113
the cure to growing older
Panic! At The Disco (Brendon/Spencer)
687 words, third person, pg-13. written mostly to distract myself from the ginormous wip that's sitting on my taskbar, staring at me. and because I needed to actually finish something. also because, apparently, this is what happens when I idly think about zombies.
i.
Brendon wakes to the sound of breaking glass - clinking as it shatters in the frame, muffled at it hits the carpet. He sits up straight with a gasp, presses his hands over his mouth and is quiet, so quiet.
With his eyes fixed firmly on the half-closed door to his bedroom, he slowly shifts from under his covers, feet sinking silent into the carpet. He takes a deep breath, the air shaking as it leaves his throat, and walks - heel toe heel toe - to the door.
He steps over the suit jacket and pants puddled in the hallway, and grabs the baseball bat from the closet.
The light is on in the living room.
ii.
“Spencer,” Brendon says, his voice a whisper, and the baseball bat hits the floor with a thunk.
Spencer is sitting on the couch with his legs crossed, his white leather shoes covered in mud. His jacket is slumped over the arm of the couch, and is covered with dirt halfway to the shoulder. Spencer is looking down at his lap, his hands curled palm up on his thighs, his hair covering his face.
The rain is coming in through the broken window, and Brendon knows that’s why Spencer’s hair is dripping water onto his filthy hands, but Spencer isn’t shivering.
“Brendon?” Spencer asks, his tone lost, and when he looks up, Brendon can only see one pale blue eye staring at him in confusion. Spencer’s skin is sheet white and smudged with dirt, just like the rest of him.
Brendon is kneeling in front of him before he can really think about it, his clean hands folding around Spencer’s dirty ones. Spencer’s fingernails are broken, ripped down to the quick, but there’s still the remains of dirt lodged underneath. No blood. Brendon isn’t really surprised.
“Brendon,” Spencer says, his voice slightly clearer, sturdier, “how did I get here?”
iii.
Spencer’s lips taste like dirt, the inside of his mouth tastes like rain, and grass, and Spencer lets Brendon push him back against the carpeted floor and unfasten the button of his suit pants, pulling them down over his thighs. His boxers are light blue and plain, and Brendon remembers putting them on. Spencer’s fingers curl into Brendon’s hair, but they don’t tug, just rest there, against his scalp. He’s clean skin all the way down to his knees, smooth and soft and a little cold to the touch.
When Brendon glances up at Spencer’s face, his hair is still covering one eye, his lips slightly parted and tinged pink, and Brendon presses a kiss to the jut of his hipbone. He pushes his fingers under the worn, well-washed fabric of Spencer’s t-shirt, presses his face against Spencer’s soft belly, still startlingly white, and he says,
“I’ve missed you.”
iv.
There is no confusion in Spencer’s eyes when he looks down at Brendon, later. His hair is still half wet, drying curved over the arch of his nose.
He says, “Let it go, Bren,” his voice serious and commanding and everything Brendon has missed about him.
“I can’t,” Brendon says, wrapping his arms around Spencer’s torso, pressing his fingers down the line of Spencer’s spine, curving them up under Spencer’s shoulder blades. His skin smells like earth, like sandalwood, and it never had, before.
“You have to,” Spencer says, pressing his face into the crook of Brendon’s neck, kissing the skin there. “Bren, Brendon,” he says, and for the first time, his voice is half-desperate. Brendon can feel his teeth when they sink in, and he shudders, and he says,
“Okay, I - okay.”
v.
Brendon wakes up on the floor, naked, his body curled into a ball on the soft carpet, and he’s alone.
The baseball bat is still on the floor by the doorway, and there’s dirt smudged on the carpet, ground into the fabric. The couch is filthy. The shards of glass gleam under the broken window.
In the bathroom, letting the running shower steam up the mirror, Brendon presses his hand against the bite mark, the ring of perfectly placed teeth, just where shoulder meets neck.
Spencer is nowhere.
Panic! At The Disco (Brendon/Spencer)
687 words, third person, pg-13. written mostly to distract myself from the ginormous wip that's sitting on my taskbar, staring at me. and because I needed to actually finish something. also because, apparently, this is what happens when I idly think about zombies.
i.
Brendon wakes to the sound of breaking glass - clinking as it shatters in the frame, muffled at it hits the carpet. He sits up straight with a gasp, presses his hands over his mouth and is quiet, so quiet.
With his eyes fixed firmly on the half-closed door to his bedroom, he slowly shifts from under his covers, feet sinking silent into the carpet. He takes a deep breath, the air shaking as it leaves his throat, and walks - heel toe heel toe - to the door.
He steps over the suit jacket and pants puddled in the hallway, and grabs the baseball bat from the closet.
The light is on in the living room.
ii.
“Spencer,” Brendon says, his voice a whisper, and the baseball bat hits the floor with a thunk.
Spencer is sitting on the couch with his legs crossed, his white leather shoes covered in mud. His jacket is slumped over the arm of the couch, and is covered with dirt halfway to the shoulder. Spencer is looking down at his lap, his hands curled palm up on his thighs, his hair covering his face.
The rain is coming in through the broken window, and Brendon knows that’s why Spencer’s hair is dripping water onto his filthy hands, but Spencer isn’t shivering.
“Brendon?” Spencer asks, his tone lost, and when he looks up, Brendon can only see one pale blue eye staring at him in confusion. Spencer’s skin is sheet white and smudged with dirt, just like the rest of him.
Brendon is kneeling in front of him before he can really think about it, his clean hands folding around Spencer’s dirty ones. Spencer’s fingernails are broken, ripped down to the quick, but there’s still the remains of dirt lodged underneath. No blood. Brendon isn’t really surprised.
“Brendon,” Spencer says, his voice slightly clearer, sturdier, “how did I get here?”
iii.
Spencer’s lips taste like dirt, the inside of his mouth tastes like rain, and grass, and Spencer lets Brendon push him back against the carpeted floor and unfasten the button of his suit pants, pulling them down over his thighs. His boxers are light blue and plain, and Brendon remembers putting them on. Spencer’s fingers curl into Brendon’s hair, but they don’t tug, just rest there, against his scalp. He’s clean skin all the way down to his knees, smooth and soft and a little cold to the touch.
When Brendon glances up at Spencer’s face, his hair is still covering one eye, his lips slightly parted and tinged pink, and Brendon presses a kiss to the jut of his hipbone. He pushes his fingers under the worn, well-washed fabric of Spencer’s t-shirt, presses his face against Spencer’s soft belly, still startlingly white, and he says,
“I’ve missed you.”
iv.
There is no confusion in Spencer’s eyes when he looks down at Brendon, later. His hair is still half wet, drying curved over the arch of his nose.
He says, “Let it go, Bren,” his voice serious and commanding and everything Brendon has missed about him.
“I can’t,” Brendon says, wrapping his arms around Spencer’s torso, pressing his fingers down the line of Spencer’s spine, curving them up under Spencer’s shoulder blades. His skin smells like earth, like sandalwood, and it never had, before.
“You have to,” Spencer says, pressing his face into the crook of Brendon’s neck, kissing the skin there. “Bren, Brendon,” he says, and for the first time, his voice is half-desperate. Brendon can feel his teeth when they sink in, and he shudders, and he says,
“Okay, I - okay.”
v.
Brendon wakes up on the floor, naked, his body curled into a ball on the soft carpet, and he’s alone.
The baseball bat is still on the floor by the doorway, and there’s dirt smudged on the carpet, ground into the fabric. The couch is filthy. The shards of glass gleam under the broken window.
In the bathroom, letting the running shower steam up the mirror, Brendon presses his hand against the bite mark, the ring of perfectly placed teeth, just where shoulder meets neck.
Spencer is nowhere.