpers, hands flying to Jon’s shoulders, gripping, almost not able to take it all, the fingers stretching him to the mouth on his cock. Before Jon, Brendon can’t remember a time when it had ever been about him, and not entirely about them. It’s only been a couple weeks since Brendon’s last had sex - something he’d rather not think about, here now with Jon - but he can still feel the dull stretch of his three digits inside of him.

Jon works them in and out of him with a steady rhythm flowing, until Brendon tells him, heavy pants in between that he’s good now. With the way that his cock is painfully hard against his stomach, and the feeling growing in his gut, he doesn’t know how much longer he can last.

Jon removes all three at once, and Brendon whines feeling the sudden emptiness. He leans forward, hoisting himself above Brendon with an elbow, and presses a deep kiss to his lips, full of heat and desire and want, and Brendon kisses back just as desperately.

When Jon sits back up he goes straight for the condom, ripping the packet open, and rolling it onto his length while Brendon watches with avid fascination, chest rising and falling in quick successions. Jon pops the cap off the lube once again, and squirts a large amount into the palms of his hand, before lathering it onto his ready cock. Brendon still watches, eyes heavy and mouth nearly watering with the thought of what’s coming next.

Jon hoists himself back over Brendon, presses an eager, but tender kiss to his lips, and murmurs into his mouth, eyes clouded with lust, “You ready?”

Brendon nods fervently, and if he wasn’t five seconds from having Jon’s cock in his ass he’d maybe smack him for asking such a stupid question. Of course he’s ready; he’s been ready for months now.

Brendon wraps his legs tight around Jon’s waist and his arms around his neck, kissing him once more as Jon reaches between them, aligning himself against his entrance. Brendon counts to three before, carefully, he’s pushing in.

His head falls back against the pillow, arms loosening from around Jon’s neck as his fingernails scrape against the slick skin. He closes his eyes and concentrates on the slow, stretching burn as Jon fills him completely and the tiny grunts that pour from between his lips.

This, he thinks, holding tighter onto Jon, this is why we waited. They’ve only just started, but already, Brendon can see how much it can change when he actually cares for the person - and they care for him too. Now, he can see why Jon wanted to wait.

Jon has one hand on Brendon’s hip, fingernails gripping and the other at the back of his thigh for better stability. Brendon moans; heart pounding heavily in his chest as Jon slides in as far as he can go. He stops, pressing his lips to the skin just below Brendon’s ear and murmurs between heavy pants, “You okay?”

Brendon thinks that it’s sweet that Jon would ask him such a thing, like it’s his first time or something ridiculous like that. He nods, and tilts his head to the side, capturing Jon’s mouth with his, running his tongue wetly along the curve of his lips.

“Fuck, Bren,” Jon breathes sharply into his mouth.

Brendon feels the slow drag as he pulls out, before thrusting back in, just slightly brushing against his prostate. He feels so full, so complete with Jon inside of him, and it’s everything Brendon’s ever imagined it to be and so much more.

Jon kisses him harder and deeper, tongue plunging into his mouth as he starts a steady rhythm. He strengthens his grip on Brendon’s hips, curling his fingers around the bone as he changes angles just slightly before thrusting back in, this time, hitting Brendon’s prostate dead on. Brendon moans into where Jon’s and his mouths are connected, which Jon, hastily returns.

Brendon tightens his thighs around Jon’s waist, and he only now realizes that his whole body is trembling, from the tips of his fingers to his toes, and not once has he ever experienced anything like this before. It’s like that feeling he felt at Jon’s mom’s house for the first time - love, is it? - is tingling up to the surface of every inch of his skin, exploding into the thick expanses of the air.

Jon slides his hands down between their sweat-slicked bodies, and wraps his fingers around Brendon, stroking him with the same rhythm as his thrusts. Brendon lets out a soft, murmured sound of his name, breathy on the tip of his tongue, and arches his body further into Jon’s.

Brendon has never felt this close to anyone, never had the feeling of being joined to someone else in so many more ways than just physical, and if Brendon could, he would spend the rest of his life like this.

Jon’s thrusts pick up, becoming more hard and sloppy, and the hand on his cock turns more rushed, less skillful, and Brendon lets out a tiny breath, knowing that he’s not the only one who’s close. He splays his palm against Jon’s chest, feels his heart beating against his fingertips, and smiles contently, eyes slipping shut. He’s so close; he can feel it, the want for release building up in the pit of his stomach, the way it builds with every thrust, every stroke.

Jon grunts, “Shit, Bren, so close,” and god, oh god, so is he.

Brendon moves his hands to the back of his head, threading his fingers through his hair and pulls his lips back against his, kissing him messily. Jon presses his finger against his most prominent vein, and then swipes the rough pad of his thumb over his tip, and just like that, Brendon’s coming in hot spurts all over his stomach and Jon’s hand.

“Oh god, oh god,” he moans, digging his heels into the curves of Jon’s lower back, pulling him closer, always closer. “Oh fuck, Jon, oh my god.” He sees stars under his eyelids, maybe some quick flashes of colors, and for a second there, maybe five, he forgets how to breathe.

Jon smiles, kissing him through it as he gives out a couple more erratic thrusts of his hips and then he’s coming, deep inside Brendon. He rides it out, hips snapping hard and fierce, and it hurts a little, Brendon now well into the aftershocks of his own orgasm, but it’s a nice hurt, he finds.

Jon’s arm that’s been hoisting himself up above Brendon weakens and then completely gives out, causing him to come collapsing down on top of him. He smiles, faintly, over how the contours of their body seem to align perfectly, fitting together like a puzzle piece.

Brendon snakes his arms around Jon’s waist, running the palms of his hands along the smooth expanse of his back, his shoulders, his neck, taking in the sweet, musky scent of Jon all around him. He feels sweaty, and boneless, like his very skin as melded in with the sheets of Jon’s bed, the aftershocks of his orgasm ringing out through his body.

A minute passes before Jon’s sitting up, pulling himself from Brendon. Jon could stay in him forever if he wanted, Brendon wouldn’t mind; in fact, he’d almost prefer it.

Jon rolls the used condom off his length, tying it up before throwing it on the floor. He tosses the lube back into the open drawer, and grabs a few sheets of Kleenex from the box sitting on the surface. Brendon wonders how he’s capable of moving right now, because he sure as hell doesn’t think he’d be able to even if he tried.

Jon falls back down, this time onto his side next to Brendon and carefully begins to mop up the mess covering his stomach. Brendon tilts his head to the side, looking up at Jon as he cleans the come out of his bellybutton, a look of determination on his face. He smiles, and runs his fingers through the small tuffs of Jon’s hair, affectionate. That feelings back, swirling up inside him, expanding as he whispers, “I love you,” and he realizes just how amazing the words actually feel on his tongue.

Jon smiles, cheeks flushed as he cleans up what’s left on his hands before throwing the soiled tissue onto the ground along with the condom and their clothes. He leans down, and kisses him, gentle and easy, splaying his fingers across Brendon’s still slightly sticky stomach as he murmurs, “I love you too.” He drops his head against the pillow next to Brendon, fingers still tracing lazy patterns onto his flat stomach. “So,” he says, a silly grin on his lips, “what’s the verdict? Happy I made us wait?”

Brendon nods, lips slowly forming to mirror his smile. “I am.” He pauses, then says softly, “I um, to be completely honest, I didn’t really know it was supposed to feel like that. I mean, I knew, I guess. I just never - never experienced it before. Not like that.” His voice breaks off, raspy, feeling his cheeks heat in shame.

Jon smiles, pressing a kiss to his warm cheek, hand still resting against the fluttering of his stomach. “Well, now you can say that you have,” he replies, stifling a yawn.

Brendon turns his head, nudging his nose against Jon’s as he says, smiling, “Yeah. I guess I can.”

*

By the time the two weeks come to an end, Brendon doesn’t want to leave (if he ever wanted to in the first place). He’s gotten used to lounging around in bed till four (sometimes, if they were lucky, the whole day even), the grocery store trips, the lazy nights in, the nights out with Jon’s friends (which, thank god, have been nowhere near as dramatic as the first night) and for the most part, just being able to be with Jon, alone, without having to worry about all the other crap that comes along on tour. It’s refreshing.

The night before they leave, they have dinner at Jon’s mom’s house, roast beef for them and tofu for Brendon, and Mrs. Walker spends the entire night fussing over Jon (“Did you bring a winter jacket? It’s going to start getting cold. What about your multi-vitamins? Those are important, Jonathan. Lord knows what you’ll be stuffing in that mouth of yours with no one there to make sure you’re eating healthy. Now, dear, make sure you don’t drink too much, I know what you get like.”), while occasionally throwing in a few things to Brendon like, “oh, I’m so glad Jon met you. I was worried about him getting lonely being on the road so much.”

“Mom, I do have band mates, you know,” Jon said with a small, affectionate sigh, “whom I happen to be pretty good friends with too.”

“Nonsense,” she replied with a flick of her wrist, forking another piece of roast beef onto Jon’s plate. “Now, eat up. Who knows the next time you’ll have a nice, home-cooked meal.”

Brendon, he kind of really loves Jon’s mom.

At the door she gave Jon a strong, steady look, eyes shining as she said, “now, you better call me twice a week. Your poor mother worries.”

“Yeah, Ma, I know.”

“And you,” she said, turning to face Brendon, “I’m trusting you to make sure he does.” Brendon nodded, just about to tell her he won’t take his job lightly when she added, “And you better come visit me again. It’s not very often Jon brings someone home.”

Brendon smiled, and Jon slipped an arm around his waist, pulling him to his side as he said, “Don’t worry, he’ll be back.”

Brendon blushed, and nodded, feeling the nervous clench in his stomach.

Mrs. Walker handed them both a container of homemade cookies along with a firm kiss on the center of their foreheads before she sent them off into the night, teary-eyed and sniffling.

Now, a day later, they’re on a three hour flight back to Vegas, Jon sitting next to him, a saddened, distant expression on his face as he stares out the plane window, out at the endless array of puffy, white clouds that stretch out across the sky.

When he was little, while the other boys were dreaming of becoming astronauts or firefighters, Brendon was dreaming of, one day, visiting a cloud. He’d dream about flying high into the sky, and grabbing a handful of fluffy, white cloud, clenching and squishing it between his fingers. When his mother told him that if he wanted to go one day, he’d better start saving up for the plane ticket then, Brendon went right to it, saving every last penny he earned in chores or found in the creases of the couch, sticking it into his pink, porcelain piggybank. Everyday when he got home after school, the first thing Brendon would do was shake the small pig next to his ear, listening to the coins clank around inside, his chest feeling with hope as he thought, one day.

However, in second grade, while doing a unit on weather, Brendon was informed of the painful truth: you couldn’t touch clouds. Mrs. Wagner was sympathetic, sure, while she explained to him that up close clouds weren’t fluffy or touchable as they looked, in fact, they were quite cold, freezing your hand upon contact. That even if it were possible to travel high enough up into the atmosphere to touch one, your hand would go right through it. All clouds were, were water vapor and dust, nothing more.

That night Brendon had gone home, tears running thick down his cheeks as he slammed his piggybank into the floor, watching the various coins and porcelain scatter across the floor in a loud crash. To Brendon, that was just the beginning of many more crushed dreams to come.

About an hour into the flight, Brendon reaches over and takes Jon’s hand into his, giving a comforting squeeze of his fingers. Jon looks over at him, a little startled from having been woken up from his daze, but he quickly offers him a warm smile.

“It’ll be okay,” Brendon says.

Jon nods slowly, and then says, “I know that,” before squeezing back.

*

The first couple of days being back on tour are exhausting - and considering Brendon doesn’t even do anything, he can only imagine how difficult it is for the ones who actually work.

It’s a mixture of excitement to be back on the road, to see friends you might not have seen in awhile, and homesickness from having to say goodbye to your home, your friends, your family for another two months. Brendon’s never really felt the homesickness when starting on tour because he’s never had a home to miss, or friends or family that cared enough to miss him either. It’s always just been Katy, and she was with him - until now, that is.

And maybe that’s just it. Maybe Brendon just feels weird without Katy being on tour with him; he just misses her. However, that feeling he got that last night in Chicago at Jon’s mom’s, or saying goodbye to the apartment, or watching Chicago get smaller and smaller from the plane window, feels much the same as the dull, uncomfortable feeling making a home at the pit of his stomach. He’s starting to think that maybe that’s what homesickness feels like.

Sure, Brendon was only there for two weeks, but Brendon hasn’t felt that much at home since he was thirteen and still living with his parents, back when they still looked at him with pride in their eyes.

Back when they could still call him their son.

September 2007

The first couple of weeks of the tour had always been the easier for Katy and him. When they could just sit back and party, and weren’t expected to constantly be in a back room somewhere, some guys dick in their mouth. They didn’t feel lonely yet, or horny, just having seen their significant others a couple weeks earlier, tying them off for a little while.

About two and a half weeks is when it starts to wear off though, when they start to feel lonely, and need some quick, meaningless release their girlfriends couldn’t do over the phone.

Brendon manages to turn down the first few guys, somehow, and he’s overall fairly pleased with himself, never have been the type to say no before. He spends most of his time with Jon, being the good, loyal boyfriend he never thought that he could be. Plus, it helps quite considerably that for a person that had been holding off on sex for quite a long time, proves to be somewhat of a little sex fiend now, fucking Brendon whenever the time or space would allow. It helps keep him satisfied - well satisfied - filling that hole somewhere deep inside him that never seemed to get any smaller until now.

Faithful; Brendon’s sure that this time, he can do it.

*

The third week into the tour, during a hotel night in Vancouver, about ten of them decide to head out to one of the bars a few blocks down.

Jon stayed back at the hotel, after spending the whole day puking (managing to stop only for an hour to go on stage), and Brendon wasn’t even going to go but Jon had insisted, saying there wasn’t much of a point to both of them sitting at the hotel, bored. Plus, Jon wouldn’t be much company, with him not doing much else but sleeping, so after about fifteen minutes of prodding, Brendon went.

Which leaves him where he is now, at the bar, ordering his fourth drink of the night when Justin Pierre comes stumbling up to him, clearly intoxicated with glazed over eyes, and slurs, real close to his ear, “Hey. Hey, you’re that groupie everyone talks about that gives real good head, right?”

“Um, I -” Brendon gulps. He says, “I have a boyfriend now, so…” and it was hard, real hard, because Brendon’s been drinking, and he always tends to get a little sluttier once he has alcohol flowing through his veins. Plus, this is Justin here, the lead singer from Motion City, and Brendon’s loved them for so long and he’s never even been close to getting with any of them before. And now, this is the lead singer, more or less asking him for a blow job, and just - fuck, why did he decide go and decide to be a loyal boyfriend again?

He blinks, once, twice, then says, genuinely baffled, “so?”

“So?” he repeats, and god, so? “I can’t cheat on him.”

“But… you’re a groupie,” he deadpans, eyebrows twitched together in confusion.

Brendon takes a long swig from his rum and coke, wetting his dry throat before he says, “I wasn’t - ” he starts, but then stops himself, because what’s the point of even trying to deny it anymore? “I’m not anymore,” he says instead, but it sounds a little weak, a little unbelievable.

“That’s not what they said,” he replies, jerking his hand back over to where Cash and Singer and everyone else sit. Brendon feels his face redden, throat tighten. Justin leans in further, and says, voice low and still mildly unintelligible, “come on, I can keep secrets too. I don’t even know the guy, he won’t find out.”

Brendon swallows, and looks up to meet Justin’s pleading eyes. He really shouldn’t, he made the promise to himself. He made the promise to Jon, even if it wasn’t spoken. Plus, it can just be this one time, that’s all, and Jon won’t ever find out. It’s just - it’s kind of always been a goal for Brendon to get with someone from Motion; the last time Brendon was on tour with them, he had never gotten the chance, but now he does and he can’t just turn it down, can he? This will be closure anyway, the last person. He just needs closure. He needs to tell himself this will be the last person, and it will be.

Brendon tightens his hold on his drink, takes a deep breath and says, “Just head though, okay?”

Justin nods, and smiles, a hint of triumph to it.

Ten minutes later, Brendon’s down on his knees on the dirty bathroom floor, tucked inside a locked stall with Justin’s cock in his mouth, and this, he’s sure, is the lowest he’s ever felt before.

*

Brendon spends the five minutes it takes for them to clean up, making Justin promise not to tell anyone, to promise that it will never get back to Jon.

He spends the next ten minutes after that, Justin now gone, spitting into the sink and splashing cold water over his face. He catches his reflection in the mirror, his swollen lips, his messy hair, and thinks, you’re disgusting.

*

When Brendon gets back to the table, he’s greeted with Ryan’s cold, heavy stare.

Brendon swallows, and looks away, cheeks burning with guilt. He had forgotten Ryan was there. God, how had he forgotten?

An hour later, Brendon still hasn’t looked up to meet Ryan’s eyes, but he can still feel them on him, dark and angry, accusing.

Brendon chokes back another drink.

*

Brendon downs six more drinks and shares one joint with one of the Tech’s by the time they leave. He spends the cab ride back to the hotel, pressed against Singer, his arm wrapped around his back. Brendon thinks that maybe he kisses him at one point, but he can’t be too sure.

He keeps thinking about the look in Ryan’s eyes, the fury, and the disgust. That’s how he should always be looked at, he thinks. That’s what he deserves. Not the way Jon looks at him, like he hung the fucking moon and deserves the stars. He doesn’t deserve anything from Jon, and he guesses it doesn’t really matter anymore anyway because by the time Ryan tells Jon what he saw tonight, it’ll all be over. He pictures the look on Jon’s face, the hurt, the betrayal, and it makes his stomach cramp in pain. It’s the last thing Jon deserves, being hurt, especially because of a good for nothing fucking groupie.

Yeah, Brendon, he ruined everything, that’s for sure. He single-handedly ruined the best thing that has ever happened to him, and probably ever will.

Brendon manages to reach the hotel room he’s sharing with Jon in once piece. It takes him awhile, mind you, but he gets there. Jon’s asleep, the room is pitch black when Brendon crawls into bed with him, fully clothed, the digital clock beside them reading 2:21 in bright red. Jon shifts, and then yawns, before Brendon feels his arms wrap around his waist, pulling him close. “Mm, you’re back,” he murmurs into the back of his neck sleepily. He presses his nose into his hair, and says, “You smell like weed. I like it.”

Brendon laughs, just barely, and he’s happy Jon’s half asleep so he can’t hear that it’s drenched with guilt.

“I’m happy you’re back,” he says, sticky breath trickling down Brendon’s skin. He shivers. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Brendon replies, throat dry, head pounding a steady beat.

Jon smiles, and presses a kiss to his skin. “Goodnight, B,” he murmurs.

"Night, Jon.”

Brendon falls asleep an hour later to the sound of Jon’s gentle snores, and his heart beating soundly against his back.

*

When Brendon sees Ryan the next day, he sends him a large, forced smile that begs, please, don’t tell Jon. I’ll stop, I promise.

Ryan scowls before turning in the opposite direction, storming away.

Brendon spends the rest of the day waiting for it all to come crashing down.

*

It doesn’t.

*

A week later, Brendon’s curled up on the couch beside Jon, sipping at his first and only beer of the night. Jon has his arm wrapped protectively around his waist, fingers brushing lightly against the strip of skin where his t-shirt rides up.

They’re in Spencer and Ryan’s room, just hanging out with a few other people, taking bong rips and drinking beers. Ryan’s sitting across from them, glaring at Brendon with the same expression he’s had since that night at the bar when he caught him with Justin. Brendon still doesn’t meet his eye, even now, and if Jon notices, he doesn’t let on.

Ryan still hasn’t breathed a word to him about it, even though they live on the same bus, and as far as Brendon can tell, he hasn’t told Jon either which confuses him an awful lot. He expected that to be the first thing that came out of his mouth the next day when he saw Jon, but for some reason, that doesn’t appear to be the case.

Brendon’s considered telling Jon himself, before Ryan did so he could at least have tried to explain himself, but every time he goes to, Jon will look at him with adoration in his eyes, and he just can’t. He can’t hurt Jon like that, and maybe that’s why Ryan hasn’t said anything either. He hopes that’s the case anyway, because Brendon’s going to change. He really is. He loves Jon, so much, and he’s the best thing that has ever happened to him in his poor, pathetic life and he will not lose him over some quick, sloppy blowjob in a bar’s bathroom or a meaningless fuck in a changing room. Jon means something, he means so much, and he’s not going to let that just slip from between his fingers.

At some point, one of the guys from Powerspace, Max, comes tumbling over to the couch, nearly falling down on top of Brendon. He says nothing for a little while, he just sways back and forth drunkenly with this glazed over look in his eyes, and he’s so high, and so drunk that Brendon’s surprised the guy is even still moving. After a moment, he leans in real close to Brendon’s ear, sour breath burning his cheek, making him almost gag, “I bet you’d look real hot spread out across my bed,” he mumbles in what Brendon thinks is an attempt to be seductive, but it fails horribly due to the abundance of drugs and alcohol in his system. “You’d be begging me to -”

Brendon jerks away, face losing color, breath catching in his throat. He feels Jon’s grip tightens around his waist, as he pulls him closer, rough.

“What the fuck, buddy?” Jon snaps, nostrils flaring.

Max looks up, blinks.

“What makes you think you can just go and say that to someone? Especially when they’re boyfriends right fucking there! Can’t you see he’s with somebody?” he snaps, florescent red creeping up his neck and across his face. His fingers are digging hard into Brendon’s hip now, and it hurts, kind of.

“Whoa, man. Sorry. Whoa,” he slurs as he manages to pick himself up off the couch, wobbly on his feet. He puts his palms up in surrender, and says, “I didn’t know, man. I thought -”

“Yeah, well, you thought fucking wrong.”

“Yeah. Yeah, dude. Obviously. Sorry.” He trips away, palms still facing up towards Jon. He says sorry, once more, and then scurries off across the room. If Brendon wasn’t freaking the fuck out, he’d probably find himself a tad turned on by how protective, how angry Jon is over something so small, right now.

Brendon stares down at the ground, heart pounding, and Jon’s hand still clenched tightly at his hip. He doesn’t look up for a long time, but he doesn’t have to, to know that Ryan is staring at them, having seen the whole thing unfold before his eyes.

Ten minutes later, Jon begins to slowly loosen his grip.

They don’t talk about it.

*

The next morning, in the shower, Brendon notices dark bruises the size of fingerprints from where Jon was holding onto his hip.

Jon looks at him a bit differently that day.

October 2007

Two weeks later is when it all comes crashing down.

They’re in Miami, Brendon thinks, when everyone decides to pool their money together to rent out the penthouse suite for the night. Since Brendon hasn’t allowed himself to get drunk since that night with Justin, and since Jon’s going to be there this time, for sure, he figures it’ll be okay if he allows himself a drink or two.

A drink or two turns into a lot, more than he can count, along with a few bong rips, a joint and two pills that somehow magically appeared in his hands throughout the night.

He can vaguely recall, sometime after he took the pills, Jon showing up from nowhere, after Brendon hadn’t seen him for hours, face red and pulled-tight. Brendon can’t quite remember what he had said to him, but his voice was angry and loud over the blaring music, he can remember that much. He had giggled, wrapping his arms sloppily around Jon’s neck as he told him to ‘lighten up, it’s a party!’ and ‘turn that frown upside down, Jonny Walker boy!’ He had tried to kiss him, he thinks, messily on the side of his lips, but that got him nothing as Jon had stormed off. The pills kicked in a minute later, and Brendon rapidly forgot all about it.

Now, he’s on the couch, and he hasn’t seen Jon for a long, long time but he can’t be sure because everyone’s faces are kind of blurring together, a big sea of swirls and colors. Plus, the whole concept of time is a little screwed up in his brain, and as far as he knows, the confrontation with Jon could’ve happened ten minutes ago. He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t think that it really matters anyway.

Brendon’s shirt has been discarded somewhere, and a body is leaning against him with a mouth sucking eagerly away on his neck. It tickles, a lot, so he giggles, dipping his head back into the soft cushion. He’s not exactly sure who the body belongs to, but when he tilts his head to the side and squints, he thinks that maybe it’s one of the Alex’s, but he can’t be certain. “You want to go somewhere private?” a voice asks huskily into his ear, the mouth no longer on his neck. Brendon giggles because the voice is deep and thick, like those times Jon and him had been watching a movie and switched it into slow motion, just for fun.

He says, between laughter, “You sound all slow motiony.”

The guy laughs, and it’s in slow motion too, like liquid.

Brendon allows himself to be pulled up and all but falls down into him, settling with resting his weight against his side. The guy slips an arm around his waist, and says, “There’s a washroom over there, I think.”

“Oh, to talk, right?” Brendon stops, and blinks up at him, questioningly.

The guy nods, a blurred smile on his lips as he says, “yes, just to talk.”

“Okie Dokie, Mr. Slow Motion Man,” he slurs as he stumbles along next to him. “Oh! I love that song!” He claps his hands together in excitement before belting out, “Slow motion, see me let go! We’ll remember these days! Slow motion, see me let go! We tend to die -”

Brendon’s cut off abruptly by a warm mouth, and he considers shoving him away for so rudely interrupting him in the middle of his song, but then decides against it a moment later, realizing just how nice and warm the tongue feels against his.

They’re still moving across the room, noses bumping together, and Brendon hopes that the guy has his eyes open because Brendon’s pretty positive he doesn’t feel like falling to his death just yet. Maybe later.

He flicks his tongue further into Brendon’s mouth, just as he trips over his own feet and goes tumbling forward, aiming right for the floor, but the guys arms reach out just in time, saving him from the inevitable crash.

However, the mouth doesn’t make its way back to his, instead, he finds himself being pulled away, further and further away. He opens his eyes, panic sweeping over him, and he sees Alex is still standing in front of him, feet away, his own hands at his sides, a confused expression on his face as he watches Brendon get sucked backward. Brendon almost screams, because he’s getting kidnapped, but then he looks up to see Jon and breathes a quick sigh of relief.

“Jon!” he cries, thrusting his arms forward to wrap tightly around Jon’s neck. “Oh my god I’m so happy it’s you I was looking for you all night, and everything was going in slow motion and then I thought I was being kidnapped but it was actually just you and -”

Jon pushes his arms off his neck, with enough force to leave him reeling backwards. Brendon manages to catch his balance, and he stares up at him, frowning. Jon’s face is still red and scrunched together like a prune, and to Brendon, it looks kind of funny. “What -” Brendon starts, biting back giggles.

“Fuck you, Brendon,” he snaps, voice cold. Suddenly, Brendon doesn’t feel like he’s in slow motion anymore, in fact, he feels as if someone pressed fast-forward on the remote, and now everything’s going really, really fast and they can’t find the stop button to make it all end. “Fuck you,” he says again.

Brendon’s frown deepens, and he steps forward, trying to reach out and touch him, but his arms just aren’t long enough. He doesn’t understand what’s wrong, or why Jon’s face looks like that. Things were just going in slow motion, and he was singing, and then Alex was kissing him to make it okay again. It was nothing. They were just going to the washroom to talk.

He opens his mouth to tell Jon this but he can’t seem to find the words in the jumble of his brain. Jon shoves him away again. “That’s it. We’re done,” he says, and before Brendon has the chance to blink, he’s storming off through the crowd.

Brendon watches after him, confused, and briefly catches Ryan’s eyes, who’s still looking at him the same way he has been for this past week, hard and calculating, before rushing out after Jon. Spencer’s there too, but he doesn’t look at him.

Brendon spends the rest of the night on the bathroom floor, counting the tiles on the ceiling before passing out.

*

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