Fic: Symphony - Chapter Four
Title: Symphony - Chapter Four
Author: beccaforever
Rating: M, I guess.
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan. Bow to my originality. Hah.
POV: Second. ‘You’ is Ryan again.
Summary: “Tell me about your first lover.”
“He was a musician.”
Disclaimer: Christmas came, Christmas went, I still have no claim to any of it. Damn. And, well. As interesting as it would be, this actually never happened. Funny that.
Dedication: amethyst_angel, because she’s a mind reader. Haha.
Author Notes: Argh. Sorry this took so long!! I feel bad. But I had no inspiration. At all. And I hate this chapter. So hopefully it doesn’t suck too much.
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
You fucking hated alcohol.
No, more than that, you loathed alcohol. Despised it. And for a good reason.
Several good reasons, actually.
The first was purely shallow, materialistic. You hated the taste. You just couldn’t find the appeal in drinking something that tasted, well, like cat piss and detergent mixed together. Well, what you imagined cat piss and detergent would taste like mixed together. You’d never tasted cat piss. Detergent, that was a different story. One you didn’t get into often. But nevertheless, you couldn’t stand it. Just the thought of drinking it made you feel nauseous.
The second perhaps appeared shallow as well. You hated the smell. Most people put this down to you being fussy. Hating any smells that even slightly disagreed with you. But that was nonsense. Crap made up by people who didn’t know a thing about you. You knew, intellectually, that most alcohol smelt okay in and of itself. But it was more the associations you had with the smell that put you off. Bad things always happened after you smelt alcohol.
The third was most definitely not materialistic. Not in the slightest. A little unreasonable, maybe. But not shallow. That being the connection you made with alcohol causing tragedies. Again, you knew that not everyone acted like a beast under the influence. You just hadn’t met anyone like that yet.
And it just so happened that, right now, Brendon was drunk. Pissed out of his fucking mind. And you hated him for it.
Again, you knew you were being maybe the slightest bit unreasonable. Brendon didn’t know how much you hated alcohol. You’d never told him, never given any explanation for the dozens of times you turned up at his house with bruises. He had no idea. Didn’t know that he was really fucking you off right now.
But, honestly? You didn’t care. You were entitled to be unreasonable, once in a while. The rest of the band (mostly Brendon) was unreasonable on a daily basis. Brendon going out and getting smashed the day before a sold out concert was unreasonable.
Fuck him.
Well, not literally (not that you would’ve minded). For one, you were a bit too far away. As far away as possible, actually. Which meant that Brendon was puking his guts out in the bathroom (at the back of the bus), and you were curled up on a couch in the lounge (at the front of the bus). Trying to read a book. You didn’t know where the others were, and you didn’t particularly care. All that you cared about, at the moment, was the idiot puking his guts out mere metres away. And how to make him stop.
Aside from the fact that it was annoying you (he did deserve it, for getting pissed, but still), he was your friend, and you cared that he probably wasn’t feeling the greatest right now.
So you sighed, tossed your book aside, and went to help him out.
Halfway to the bathroom, the retching stopped.
You paused, considering going back to your book, but that was when you heard the sobbing start.
You always hated to hear people cry.
So you continued to the bathroom, knocking gently on the door when you reached it. “Bren?”
Sobs.
The door creaked open, and you squeezed inside. The bathroom wasn’t the most spacious of places, and Brendon lying spread across the floor wasn’t helping matters.
You crouched down and crawled, slipping in between the basin and Brendon’s head.
“Hey,” you said, smiling gently.
He gazed up at you, eyes hazy. “Hey…”
“You okay?” You asked, shifting him around so his head was resting on your shoulder, his body half draped over yours.
He didn’t answer, and you figured maybe he’d passed out. That was, until you glanced down.
He was staring at you. His eyes seemed to have regained some of their focus, and he was staring at you. Just watching you watch him.
And then you made the biggest mistake of your fucking life.
You kissed him.
His lips were wet, you noted. And his mouth was warm. And he was kissing you back.
And he tasted like shit.
You’d always thought it was utter bullshit, how authors came up with sentences like “his/her mouth tasted faintly of chocolate with a hint of mint’ (the people you kissed mostly just tasted like saliva, and, well mouth), but now you understood. Only it wasn’t chocolate and mint you were tasting, but stomach acid and vodka. Enough to make you throw up yourself.
You pulled away, spitting into the toilet and discreetly wiping your mouth. But the taste remained.
Brendon stared up at you, eyes unfocused again, and you mentally reviewed your reasons why alcohol was utterly vile (even when it wasn’t you drinking it).
Taste. Check. Smell. Check. Bad things happening. Check.
You fucking hated alcohol.
***
You were determined never to mention the kiss again.
And it didn’t look like it was going to be too hard. Brendon didn’t remember (or he pretended he didn’t, at least) and no one else had a clue what had happened. And you had no plans to enlighten them.
So life continued (mostly) as normal. You performed, wrote, read books, played far too many video games. Brendon drank a lot. You became famous, changed from tour van to tour bus, lost a bassist, gained a bassist (and friend), and performed some more. Nothing out of the ordinary happened. Well. Maybe. But it didn’t disrupt your routine or confuse you too much, and so you were happy.
For the most part.
Because, although you swore to never mention the kiss out loud again, your mind couldn’t seem to stop replaying it, over and over again. You relived the experience some twenty times the first hour after the event. And although the memory faded a little after - what? - six months or so, it was still there. Still haunting you.
Screwing you over. Fucking you up.
But at least it was only one memory. You could easily forget one memory.
But when it became more than one memory, well, then you were really screwed.
And you knew, inevitably, that it would become more than one memory. Because that was how these things worked.
And it did.
You could even pin point the exact date it happened. The second of October, two thousand and six. The date of your first gig in New Zealand.
You’d been looking forward to this gig. Anticipating it. Because it was a new country, a new venue. New fans. New fans. That, along with the excitement, the anticipation, brought its fair share of nervousness. New crowds were always intimidating. You never knew what to expect from them, how to react. Although you supposed you should’ve been used to it by now. Not knowing what to expect, how to react. You dealt with that every day.
New crowds were like Brendon.
But still. You had become accustomed to Brendon’s unpredictability, as weird as that sounded. Becoming accustomed to unpredictability. You mostly got him now. Except when he did something exceptionally weird. And you imagined this would be a good principle to apply to the crowd out there, screaming for you still, for you to come back and play something else, anything else. Expect the unexpected and all that.
And you really wanted to apply that policy to the crowd, you really did. But, unfortunately, all your, basically, all your wtf? was occupied right now. With (you guessed it) Brendon.
Because he was acting weird.
More weird than usual. A different weird than usual.
And it was bothering you.
First and foremost, he was being quiet. Brendon Urie was never quiet. Not even when he was sleeping. He snored, he talked, and he tossed and turned. Much like when he was awake, minus the snoring. He wasn’t doing any of that now. He was just sitting there, quietly, doing nothing. Staring at the wall. Or something in that general direction (the couch? The dressing table?).
That was the second thing. He wasn’t moving. No twitching, no tapping his feet, not nothing. Complete and utter stillness. Well, except for the essential things, like the slight rise and fall of his chest and the flutter of his eyelashes.
And you really wanted to know what was bothering him.
For a normal person, sitting down next to them, maybe giving them a hug, and gently asking “What’s wrong?”, would be the correct way to go about things, but this was Brendon. The normal approach very rarely worked with Brendon. So you settled for a “What the hell is wrong with you?”
It worked. Well, to some extent. His head snapped around and he glared at you. But he didn’t answer your question. So you glared back.
You knew you would win. Brendon hated conflict of any sort, especially between people he cared about. It didn’t bother you so much, because you were used to it. And this was only glaring.
And sure enough, not five minutes later, Brendon sighed and looked away, burying his face in the arm of his chair. You smiled, enjoying your victory just a little, before moving closer, leaning against the other arm of the chair. It was only a matter of time now before he spoke up; rambling about whatever was bothering him this time.
Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five-
“Why did you kiss me?”
You just about fell off the chair.
“What?”
He looked at you then, hair mussed and eyes wild. “Why did you kiss me?”
You feigned confusion “When did I do that?”
He just looked at you.
So you tried a different tactic. “Dude, why are you asking me about that now? That was ages ago.”
“Six months, two days…”
You knew that, of course you did. You didn’t want to know that, didn’t want to remember that, but you did. You could probably tell him the number of minutes it had been. “Yeah, exactly. Ages ago. Why ask me about it now?”
“Dunno…” he shrugged.
Liar.
“Why does it matter anyway?” You continued, “It’s not like it meant anything. It was just a mistake.”
“A mistake.” He repeated.
“Yeah.”
And really, you should’ve been able to see it coming. Should’ve been able to anticipate his hand on your jaw, his tongue in your mouth. Should’ve somehow figured that you would kiss back. Should’ve known that this was going to happen.
Should’ve been able to prevent it.
He pulled away. “So…was that a mistake too?”
You stormed out of the room.
You’d always expected there would be more situations, more memories to add to that first one. But that didn’t make you any happier about it.
Even if, really, you wanted nothing more than to do it again.
***
Brendon was drunk. Again.
Or you assumed he was, anyway. Or he would be. At some point tonight. He’d gone out (with who, you didn’t know), and Brendon going out automatically equalled Brendon getting pissed. You vaguely remembered times when he hadn’t come back pissed, but they were few and far between lately. Especially in the last week or so. Ever since New Zealand.
New Zealand. That was what you were calling it. You didn’t even have the balls to face up to what actually happened. To actually say “Okay, so Brendon kissed me and I liked it”. Because you were pathetic. And you knew it.
Of course, it wasn’t like Brendon’s behaviour was any better. He was the one that kissed you, after all. He was also the one that had been avoiding you all week, going out and getting drunk instead of facing up to the situation (and you really wanted him to face up to the situation).
It had occurred to you, in one of the few moments where you weren’t being completely selfish, that maybe this was how Brendon had felt after you kissed him. Way back at the start of the year. And that made you feel pretty bad. Because you felt like crap right now. And you wanted to do something about it. But you just couldn’t. And Brendon should’ve known that. Because really, Brendon knew you. He knew that you were too shy (pathetic) to actually solve these sorts of things. That if anyone was going to solve this, make it less shitty (for both of you), it had to be him. Because he was that sort of guy. The one who acted on stuff, rather than sitting around and moping (like you).
And, despite the fact that you were freaking out over the kiss, you really, really wanted him to do it again.
But, judging by the last week (in which Brendon got drunk and you read too much and you avoided each other), he wasn’t going to do it again. Or, if he did, he’d wait six months again. And you really weren’t up for that.
So, feeling way too Mission Impossible for your liking, you decided to make a plan. Make several plans, as it turned out. Because you were like that. You needed back-up plans and option B’s and all that (mostly because the first few plans were utterly stupid and would never work in a million years). You needed elaborate plans and possibly code names and…well, no, you didn’t really need any of that. In the end, all you needed was Brendon to come back to the bus utterly smashed, so you could take advantage of him. Very simple.
Although, you supposed he didn’t really need to be drunk. He very clearly hadn’t been drunk when he’d kissed you a week ago. But, well, that was all you again. Being insecure and all. Hoping that if he was drunk he wouldn’t remember you screwing up (as you were bound to do).
And it looked as though someone up there was looking out for you, because sure enough, not ten minutes later, Brendon was stumbling through the bus door, completely off his face. Stumbling in the door and straight over to you, as a matter of fact. Stumbling in the door, straight over to you, and straight on to you, no less. Someone up there was really looking out for you.
Okay, really, really looking out for you. You know, judging by the fact that, once again, Brendon’s tongue was in your mouth .
And you were thinking of the most inane and stupid things right now, really. Like does my breath smell and oh God, is this going right and what exactly does this mean for everyone. But then Brendon ran his hand up under your shirt, and the only coherent thought you had left was something along the lines of Oh My God… and maybe a faint God, you virgin. It’s just his hand up your top… from the cynical side of your brain. But that felt kind of, really, really good.
And Brendon was kind of heavy.
And you needed to stop using ‘kind of’. And start concentrating on the important things. And start kissing back.
Or maybe not, seeing as it was kind of hard to kiss someone who was sucking on your neck oh god. There were going to bruises in the morning. But, you know, good bruises.
And your brain needed to shut the fuck up.
You gripped the hair at the nape of Brendon’s neck and pulled, yanking him away from your collarbone and back up to your mouth. And you really hoped that Jon and Spencer weren’t planning on re-appearing any time soon, because you wanted to enjoy this. Well. More than you already were.
The point of this plan had been to decide, once and for all, whether you really did want Brendon kissing you. The final verdict: Okay, maybe Brendon did taste like vomit, and maybe he could do with drinking less, but really? This wasn’t so bad.
Really.
Not so bad at all.
Author notes: Okay, I think I should win an award for the most euphemisms for ‘drunk’ used in one chapter. I don’t know how many are up there, but there are a lot. Sorry about that. I hate this chapter. So much.
Author: beccaforever
Rating: M, I guess.
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan. Bow to my originality. Hah.
POV: Second. ‘You’ is Ryan again.
Summary: “Tell me about your first lover.”
“He was a musician.”
Disclaimer: Christmas came, Christmas went, I still have no claim to any of it. Damn. And, well. As interesting as it would be, this actually never happened. Funny that.
Dedication: amethyst_angel, because she’s a mind reader. Haha.
Author Notes: Argh. Sorry this took so long!! I feel bad. But I had no inspiration. At all. And I hate this chapter. So hopefully it doesn’t suck too much.
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
You fucking hated alcohol.
No, more than that, you loathed alcohol. Despised it. And for a good reason.
Several good reasons, actually.
The first was purely shallow, materialistic. You hated the taste. You just couldn’t find the appeal in drinking something that tasted, well, like cat piss and detergent mixed together. Well, what you imagined cat piss and detergent would taste like mixed together. You’d never tasted cat piss. Detergent, that was a different story. One you didn’t get into often. But nevertheless, you couldn’t stand it. Just the thought of drinking it made you feel nauseous.
The second perhaps appeared shallow as well. You hated the smell. Most people put this down to you being fussy. Hating any smells that even slightly disagreed with you. But that was nonsense. Crap made up by people who didn’t know a thing about you. You knew, intellectually, that most alcohol smelt okay in and of itself. But it was more the associations you had with the smell that put you off. Bad things always happened after you smelt alcohol.
The third was most definitely not materialistic. Not in the slightest. A little unreasonable, maybe. But not shallow. That being the connection you made with alcohol causing tragedies. Again, you knew that not everyone acted like a beast under the influence. You just hadn’t met anyone like that yet.
And it just so happened that, right now, Brendon was drunk. Pissed out of his fucking mind. And you hated him for it.
Again, you knew you were being maybe the slightest bit unreasonable. Brendon didn’t know how much you hated alcohol. You’d never told him, never given any explanation for the dozens of times you turned up at his house with bruises. He had no idea. Didn’t know that he was really fucking you off right now.
But, honestly? You didn’t care. You were entitled to be unreasonable, once in a while. The rest of the band (mostly Brendon) was unreasonable on a daily basis. Brendon going out and getting smashed the day before a sold out concert was unreasonable.
Fuck him.
Well, not literally (not that you would’ve minded). For one, you were a bit too far away. As far away as possible, actually. Which meant that Brendon was puking his guts out in the bathroom (at the back of the bus), and you were curled up on a couch in the lounge (at the front of the bus). Trying to read a book. You didn’t know where the others were, and you didn’t particularly care. All that you cared about, at the moment, was the idiot puking his guts out mere metres away. And how to make him stop.
Aside from the fact that it was annoying you (he did deserve it, for getting pissed, but still), he was your friend, and you cared that he probably wasn’t feeling the greatest right now.
So you sighed, tossed your book aside, and went to help him out.
Halfway to the bathroom, the retching stopped.
You paused, considering going back to your book, but that was when you heard the sobbing start.
You always hated to hear people cry.
So you continued to the bathroom, knocking gently on the door when you reached it. “Bren?”
Sobs.
The door creaked open, and you squeezed inside. The bathroom wasn’t the most spacious of places, and Brendon lying spread across the floor wasn’t helping matters.
You crouched down and crawled, slipping in between the basin and Brendon’s head.
“Hey,” you said, smiling gently.
He gazed up at you, eyes hazy. “Hey…”
“You okay?” You asked, shifting him around so his head was resting on your shoulder, his body half draped over yours.
He didn’t answer, and you figured maybe he’d passed out. That was, until you glanced down.
He was staring at you. His eyes seemed to have regained some of their focus, and he was staring at you. Just watching you watch him.
And then you made the biggest mistake of your fucking life.
You kissed him.
His lips were wet, you noted. And his mouth was warm. And he was kissing you back.
And he tasted like shit.
You’d always thought it was utter bullshit, how authors came up with sentences like “his/her mouth tasted faintly of chocolate with a hint of mint’ (the people you kissed mostly just tasted like saliva, and, well mouth), but now you understood. Only it wasn’t chocolate and mint you were tasting, but stomach acid and vodka. Enough to make you throw up yourself.
You pulled away, spitting into the toilet and discreetly wiping your mouth. But the taste remained.
Brendon stared up at you, eyes unfocused again, and you mentally reviewed your reasons why alcohol was utterly vile (even when it wasn’t you drinking it).
Taste. Check. Smell. Check. Bad things happening. Check.
You fucking hated alcohol.
***
You were determined never to mention the kiss again.
And it didn’t look like it was going to be too hard. Brendon didn’t remember (or he pretended he didn’t, at least) and no one else had a clue what had happened. And you had no plans to enlighten them.
So life continued (mostly) as normal. You performed, wrote, read books, played far too many video games. Brendon drank a lot. You became famous, changed from tour van to tour bus, lost a bassist, gained a bassist (and friend), and performed some more. Nothing out of the ordinary happened. Well. Maybe. But it didn’t disrupt your routine or confuse you too much, and so you were happy.
For the most part.
Because, although you swore to never mention the kiss out loud again, your mind couldn’t seem to stop replaying it, over and over again. You relived the experience some twenty times the first hour after the event. And although the memory faded a little after - what? - six months or so, it was still there. Still haunting you.
Screwing you over. Fucking you up.
But at least it was only one memory. You could easily forget one memory.
But when it became more than one memory, well, then you were really screwed.
And you knew, inevitably, that it would become more than one memory. Because that was how these things worked.
And it did.
You could even pin point the exact date it happened. The second of October, two thousand and six. The date of your first gig in New Zealand.
You’d been looking forward to this gig. Anticipating it. Because it was a new country, a new venue. New fans. New fans. That, along with the excitement, the anticipation, brought its fair share of nervousness. New crowds were always intimidating. You never knew what to expect from them, how to react. Although you supposed you should’ve been used to it by now. Not knowing what to expect, how to react. You dealt with that every day.
New crowds were like Brendon.
But still. You had become accustomed to Brendon’s unpredictability, as weird as that sounded. Becoming accustomed to unpredictability. You mostly got him now. Except when he did something exceptionally weird. And you imagined this would be a good principle to apply to the crowd out there, screaming for you still, for you to come back and play something else, anything else. Expect the unexpected and all that.
And you really wanted to apply that policy to the crowd, you really did. But, unfortunately, all your, basically, all your wtf? was occupied right now. With (you guessed it) Brendon.
Because he was acting weird.
More weird than usual. A different weird than usual.
And it was bothering you.
First and foremost, he was being quiet. Brendon Urie was never quiet. Not even when he was sleeping. He snored, he talked, and he tossed and turned. Much like when he was awake, minus the snoring. He wasn’t doing any of that now. He was just sitting there, quietly, doing nothing. Staring at the wall. Or something in that general direction (the couch? The dressing table?).
That was the second thing. He wasn’t moving. No twitching, no tapping his feet, not nothing. Complete and utter stillness. Well, except for the essential things, like the slight rise and fall of his chest and the flutter of his eyelashes.
And you really wanted to know what was bothering him.
For a normal person, sitting down next to them, maybe giving them a hug, and gently asking “What’s wrong?”, would be the correct way to go about things, but this was Brendon. The normal approach very rarely worked with Brendon. So you settled for a “What the hell is wrong with you?”
It worked. Well, to some extent. His head snapped around and he glared at you. But he didn’t answer your question. So you glared back.
You knew you would win. Brendon hated conflict of any sort, especially between people he cared about. It didn’t bother you so much, because you were used to it. And this was only glaring.
And sure enough, not five minutes later, Brendon sighed and looked away, burying his face in the arm of his chair. You smiled, enjoying your victory just a little, before moving closer, leaning against the other arm of the chair. It was only a matter of time now before he spoke up; rambling about whatever was bothering him this time.
Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five-
“Why did you kiss me?”
You just about fell off the chair.
“What?”
He looked at you then, hair mussed and eyes wild. “Why did you kiss me?”
You feigned confusion “When did I do that?”
He just looked at you.
So you tried a different tactic. “Dude, why are you asking me about that now? That was ages ago.”
“Six months, two days…”
You knew that, of course you did. You didn’t want to know that, didn’t want to remember that, but you did. You could probably tell him the number of minutes it had been. “Yeah, exactly. Ages ago. Why ask me about it now?”
“Dunno…” he shrugged.
Liar.
“Why does it matter anyway?” You continued, “It’s not like it meant anything. It was just a mistake.”
“A mistake.” He repeated.
“Yeah.”
And really, you should’ve been able to see it coming. Should’ve been able to anticipate his hand on your jaw, his tongue in your mouth. Should’ve somehow figured that you would kiss back. Should’ve known that this was going to happen.
Should’ve been able to prevent it.
He pulled away. “So…was that a mistake too?”
You stormed out of the room.
You’d always expected there would be more situations, more memories to add to that first one. But that didn’t make you any happier about it.
Even if, really, you wanted nothing more than to do it again.
***
Brendon was drunk. Again.
Or you assumed he was, anyway. Or he would be. At some point tonight. He’d gone out (with who, you didn’t know), and Brendon going out automatically equalled Brendon getting pissed. You vaguely remembered times when he hadn’t come back pissed, but they were few and far between lately. Especially in the last week or so. Ever since New Zealand.
New Zealand. That was what you were calling it. You didn’t even have the balls to face up to what actually happened. To actually say “Okay, so Brendon kissed me and I liked it”. Because you were pathetic. And you knew it.
Of course, it wasn’t like Brendon’s behaviour was any better. He was the one that kissed you, after all. He was also the one that had been avoiding you all week, going out and getting drunk instead of facing up to the situation (and you really wanted him to face up to the situation).
It had occurred to you, in one of the few moments where you weren’t being completely selfish, that maybe this was how Brendon had felt after you kissed him. Way back at the start of the year. And that made you feel pretty bad. Because you felt like crap right now. And you wanted to do something about it. But you just couldn’t. And Brendon should’ve known that. Because really, Brendon knew you. He knew that you were too shy (pathetic) to actually solve these sorts of things. That if anyone was going to solve this, make it less shitty (for both of you), it had to be him. Because he was that sort of guy. The one who acted on stuff, rather than sitting around and moping (like you).
And, despite the fact that you were freaking out over the kiss, you really, really wanted him to do it again.
But, judging by the last week (in which Brendon got drunk and you read too much and you avoided each other), he wasn’t going to do it again. Or, if he did, he’d wait six months again. And you really weren’t up for that.
So, feeling way too Mission Impossible for your liking, you decided to make a plan. Make several plans, as it turned out. Because you were like that. You needed back-up plans and option B’s and all that (mostly because the first few plans were utterly stupid and would never work in a million years). You needed elaborate plans and possibly code names and…well, no, you didn’t really need any of that. In the end, all you needed was Brendon to come back to the bus utterly smashed, so you could take advantage of him. Very simple.
Although, you supposed he didn’t really need to be drunk. He very clearly hadn’t been drunk when he’d kissed you a week ago. But, well, that was all you again. Being insecure and all. Hoping that if he was drunk he wouldn’t remember you screwing up (as you were bound to do).
And it looked as though someone up there was looking out for you, because sure enough, not ten minutes later, Brendon was stumbling through the bus door, completely off his face. Stumbling in the door and straight over to you, as a matter of fact. Stumbling in the door, straight over to you, and straight on to you, no less. Someone up there was really looking out for you.
Okay, really, really looking out for you. You know, judging by the fact that, once again, Brendon’s tongue was in your mouth .
And you were thinking of the most inane and stupid things right now, really. Like does my breath smell and oh God, is this going right and what exactly does this mean for everyone. But then Brendon ran his hand up under your shirt, and the only coherent thought you had left was something along the lines of Oh My God… and maybe a faint God, you virgin. It’s just his hand up your top… from the cynical side of your brain. But that felt kind of, really, really good.
And Brendon was kind of heavy.
And you needed to stop using ‘kind of’. And start concentrating on the important things. And start kissing back.
Or maybe not, seeing as it was kind of hard to kiss someone who was sucking on your neck oh god. There were going to bruises in the morning. But, you know, good bruises.
And your brain needed to shut the fuck up.
You gripped the hair at the nape of Brendon’s neck and pulled, yanking him away from your collarbone and back up to your mouth. And you really hoped that Jon and Spencer weren’t planning on re-appearing any time soon, because you wanted to enjoy this. Well. More than you already were.
The point of this plan had been to decide, once and for all, whether you really did want Brendon kissing you. The final verdict: Okay, maybe Brendon did taste like vomit, and maybe he could do with drinking less, but really? This wasn’t so bad.
Really.
Not so bad at all.
Author notes: Okay, I think I should win an award for the most euphemisms for ‘drunk’ used in one chapter. I don’t know how many are up there, but there are a lot. Sorry about that. I hate this chapter. So much.