Forgetting You In A Cabaret [5/12] Part 2
His eyes follow his car with slight suspicion as it is driven away, until Brendon steps in front of him and beams like everything is perfect in the world. “You made it!”
Tom nods, a small smile ghosting across his face but there isn’t energy behind it so it falls, straight into oblivion. He had about fifteen minutes sleep last night. He timed it. “Where do all the cars go?”
“Oh,” Brendon says, his eyes following the line of cars for a moment before he shakes the hand of another guest who is filing in through the door. “We’re using the tennis courts as a parking lot”.
This time Tom genuinely does smile because of the way Brendon replies as if it’s totally normal to have guest’s cars parked in your tennis courts by men in uniforms. “You’re right, how stupid of me”.
Brendon’s mouth pulls down into a small frown, and then erupts straight into a full blown grin again, that could probably power an entire city for a year, probably an entire lifetime. Tom notes the excitement lurking in his chocolate brown eyes and can’t help but wonder what its source is but he doesn’t ask because he doesn’t like to intrude on other people’s business, which sadly isn’t a problem for anyone else it seems.
It seems that Tom’s smile is short-lived, dying at the sight of Michael within the house, charming a pretty brunette to death. No doubt he is enticing her with all of his wonderful tales of life on tour blah, blah, blah. Heat starts to simmer in his stomach, churning it sickly until it overflows into his veins, polluting them like sewage.
With a brief twitch of his lips he excuses himself, and charges into the house with the intention of punching Michael right in his stupid face.
Inside the house Tom at least has the decency to compose himself. He would hate it if he ended up looking like a serial killer in front of a group of strangers but he can barely keep his rage from stifling the calm surface of his face. It will only take a ripple in his tempestuous emotions before he’s screaming hysterically in Michael’s ear, and he supposes everyone would benefit if he didn’t make a scene.
After batting away about a thousand waiters who keep on offering him canapés, Tom finally reaches Michael and the brunette, and spitefully places himself between them. Surprise flutters across the planes of Michael’s face as Tom seizes hold of on of his wrist and pulls him towards a door.
The deafening sound of his pulse fills his ears as he drags Michael behind him, but he can still hear the musician spluttering out an apology to the girl who looks mildly affronted by the interruption. Tom isn’t particularly bothered; he was actually doing her a favour.
Going by the size of the room and the amount of coats lining the dark walls Tom assumes they are in what appears to be the Urie’s coat room which seems to be surprisingly small considering just how many coats there are hanging along the racks on the walls. He turns around to face Michael with a disgruntled expression, only to find Michael smirking at him as he tries to wedge himself comfortably between two coat racks.
“Tom, I’m not that kind of girl,” Michael jokes, his face barely detectable in the shadow. Tom still knows he’s grinning like a Cheshire cat anyway which only infuriates him more.
“Shut up!” he snaps venomously. His finger points accusingly into the darkness where Michael’s face should be. He can taste the must of ancient coats piling on his tongue that leaves an unpleasant taste in his mouth. “You entered me in that stupid competition after I told you not to”.
Michael shifts in the darkness, the coats ruffling with the movement of his arms as he shrugs his shoulders. His expression stays hidden in the darkness but a sigh pools out from the depths of his chest and vibrates between them for a moment. “When did you find out?”
“When I got an e-mail telling me that my application had been accepted,” Tom replies angrily, his shoulders moving with every deep breath he takes to calm himself.
“Look, I was just trying to help,” Michael says defensively. This time he steps fluidly out of the darkness to face Tom. His eyes are burning with embers of a dying flame, his jaw locked defiantly. “I don’t see how it’s a bad thing. You’re just too stubborn to admit that it was a good idea in the first place. I mean, for fuck’s sake Tom, grow up!”
“Grow-up?!” Tom explodes angrily, jabbing his index finger sharp into the centre of Michael’s admittedly taut chest. His heartbeat is thrumming urgently in his chest, pumping adrenaline like liquid fury through his blood stream. He really hates Michael. “You’re the one who isn’t mature enough to keep his nose out of other people’s business. I mean, what the hell were you thinking? I told you ‘no’ and you still did it -after I specifically told you-”.
He gets cut off when Michael shoves him into the back of the tiny space, knocking the air from his lungs so that he actually gasps pitifully for it to rush back in. He wants to scream furiously but Michael crashes their lips together forcefully, and suddenly he can’t work out where the ground is anymore.
There’s a painful jab of pain radiating from between his shoulder blades but it doesn’t even register in his brain. All he can feel is the heat of Michael’s hands gripping his thighs like hot talons digging into his skin. Everything spins dizzyingly around him as he finds himself hoisted up into the air, his legs moving automatically to secure themselves around Michael’s waist just so that he knows he’s not going to fall. His back slams hard into the wall again so that he’s pretty sure it’s going to bruise but he can’t work out whether that would be a good thing or a bad thing right now.
From this position he’s over a foot taller than Michael, but somehow there lips stay joined together tenaciously. There’s still anger flaring into the kiss, aggression as their tongues collide but it seems to be morphing into something else with an alarming speed.
A different pain is burning on his hips where Michael’s fingers are squeezing, blunt nails cutting into the smooth skin stretching over his bones. His mid stays perfectly blank, until he feels Michael’s hands, creeping up the denim of his jeans to find his belt. He can see where this is leading and all that formulates inside his clouded mind is fucknonono.
Unwinding his legs from Michael’s torso he removes Michael’s hands from his hips, and ducks under his arm with the sudden need to escape the tiny room he now feels trapped in. He practically throws himself out of the door, hurriedly straightening his jacket with his shaking fingers. He doesn’t look behind him, but covers his mouth to hide his kiss swollen lips as he heads in the direction of the garden, and somewhere Michael won’t be.
Luckily he finds Spencer and Jon laughing in a densely populated area of the garden that blossoms with roses, and trees that take away the heat of the sun. A dozen waiters circulate the area with silver trays, adorning generously-sized flutes of champagne. Tom happens to stalk one for a good five minutes before snagging a glass and walks over to Jon and Spencer, who have now been accompanied by Ryan who seems to be ignoring the people swooning in his wake.
He greets Tom with a sharp nod, and then goes back to whatever he was speaking about before he joined them, his mouth moving into a pout. “Even I feel poor being here.”
“Me too,” Jon agrees with an easy smile.
They talk animatedly while Tom observes them with distant eyes. He still can’t completely comprehend what just happened. Maybe his brain malfunctioned or completely shut down; he just needs to find a reason before he spontaneously combusts. His face and neck still feel flushed red like signs that point blatantly to what happened. Every time he looks someone in the eye he instantly assumes that they know. It’s illogical but he can’t seem to shake the thought away.
Brendon bounds over with two other people following behind. He seems to instantly gravitate towards Ryan, stopping only when they are touching all along one side. Other guests glance fleetingly in their direction but soon return to their own conversations. Brendon’s eyes are so big and open, and so completely innocent that it is almost impossible not to love him. He seems completely sincere all the time.
“Are you enjoying the party?” Brendon asks. His voice reaches levels of undiluted happiness that Tom has never heard before. He feels himself smiling before he knows the reason why and decides that he should hang around with Brendon all the time. That wait he won’t turn into a panicking mess.
“Yeah we are,” Spencer replies, trying to sound as happy and enthusiastic as Brendon. Naturally he fails, but at least he puts the effort in.
After Brendon is thoroughly convinced that everyone is having a goodtime he introduces the man and woman he brought with him as his best friend Shane, and his girlfriend Reagan. They both smile pleasantly and talk politely so that the conversation isn’t stilted with any awkward silences. The warm breeze sings past them occasionally, taking with it all of Tom’s worries for a while. He continues to sip the champagne in his hand, even though he would prefer a beer, and wills himself to relax in the company of others. It’s just a party. He’ll survive.
Except that philosophy totally flies out the window when he sees Michael walking towards them, and he feels the birth of panicked butterflies in his stomach swirling around in their hundreds.
Michael stands slightly behind Tom when he reaches the circle, his fingers lightly swiping at Tom’s hip as if to remind him that the bruises that lie there belong to him. He smiles pleasantly at the rest of the group, but it looks cracked like porcelain. “Has Tom asked you if you would participate in his photo shoot yet? Or hasn’t he had the chance yet.”
The smile he had been wearing vanishes in the air around him. He feels like dying, like praying for a big black hole to just come and suck him into space. This isn’t fair.
“Um no,” Ryan says, arching his eyebrow in question at Tom who only shakes his head. “But I’m in if you need a model”.
“Thanks,” Tom mutters weakly. A sense of humiliation starts to rise up in his throat, to choke any words that want to break free. “Excuse me”.
He turns and heads back in the direction of the house, fuck in the direction of his car if one of those people in the stupid red uniforms gets it for him quick enough otherwise he might consider walking.
Michael grips his arm and swivels him around, but he shakes him off as if he’s been burned. He knows better than to play with fire. “Fuck off Michael. I don’t want to talk to you right now”.
He heads into the house but only ends up in the bathroom, clenching his fists to stop his stinging eyes from overflowing. Like fuck he’s going to give anyone the satisfaction of making him cry.
Continued Here
Tom nods, a small smile ghosting across his face but there isn’t energy behind it so it falls, straight into oblivion. He had about fifteen minutes sleep last night. He timed it. “Where do all the cars go?”
“Oh,” Brendon says, his eyes following the line of cars for a moment before he shakes the hand of another guest who is filing in through the door. “We’re using the tennis courts as a parking lot”.
This time Tom genuinely does smile because of the way Brendon replies as if it’s totally normal to have guest’s cars parked in your tennis courts by men in uniforms. “You’re right, how stupid of me”.
Brendon’s mouth pulls down into a small frown, and then erupts straight into a full blown grin again, that could probably power an entire city for a year, probably an entire lifetime. Tom notes the excitement lurking in his chocolate brown eyes and can’t help but wonder what its source is but he doesn’t ask because he doesn’t like to intrude on other people’s business, which sadly isn’t a problem for anyone else it seems.
It seems that Tom’s smile is short-lived, dying at the sight of Michael within the house, charming a pretty brunette to death. No doubt he is enticing her with all of his wonderful tales of life on tour blah, blah, blah. Heat starts to simmer in his stomach, churning it sickly until it overflows into his veins, polluting them like sewage.
With a brief twitch of his lips he excuses himself, and charges into the house with the intention of punching Michael right in his stupid face.
Inside the house Tom at least has the decency to compose himself. He would hate it if he ended up looking like a serial killer in front of a group of strangers but he can barely keep his rage from stifling the calm surface of his face. It will only take a ripple in his tempestuous emotions before he’s screaming hysterically in Michael’s ear, and he supposes everyone would benefit if he didn’t make a scene.
After batting away about a thousand waiters who keep on offering him canapés, Tom finally reaches Michael and the brunette, and spitefully places himself between them. Surprise flutters across the planes of Michael’s face as Tom seizes hold of on of his wrist and pulls him towards a door.
The deafening sound of his pulse fills his ears as he drags Michael behind him, but he can still hear the musician spluttering out an apology to the girl who looks mildly affronted by the interruption. Tom isn’t particularly bothered; he was actually doing her a favour.
Going by the size of the room and the amount of coats lining the dark walls Tom assumes they are in what appears to be the Urie’s coat room which seems to be surprisingly small considering just how many coats there are hanging along the racks on the walls. He turns around to face Michael with a disgruntled expression, only to find Michael smirking at him as he tries to wedge himself comfortably between two coat racks.
“Tom, I’m not that kind of girl,” Michael jokes, his face barely detectable in the shadow. Tom still knows he’s grinning like a Cheshire cat anyway which only infuriates him more.
“Shut up!” he snaps venomously. His finger points accusingly into the darkness where Michael’s face should be. He can taste the must of ancient coats piling on his tongue that leaves an unpleasant taste in his mouth. “You entered me in that stupid competition after I told you not to”.
Michael shifts in the darkness, the coats ruffling with the movement of his arms as he shrugs his shoulders. His expression stays hidden in the darkness but a sigh pools out from the depths of his chest and vibrates between them for a moment. “When did you find out?”
“When I got an e-mail telling me that my application had been accepted,” Tom replies angrily, his shoulders moving with every deep breath he takes to calm himself.
“Look, I was just trying to help,” Michael says defensively. This time he steps fluidly out of the darkness to face Tom. His eyes are burning with embers of a dying flame, his jaw locked defiantly. “I don’t see how it’s a bad thing. You’re just too stubborn to admit that it was a good idea in the first place. I mean, for fuck’s sake Tom, grow up!”
“Grow-up?!” Tom explodes angrily, jabbing his index finger sharp into the centre of Michael’s admittedly taut chest. His heartbeat is thrumming urgently in his chest, pumping adrenaline like liquid fury through his blood stream. He really hates Michael. “You’re the one who isn’t mature enough to keep his nose out of other people’s business. I mean, what the hell were you thinking? I told you ‘no’ and you still did it -after I specifically told you-”.
He gets cut off when Michael shoves him into the back of the tiny space, knocking the air from his lungs so that he actually gasps pitifully for it to rush back in. He wants to scream furiously but Michael crashes their lips together forcefully, and suddenly he can’t work out where the ground is anymore.
There’s a painful jab of pain radiating from between his shoulder blades but it doesn’t even register in his brain. All he can feel is the heat of Michael’s hands gripping his thighs like hot talons digging into his skin. Everything spins dizzyingly around him as he finds himself hoisted up into the air, his legs moving automatically to secure themselves around Michael’s waist just so that he knows he’s not going to fall. His back slams hard into the wall again so that he’s pretty sure it’s going to bruise but he can’t work out whether that would be a good thing or a bad thing right now.
From this position he’s over a foot taller than Michael, but somehow there lips stay joined together tenaciously. There’s still anger flaring into the kiss, aggression as their tongues collide but it seems to be morphing into something else with an alarming speed.
A different pain is burning on his hips where Michael’s fingers are squeezing, blunt nails cutting into the smooth skin stretching over his bones. His mid stays perfectly blank, until he feels Michael’s hands, creeping up the denim of his jeans to find his belt. He can see where this is leading and all that formulates inside his clouded mind is fucknonono.
Unwinding his legs from Michael’s torso he removes Michael’s hands from his hips, and ducks under his arm with the sudden need to escape the tiny room he now feels trapped in. He practically throws himself out of the door, hurriedly straightening his jacket with his shaking fingers. He doesn’t look behind him, but covers his mouth to hide his kiss swollen lips as he heads in the direction of the garden, and somewhere Michael won’t be.
Luckily he finds Spencer and Jon laughing in a densely populated area of the garden that blossoms with roses, and trees that take away the heat of the sun. A dozen waiters circulate the area with silver trays, adorning generously-sized flutes of champagne. Tom happens to stalk one for a good five minutes before snagging a glass and walks over to Jon and Spencer, who have now been accompanied by Ryan who seems to be ignoring the people swooning in his wake.
He greets Tom with a sharp nod, and then goes back to whatever he was speaking about before he joined them, his mouth moving into a pout. “Even I feel poor being here.”
“Me too,” Jon agrees with an easy smile.
They talk animatedly while Tom observes them with distant eyes. He still can’t completely comprehend what just happened. Maybe his brain malfunctioned or completely shut down; he just needs to find a reason before he spontaneously combusts. His face and neck still feel flushed red like signs that point blatantly to what happened. Every time he looks someone in the eye he instantly assumes that they know. It’s illogical but he can’t seem to shake the thought away.
Brendon bounds over with two other people following behind. He seems to instantly gravitate towards Ryan, stopping only when they are touching all along one side. Other guests glance fleetingly in their direction but soon return to their own conversations. Brendon’s eyes are so big and open, and so completely innocent that it is almost impossible not to love him. He seems completely sincere all the time.
“Are you enjoying the party?” Brendon asks. His voice reaches levels of undiluted happiness that Tom has never heard before. He feels himself smiling before he knows the reason why and decides that he should hang around with Brendon all the time. That wait he won’t turn into a panicking mess.
“Yeah we are,” Spencer replies, trying to sound as happy and enthusiastic as Brendon. Naturally he fails, but at least he puts the effort in.
After Brendon is thoroughly convinced that everyone is having a goodtime he introduces the man and woman he brought with him as his best friend Shane, and his girlfriend Reagan. They both smile pleasantly and talk politely so that the conversation isn’t stilted with any awkward silences. The warm breeze sings past them occasionally, taking with it all of Tom’s worries for a while. He continues to sip the champagne in his hand, even though he would prefer a beer, and wills himself to relax in the company of others. It’s just a party. He’ll survive.
Except that philosophy totally flies out the window when he sees Michael walking towards them, and he feels the birth of panicked butterflies in his stomach swirling around in their hundreds.
Michael stands slightly behind Tom when he reaches the circle, his fingers lightly swiping at Tom’s hip as if to remind him that the bruises that lie there belong to him. He smiles pleasantly at the rest of the group, but it looks cracked like porcelain. “Has Tom asked you if you would participate in his photo shoot yet? Or hasn’t he had the chance yet.”
The smile he had been wearing vanishes in the air around him. He feels like dying, like praying for a big black hole to just come and suck him into space. This isn’t fair.
“Um no,” Ryan says, arching his eyebrow in question at Tom who only shakes his head. “But I’m in if you need a model”.
“Thanks,” Tom mutters weakly. A sense of humiliation starts to rise up in his throat, to choke any words that want to break free. “Excuse me”.
He turns and heads back in the direction of the house, fuck in the direction of his car if one of those people in the stupid red uniforms gets it for him quick enough otherwise he might consider walking.
Michael grips his arm and swivels him around, but he shakes him off as if he’s been burned. He knows better than to play with fire. “Fuck off Michael. I don’t want to talk to you right now”.
He heads into the house but only ends up in the bathroom, clenching his fists to stop his stinging eyes from overflowing. Like fuck he’s going to give anyone the satisfaction of making him cry.
Continued Here