Beach Music, Brendon/Gerard NC-17
Title: Beach Music 1/12
Author: cloudlessclimes
Rated: NC-17
Pairing:Brendon Urie/Gerard Way
Disclaimer: This is purely a product of my diseased mind and has no bearing on reality what so ever, I own no one, I know no one.
Summary: Brendon Urie is and has always been a girl. She meets Gerard Way. Things happen.
Feedback: Is a wonderful thing.
Notes: HET!!, what can be perceived as uninformed consent, underage drinking, romance, fluff, Tom Conrad and Jon Walker are not the nicest people ever, AU, liberal abuse of canon; this fic contains all of these things. If they're not your thing, don't read.
Title comes from a song of the same name by long defunct semi-obscure Canadian band The Watchmen. The odd and somewhat nonsensical lyrics can be found here
Written for gpbandom and x-posted there, at fueldbyunicorns, and in my own journal.
Thanks to the awesome queen_geek, tweedle_, fallingfortruth and lordgroovius for beta-ing, listening to me kvetch, holding my hand, and providing paperbags to breathe into, both virtual and actual.
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Brendon meets him on a Wednesday. Okay maybe it's so late/early it's a Thursday. It's an end of tour party gone epic and she's crawling along the floor giggling to herself. She's in her bra, and her denim skirt is rucked up around her waist, and she has no idea where her t-shirt is. But, these have got to be her Chucks--black much-loved high tops. She guffaws loudly before pitching forward, unable to pick up a shoe. Because the shoe is attached to a foot. And the foot belongs to Gerard Way. These are not Brendon's shoes. She snorts laughter into the carpet.
"Hey, you look like you could use some help." Not unkindly, Gerard reaches down and with a hand at her elbow, gets Brendon to her feet. He yanks at the hem of her admittedly very short skirt, and smoothes it down over her thighs. One hand stays on her elbow, steadying the very tipsy girl.
She raises her hand up to pet at Gerard's cheek. Vodka has loosened her limbs and makes the connection a little more smacking skin on skin than Brendon means. "Mmmkay. I'm mmmkay." She smiles and bats her huge, thick-lashed eyes at him, impossibly dark and focusing somewhere above Gerard's right shoulder. She darts her tongue out to lick at the plush fullness of her bottom lip. "Wha' kinda help y'got in mind, sailor?"
"Brenda, right?" Gerard sets down his plastic cup of Red Bull and ice, unwinding Brendon's arms from where they've made their way around his neck. "I think you need to get to bed."
Brendon draws her arms back, crossing them in front of her, and gives Gerard an up and down look. "Fuck no! It's Brendon. What can I say? The 'rents wanted a boy. And can't spell for shit either.” She smiles again, dirty and almost a leer. "But, I'm not a boy." She breathes low and close into Gerard's ear, grinding her hips against his thigh in a slow, sinuous movement. She knows this. She's good at this. She wants it. "I'm a girl," her teeth graze the fleshy lobe of Gerard's ear, "who wants you to take her--me--whatever to bed."
Gerard swallows thickly, hands a little less gentle as he tries to put space between them. "Hey now, honey, I think maybe you've had enough for tonight. Where are the guys in your band?" He's doing his best to keep Brendon upright, but away from him. And she's suddenly grown, like, a thousand extra hands that are trying theirbest to be all over him.
Batting her eyelashes and feigning sadness Brendon replies, "They left me all alone," her lips pouting as she rocks against Gerard.
A longsuffering sigh escapes him as Gerard surveys the party's attendees. Seeing no one he even remotely recognizes either from Brendon's band or his own, he slings an arm around her small waist and says, "C'mon. What room are you in?"
She curls into his touch, nuzzling her cheek against his jaw, "Mmm dunno. What room are you in?" She giggles again, before nipping at the exposed skin of Gerard's throat.
His eyes dart around, guilty, before he traps both of Brendon's hands between his, yanking out of her clinging hold. "Jesus. Stop, okay? Do you have your key-card? Or are you guys heading back to your bus?"
Brendon is pouting genuinely now, frustrated by Gerard's lack of interest. Maybe he's a fag. She's heard rumors about him and that dirty looking guy from The Used. Fuckin'...dirty The Used guy. Her pout morphs into a wolfish grin as she once again swivels her hips and thighs into denim clad contact with Gerard's leg. Her skirt skims up closer to her waist as she says "Um...I dunno. Wanna search me for my key?" She breathes out a hiccuping laugh as Gerard's eyes flair startled wide and green.
"Okay. Okay. No! I mean...I'll take you to lie down, maybe..." Gerard does his best to steer her out of the suite and into the hotel hallway. "You should sleep." He silently gives thanks to the God of Dealing with the Drunk Whilst Perfectly Sober that his room,--his single room-- is on the next floor up. He only has to negotiate a wobbly, overly handsy Brendon into the elevator and off again, his room's right across from the elevator bank. He leans her against the wall while he gets out his key-card and fits it into the reader.
Her laugh is loud and jarring in the stillness of the corridor as Brendon doesn't even try to stop herself from sliding down the wall and into a heap at Gerard's feet. She reaches out to trace a fingertip along the dirty white rubber trim of his sneaker. "Wish I knew where mine got to," she whispers reverently.
It's only as he's hauling her up and into his arms trying not to notice the softness of her skin beneath his palms, Brendon wriggling and giggling all the while, that Gerard realises she is in fact without shoes. Her feet and calves are covered in grey striped knee socks, making her look even younger than Gerard suspects she is. He grunts and deposits her inside the doorway, turning to put the 'do not disturb' sign onto the door knob. Brendon needs to sleep. That much he knows. He hasn't exactly given much thought to what he's going to do beyond getting her safely tucked into bed, alone and onto her side. Probably try to find her band mates. Or that big security guy who always seems to follow her around; except when she's too fucking trashed to stand up on her own. And then go crash with Ray or Mikes.
Oh fuck! Gerard thinks to himself as he turns around. In the brief few seconds it's taken him to put her down, turn on the lights, and fumble with the door, Brendon has managed to wriggle out of her skirt. She's standing there in the soft spill of the lamplight clad in the black bra with its tiny pink roses on the straps and the front clasp that Gerard had, up to this point, been doing his level best to not acknowledge the existence of, and matching high cut panties with one tiny pink rose and a bow sitting provocatively low beneath her navel. And those damn knee socks. And...she's fucking beautiful. All long, tanned limbs and full, round breasts and flat stomach, and fucking curves at hip and waist that could kill a man, for real. And, well, Gerard's human, and tired, and maybe not so come down from his post show high as he thought. And she's looking at him with those heavy-lashed Bambi eyes, her fucking unreal lips parted and damp.
She knows how she looks. She like how she looks. She likes how it gets her what she wants. Brendon feels beautiful and powerful and not the least bit self-conscious as she sidles up to Gerard, hips tilted and breasts forward. She extends an arm and playfully knocks him back against the door as she says, her voice a husky whisper, "C'mon. Don't you want to have some fun?"
Fuck. He does. He really really does want to have some fun. Yes please. Now would be good. Gerard manages to push aside the little voice that's tapping out Danger! in Morse code at the back of his brain and his hands come up to bracket her waist--so tiny his fingertips meet at the small of her back. He knows it's wrong. He knows he'll regret it later. But for now it’s yet another crumb marking his path to Hell. And he can't think, can't breathe, because Brendon's right there and her mouth is on his, and it's hot and wet and dirty. God he wants it--wants this. He gives a pained groan before pulling her closer to him and slipping his tongue into her mouth.
Brendon laughs and winds her hands in the thick fall of Gerard's inky hair and sucks at his tongue, licking into his mouth and flexing her silk covered hips against Gerard's thigh. She feels him, hard in his jeans, and tips her head back to stare blearily at him. Her eyes slide shut and her smile widens into a grin. "Mmm," she purrs, her hips continuing to move in a slow, languid sway against Gerard, "you taste yummy." Her tongue comes out to trace the shine across her lips and she opens her eyes and leans into Gerard.
His hands shift across her bare shoulders, and for the first time in three years Gerard feels drunk, high maybe. He wonders if it's possible to get buzzed from licking the taste of vodka out of someone’s mouth. He takes a deep breath, steadying himself, and his hands trail across her arms and collar bones, sharp juts against her skin, to cup her breasts, thumbs moving gently over the silky material. He makes a rather undignified noise before lowering his head, his mouth covering hers. Brendon's lips move just as eager, just as hungry. He keeps his eyes open, staring at her. Fuck. Whoever said brown eyes were boring had never been this close to these eyes; pupils blown wide from arousal and alcohol. She sways into his touch and doesn't blink--just stares back, all caramel and cinnamon, and Gerard can feel when the corners of her lips tilt up in a smile. He can taste her laughter on his tongue.
"See?" She's slurring now, her head tilted to one side, mouth still moving against his, "S'fun." Her tongue pokes past her lips to follow the crooked curve of Gerard's bottom lip, then out to the sharp definition of his chin and across his throat. Brendon fists the soft, well worn material of Gerard's t-shirt in her fingers and makes small pleased sounds as he continues to rub her nipples through the confines of the slippery material of her bra. "You can take it off, you know," she huffs against his ear.
Gerard swallows hard. "Oh. God." is all he manages to say, but his hands seem to know what they're doing. His thumb flicks under the tiny pink rose and he's eagerly separating the cups of her bra, tracing the fall of the straps down her arms. She moans a little louder and grinds a little harder against Gerard when the rough pads of his thumbs graze the peaks of her nipples, hands kneading at the fullness of her breasts and he wonders how it's possible for her skin to be even more like silk than the fabric that had covered it. His mouth is dry and, like he's stuck on an infinite loop, all he manages is a groan and another "Oh. God." She's perfect; tawny skin and small, plum coloured nipples, breasts generous and round. Fuck! I want to lick her. Gorgeous. So, so gorgeous.
She winds her arms around his neck and pulls herself in close to rub her breasts across Gerard's t-shirt. His hands slide to her ass and he presses sloppy, lust filled kisses to her chin, her jaw, her ear. "Pete says I have porn star tits." Brendon supplies in what would pass as a matter of fact tone were she not wrinkling her nose and gasping at the feel of his hands on her body. "But, mine are better 'cause they're real."
"Uh huh. Way better." he mumbles and he palms and strokes and lowers his head to lick across the firm swell of them. Brendon gasps and laughs and it really is like Gerard's drunk. "Fuck," he says as his tongue traces formless patterns over her skin, to the sensitive underside of her breasts, and then up to pinch her nipple gently between his tiny, sharp teeth. Gerard's glad to have his back against the door, to have something solid to keep him upright. The feel of her, the scent of her, the sound of her, is all around him and he's dizzy and feels like the floor is tilting beneath him.
"Shit. Shit!" her hips rock up hard against Gerard's thigh and she kisses at his jaw through shaky breaths. Brendon makes a few staccato oh oh ohs at the feel of his teeth on her, at the sweet almost-pain as he bites into her tender skin. She shudders out a breath and then laughs into the side of Gerard's neck. Shit. She's wet through her panties, he can smell her, can feel it seeping into his jeans from where she was grinding against him.
"Did you just come?" Gerard is shocked and his voice is loud in the small room.
She lifts her head long enough to give him a sweet, sleepy grin. "Uh hmm," Brendon answers, and then, eyes slanted more than half closed she gropes for his hand, guides it to her. "See? Made me wet." Gerard blinks as she bites at his shoulder through the cotton of his shirt. "Felt good." She mumbles. Gerard moves his fingers, slipping through the slick of her, his thumb twisting to flick across her clit. She moans, her mouth contorting into a grimace. "Nuh uhn, s'your turn now."
Gerard grunts as Brendon slides gracelessly down his body to her knees, pitching forward and nosing at the zipper of his jeans. She huffs a low laugh into the fabric there, and Gerard can feel it as a hum along his dick. Her tongue tip peeks out between her lips and she laves at the clearly evident, hard ridge of his erection. "Feels good, hmm?" Her eyes are wide and overbright as she looks up at him. Lifting her hand, heavy and slow, Brendon unbuttons the fastener of Gerard's jeans. The warm wet of her breath on overly-sensitized flesh is followed by the firm grip of her hand. Long, narrow piano player fingers, Gerard thinks, really know what they're doing ease him out of his jeans and boxer shorts. Her tongue licks circles around the head of his cock, tracing the vein underneath. She braces her other hand on Gerard's thigh, her lips sliding down to meet the curl of her fist.
He's panting, one arm pressed against the door, the other flailing out, not knowing what to do with it, what she'll allow. "S'okay," Brendon slurs around his dick, and she leans her head into his touch. His fingers brush through the short dark stands of Brendon's pixie cut, cupping the back of her skull in his palm.
"God!" Gerard's hips flex, a slow stuttering movement, as his cock bumps the ridges of her hard palate, and then he can feel her throat contracting around him. "Jesus. You're really fucking good at this." Brendon's tongue swirls along the hard length of him and his hand slides around to her jaw. The backs of his knuckles brush against her face and he can feel himself, rigid against her hollowed cheeks as she sucks and licks, while twisting her hand against him; gentle sure pressure. Her other hand comes up to cup his balls, still in his shorts, and she uses the fleshy pad at the base of her thumb to mirror the rhythm of her tongue and fingers on his erection. She can feel him, growing harder still as his cock slides against the roof of her mouth. He's writhing now, speaking nonsense words and pressing his weight back into the flimsy hotel door. She sits back on her haunches, his cock making an obscene pop as it's freed from her mouth.
He blinks, confused and panicked before she stands, wobbly, and slides her long fingers around Gerard again. "But do you know what's the most fun of all?" Brendon whispers as she sucks at the skin where his jaw meets his ear, her hand still working with a slow, easy pace along his hard cock. "Fucking me." He feels her smile as her teeth nip at his skin, burning where she's marking him.
He's breathing shallow and open-mouthed as his fingers splay along her jaw, pressing her mouth to his in a sloppy, heated kiss. She's eager, moulding her body to his and his hands stroke down her throat, the sides of her breasts, sliding to the dip of her waist before cupping her ass, kneading the muscle there and pulling her closer still.
"Please," she all but climbs him, winding her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. Gerard's hands slide down and along the smooth contour of her thighs, as Brendon exhales a breathy moan, "Please fuck me. I want you to. I want it. So bad." He starts to walk towards the bed, but his life sure as shit is no movie, and his jeans are slipping low on his thighs and he knows he's going to drop her, or trip and fall on her. Or something else ridiculously uncool. He can't possibly focus enough to get them both the ten or so strides it would take to get to the bed, so in stead he lowers her to the floor in the entry way of the hotel room.
Brendon kisses him, fierce impatience making her bite-lick at Gerard's lips and chin. She sits up to yank at his jeans and Gerard kicks them off before draping himself over her in a loose sprawl. "C'mon, c'mon, c'mon," she mutters in a low chant. Brendon's hands catch at Gerard's, bringing them to her waist, to the elastic of her panties. Sliding his hands over the smooth expanse of Brendon's stomach, Gerard snags the silk between his fingers, slowly pulling the garment down and off her long legs. He watches the shudder and dip of her abdomen, and can feel the fine tremors in her muscles as he slides his hands along her calves, pulling her ridiculous socks down and off. He huffs out a breath and lowers his face to the inside of one ankle, rubbing his stubbled chin across the thin skin there. Brendon groans, low and appreciative. Her fingers scrabble across the knobbly weave of the hotel carpet, and the groan morphs into a gasp as Gerard trails his lips across her skin, slowly inching higher up her leg. He can feel the leaping of muscle beneath the skin as he mouths at her thigh, while sliding his hand over the flat plane of her stomach and teasing at her navel with his thumb.
When Gerard licks at the join of hip and thigh Brendon startles and clenches her teeth. Her mouth turns down in a small grimace at the intensity of the sensation. Soft, gentle touches ignite an aqueous warmth low inside her. She groans, humming against the inside of her lips when Gerard lowers his head between her legs and touches a tentative, breathy tongue-tip swipe to the overly sensitive flesh there. Brendon’s hips move haltingly and she flattens her feet on the floor, her hands coming up to grasp at Gerard's shoulders. And when she feels his lips suck at her clit, her knees part even further, allowing Gerard to rest heavily between them. He sets a lazy, almost gentle rhythm and Brendon paws at him, huffing out breaths. It's all so careful, so thoughtful, he's touching her and kissing her, and even through the cloud of too much vodka Brendon knows that it's all at once too much and not enough, and she feels dangerously out of control. "Gerard…I'm...I need," she swallows, opening her eyes and bracing herself on her elbows to look at him.
Gerard raises his head, resting his chin on her thigh, and slanting a feral grin, says "Okay?" and then raises his eyebrow.
Huffing out a breath, Brendon brings one hand to her hair. She feels a little dizzy. "Uh, um, yeah. I just," rather than admit to her discomfort with this particular kind of attention she snorts and self-deprecatingly says, "Just, you know...rug burn."
"Rug burn?" Gerard huffs out his nasal little laugh and sits back on his haunches. "Oh shit, I'm so sorry!" he strokes a hand over her bare knee and takes in the rest of her nude skin. "Maybe we should," he makes a flicking motion with his hand, indicating the bed.
"Yeah, yeah. That would be...that would be good." Brendon bites her lip. Gerard stands, shifting his erection, hard and uncomfortable in the confines of his underwear. He extends his hands and Brendon takes them, needing his help to get herself unsteadily to her feet. She kisses him, wrapping around him, tongue stroking over his in languid, barely moving swipes.
Breathing stuttered breaths into Brendon's mouth, Gerard pets his hands across her back and down to her waist, squeezing playfully at the round of her bottom, making her giggle. "Mmm," he mutters, chasing the sugary taste of her when she backs away from his teasing touch. "You don't seem too...burnt."
Patting at Gerard's hip and ducking past him, ignoring his confused expression as she heads in the opposite direction of the bed, Brendon says, "Not yet, but let me tell you, you would so hear about it!" She shakes an unsteady finger at him before bending to pick up her skirt. Brendon giggles as she almost falls over, a hand planted palm flat against the floor the only thing preventing it. She fumbles in the skirt's pocket for a second then makes shooing motions, "Bed time!"
Gerard just laughs and shakes his head, before managing to kick off his shoes. He lets her snag his hand on her way past. "Thought we might need these," she mouths against the long tendon in his neck, waving a strip of candy-coloured condoms in front of his face.
"Shit, yeah, right." Gerard has the good grace to blush ever so slightly as he takes the condoms from her. Condoms, which hadn't even occurred to him. Condoms, which he didn't have. Safer sex. Jesus. Despite what people may think about the rock star lifestyle Gerard now spends most of his time working and trying to stay sober and hasn't had so much as a blow job since he and Eliza stopped doing...whatever the fuck he and Eliza had been doing.
Brendon smiles wide, blinking slowly and carefully, before she flops backwards onto the king sized bed. "C'mon, you." Her voice is all husky and low and she pats messily at the mattress and hauling down the bedspread beneath her. Gerard shakes himself and crawls onto the bed, running his hand palm flat over Brendon's hip, and across the firmly flat expanse of her stomach. They kiss again, and it's all very sweet and gentle and Brendon is writhing restlessly against the cradle of Gerard's hips, "Um...fucking me? Would be way easier without, um...these." She hooks her fingers in the waistband of Gerard's boxer briefs and tugs impatiently.
The tugging rubs unpleasantly at Gerard's rather raging hard on, and he groans, dipping his hips away from Brendon, and manages to shove them down and off. "Yeah, okay. Sorry." He mumbles against her mouth. He swallows audibly as she arches against him, and he brushes away any last lingering guilty thoughts.
"Here, here." Brendon mushes her face into the side of Gerard's, her breath shushing down his neck when she pries the condoms from his fist. "Gimme." She rips one off the strip and continues her slow, clumsy slide down his body, her nose and lips rubbing into the softness of his t-shirt. Shuffling the shirt up with her cheek she pauses to giggle and circle his navel with her tongue, her teeth nipping at the rounded curve of his belly, before tugging playfully at the dark, whorled hair low on his pubic bone. Brendon licks one teasing swipe at the head of Gerard's cock before turning to rip open the condom wrapper with her teeth. Then her hands, with fluid, concise movements belying the advanced state of her drunkenness, roll it down onto him. "There," Brendon's pleased with herself as she slides full length along him, her arms coming up to the soft flesh over his ribs, urging his full weight on top of her.
It's all Gerard can do to remember to breathe against the roiling heat trying to burst free of his spine. His hands are splayed flat against the bed on either side of Brendon's head. He lifts himself, supporting most of his weight; her hips are bracketing his thighs and he huffs into her hair before canting his own hips forward and sinking into the slick warmth of her. "You sure this is okay?" His voice is half gasp, half murmur with the strain of holding himself perfectly still.
"God, yes! It's okay!" Brendon's eyes widen in pleased surprise as Gerard's cock fills her. He's big; bigger than anyone she's been with, but she likes it, likes the stretch of it, the heated pressure low inside her. And she thinks this is exactly what she wants; needs. And maybe she wants more of it, more of Gerard. Her hands slide up the softness of his sides and then his biceps before she strokes her thumbs across his cheeks. Her eyes are round and her pupils are huge and when Gerard blinks, he's close enough that she can feel the fluttering of his eyelashes. "Fuck me," she mumbles against his mouth.
Brendon's too drunk and Gerard's too tentative to establish or maintain any sort of rhythm, but Brendon digs her heels into the mattress and braces her forehead against his t-shirt covered shoulder, sub-audibly chanting 'yeahyeahyeah,' as he strokes into her body. Gerard moves one hand from the sheets to tease over her breast, fingers gentle as they pinch at the stiffened peaks of her nipples. "Y'can do it harder," she breathes into his skin as the long slide of her thigh muscles ripple against Gerard's hips when she winds her legs around him. Her fingers are bruising hard on his waist, encouraging him to do as she wants. She feels him swallow hard, her teeth nipping playfully at the round rise of his Adam's apple.
He mouths sloppily at her jaw and neck and one hand goes around her waist, hauling her closer to him, while the other moulds to the smooth contour of her back, sliding to her shoulder as he rocks up into her. Brendon's hips stutter in an almost circular motion and she's making small mewling noises in the back of her throat. She runs guitar-string calloused fingertips along Gerard's spine and a slow-building heat flares to life in the pit of her stomach and spreads out through her veins.
Gerard can't help the satisfied, accomplished groan that escapes him as he comes. And Brendon can't help but laugh at the somewhat awed look on his face and the high flying sensation of her own orgasm. She's still contracting around his softening cock, as his thighs shake and he swears quietly into her neck. She pets her hands down his back and strokes the light dusting of sweat damp hair over his tail bone between her fingers.
Rolling onto his back, limbs heavy and heart rate slowing, Gerard manages to remove the condom and leans over the edge of the bed to toss it into the waste basket; rearranging the used tissue and soda cans over top of it. He flops onto his back once more and, palms at the hair that's drooped across his forehead. "Fuck," he husks into his cupped hands, "That was...I don't...I can't even..." Wow. So apparently he really did just come his brains out.
A dazed smile still lingers on her lips as she mumbles, "Mmm...you're way more fun n'vodka." Brendon then pats his arm and promptly falls into a deep sleep, one leg flung across Gerard's hip.
* * *
Brendon opens first her left eye, and then, a heartbeat later, her right. Her face is squashed into the pillow and she blinks blearily with the realisation she has no idea where she is. "Uhn..." she raises a hand to rub at her eyes, and palm across her face. Blinking again reveals a hotel glass filled with water set on the bedside table. Beside it are four pills: two pink, two white. She swallows, wincing against the sandpaper dryness of her throat and sits up gingerly, slowly, trying to make sure her head stays attached to her spine and doesn't shoot off across the room the way it feels like it might. Raising the glass to her lips, she gulps greedily, twisting her mouth unhappily when her stomach makes it clear it is not impressed. The dull ache between her legs intensifies as she stretches. The party. Gerard. Things slide into place like the tumbler in a lock, and she sits up fully, the sheets crumpled around her waist.
"Mornin'," Gerard is sitting, fully clothed, in a horrid salmon printed wing back chair. He smiles at her and says, "How's your head?"
She pouts, still pretty despite dark smudges of mascara and kohl around her eyes, and the most spectacular case of bedhead Gerard has ever seen. Who knew hair so short could do that? "Fucking terrible," Brendon mutters, raising her hand to her forehead before raising both arms above her head, stretching and yawning, heedless of her nudity. "Jell-o shots for the motherfuckin' lose, man. Totally." She picks up the pills and looks at Gerard. "So, you want to start the day off with a buzz or something?" She shuffles them in her palm and quirks an eyebrow.
"Tylenol, Dramamine, and Pepto. Hangovers suck, as I recall." Gerard is leaning forward, still smiling cheerfully.
"Ah. Okay. Thanks. Tylenol my beauties! Come to Mama," she burbles to her hand before tossing the pain killers into her mouth and chasing them with a much more demure sip of water. "But, I've only puked twice in my life that I can remember. Once when I was like, seven, and had the stomach flu or whatever, and then like a year ago when fucking Ross made me go to some sketchy take out place and then we had to fly to a show. But never from alcohol." She smiles and shrugs, setting the pink pills back onto the night stand. Bringing her knees up to the circle of her arms she looks at Gerard through her eyelashes and says "Um, I'm really sorry about, you know going comatose on you. I should have gone back to my room. Or called Zack or something. So, like, sorry, okay?" A blush creeps over the bridge of her nose as she inspects the thread count of the sheets with her fingernail.
Gerard crosses the carpeting to sit on the edge of the bed. He balks a little at her apology, thinks he should be apologizing to Brendon. He took advantage of her, for God's sake. But the words die, half formed in his throat. And instead he says, "Hey, no problem. Really." His finger traces the line of her toes beneath the bed sheet. "So, it's like stupidly fucking early. But, there's an IHOP across the road. Do you wanna, like," Gerard pauses and clears his throat. He's awkward and self conscious which is bizarre to him, considering the events of a few hours ago. "Would you have breakfast with me?" His eyes are gentle and earnest as he looks up from the movement of his finger against Brendon's foot to study her face.
Smiling and leaning back against the pillows, she stretches again and says, "Sure. I think we're flying out this afternoon sometime. But um, I should go back to my room and tell Spencer I'm not dead and let him yell at me a little bit for being irresponsible. And like, get cleaned up, and some clean clothes?" She stands and surveys the hotel room floor. "Um...do you have any clue where my skirt is?" She crosses her arms over her chest and looks at Gerard.
And Gerard looks at her because, yeah, still so so fucking beautiful. He needs to remember that last night was last night and this is the morning after and Brendon has shown zero interest in having her bones jumped at the current moment. "Um, probably by the door?" He swallows and doesn't think he should stand up right at the moment.
"Right!" She claps her hands and smiles brightly before heading to the door. "Tah-dah!" Brendon holds up the scrap of denim before wriggling into it. "And my bra! Yay!" When she comes back to where Gerard is still seated on the edge of the mattress she's once more wearing the outfit he met her in. "God, I hope Spencer has my high tops. They're falling apart but I love those fucking things. And my t-shirt. Well, his t-shirt," she giggles. "But I have my socks!" She waves the aforementioned objects before throwing herself down beside Gerard and extending one long, toned, tanned leg in front of her to slowly pull one knee sock on. Brendon then does the same thing to the other leg and stands, her hands on her hips. She bites her lip and says "I should probably look harder for my underwear. Pete'll be mad if he finds out I lost them. I think they were kinda expensive."
"Pete Wentz buys you underwear?" Gerard barks out before he can stop himself.
Brendon giggles and runs her fingers through the inky, still shower damp mess of Gerard's hair. "Sometimes. Lots of boys do. I like it when my bra and panties match. I think it got mentioned in, like, Teen People, or something?" She bends to kiss Gerard's forehead, "Okay, so I dunno man, if you find them bring them to IHOP? Gimme maybe twenty minutes to get all prettied up and I'll meet you in the lobby." Gerard's eyes are glued to the way the denim of her skirt moulds to her curves
"Wait? You're going out into the hotel like that?"
Tilting her head to survey her bared midriff Brendon bites down on a wicked smile and shrugs, "Worked for Britney." She slides her hand into her back pocket, "And I'm only going two floors!" Triumphant she holds out the hotel issued key-card bearing a hand written 802. "See ya in twenty!" She calls as she opens the door and heads out into the hall way.
Gerard watches her leave and then drops his face into his palms. "What the fuck am I doing?" He mutters and shakes his head back and forth. God, he should feel like a child molester. He should be deeply deeply ashamed for taking advantage of a very drunk, very young girl. But he doesn't. He had fun. He actually feels happy. And if it were later in the day and he'd given himself time for introspective brooding he would probably be disturbed by that more than anything else. "Bring her fuckin' panties to IHOP. Jesus Christ." He says under his breath as he shakes out the bed covers and tries to make it look a little less like there had been serious amounts of fucking happening.
True to her word, just under twenty minutes later Brendon appears in the lobby. She bounces over to where Gerard is checking out the hotel restaurant's menu, industriously trying to appear as if he is not in the least concerned about her actually showing up or not. "Hey!" she rocks forward on her toes to press a smacking kiss to his cheek.
"Uh, hey," he rubs at the spot, and bites down on his lip to curtail a seriously goofy grin in the making. "Oh, uh, I found your...you know." He extracts his hand from the pocket of his hoodie and transfers what he has bunched in his fist to Brendon's pocket.
Brendon doesn't even try to do anything about the goofy grin on her face as she says, "Sweet! Thanks!" and hooks her arm through Gerard's. "Dude, c'mon, like, pancakes and shit await!" She tugs him across the lobby. Gerard can't help the pang of guilt that shoots through his chest. Shower fresh, clad in a white hoodie covered in sparkly Care Bears, skinny jeans, clunky pink basket ball shoes, cats eye glasses, and not a stitch of make up on her face, Brendon looks even younger than she probably is. Fuck. She looks twelve. And tiny. Which is sort of ridiculous because she's maybe an inch or so shorter than Gerard. But, still.
Smiling as they cross the road, Gerard says, "So, you seem to be feeling better," as he slaps his sunglasses onto his face.
Leaning in to push his sunglasses so they sit straight on the bridge of his nose Brendon says, "Much! I recover pretty quickly. The joys of being twenty. Now if my boys could learn to recover as quickly from being stodgy, judgemental assholes my life would pretty much be made."
Gerard laughs out loud to cover his dismay as he opens the door to the restaurant for Brendon to walk through. "Yeah?" Shit. Twenty. She's twenty! Ten fucking years younger. A decade. Despite having had nothing stronger than a Red Bull last night Gerard suddenly feels a little unwell.
"Seriously, sometimes it's like having a bunch of overprotective Dads monitoring my behaviour 24/7. I left home three years ago to get away from that shit, thank you very much!" Brendon smiles sweetly at the IHOP hostess and, after holding up two fingers, follows eagerly to a window booth. Gerard can't get over how fucking cheerful she is, considering the obviously huge amounts of alcohol she’d pounded back last night, and never mind what she got up to later.
Gerard oozes into the booth, tossing his sunglasses, wallet, and cell phone onto the Formica table top as he sits. "God I need caffeine!" he sighs and smiles gratefully as a waitress appears as if by magic to fill his cup. Brendon shakes her head and asks for hot chocolate. A kid's drink. Fucking fantastic, Gerard feels like way less of a letchy douche bag now. "You moved out when you were seventeen?"
Knees bobbling ninety miles an hour as she chews on her cuticle and studies the menu, Brendon answers off hand, "Yeah, my parents were kind of seriously Mormon, you know? And they were not at all down with me being a singer in a," she pauses, then grins and continues in a faux stage whisper, holding her menu up to conspiratorially block her face from view of the restaurant, “‘Heathen, devil celebrating ROCK BAND!!’ So, they made me choose. And I didn't choose them." She bites her lip a little before smiling at Gerard, "So how old were you when you left home?"
Filing this bit of info away under More to Brendon Than Meets the Eye, Gerard focuses all his attention on the laminated paper in front of him, says "Twenty-six," and takes a slurping mouthful of coffee.
Brendon is not entirely successful in smothering her giggles with the cuffs of her hoodie, but Gerard is spared any further commentary when the waitress returns to take their orders. Gerard gets a boring old breakfast; scrambled eggs, toast, hash browns, bacon, and tries not to boggle too visibly at the sheer amount of food Brendon requests: stuffed French toast, extra hash browns, an order of toast, fruit salad and a chocolate milk shake.
"What?" She sounds rather defensive when the waitress has collected their menus and walked away to place their order with the kitchen. "Dude, I'm not bulimic or anything, okay? Sex just makes me really fucking hungry! And like, I don't eat meat--so fuckin' bad for your skin--so I have to load up on the carbs. My metabolism is like, totally whacked out." She cups her palms around her hot cocoa and blows across the foam.
"No no no, I didn't...I didn't mean...It's cool," Gerard waves his hands apologetically before leaning back into the booth, smiling maybe a little stupidly at her.
"Yeah, me and Kelly Clarkson should form like the Real Rock Girls Have Curves Club or something. Because even if I never ate again? This ass? Would still be this ass." Brendon waggles her eyebrows and sips at her hot chocolate.
Gerard laughs again and then before he can stop himself says, "Your ass is rather fuckin' fantastic."
Brendon snorts and shifts, lifting her legs up underneath her on the bench. "Aw, thank you. You're really sweet, you know that?"
"Yeah, I'm fuckin' adorable." Gerard deadpans before gulping down more coffee. Brendon giggles a little more, a nasal snort, and reaches across the table to shove at his shoulder.
"You are! So there." She actually claps her hands when the waitress brings their food. She sticks her fingers into the whipped cream atop her French toast and sucks them into her mouth, making tiny, pleased noises. Gerard suspects that between the finger licking, the finger sucking, and the tongue tip that comes out to trace the flavour of everything set in front of her, that he may not be able to slide out from the booth without really fucking embarrassing himself. He tries to focus on cutting up his breakfast.
The conversation flows easily and Gerard lets himself relax. Brendon is sweet and funny and Gerard has to lean over and grab his stomach he's laughing so hard at her impression of Spencer and Ryan doing their pre-show make up. They talk about performing, and Brendon admits to having a crush on Freddie Mercury. "Um, yeah, so my deep and boundless and completely unironic love of Queen was born after multiple viewings of Highlander. The movie, not the TV show, because hello! Adrian Paul you are no Christopher Lambert. And only the first one, 'cause really? ‘You will go to Earth and you will be immortal!’ What the fuck is that?" She pauses to gulp down almost half of her milkshake.
"Oh man! Freddie Mercury. Now there was a dude who knew how to perform." Gerard nods, his foot making contact with Brendon's knee as he crosses his leg and sits up straighter.
Brendon mirrors his posture and continues, "Totally. I mean screw this Mariah Carey, Christina Aguilera shit, you know? I wanna be like Freddie. I wanna be Sex not Sexy. The real deal, man. I want our shows to be something people do. Like actively participate in, not just sit their asses in the seats and just like, watch." Brendon is enthusiastic and Gerard can tell this is something she's thought a lot about. He's pretty fucking impressed that she can put so perfectly into words what he's felt and tried to communicate since My Chemical Romance first started doing shows.
He's pleasantly surprised when, between slapping hash browns onto torn pieces of french toast, rolling the whole thing into a ball and shoving it into her mouth, the talk turns to movies and Brendon reveals that she loves horror movies. She waves her syrup sticky hands when she talks--her cutlery sits neat on the napkin beside her plate, exactly where it was when they sat down--"Yeah, my babysitter scarred me for life! Even now, someone even mentioning Michael Myers scares the hell out of me."
Talk of movies turns to Frank Miller and Brendon rolls her eyes and says "Do not even get me started on that perv's whacked out ideas about Xena: Warrior Princess-type titanium tit sexy babes. God. So annoying. So so annoying. Although 300 lookedreally fucking cool on screen." She listens intently as Gerard talks about comic books and provides thoughtful, informed comments on art and writing, interspersed with picking out fruit she actually likes from her parfait dish of salad. She tells him about her high school teacher who used The Watchmen and Maus as texts and how after that her parents couldn't really freak out about her reading "graphic novels" --she actually makes air quotes and Gerard tries not to focus on how really fucking adorable that is. So they never found her copies of Faust, "Thank fucking god. Mormon heart attacks ahoy! And when I was a kid I really dug Bone." She pauses for a beat and follows it up with, "And bone-ing."
Gerard's eyes go wide, eyebrows raised to his hairline, completely non plussed. "Oh God!" Brendon brays, slapping the table. "Your face! Dude, you are so easy. I'm just kidding, jeez," still laughing, she motions towards the remains of Gerard's breakfast. "Are you gonna eat that?"
Recovering his composure, Gerard smiles "Nope." He pushes his plate towards her and she shovels the hash browns onto the toast and brings it to her mouth to nibble on. "So, if this whole band thing didn't work out, were you gonna go to art school or something?" Gerard holds his coffee cup up to get the waitress's attention, "You want another hot chocolate?"
Brendon asks for an orange juice. "Oh dude, no way. I was gonna be a fucking hair dresser."
Choking a little on his coffee, Gerard says, "Seriously? I dated a hair dresser once. It was...interesting." His fingers shred the paper napkin beside his plate.
"Totally, a hair dresser. Got into a cosmetology school in Arizona and everything. But then...you know, the band. And you? Dated Eliza, aka a fame-whore who could work out the application directions for Manic Panic...totally not the same thing."
"Touche," He raises his fork to Brendon in salute. "So you keep up with all the My Chem news, huh?" Gerard tries not to be embarrassed at the speed and ease with which details he'd rather not have even his close friends know end up splashed all over the Internet.
Brendon continues to nibble on the buttery toast, shrugging as she unzips her sweatshirt and wriggles out of it. She's wearing a pale pink tank top, the straps of a polka dotted bra not quite lining up with the cut of the shirt, and Gerard blinks and coughs, before refocusing his stare into his coffee cup. "Well, actually, Mr. Ryan Ross is the old school MCR fanboy in our band. I just get, like, peripheral information, or whatever. He would come in his pants if he knew The Gerard Way totally banged me out last night. Actually, he'd probably be so jealous that you fucked me and not him he might never speak to me again!" She finishes brightly.
"What?" Gerard's fork slips from his hand and clatters across the table. "You guys talk about...you'd tell him we...that..."
She's laughing so hard it takes Brendon a minute to pick up Gerard's fork. She hands it back to him, curls his fingers around, it and pats him soothingly on the forearm. "Again! I got you again!" She sobers then, blinking quickly and staring out the window, sniffling. "I don't ever discuss shit like this, with them. They'd probably go all apeshit, and try to like, defend my honor or something. And that would just end badly. Have you seen Ryan Ross's spindly little arms?" She holds her own up as she speaks. Gerard's eye follows the smooth curve of her bicep, the pale skin of her forearm, down to the delicate bend of her small wrist. His fingers itch for a pencil and he's seized with the bizarre urge to draw her. An awkward silence tries to settle and Brendon lowers her arm slowly to her side, picking up her milkshake glass with her other hand.
Gerard clears his throat and finally says, "So, you heading home from here?"
"Oh God. Yeah. To do more recording. We have to write more songs because Ryan is fucking insane and decided that after a month of forcing me to endure their Mountain Man Lite bullshit--in a cabin, in the fucking mountains, if you can believe that--the music I wrote was "too orchestral" and scrapped it. Just like that. I mean Christ, a month without shaving. He actually fucking banned razors! What the fuck? Luckily I'm like, part Hawaiian and not too hairy, 'cause that shit is just not cool."
Gerard laughs at her rant and then lifts a hand in acknowledgement towards the entrance of the restaurant. Brendon follows his gaze and sees Bob and Mikey come through the doors. Bob heads past the hostess and towards where Gerard and Brendon are sitting before Mikey scowls and yanks at the hem of his jacket. They stop in the middle of the aisle and allow themselves to be seated at a table closer to the door. Gerard's brows crease in confusion and Brendon sort of shrugs, embarrassed, before she starts talking again. "So yeah, anyway, more songwriting. More recording. More putting up with the jackass behaviour of my three most favourite boys in the world."
Smiling as the waitress comes to take away their empty plates and pour yet another refill into Gerard's cup, he says, "Yeah, we have a couple weeks off then we're doing the whole Linkin Park tour thing. Stadium tour. Should be good." His eyes keep darting to the table where Mikey and Bob are sitting.
Brendon fishes out her wallet, covered in rainbow and unicorn stickers, and lays some bills on the table. Her eyes follow Gerard's and she bites her lip, "Well, I guess, um, I should get back, or whatever." On a whim she snatches up his cell phone and starts pushing buttons, her eyes flitting between Gerard and the phone, a small smile on her face.
"You don't have to pay..."
"Yeah, I do." She tosses his cell back onto the table and puts her palm flat over the money. "Thanks Gerard. For everything." She kisses his cheek as she stands. "You were really sweet to me, and a lot of guys wouldn't have been." As she turns to leave she says, "You can call me or text me or whatever, if you ever get that bored." And then she raises her hand, gives him a wiggly fingered wave, and bounces away.
She sashays towards the exit, and Gerard can admit his eyes are totally glued to her fantastic ass, and when she gets to Mikey and Bob's table Gerard hears her say, with a hand wave in his direction, "Okay boys, the Girl Cooties have left the building! Go get your man!" Gerard laughs and when the waitress sets down their bill he throws more cash on the table, picks up his belongings, and goes to join his band mates. He grabs a chair from another table, flips it around and then straddles it, resting his chin on his folded arms.
"Hey," Bob raises his chin in greeting. Mikey continues to scowl into his pancakes.
Gerard shoves at Mikey's shoulder only to have his brother mutter under his breath and shrug away from him. "Bro. What the fuck?"
Mikey's head snaps up and he glares at Gerard. "Really? You have to ask?" Bob glances nervously between the Ways.
"Yeah. I have to ask." His hands thrown wide, Gerard's brows crease as he shoots a glance at Bob and tries to figure out what the fuck is going on. Bob just shrugs.
"Seriously. What the fuck were you doing with her?"
Gerard feels anger bloom to life low in his guts and his fingers curl into his palms. "Her name is Brendon, and we were having breakfast." He will not let anyone make him feel bad about this. Or maybe it's his own guilt that allows his anger to rise so readily.
"Yeah, Brendon." Mikey's voice rises and Bob coughs uncomfortably. "Brendon Skank! at the Disco Urie. Hope you know a good doctor for when your piss starts to burn." His laugh is an unpleasant chuckle.
Before he knows what he's doing Gerard stands up, knocking over his chair as his fist comes up to connect with his brother's jaw. "Don't talk shit about her man, you don't know anythingabout her!" He's furious, huffing with anger and shaking out his fist.
"You hit me! You fucking hit me!" Mikey's eyes are wide with shock and he manages to not tip over in his own chair, getting to his feet and advancing on his brother. "Over that slut? Are you fucking insane?"
Bob jumps up between them eyeing the hostess and the manager as he steps between them putting a hand on each of their chests. "Guys, guys! Chill, okay? We're in the fucking IHOP. What the fuck?!?!"
"At least I'm not fucking Pete Wentz's sloppy seconds." Gerard hisses.
"How do you know you're not?" Mikey takes a swing at Gerard just as the hostess and manager make it over to them. All eyes in the restaurant are on the brothers.
"Dudes, you can beat the shit out of each other, just not here, okay. C'mon. We're going. Now!" Bob eyes the IHOP staff apologetically, hauling the brothers out of the restaurant, each one restrained by a big hand on an elbow. He gets to the door, shoves them through it, and then turns and extracts his wallet, paying for food he didn't get to eat and giving a generous tip. He rolls his eyes and thanks the waitress profusely before heading to the street to see if the Ways have actually killed each other this time.
Continue to 2A
Author: cloudlessclimes
Rated: NC-17
Pairing:Brendon Urie/Gerard Way
Disclaimer: This is purely a product of my diseased mind and has no bearing on reality what so ever, I own no one, I know no one.
Summary: Brendon Urie is and has always been a girl. She meets Gerard Way. Things happen.
Feedback: Is a wonderful thing.
Notes: HET!!, what can be perceived as uninformed consent, underage drinking, romance, fluff, Tom Conrad and Jon Walker are not the nicest people ever, AU, liberal abuse of canon; this fic contains all of these things. If they're not your thing, don't read.
Title comes from a song of the same name by long defunct semi-obscure Canadian band The Watchmen. The odd and somewhat nonsensical lyrics can be found here
Written for gpbandom and x-posted there, at fueldbyunicorns, and in my own journal.
Thanks to the awesome queen_geek, tweedle_, fallingfortruth and lordgroovius for beta-ing, listening to me kvetch, holding my hand, and providing paperbags to breathe into, both virtual and actual.
1 2A 2B 3A 3B 4 5A 5B 6A 6B 7A 7B 8
Brendon meets him on a Wednesday. Okay maybe it's so late/early it's a Thursday. It's an end of tour party gone epic and she's crawling along the floor giggling to herself. She's in her bra, and her denim skirt is rucked up around her waist, and she has no idea where her t-shirt is. But, these have got to be her Chucks--black much-loved high tops. She guffaws loudly before pitching forward, unable to pick up a shoe. Because the shoe is attached to a foot. And the foot belongs to Gerard Way. These are not Brendon's shoes. She snorts laughter into the carpet.
"Hey, you look like you could use some help." Not unkindly, Gerard reaches down and with a hand at her elbow, gets Brendon to her feet. He yanks at the hem of her admittedly very short skirt, and smoothes it down over her thighs. One hand stays on her elbow, steadying the very tipsy girl.
She raises her hand up to pet at Gerard's cheek. Vodka has loosened her limbs and makes the connection a little more smacking skin on skin than Brendon means. "Mmmkay. I'm mmmkay." She smiles and bats her huge, thick-lashed eyes at him, impossibly dark and focusing somewhere above Gerard's right shoulder. She darts her tongue out to lick at the plush fullness of her bottom lip. "Wha' kinda help y'got in mind, sailor?"
"Brenda, right?" Gerard sets down his plastic cup of Red Bull and ice, unwinding Brendon's arms from where they've made their way around his neck. "I think you need to get to bed."
Brendon draws her arms back, crossing them in front of her, and gives Gerard an up and down look. "Fuck no! It's Brendon. What can I say? The 'rents wanted a boy. And can't spell for shit either.” She smiles again, dirty and almost a leer. "But, I'm not a boy." She breathes low and close into Gerard's ear, grinding her hips against his thigh in a slow, sinuous movement. She knows this. She's good at this. She wants it. "I'm a girl," her teeth graze the fleshy lobe of Gerard's ear, "who wants you to take her--me--whatever to bed."
Gerard swallows thickly, hands a little less gentle as he tries to put space between them. "Hey now, honey, I think maybe you've had enough for tonight. Where are the guys in your band?" He's doing his best to keep Brendon upright, but away from him. And she's suddenly grown, like, a thousand extra hands that are trying theirbest to be all over him.
Batting her eyelashes and feigning sadness Brendon replies, "They left me all alone," her lips pouting as she rocks against Gerard.
A longsuffering sigh escapes him as Gerard surveys the party's attendees. Seeing no one he even remotely recognizes either from Brendon's band or his own, he slings an arm around her small waist and says, "C'mon. What room are you in?"
She curls into his touch, nuzzling her cheek against his jaw, "Mmm dunno. What room are you in?" She giggles again, before nipping at the exposed skin of Gerard's throat.
His eyes dart around, guilty, before he traps both of Brendon's hands between his, yanking out of her clinging hold. "Jesus. Stop, okay? Do you have your key-card? Or are you guys heading back to your bus?"
Brendon is pouting genuinely now, frustrated by Gerard's lack of interest. Maybe he's a fag. She's heard rumors about him and that dirty looking guy from The Used. Fuckin'...dirty The Used guy. Her pout morphs into a wolfish grin as she once again swivels her hips and thighs into denim clad contact with Gerard's leg. Her skirt skims up closer to her waist as she says "Um...I dunno. Wanna search me for my key?" She breathes out a hiccuping laugh as Gerard's eyes flair startled wide and green.
"Okay. Okay. No! I mean...I'll take you to lie down, maybe..." Gerard does his best to steer her out of the suite and into the hotel hallway. "You should sleep." He silently gives thanks to the God of Dealing with the Drunk Whilst Perfectly Sober that his room,--his single room-- is on the next floor up. He only has to negotiate a wobbly, overly handsy Brendon into the elevator and off again, his room's right across from the elevator bank. He leans her against the wall while he gets out his key-card and fits it into the reader.
Her laugh is loud and jarring in the stillness of the corridor as Brendon doesn't even try to stop herself from sliding down the wall and into a heap at Gerard's feet. She reaches out to trace a fingertip along the dirty white rubber trim of his sneaker. "Wish I knew where mine got to," she whispers reverently.
It's only as he's hauling her up and into his arms trying not to notice the softness of her skin beneath his palms, Brendon wriggling and giggling all the while, that Gerard realises she is in fact without shoes. Her feet and calves are covered in grey striped knee socks, making her look even younger than Gerard suspects she is. He grunts and deposits her inside the doorway, turning to put the 'do not disturb' sign onto the door knob. Brendon needs to sleep. That much he knows. He hasn't exactly given much thought to what he's going to do beyond getting her safely tucked into bed, alone and onto her side. Probably try to find her band mates. Or that big security guy who always seems to follow her around; except when she's too fucking trashed to stand up on her own. And then go crash with Ray or Mikes.
Oh fuck! Gerard thinks to himself as he turns around. In the brief few seconds it's taken him to put her down, turn on the lights, and fumble with the door, Brendon has managed to wriggle out of her skirt. She's standing there in the soft spill of the lamplight clad in the black bra with its tiny pink roses on the straps and the front clasp that Gerard had, up to this point, been doing his level best to not acknowledge the existence of, and matching high cut panties with one tiny pink rose and a bow sitting provocatively low beneath her navel. And those damn knee socks. And...she's fucking beautiful. All long, tanned limbs and full, round breasts and flat stomach, and fucking curves at hip and waist that could kill a man, for real. And, well, Gerard's human, and tired, and maybe not so come down from his post show high as he thought. And she's looking at him with those heavy-lashed Bambi eyes, her fucking unreal lips parted and damp.
She knows how she looks. She like how she looks. She likes how it gets her what she wants. Brendon feels beautiful and powerful and not the least bit self-conscious as she sidles up to Gerard, hips tilted and breasts forward. She extends an arm and playfully knocks him back against the door as she says, her voice a husky whisper, "C'mon. Don't you want to have some fun?"
Fuck. He does. He really really does want to have some fun. Yes please. Now would be good. Gerard manages to push aside the little voice that's tapping out Danger! in Morse code at the back of his brain and his hands come up to bracket her waist--so tiny his fingertips meet at the small of her back. He knows it's wrong. He knows he'll regret it later. But for now it’s yet another crumb marking his path to Hell. And he can't think, can't breathe, because Brendon's right there and her mouth is on his, and it's hot and wet and dirty. God he wants it--wants this. He gives a pained groan before pulling her closer to him and slipping his tongue into her mouth.
Brendon laughs and winds her hands in the thick fall of Gerard's inky hair and sucks at his tongue, licking into his mouth and flexing her silk covered hips against Gerard's thigh. She feels him, hard in his jeans, and tips her head back to stare blearily at him. Her eyes slide shut and her smile widens into a grin. "Mmm," she purrs, her hips continuing to move in a slow, languid sway against Gerard, "you taste yummy." Her tongue comes out to trace the shine across her lips and she opens her eyes and leans into Gerard.
His hands shift across her bare shoulders, and for the first time in three years Gerard feels drunk, high maybe. He wonders if it's possible to get buzzed from licking the taste of vodka out of someone’s mouth. He takes a deep breath, steadying himself, and his hands trail across her arms and collar bones, sharp juts against her skin, to cup her breasts, thumbs moving gently over the silky material. He makes a rather undignified noise before lowering his head, his mouth covering hers. Brendon's lips move just as eager, just as hungry. He keeps his eyes open, staring at her. Fuck. Whoever said brown eyes were boring had never been this close to these eyes; pupils blown wide from arousal and alcohol. She sways into his touch and doesn't blink--just stares back, all caramel and cinnamon, and Gerard can feel when the corners of her lips tilt up in a smile. He can taste her laughter on his tongue.
"See?" She's slurring now, her head tilted to one side, mouth still moving against his, "S'fun." Her tongue pokes past her lips to follow the crooked curve of Gerard's bottom lip, then out to the sharp definition of his chin and across his throat. Brendon fists the soft, well worn material of Gerard's t-shirt in her fingers and makes small pleased sounds as he continues to rub her nipples through the confines of the slippery material of her bra. "You can take it off, you know," she huffs against his ear.
Gerard swallows hard. "Oh. God." is all he manages to say, but his hands seem to know what they're doing. His thumb flicks under the tiny pink rose and he's eagerly separating the cups of her bra, tracing the fall of the straps down her arms. She moans a little louder and grinds a little harder against Gerard when the rough pads of his thumbs graze the peaks of her nipples, hands kneading at the fullness of her breasts and he wonders how it's possible for her skin to be even more like silk than the fabric that had covered it. His mouth is dry and, like he's stuck on an infinite loop, all he manages is a groan and another "Oh. God." She's perfect; tawny skin and small, plum coloured nipples, breasts generous and round. Fuck! I want to lick her. Gorgeous. So, so gorgeous.
She winds her arms around his neck and pulls herself in close to rub her breasts across Gerard's t-shirt. His hands slide to her ass and he presses sloppy, lust filled kisses to her chin, her jaw, her ear. "Pete says I have porn star tits." Brendon supplies in what would pass as a matter of fact tone were she not wrinkling her nose and gasping at the feel of his hands on her body. "But, mine are better 'cause they're real."
"Uh huh. Way better." he mumbles and he palms and strokes and lowers his head to lick across the firm swell of them. Brendon gasps and laughs and it really is like Gerard's drunk. "Fuck," he says as his tongue traces formless patterns over her skin, to the sensitive underside of her breasts, and then up to pinch her nipple gently between his tiny, sharp teeth. Gerard's glad to have his back against the door, to have something solid to keep him upright. The feel of her, the scent of her, the sound of her, is all around him and he's dizzy and feels like the floor is tilting beneath him.
"Shit. Shit!" her hips rock up hard against Gerard's thigh and she kisses at his jaw through shaky breaths. Brendon makes a few staccato oh oh ohs at the feel of his teeth on her, at the sweet almost-pain as he bites into her tender skin. She shudders out a breath and then laughs into the side of Gerard's neck. Shit. She's wet through her panties, he can smell her, can feel it seeping into his jeans from where she was grinding against him.
"Did you just come?" Gerard is shocked and his voice is loud in the small room.
She lifts her head long enough to give him a sweet, sleepy grin. "Uh hmm," Brendon answers, and then, eyes slanted more than half closed she gropes for his hand, guides it to her. "See? Made me wet." Gerard blinks as she bites at his shoulder through the cotton of his shirt. "Felt good." She mumbles. Gerard moves his fingers, slipping through the slick of her, his thumb twisting to flick across her clit. She moans, her mouth contorting into a grimace. "Nuh uhn, s'your turn now."
Gerard grunts as Brendon slides gracelessly down his body to her knees, pitching forward and nosing at the zipper of his jeans. She huffs a low laugh into the fabric there, and Gerard can feel it as a hum along his dick. Her tongue tip peeks out between her lips and she laves at the clearly evident, hard ridge of his erection. "Feels good, hmm?" Her eyes are wide and overbright as she looks up at him. Lifting her hand, heavy and slow, Brendon unbuttons the fastener of Gerard's jeans. The warm wet of her breath on overly-sensitized flesh is followed by the firm grip of her hand. Long, narrow piano player fingers, Gerard thinks, really know what they're doing ease him out of his jeans and boxer shorts. Her tongue licks circles around the head of his cock, tracing the vein underneath. She braces her other hand on Gerard's thigh, her lips sliding down to meet the curl of her fist.
He's panting, one arm pressed against the door, the other flailing out, not knowing what to do with it, what she'll allow. "S'okay," Brendon slurs around his dick, and she leans her head into his touch. His fingers brush through the short dark stands of Brendon's pixie cut, cupping the back of her skull in his palm.
"God!" Gerard's hips flex, a slow stuttering movement, as his cock bumps the ridges of her hard palate, and then he can feel her throat contracting around him. "Jesus. You're really fucking good at this." Brendon's tongue swirls along the hard length of him and his hand slides around to her jaw. The backs of his knuckles brush against her face and he can feel himself, rigid against her hollowed cheeks as she sucks and licks, while twisting her hand against him; gentle sure pressure. Her other hand comes up to cup his balls, still in his shorts, and she uses the fleshy pad at the base of her thumb to mirror the rhythm of her tongue and fingers on his erection. She can feel him, growing harder still as his cock slides against the roof of her mouth. He's writhing now, speaking nonsense words and pressing his weight back into the flimsy hotel door. She sits back on her haunches, his cock making an obscene pop as it's freed from her mouth.
He blinks, confused and panicked before she stands, wobbly, and slides her long fingers around Gerard again. "But do you know what's the most fun of all?" Brendon whispers as she sucks at the skin where his jaw meets his ear, her hand still working with a slow, easy pace along his hard cock. "Fucking me." He feels her smile as her teeth nip at his skin, burning where she's marking him.
He's breathing shallow and open-mouthed as his fingers splay along her jaw, pressing her mouth to his in a sloppy, heated kiss. She's eager, moulding her body to his and his hands stroke down her throat, the sides of her breasts, sliding to the dip of her waist before cupping her ass, kneading the muscle there and pulling her closer still.
"Please," she all but climbs him, winding her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. Gerard's hands slide down and along the smooth contour of her thighs, as Brendon exhales a breathy moan, "Please fuck me. I want you to. I want it. So bad." He starts to walk towards the bed, but his life sure as shit is no movie, and his jeans are slipping low on his thighs and he knows he's going to drop her, or trip and fall on her. Or something else ridiculously uncool. He can't possibly focus enough to get them both the ten or so strides it would take to get to the bed, so in stead he lowers her to the floor in the entry way of the hotel room.
Brendon kisses him, fierce impatience making her bite-lick at Gerard's lips and chin. She sits up to yank at his jeans and Gerard kicks them off before draping himself over her in a loose sprawl. "C'mon, c'mon, c'mon," she mutters in a low chant. Brendon's hands catch at Gerard's, bringing them to her waist, to the elastic of her panties. Sliding his hands over the smooth expanse of Brendon's stomach, Gerard snags the silk between his fingers, slowly pulling the garment down and off her long legs. He watches the shudder and dip of her abdomen, and can feel the fine tremors in her muscles as he slides his hands along her calves, pulling her ridiculous socks down and off. He huffs out a breath and lowers his face to the inside of one ankle, rubbing his stubbled chin across the thin skin there. Brendon groans, low and appreciative. Her fingers scrabble across the knobbly weave of the hotel carpet, and the groan morphs into a gasp as Gerard trails his lips across her skin, slowly inching higher up her leg. He can feel the leaping of muscle beneath the skin as he mouths at her thigh, while sliding his hand over the flat plane of her stomach and teasing at her navel with his thumb.
When Gerard licks at the join of hip and thigh Brendon startles and clenches her teeth. Her mouth turns down in a small grimace at the intensity of the sensation. Soft, gentle touches ignite an aqueous warmth low inside her. She groans, humming against the inside of her lips when Gerard lowers his head between her legs and touches a tentative, breathy tongue-tip swipe to the overly sensitive flesh there. Brendon’s hips move haltingly and she flattens her feet on the floor, her hands coming up to grasp at Gerard's shoulders. And when she feels his lips suck at her clit, her knees part even further, allowing Gerard to rest heavily between them. He sets a lazy, almost gentle rhythm and Brendon paws at him, huffing out breaths. It's all so careful, so thoughtful, he's touching her and kissing her, and even through the cloud of too much vodka Brendon knows that it's all at once too much and not enough, and she feels dangerously out of control. "Gerard…I'm...I need," she swallows, opening her eyes and bracing herself on her elbows to look at him.
Gerard raises his head, resting his chin on her thigh, and slanting a feral grin, says "Okay?" and then raises his eyebrow.
Huffing out a breath, Brendon brings one hand to her hair. She feels a little dizzy. "Uh, um, yeah. I just," rather than admit to her discomfort with this particular kind of attention she snorts and self-deprecatingly says, "Just, you know...rug burn."
"Rug burn?" Gerard huffs out his nasal little laugh and sits back on his haunches. "Oh shit, I'm so sorry!" he strokes a hand over her bare knee and takes in the rest of her nude skin. "Maybe we should," he makes a flicking motion with his hand, indicating the bed.
"Yeah, yeah. That would be...that would be good." Brendon bites her lip. Gerard stands, shifting his erection, hard and uncomfortable in the confines of his underwear. He extends his hands and Brendon takes them, needing his help to get herself unsteadily to her feet. She kisses him, wrapping around him, tongue stroking over his in languid, barely moving swipes.
Breathing stuttered breaths into Brendon's mouth, Gerard pets his hands across her back and down to her waist, squeezing playfully at the round of her bottom, making her giggle. "Mmm," he mutters, chasing the sugary taste of her when she backs away from his teasing touch. "You don't seem too...burnt."
Patting at Gerard's hip and ducking past him, ignoring his confused expression as she heads in the opposite direction of the bed, Brendon says, "Not yet, but let me tell you, you would so hear about it!" She shakes an unsteady finger at him before bending to pick up her skirt. Brendon giggles as she almost falls over, a hand planted palm flat against the floor the only thing preventing it. She fumbles in the skirt's pocket for a second then makes shooing motions, "Bed time!"
Gerard just laughs and shakes his head, before managing to kick off his shoes. He lets her snag his hand on her way past. "Thought we might need these," she mouths against the long tendon in his neck, waving a strip of candy-coloured condoms in front of his face.
"Shit, yeah, right." Gerard has the good grace to blush ever so slightly as he takes the condoms from her. Condoms, which hadn't even occurred to him. Condoms, which he didn't have. Safer sex. Jesus. Despite what people may think about the rock star lifestyle Gerard now spends most of his time working and trying to stay sober and hasn't had so much as a blow job since he and Eliza stopped doing...whatever the fuck he and Eliza had been doing.
Brendon smiles wide, blinking slowly and carefully, before she flops backwards onto the king sized bed. "C'mon, you." Her voice is all husky and low and she pats messily at the mattress and hauling down the bedspread beneath her. Gerard shakes himself and crawls onto the bed, running his hand palm flat over Brendon's hip, and across the firmly flat expanse of her stomach. They kiss again, and it's all very sweet and gentle and Brendon is writhing restlessly against the cradle of Gerard's hips, "Um...fucking me? Would be way easier without, um...these." She hooks her fingers in the waistband of Gerard's boxer briefs and tugs impatiently.
The tugging rubs unpleasantly at Gerard's rather raging hard on, and he groans, dipping his hips away from Brendon, and manages to shove them down and off. "Yeah, okay. Sorry." He mumbles against her mouth. He swallows audibly as she arches against him, and he brushes away any last lingering guilty thoughts.
"Here, here." Brendon mushes her face into the side of Gerard's, her breath shushing down his neck when she pries the condoms from his fist. "Gimme." She rips one off the strip and continues her slow, clumsy slide down his body, her nose and lips rubbing into the softness of his t-shirt. Shuffling the shirt up with her cheek she pauses to giggle and circle his navel with her tongue, her teeth nipping at the rounded curve of his belly, before tugging playfully at the dark, whorled hair low on his pubic bone. Brendon licks one teasing swipe at the head of Gerard's cock before turning to rip open the condom wrapper with her teeth. Then her hands, with fluid, concise movements belying the advanced state of her drunkenness, roll it down onto him. "There," Brendon's pleased with herself as she slides full length along him, her arms coming up to the soft flesh over his ribs, urging his full weight on top of her.
It's all Gerard can do to remember to breathe against the roiling heat trying to burst free of his spine. His hands are splayed flat against the bed on either side of Brendon's head. He lifts himself, supporting most of his weight; her hips are bracketing his thighs and he huffs into her hair before canting his own hips forward and sinking into the slick warmth of her. "You sure this is okay?" His voice is half gasp, half murmur with the strain of holding himself perfectly still.
"God, yes! It's okay!" Brendon's eyes widen in pleased surprise as Gerard's cock fills her. He's big; bigger than anyone she's been with, but she likes it, likes the stretch of it, the heated pressure low inside her. And she thinks this is exactly what she wants; needs. And maybe she wants more of it, more of Gerard. Her hands slide up the softness of his sides and then his biceps before she strokes her thumbs across his cheeks. Her eyes are round and her pupils are huge and when Gerard blinks, he's close enough that she can feel the fluttering of his eyelashes. "Fuck me," she mumbles against his mouth.
Brendon's too drunk and Gerard's too tentative to establish or maintain any sort of rhythm, but Brendon digs her heels into the mattress and braces her forehead against his t-shirt covered shoulder, sub-audibly chanting 'yeahyeahyeah,' as he strokes into her body. Gerard moves one hand from the sheets to tease over her breast, fingers gentle as they pinch at the stiffened peaks of her nipples. "Y'can do it harder," she breathes into his skin as the long slide of her thigh muscles ripple against Gerard's hips when she winds her legs around him. Her fingers are bruising hard on his waist, encouraging him to do as she wants. She feels him swallow hard, her teeth nipping playfully at the round rise of his Adam's apple.
He mouths sloppily at her jaw and neck and one hand goes around her waist, hauling her closer to him, while the other moulds to the smooth contour of her back, sliding to her shoulder as he rocks up into her. Brendon's hips stutter in an almost circular motion and she's making small mewling noises in the back of her throat. She runs guitar-string calloused fingertips along Gerard's spine and a slow-building heat flares to life in the pit of her stomach and spreads out through her veins.
Gerard can't help the satisfied, accomplished groan that escapes him as he comes. And Brendon can't help but laugh at the somewhat awed look on his face and the high flying sensation of her own orgasm. She's still contracting around his softening cock, as his thighs shake and he swears quietly into her neck. She pets her hands down his back and strokes the light dusting of sweat damp hair over his tail bone between her fingers.
Rolling onto his back, limbs heavy and heart rate slowing, Gerard manages to remove the condom and leans over the edge of the bed to toss it into the waste basket; rearranging the used tissue and soda cans over top of it. He flops onto his back once more and, palms at the hair that's drooped across his forehead. "Fuck," he husks into his cupped hands, "That was...I don't...I can't even..." Wow. So apparently he really did just come his brains out.
A dazed smile still lingers on her lips as she mumbles, "Mmm...you're way more fun n'vodka." Brendon then pats his arm and promptly falls into a deep sleep, one leg flung across Gerard's hip.
* * *
Brendon opens first her left eye, and then, a heartbeat later, her right. Her face is squashed into the pillow and she blinks blearily with the realisation she has no idea where she is. "Uhn..." she raises a hand to rub at her eyes, and palm across her face. Blinking again reveals a hotel glass filled with water set on the bedside table. Beside it are four pills: two pink, two white. She swallows, wincing against the sandpaper dryness of her throat and sits up gingerly, slowly, trying to make sure her head stays attached to her spine and doesn't shoot off across the room the way it feels like it might. Raising the glass to her lips, she gulps greedily, twisting her mouth unhappily when her stomach makes it clear it is not impressed. The dull ache between her legs intensifies as she stretches. The party. Gerard. Things slide into place like the tumbler in a lock, and she sits up fully, the sheets crumpled around her waist.
"Mornin'," Gerard is sitting, fully clothed, in a horrid salmon printed wing back chair. He smiles at her and says, "How's your head?"
She pouts, still pretty despite dark smudges of mascara and kohl around her eyes, and the most spectacular case of bedhead Gerard has ever seen. Who knew hair so short could do that? "Fucking terrible," Brendon mutters, raising her hand to her forehead before raising both arms above her head, stretching and yawning, heedless of her nudity. "Jell-o shots for the motherfuckin' lose, man. Totally." She picks up the pills and looks at Gerard. "So, you want to start the day off with a buzz or something?" She shuffles them in her palm and quirks an eyebrow.
"Tylenol, Dramamine, and Pepto. Hangovers suck, as I recall." Gerard is leaning forward, still smiling cheerfully.
"Ah. Okay. Thanks. Tylenol my beauties! Come to Mama," she burbles to her hand before tossing the pain killers into her mouth and chasing them with a much more demure sip of water. "But, I've only puked twice in my life that I can remember. Once when I was like, seven, and had the stomach flu or whatever, and then like a year ago when fucking Ross made me go to some sketchy take out place and then we had to fly to a show. But never from alcohol." She smiles and shrugs, setting the pink pills back onto the night stand. Bringing her knees up to the circle of her arms she looks at Gerard through her eyelashes and says "Um, I'm really sorry about, you know going comatose on you. I should have gone back to my room. Or called Zack or something. So, like, sorry, okay?" A blush creeps over the bridge of her nose as she inspects the thread count of the sheets with her fingernail.
Gerard crosses the carpeting to sit on the edge of the bed. He balks a little at her apology, thinks he should be apologizing to Brendon. He took advantage of her, for God's sake. But the words die, half formed in his throat. And instead he says, "Hey, no problem. Really." His finger traces the line of her toes beneath the bed sheet. "So, it's like stupidly fucking early. But, there's an IHOP across the road. Do you wanna, like," Gerard pauses and clears his throat. He's awkward and self conscious which is bizarre to him, considering the events of a few hours ago. "Would you have breakfast with me?" His eyes are gentle and earnest as he looks up from the movement of his finger against Brendon's foot to study her face.
Smiling and leaning back against the pillows, she stretches again and says, "Sure. I think we're flying out this afternoon sometime. But um, I should go back to my room and tell Spencer I'm not dead and let him yell at me a little bit for being irresponsible. And like, get cleaned up, and some clean clothes?" She stands and surveys the hotel room floor. "Um...do you have any clue where my skirt is?" She crosses her arms over her chest and looks at Gerard.
And Gerard looks at her because, yeah, still so so fucking beautiful. He needs to remember that last night was last night and this is the morning after and Brendon has shown zero interest in having her bones jumped at the current moment. "Um, probably by the door?" He swallows and doesn't think he should stand up right at the moment.
"Right!" She claps her hands and smiles brightly before heading to the door. "Tah-dah!" Brendon holds up the scrap of denim before wriggling into it. "And my bra! Yay!" When she comes back to where Gerard is still seated on the edge of the mattress she's once more wearing the outfit he met her in. "God, I hope Spencer has my high tops. They're falling apart but I love those fucking things. And my t-shirt. Well, his t-shirt," she giggles. "But I have my socks!" She waves the aforementioned objects before throwing herself down beside Gerard and extending one long, toned, tanned leg in front of her to slowly pull one knee sock on. Brendon then does the same thing to the other leg and stands, her hands on her hips. She bites her lip and says "I should probably look harder for my underwear. Pete'll be mad if he finds out I lost them. I think they were kinda expensive."
"Pete Wentz buys you underwear?" Gerard barks out before he can stop himself.
Brendon giggles and runs her fingers through the inky, still shower damp mess of Gerard's hair. "Sometimes. Lots of boys do. I like it when my bra and panties match. I think it got mentioned in, like, Teen People, or something?" She bends to kiss Gerard's forehead, "Okay, so I dunno man, if you find them bring them to IHOP? Gimme maybe twenty minutes to get all prettied up and I'll meet you in the lobby." Gerard's eyes are glued to the way the denim of her skirt moulds to her curves
"Wait? You're going out into the hotel like that?"
Tilting her head to survey her bared midriff Brendon bites down on a wicked smile and shrugs, "Worked for Britney." She slides her hand into her back pocket, "And I'm only going two floors!" Triumphant she holds out the hotel issued key-card bearing a hand written 802. "See ya in twenty!" She calls as she opens the door and heads out into the hall way.
Gerard watches her leave and then drops his face into his palms. "What the fuck am I doing?" He mutters and shakes his head back and forth. God, he should feel like a child molester. He should be deeply deeply ashamed for taking advantage of a very drunk, very young girl. But he doesn't. He had fun. He actually feels happy. And if it were later in the day and he'd given himself time for introspective brooding he would probably be disturbed by that more than anything else. "Bring her fuckin' panties to IHOP. Jesus Christ." He says under his breath as he shakes out the bed covers and tries to make it look a little less like there had been serious amounts of fucking happening.
True to her word, just under twenty minutes later Brendon appears in the lobby. She bounces over to where Gerard is checking out the hotel restaurant's menu, industriously trying to appear as if he is not in the least concerned about her actually showing up or not. "Hey!" she rocks forward on her toes to press a smacking kiss to his cheek.
"Uh, hey," he rubs at the spot, and bites down on his lip to curtail a seriously goofy grin in the making. "Oh, uh, I found your...you know." He extracts his hand from the pocket of his hoodie and transfers what he has bunched in his fist to Brendon's pocket.
Brendon doesn't even try to do anything about the goofy grin on her face as she says, "Sweet! Thanks!" and hooks her arm through Gerard's. "Dude, c'mon, like, pancakes and shit await!" She tugs him across the lobby. Gerard can't help the pang of guilt that shoots through his chest. Shower fresh, clad in a white hoodie covered in sparkly Care Bears, skinny jeans, clunky pink basket ball shoes, cats eye glasses, and not a stitch of make up on her face, Brendon looks even younger than she probably is. Fuck. She looks twelve. And tiny. Which is sort of ridiculous because she's maybe an inch or so shorter than Gerard. But, still.
Smiling as they cross the road, Gerard says, "So, you seem to be feeling better," as he slaps his sunglasses onto his face.
Leaning in to push his sunglasses so they sit straight on the bridge of his nose Brendon says, "Much! I recover pretty quickly. The joys of being twenty. Now if my boys could learn to recover as quickly from being stodgy, judgemental assholes my life would pretty much be made."
Gerard laughs out loud to cover his dismay as he opens the door to the restaurant for Brendon to walk through. "Yeah?" Shit. Twenty. She's twenty! Ten fucking years younger. A decade. Despite having had nothing stronger than a Red Bull last night Gerard suddenly feels a little unwell.
"Seriously, sometimes it's like having a bunch of overprotective Dads monitoring my behaviour 24/7. I left home three years ago to get away from that shit, thank you very much!" Brendon smiles sweetly at the IHOP hostess and, after holding up two fingers, follows eagerly to a window booth. Gerard can't get over how fucking cheerful she is, considering the obviously huge amounts of alcohol she’d pounded back last night, and never mind what she got up to later.
Gerard oozes into the booth, tossing his sunglasses, wallet, and cell phone onto the Formica table top as he sits. "God I need caffeine!" he sighs and smiles gratefully as a waitress appears as if by magic to fill his cup. Brendon shakes her head and asks for hot chocolate. A kid's drink. Fucking fantastic, Gerard feels like way less of a letchy douche bag now. "You moved out when you were seventeen?"
Knees bobbling ninety miles an hour as she chews on her cuticle and studies the menu, Brendon answers off hand, "Yeah, my parents were kind of seriously Mormon, you know? And they were not at all down with me being a singer in a," she pauses, then grins and continues in a faux stage whisper, holding her menu up to conspiratorially block her face from view of the restaurant, “‘Heathen, devil celebrating ROCK BAND!!’ So, they made me choose. And I didn't choose them." She bites her lip a little before smiling at Gerard, "So how old were you when you left home?"
Filing this bit of info away under More to Brendon Than Meets the Eye, Gerard focuses all his attention on the laminated paper in front of him, says "Twenty-six," and takes a slurping mouthful of coffee.
Brendon is not entirely successful in smothering her giggles with the cuffs of her hoodie, but Gerard is spared any further commentary when the waitress returns to take their orders. Gerard gets a boring old breakfast; scrambled eggs, toast, hash browns, bacon, and tries not to boggle too visibly at the sheer amount of food Brendon requests: stuffed French toast, extra hash browns, an order of toast, fruit salad and a chocolate milk shake.
"What?" She sounds rather defensive when the waitress has collected their menus and walked away to place their order with the kitchen. "Dude, I'm not bulimic or anything, okay? Sex just makes me really fucking hungry! And like, I don't eat meat--so fuckin' bad for your skin--so I have to load up on the carbs. My metabolism is like, totally whacked out." She cups her palms around her hot cocoa and blows across the foam.
"No no no, I didn't...I didn't mean...It's cool," Gerard waves his hands apologetically before leaning back into the booth, smiling maybe a little stupidly at her.
"Yeah, me and Kelly Clarkson should form like the Real Rock Girls Have Curves Club or something. Because even if I never ate again? This ass? Would still be this ass." Brendon waggles her eyebrows and sips at her hot chocolate.
Gerard laughs again and then before he can stop himself says, "Your ass is rather fuckin' fantastic."
Brendon snorts and shifts, lifting her legs up underneath her on the bench. "Aw, thank you. You're really sweet, you know that?"
"Yeah, I'm fuckin' adorable." Gerard deadpans before gulping down more coffee. Brendon giggles a little more, a nasal snort, and reaches across the table to shove at his shoulder.
"You are! So there." She actually claps her hands when the waitress brings their food. She sticks her fingers into the whipped cream atop her French toast and sucks them into her mouth, making tiny, pleased noises. Gerard suspects that between the finger licking, the finger sucking, and the tongue tip that comes out to trace the flavour of everything set in front of her, that he may not be able to slide out from the booth without really fucking embarrassing himself. He tries to focus on cutting up his breakfast.
The conversation flows easily and Gerard lets himself relax. Brendon is sweet and funny and Gerard has to lean over and grab his stomach he's laughing so hard at her impression of Spencer and Ryan doing their pre-show make up. They talk about performing, and Brendon admits to having a crush on Freddie Mercury. "Um, yeah, so my deep and boundless and completely unironic love of Queen was born after multiple viewings of Highlander. The movie, not the TV show, because hello! Adrian Paul you are no Christopher Lambert. And only the first one, 'cause really? ‘You will go to Earth and you will be immortal!’ What the fuck is that?" She pauses to gulp down almost half of her milkshake.
"Oh man! Freddie Mercury. Now there was a dude who knew how to perform." Gerard nods, his foot making contact with Brendon's knee as he crosses his leg and sits up straighter.
Brendon mirrors his posture and continues, "Totally. I mean screw this Mariah Carey, Christina Aguilera shit, you know? I wanna be like Freddie. I wanna be Sex not Sexy. The real deal, man. I want our shows to be something people do. Like actively participate in, not just sit their asses in the seats and just like, watch." Brendon is enthusiastic and Gerard can tell this is something she's thought a lot about. He's pretty fucking impressed that she can put so perfectly into words what he's felt and tried to communicate since My Chemical Romance first started doing shows.
He's pleasantly surprised when, between slapping hash browns onto torn pieces of french toast, rolling the whole thing into a ball and shoving it into her mouth, the talk turns to movies and Brendon reveals that she loves horror movies. She waves her syrup sticky hands when she talks--her cutlery sits neat on the napkin beside her plate, exactly where it was when they sat down--"Yeah, my babysitter scarred me for life! Even now, someone even mentioning Michael Myers scares the hell out of me."
Talk of movies turns to Frank Miller and Brendon rolls her eyes and says "Do not even get me started on that perv's whacked out ideas about Xena: Warrior Princess-type titanium tit sexy babes. God. So annoying. So so annoying. Although 300 lookedreally fucking cool on screen." She listens intently as Gerard talks about comic books and provides thoughtful, informed comments on art and writing, interspersed with picking out fruit she actually likes from her parfait dish of salad. She tells him about her high school teacher who used The Watchmen and Maus as texts and how after that her parents couldn't really freak out about her reading "graphic novels" --she actually makes air quotes and Gerard tries not to focus on how really fucking adorable that is. So they never found her copies of Faust, "Thank fucking god. Mormon heart attacks ahoy! And when I was a kid I really dug Bone." She pauses for a beat and follows it up with, "And bone-ing."
Gerard's eyes go wide, eyebrows raised to his hairline, completely non plussed. "Oh God!" Brendon brays, slapping the table. "Your face! Dude, you are so easy. I'm just kidding, jeez," still laughing, she motions towards the remains of Gerard's breakfast. "Are you gonna eat that?"
Recovering his composure, Gerard smiles "Nope." He pushes his plate towards her and she shovels the hash browns onto the toast and brings it to her mouth to nibble on. "So, if this whole band thing didn't work out, were you gonna go to art school or something?" Gerard holds his coffee cup up to get the waitress's attention, "You want another hot chocolate?"
Brendon asks for an orange juice. "Oh dude, no way. I was gonna be a fucking hair dresser."
Choking a little on his coffee, Gerard says, "Seriously? I dated a hair dresser once. It was...interesting." His fingers shred the paper napkin beside his plate.
"Totally, a hair dresser. Got into a cosmetology school in Arizona and everything. But then...you know, the band. And you? Dated Eliza, aka a fame-whore who could work out the application directions for Manic Panic...totally not the same thing."
"Touche," He raises his fork to Brendon in salute. "So you keep up with all the My Chem news, huh?" Gerard tries not to be embarrassed at the speed and ease with which details he'd rather not have even his close friends know end up splashed all over the Internet.
Brendon continues to nibble on the buttery toast, shrugging as she unzips her sweatshirt and wriggles out of it. She's wearing a pale pink tank top, the straps of a polka dotted bra not quite lining up with the cut of the shirt, and Gerard blinks and coughs, before refocusing his stare into his coffee cup. "Well, actually, Mr. Ryan Ross is the old school MCR fanboy in our band. I just get, like, peripheral information, or whatever. He would come in his pants if he knew The Gerard Way totally banged me out last night. Actually, he'd probably be so jealous that you fucked me and not him he might never speak to me again!" She finishes brightly.
"What?" Gerard's fork slips from his hand and clatters across the table. "You guys talk about...you'd tell him we...that..."
She's laughing so hard it takes Brendon a minute to pick up Gerard's fork. She hands it back to him, curls his fingers around, it and pats him soothingly on the forearm. "Again! I got you again!" She sobers then, blinking quickly and staring out the window, sniffling. "I don't ever discuss shit like this, with them. They'd probably go all apeshit, and try to like, defend my honor or something. And that would just end badly. Have you seen Ryan Ross's spindly little arms?" She holds her own up as she speaks. Gerard's eye follows the smooth curve of her bicep, the pale skin of her forearm, down to the delicate bend of her small wrist. His fingers itch for a pencil and he's seized with the bizarre urge to draw her. An awkward silence tries to settle and Brendon lowers her arm slowly to her side, picking up her milkshake glass with her other hand.
Gerard clears his throat and finally says, "So, you heading home from here?"
"Oh God. Yeah. To do more recording. We have to write more songs because Ryan is fucking insane and decided that after a month of forcing me to endure their Mountain Man Lite bullshit--in a cabin, in the fucking mountains, if you can believe that--the music I wrote was "too orchestral" and scrapped it. Just like that. I mean Christ, a month without shaving. He actually fucking banned razors! What the fuck? Luckily I'm like, part Hawaiian and not too hairy, 'cause that shit is just not cool."
Gerard laughs at her rant and then lifts a hand in acknowledgement towards the entrance of the restaurant. Brendon follows his gaze and sees Bob and Mikey come through the doors. Bob heads past the hostess and towards where Gerard and Brendon are sitting before Mikey scowls and yanks at the hem of his jacket. They stop in the middle of the aisle and allow themselves to be seated at a table closer to the door. Gerard's brows crease in confusion and Brendon sort of shrugs, embarrassed, before she starts talking again. "So yeah, anyway, more songwriting. More recording. More putting up with the jackass behaviour of my three most favourite boys in the world."
Smiling as the waitress comes to take away their empty plates and pour yet another refill into Gerard's cup, he says, "Yeah, we have a couple weeks off then we're doing the whole Linkin Park tour thing. Stadium tour. Should be good." His eyes keep darting to the table where Mikey and Bob are sitting.
Brendon fishes out her wallet, covered in rainbow and unicorn stickers, and lays some bills on the table. Her eyes follow Gerard's and she bites her lip, "Well, I guess, um, I should get back, or whatever." On a whim she snatches up his cell phone and starts pushing buttons, her eyes flitting between Gerard and the phone, a small smile on her face.
"You don't have to pay..."
"Yeah, I do." She tosses his cell back onto the table and puts her palm flat over the money. "Thanks Gerard. For everything." She kisses his cheek as she stands. "You were really sweet to me, and a lot of guys wouldn't have been." As she turns to leave she says, "You can call me or text me or whatever, if you ever get that bored." And then she raises her hand, gives him a wiggly fingered wave, and bounces away.
She sashays towards the exit, and Gerard can admit his eyes are totally glued to her fantastic ass, and when she gets to Mikey and Bob's table Gerard hears her say, with a hand wave in his direction, "Okay boys, the Girl Cooties have left the building! Go get your man!" Gerard laughs and when the waitress sets down their bill he throws more cash on the table, picks up his belongings, and goes to join his band mates. He grabs a chair from another table, flips it around and then straddles it, resting his chin on his folded arms.
"Hey," Bob raises his chin in greeting. Mikey continues to scowl into his pancakes.
Gerard shoves at Mikey's shoulder only to have his brother mutter under his breath and shrug away from him. "Bro. What the fuck?"
Mikey's head snaps up and he glares at Gerard. "Really? You have to ask?" Bob glances nervously between the Ways.
"Yeah. I have to ask." His hands thrown wide, Gerard's brows crease as he shoots a glance at Bob and tries to figure out what the fuck is going on. Bob just shrugs.
"Seriously. What the fuck were you doing with her?"
Gerard feels anger bloom to life low in his guts and his fingers curl into his palms. "Her name is Brendon, and we were having breakfast." He will not let anyone make him feel bad about this. Or maybe it's his own guilt that allows his anger to rise so readily.
"Yeah, Brendon." Mikey's voice rises and Bob coughs uncomfortably. "Brendon Skank! at the Disco Urie. Hope you know a good doctor for when your piss starts to burn." His laugh is an unpleasant chuckle.
Before he knows what he's doing Gerard stands up, knocking over his chair as his fist comes up to connect with his brother's jaw. "Don't talk shit about her man, you don't know anythingabout her!" He's furious, huffing with anger and shaking out his fist.
"You hit me! You fucking hit me!" Mikey's eyes are wide with shock and he manages to not tip over in his own chair, getting to his feet and advancing on his brother. "Over that slut? Are you fucking insane?"
Bob jumps up between them eyeing the hostess and the manager as he steps between them putting a hand on each of their chests. "Guys, guys! Chill, okay? We're in the fucking IHOP. What the fuck?!?!"
"At least I'm not fucking Pete Wentz's sloppy seconds." Gerard hisses.
"How do you know you're not?" Mikey takes a swing at Gerard just as the hostess and manager make it over to them. All eyes in the restaurant are on the brothers.
"Dudes, you can beat the shit out of each other, just not here, okay. C'mon. We're going. Now!" Bob eyes the IHOP staff apologetically, hauling the brothers out of the restaurant, each one restrained by a big hand on an elbow. He gets to the door, shoves them through it, and then turns and extracts his wallet, paying for food he didn't get to eat and giving a generous tip. He rolls his eyes and thanks the waitress profusely before heading to the street to see if the Ways have actually killed each other this time.
Continue to 2A