Mr Winter
Title: Mr Winter.
Pairing: Brendon/John Oh [from The Maine]
Rating: PG13.
Word Count: 9,000
Disclaimer: Didn't happen.
Notes: Thanks to
tarii_cakes for looking this over! <3 This was written for romasquerade , who is brilliant and hilarious and funny and delightful and provides me with awesome prompts when I can't write.
Brendon takes even longer than usual getting ready that morning. He burrows back under his cover when his alarm goes off and has to bribe himself with the idea of blueberry pop-tarts before his body will consider the possibility of getting out of bed. He doesn't sniff his shirt before he pulls it over his head, and that's a pretty serious statement when you consider the veritable Russian Roulette of dirty laundry strewn across his bedroom floor. He forgoes the complications of contacts in favor of squeezing his red plastic frames into the pocket of his jeans and pulls the strap of his messenger bag across his chest as he heads downstairs.
He's almost out the door, pop-tart in hand, when his mother calls from the kitchen.
"Brendon Boyd! Your permission slip!"
He sighs. Almost made it.
"You're lucky you didn't leave without this, or you wouldn't have been able to go on your field trip!"
His mom tucks the slip of paper into the front pocket of his bag and kisses him on the forehead.
"Have a good day".
Brendon makes it all the way to the corner before his curses escape from under his breath.
Spencer and Ryan are already there, sitting on the kerb and shoving at one another. They probably fought over the unicorn shirt again this morning. They look up when Brendon's shadow announces his arrival and stop bickering for long enough to grunt greetings at him. He swears at them in response.
"Dude. It's a field trip. A trip to somewhere that isn't school".
Brendon has never heard Ryan express emotion this early in the morning, and he's stunned to find that Ryan is capable of expressing excitement at any time of the day. So stunned in fact, that he manages to forget about the day ahead for a few brief but blissful seconds.
Spencer is the one to ruin it.
"Plus, it's fucking DISNEY WORLD".
*********************
Spencer and Ryan conveniently retreat behind one of their best-friends-forever-mind-melding force fields and Brendon's left to entertain himself in the queue for the one ride he'd agreed to go on - some Tower thing. It hadn't sounded too bad in the guidebook, just like an exaggerated elevator simulator. Brendon figures that once he doesn't have to see his own feet flip over his head when he's strapped upside down on a metal track hundreds of feet off the ground, he can handle it.
It's almost cute, how wrong he turns out to be.
Because once he's actually trapped in this thing, this tiny metal box that seems to be getting smaller and darker with each passing second, the reality of the situation becomes apparent. He's being pulled slowly skyward, the slow jerky motion of the ride jolting his insides until he feels like they're falling out of him and plunging down the dark shaft he's ascending. He can't change his mind, he can't go back, he can't step out of this rattling rusted coffin, he can't make it stop; and he's about to die.
The other kids around him are whooping and laughing, chatting to one another like the hitches in their voices are nothing more than hiccups. Spence and Ryan are behind him, he can feel Ryan's shoes scuff at the back of his seat as he jigs his foot. There hadn't been two free seats together in his row, so OF COURSE they'd abandoned him to the mercy of strangers. Or worse, other kids from his grade.
In his heightened state of hysteria, revelling in the rush that comes with knowing that one's death is surely imminent, Brendon actually turns to see who he's sitting next to. It seems only polite to at least be aware of the person you're about to descend through the burning fires of hell with. A sideways glance to his left reveals Becky Tator, a nervous sort of girl that he sometimes borrows notes from in Geometry. She bites her lip in his direction and grimaces, her way of trying to articulate that she'd stop to chat if she weren't so preoccupied trying to break her own knuckles judging by the grip she has on her seat, he guesses.
Brendon winces back at her and decides that maybe looking around isn't the best idea. Seeing his terror reflected on the face of his classmates isn't actually helping and Brendon would like to go to his grave thinking happy thoughts. He's just settling back into his seat, trying to ignore the finality of the click-lurch that brings the elevator to a sudden stop, when something brushes against the pinkie of his right hand. He looks down at the large tanned hand resting next to his and is about to slip back into his happy place when the mystery hand owner sitting to his right speaks.
"Uh ... sorry man". A sheepish grin accompanies the words and slight cough that follows and Brendon finds himself looking up into the eyes of John O Callaghan.
Or 'John O' if you're one of his buddies. Brendon isn't, but he mentally stresses that he could probably still call John by the nickname and not get punched for it. That's an important distinction when categorizing the majority of Brendon's experiences with his classmates.
John O Callaghan has been in Brendon's grade for four years now. Brendon hadn't even noticed him at first, he'd kept his hair short and spiked, wore polo shirts with the collar turned up and looked generally like jock assholes do. But something must have happened the summer between junior and senior year because he'd come back to school a totally different guy. Brendon heard he'd started a band and maybe that had inspired the change. He'd let his hair grow out, almost touching his shoulders at the back and sides with shorter bangs just long enough to fall into his eyes and short layers on top that made the whole thing look artfully mussed. He constantly looked like he'd just fallen out of bed.
Striped polos have become striped vests or plain v-neck shirts and baggy stonewashed jeans have become a second skin in the form of tight black denim that struggles to cover the point where tanned abdomen gives way to the slightly lighter hollow that stretches between hipbones that peek out above the ever evident waistband of grey boxers.
The features that had always seemed slightly too big for his face now fell right into place. His generous mouth didn't look sloppy anymore, just prominent and prone to default smirks. You'd think that those sly smiles would distract from everything else, but anybody who looks at John O Callahan and isn't automatically drawn to his eyes must be legally blind. Light brown and not especially unusual thereafter, Brendon wants to say that they light up his entire face, that they peek out from under the fall of his fringe like tentative stars that would blind, given the chance and finding the confidence. Brendon wants to say that every time he sees the dark centre of those soft golden pools expand with the change in light, he feels something akin to the cramps he got that time he ate some bad fish.
But Brendon isn't good with words, and all he knows for sure is this: John O isn't pretty like Spencer or Ryan. His mouth isn't sinful and his cheekbones probably couldn't even cut through paper, but for some reason the combination of his lazy grins and searching eyes leaves Brendon feeling empty. Empty and hungry, because everything that he is, everything that he thinks and dreams and feels and sees has been turned to pure sharp want that fizzes through his veins and rises through the vertebrae of his spine until it's almost as though every cell of his being is trained and straining towards John Oh. His fingers twitch and his heart pounds drum beats through the valves of his heart and then John Oh looks up or Ryan snaps his fingers before Brendon's face and everything freezes for a second before falling back down to the pit of his stomach with a thump.
Reality can bite him. And frequently does.
John Oh travels in different circles now but still managed to stay in favor with the popular kids. He doesn't sit at the back of classes and grunt anymore, but Brendon isn't sure if moving to the middle and sleeping on his arms in between sarcastic comments is really much of an improvement. He would think John Oh a lazy slacker if it weren't for what he sees when he peeks at the notes spilling off John's desk. Notes on books they haven't even read yet. Notes detailing the answers to questions the teacher won't set for homework until tomorrow. John Oh seems constantly ahead and perpetually interested, particularly in English. Brendon can't force back the smiles that his mouth automatically form when he sees John Oh's scrawled handwriting get sloppy in a way that only excitement can cause. He sees him sometimes at lunch or between classes, hastily scribbling on loose sheets and in the margins of novels they haven't been set, trapping down thoughts and ideas before they flit from his grasp.
In reward for the extra credit attention he pays, Brendon learns a lot about John Oh that year. From the glimpses and snatched sentences that Brendon keeps, he thinks he and John O could get along. Should be friends. But aside from shared interests and borrowed opinions, it's their differences that tell the true story.
Brendon tries and mostly succeeds in flying under the radar. He doesn't attract the attention of bullies but isn't necessarily a coveted lunch buddy either. He has his small group of friends and if he sometimes wishes he could walk the halls with the ease that comes with knowing more than a handful of people, he doesn't dwell on it.
John O, on the other hand, probably isn't capable of dwelling on things. He's one of the few people Brendon has come across in his lifetime that seem completely and totally at ease. In their own skin, in the world, in general. John has approximately twelve billion friends. The thing that had attracted Brendon's attention in the first place though, was the nonchalance with which John Oh handles his social interactions. He doesn't work for his popularity but he certainly doesn't reject it. John doesn't try to be noticed or shy away from attention. Brendon has seen him walk straight from a conversation with his skater buddies into a group of suddenly blushing cheerleaders as if it was nothing.
John O fascinates Brendon because he seems to be his complete and exact antithesis. Brendon is loud and animated and constantly in motion. John is quiet and restrained and sometimes the concentrated gazes he fixes Brendon under leave him breathless. Brendon feels safe and easy in his circle of close friends. He doesn't blame John Oh for sometimes looking lost in his sea of acquaintances. Brendon learned a long time ago that being different isn't something to fear or deny. John Oh, despite having changed and blossomed with the seasons, still seems blind to the worlds that lie between different and indifferent. He's relaxed and easy in any setting Brendon has seen him in, but he's never passionate or free.
He may have moved to the middle of the class, but he still hides his notes beneath loose limbs and feigned disinterest. He has broken free of his mould but still lets the clinging plaster change his shape.
Brendon longs to see him dust himself off. To see him leap onto his desk and bellow his thoughts from the top of his lungs. To wipe the sleep from his lashes and open his eyes to the world.
Brendon might also want to be the prince whose kiss awakens John Oh from his dream-state, but we'll get back to repressing that another time, or y'know ... if Brendon makes it out of this deathtrap alive.
He smiles back at John O and opens his mouth to say something about how their hands are going to have to co-operate if they're to inhabit this shared armrest, but then the bottom drops out of his world and what comes out instead is more like a shriek than he'd like to admit.
His hand gropes blindly in the dark and finds John's, locking their fingers together like the contact might save his life.
Brendon's probably clinging tight enough to hurt, but he can't let go. Every cell of his being is screaming in terror as they hurtle towards their end and Brendon needs some sort of physical contact in this moment, some reminder that he's still alive, at least for now.
The drop stops as suddenly as it started and Brendon wants to cry when the elevator lurches, dragging them skyward again. He peeks past his panic for a second to register that his hand is still curved tight around John O's and he hopes he won't notice that that happened at all if Brendon can just relax his hand long enough to pull it away. He starts releasing his grip on John's fingers when the world falls out from underneath them once more and this time it's John O twisting his hand beneath Brendon's, flipping his palm upward to let his fingers tangle with Brendon's properly.
Brendon's breath whooshes straight out of his lungs and it takes him almost a heartbeat to remember to scream.
When the ride mercifully ends everyone around them starts shuffling around, whispering breathlessly to one another about who screamed the loudest. Brendon sits perfectly still. Partly because his default reaction in frightening situations is to go as still as he possibly can and partly because John O isn't moving either. They sit in the dark, staring straight ahead, the palms of their hands sealed so tightly together that Brendon can't tell their racing pulses apart. The adrenaline of the ride gives him a sudden rush of courage, a sudden careless drive and he turns to John Oh. John Oh must feel the movement because his attention snaps to Brendon, his wide eyes mirrored in Brendon's. John Oh's gaze drops a couple of inches and Brendon's tongue peeks out subconsciously to slick his too-dry lips and then John's gaze drops lower still. He glances down at their clasped hands and Brendon doesn't know what exactly the side-effects of adrenaline spikes are, but he doesn't think he imagines it when John Oh tightens his grip for a split second, the pulse of pressure like a heartbeat around Brendon's smaller hand. Before Brendon can even think about the fact that he's sitting in a dark elevator full of his classmates, holding hands with a guy that is amongst other things, a guy, his thumb pulls itself from under John's and settles itself back on the other side of the digit, slowly stroking a semi circle from the knuckle on John's thumb back down to the soft thin skin of his wrist and back again. He hears John O suck in a breath and tears his eyes away from the movement of his thumb across John's skin when the lights flicker on and Spencer is flicking him on the back of the neck.
He doesn't even know who moves first, but their hands wrench apart and Brendon has never hated fluorescent lighting and his best friend's inopportune timing as he does in that second.
**************************
Monday morning arrives as unwanted and inevitable as ever and Brendon wishes he had died on that ride. Almost. Immediately after, maybe.
He struggles into his clothes, still too distracted to sniff first, and makes it to the corner before Ryan and Spencer. He sits down and swings his bag to rest on his toes, jigging his feet to see-saw the weight in a pleasant little shuffle dance. He's humming the circus theme to himself when Ryan and Spence arrive.
"Dude, you're early! Don't you have Home Ec first period?"
"I'll have you know, Ryan Ross" Brendon begins, getting to his feet and joining them on the sidewalk, "not all of us are as hopeless in the kitchen as you are. I for example, can actually produce edible substances without setting anything on fire".
Ryan pulls him into a headlock and musses his hair, but he's laughing as he does so Brendon figures he's had an alright weekend.
By the time they get to school, they've established that Ryan did in fact have a great weekend. He stayed at Spencer's for the most part and Brendon would be put out at not being invited if he wasn't more interested in seeing Ryan smile like that than he was in being included. They didn't do anything that exciting anyway, just watched movies and fucked around on the computer. Brendon isn't really one for taking pictures of his ass and asking scary looking girls to write about what they think of it in 160 characters or less, so he probably would have been bored anyway. Not that his weekend was any better. Game night with his family is regularly a cause for consternation but doesn't often result in the need to spend the rest of his weekend laying on his bedroom floor and counting dust particles as they flit in and out of the sunlight.
Sometimes Brendon thinks that his constant motion is nothing more than an avoidance tactic.
The days when he runs out of steam, runs out of reasons to tap out silent beats and bend his limbs in ways unintended, these are the days that he'd dread - if he paused long enough to think about it.
Days that drain the energy from Brendon's limbs until the constant hum beneath his skin finally quiets and he has nothing to distract him from the buzzing between his ears.
The buzzing has always sounded remarkably like his fathers voice, if you could put the expression that his face folds into when Brendon wears his jeans too tight or too low, when his excuses for being late fall somewhere past believable, into sound.
This week, it had been different. When it had started at the breakfast table, hidden at first inside the whistle of the teapot and laced between the quiet graces of his family, it began like any other time. Soft at first but building steadily, rising in volume and strength until it over-powered him and forced him to retreat behind closed doors. To seek refuge from worried glances that could only be found across blank ceilings.
But when he'd slumped against the door of his bedroom, leaning against the divide in more ways than the obvious, it hadn't been the disappointment of his father that he'd heard. The buzzing faded to a hum, a gentle soothing sound that had poured out across his skin like the warmth of touch. When Brendon awoke hours later, his hands were closing around fistfuls of stale air, his fingers still chasing the memory of how John Oh's hand felt beneath his own.
Brendon's wrists feel awkward even now. The hands he sees connected to them don't look like his. Two days - 48 hours - later, and Brendon still expects to find thicker, longer fingers tangled amongst his own. These knuckles that he supposes are his seem lost in the space that surrounds them, severed and aimless without their darker, jutting counterparts to keep them in place. His hands feel alien. Clearly present, every cell expected accounted for, Brendon wonders if this is what is meant by "phantom aches". The limb is still there, but these aches have no cause.
He puts his hands away as they climb the front steps and head for the lockers. He tucks his fingers into his pockets, padded by his confusion and dread, and hopes for holes along the hems.
Ryan and Spencer are still talking, over his head now as they fumble with the lockers either side of his. Brendon's first period doesn't require a text book so he just hangs his jacket up inside his locker and lets his feet take him toward class. Spence and Ryan probably won't even notice he's not there until their conversation reaches a stalemate. They're kind of freakishly alike, so that might not be until lunch or Thursday.
Brendon takes his usual seat in the Home Ec kitchen, last station on the right and the only one without a working oven. It's for the best. He cushions his head on his folded forearms and is just about to drift off into a daydream about how awesome it'd be to have hooks for hands when the teacher slams her recipe book down onto her desk.
"Now that I've got your attention; let me just apologize for this interruption to your regularly scheduled slacking".
The rest of the class are actually stunned into silence and Brendon might be amused by this if he could name the woman standing at the blackboard without glancing down at his schedule. Home Ec usually goes one of two ways. They have a practical and make a mess, or have theory and nap. Beyond taking attendance and the first period of the year, he's pretty sure he's never even heard Miss Daly talk. She reads, the class sleeps, all nighters before exams pull steady C's and everybody wins. Home Ec is a valuable class and all, but Brendon figures most of the class were just in it for the cookies.
So it's understandable, really, that they're greeting this foreign prospect of participation with suspicion.
"Oh quiet down, you're not getting homework, I'm not a masochist. And put your hand down Nick I'm not explaining masochism to you. GUYS. You have a project to complete. It involves no written work whatsoever and you'll be graded based on your performance and an itsy bitsy 5 minute class presentation that you can submit orally. Pat stop giggling. Any questions?"
Twenty two hands shoot into the air.
"Good. Take one from the box and pass it on"
Miss Daly pulls a cardboard box out from underneath her desk and passes it to the kid sitting at the first desk in Brendon's row. Everyone watches in horror as she reaches in and pulls out .......... an egg. An egg wearing a knitted hat, no less.
"Welcome to parenthood, kids. For the next 7 days, yes weekend included, you'll be caring for these as though you hatched them yourselves. Now, as it takes two to make the mess, you'll be doing this project in pairs.."
At this the silence is broken by hurried whispers of "Partners?" and the frantic limb waving that has become the universal signal for "don't you dare pair up with that bitch or you can kiss those boots you let me borrow goodbye".
Brendon sits on his own in this class and hasn't so much as said hello to any of the other kids in it since the start of the semester. He would have made the effort, but it was first period on a Monday and not even he is capable of initiating awkward conversation this early. He figures Miss Daly will pair them alphabetically anyway, she's always mumbling to herself about "broadening horizons past the boundaries of safe friendships" when the six cheerleaders in the class rearrange the desks to sit together.
Brendon takes an egg from the box when it reaches him [the one wearing the yellow hat stood out], and starts trying to work out who he's going to be paired with when the classroom door opens and Ms Cody leads the other Home Ec class for this period into the room.
"Ah, now in the interest of broadening your horizons beyond the boundaries of routine, we'll be combining both classes for this period and picking the partners at random from this ... sieve" Miss Daly holds up the silver strainer filled with folded triangles of paper and Brendon grins at the sharp intake of breath from his classmates.
Random partners and the dreaded egg project? Even the class president looks like she might throw up. Brendon's secretly kind of stoked. As far as projects go, not smashing an egg will be pretty simple. Once whoever he gets paired with isn't a complete jackass, this might actually be an easy A.
"Ok, Pat you're with Kellyhope. Alex M? Taelor. Sarah and Justin. Audrey, you've got Jacqueline. No snickering, please. Parental ability isn't gender specific. Nick and Taylor with a Y, Hayley you got Josh, Brendon and John O Callahan ......."
Holy mother-fucking snot balls. John O's mouth twists up on one side as he walks toward where Brendon's sitting and it could be a shy smile or a polite grimace. Either way, Brendon's swallowing lumps the size of golf balls and this poor adopted egg never even had a chance.
"So ... um ... hey, I guess. I'm John".
For a second, Brendon is terrified that when he opens his mouth the hysterical laughter bubbling in his chest is going to spill right out into the air.
"Oh yeah, I know. I mean, uh, we have health together. I think. Brendon".
John nods and holds out his hand. Brendon almost faints, until his brain catches up with his cow eyes and realizes John just wants the egg. Their egg. Their adopted baby egg. How is this his life? A week ago John and Brendon had never spoken in their lives. Two days ago, they held hands at Disneyland. And now they're adopting offspring together. Brendon's head is spinning. Liking guys is one thing, a thing he's learned to carefully avoid thinking about, talking about, acting on and trying to talk himself out of, but John O could be some homophobic asshole who is about to kick his teeth in for what happened. He certainly doesn't seem like the sort of guy who'd do something like that, and Brendon's pretty sure he's about as far as an asshole as you can get but random acts of sissy can bring about strange reactions in people. Particularly 17 year old boys, who aren't exactly the most level-headed sort to begin with.
He hands over their egg, avoiding any and all physical contact and is wondering how the hell he's going to get out of this when John interrupts his train of thought.
"So. Let's give this fucker a face!"
He reaches for the sharpie that's hanging off the key-chain clipped at his hip and uncaps it with his teeth, turning to Brendon with the sharpie poised over the surface of the egg. Brendon takes a deep breath, pointedly ignores the way the egg looks so tiny in John's large tanned hand; forces himself not to think about how the angle of the sharpie lid is pulling John's bottom lip between his teeth, and grins at the pure unholy glee he finds when he forces himself to meet John's eyes.
"Dude, anime eyes. And glasses! I want this egg to feel smart, the yellow hat might be a confidence downer"
"And you wanna fix that by making him a nerd too? No dice."
John turns the egg over in his hand, looking at it from all angles with his thumb and forefinger cupping his chin, surveying it with a squint.
"I think ................. a moustache. Definitely"
Brendon really, really hopes his facial expression is adequately expressing his horror at this suggestion because no amount of words will ever do it justice.
"Our egg will NOT be cultivating facial hair at any point of it's existence"
He carefully snatches the egg back from John, cupping it in his hand and cradling it against his chest, glowering at John. Who just laughs.
"Veto noted. Uni-brow?"
They argue back and forth, until they eventually agree on a minimalist approach: tiny dots for eyes and a grin to rival the Cheshire cat's. Brendon thinks the thing looks more than a little deranged, but John Oh fights his corner admirably. His eventual victory on the matter might have less to do with his fervent "less is more" argument and more to do with how when Brendon protests, he feels compelled to tug the red frames from where they're sticking out of his pocket and slide them onto Brendon's face.
"Are you seeing straight NOW? Simple is not a synonym for lacking, dude".
Brendon is too busy trying to cool the blush that spreads along the path John Oh's fingertips had burnt along his cheekbones to argue.
By the end of class, they've agreed that they'll swap egg responsibilities between every class for the rest of the day, and alternate nights for home visits. They've spent the period slipping easily in and out of conversation and Brendon is so surprised by how easy it is to talk to John Oh that he almost forgets that he's spent the past hour talking to John Oh. It's not until they're walking out of the kitchens together, snickering about UH SOMETHING that Brendon remembers to feel awkward.
As they file out into the hall, the sudden rush of voices and laughter and the dull din of locker doors washes over him like a cold shower. He must tense or pause because John Oh has turned back to him, head ducked. And here it is, the moment when John Oh realizes they're back where they can be seen together and ditches Brendon like last weeks lunch. Brendon starts to turn and flee but is stopped by John Oh's hand on his elbow. He's leaning down and whispers into Brendon ear "Don't look now, bro, but Hayley was totally not bluffing about having a dog leash that would fit her egg". He's laughing soft and slow and Brendon wants to curl into him, to shift closer and have that laugh wrapped around him. But John Oh is pulling back, tightening his grip on Brendon's elbow and using it to tug him down the corridor by his side and toward the cafeteria, and that's enough.
Maybe more than.
********
The rest of the day passes without incident. If John Oh's friends look questioningly at Brendon when he arrives at their lunch table at John's side, he doesn't notice. And if Spencer and Ryan smirk knowingly when John Oh meets Brendon by the steps out front to hand over their yolk-y charge, he doesn't react.
They do start to question him about this development, but Brendon distracts them by pointing out that Ryan's eyeliner has smudged beneath one eye. ["Spencer! Spence FIX IT!"] He's snickering to himself and juggling the egg between his hands when he hears a shout.
"Dude .... DUDE, wait up".
Brendon doesn't turn around until he feels the tug on his hood. He's walking with Spence and Ryan, who else could be calling after him?
But when he does turn, John Oh's there - leaning forward with his hands on his knees and looking kind of like he might blow chunks.
"You ....... you ........... hat ............ egg hat".
'Egg hat' is a pretty lame insult and Brendon's just about to point this out when John Oh manages to pull himself upright for as long as it takes him to wriggle his fingers into the front pocket of his jeans and produce the tiny yellow knitted hat.
"It's getting chilly............. Eggbert needs his woollies".
John Oh grins and it's almost nearly not quite enough to draw Brendon's attention away from the car crash that is that name.
"........... eggbert? EGGBERT? You have got to be kidding".
John Oh's grin turns sharper and plaits itself through the nerves along Brendon's spine.
"Not a fan of my naming skills, Urie? I tell you what, I've been dreaming about java chip frapps all day. Come to Starbucks with me and you can voice your complaints?"
Brendon has never been so thankful for his shitty luck with laces in all his life. He quickly ducks to fix the knots and tucks his face against his shoulder to hide it's blush.
"Uhh sure, just let me tell my friends"
John Oh nods and grins and tucks his hands into his pockets and oh my god Brendon is NOT going to squeal when he tells Spencer and Ryan that John O Callahan just asked him to hang out, he is NOT. He jogs up to where Spence and Ryan were waiting for him at the next corner and clears his throat. Not because he's afraid his voice has gone all high and squeaky like a girls, but because he has mucus build-up, OKAY?
"I ....... am going to Starbucks with John O Callahan. I mean ..... John. Oh. John Oh."
Ryan and Spencer stare.
And then laugh so hard they have to hold one another up.
Brendon fucking hates his friends.
"You .......... John Oh ............ Starbucks! Coffee! Caffeine! ........... You!".
Brendon is totally going to enjoy watching Ryan choke to death on his own laughter.
"Later assholes".
He pointedly ignores Ryan's gasped "Call me later so I can laugh at you some more!" and shakes his head as he returns to the sidewalk where John Oh is slouching and drumming his fingers against his thighs to a rhythm that sounds suspiciously like it's from a Taylor Swift song.
"You done?"
"Uh huh, TO THE 'BUX!" Brendon throws back his imaginary cape and strikes an impressive superhero stance. In situations like this, his brain tends to defer to it's most basic point of development. Even in these moments, he still makes more sense than Ryan Ross can manage so it doesn't tend to be a problem. Teenage boys are dumb by default.
John Oh just laughs and holds out his hand
"Holy enthusiasm, Batman. Hand over the egg before someone gets smashed".
"Hey, I am a totally responsible parent!"
"You left Eggbert on the windowsill in Study Hall. In the sunlight. Without his hat. If it were left to you, we would have fried offspring right about now!"
"Oh my god, one slip up! Half our class have broken or eaten their projects by now! I think I'm allowed one teeny tiny mistake. And seriously, EGGBERT?"
"I don't hear you coming up with anything better, Batpants"
John Oh's clever fingers fit perfectly between Brendon's ribs and he's thankful that he's busy trying not to piss his pants giggling right now, otherwise he might be able to concentrate on the contact and end up ......... pissing his pants.
The nearest Starbucks is only two blocks away and Brendon doesn't trip up or embarrass himself once. Talking to John Oh is stupidly easy and he has to make a mental note to thank Spencer lately. These past couple years of friendship with someone so prone to sarcasm has sharpened Brendon's wit reflexes like a pencil.
They talk about school and music and movies and Brendon isn't surprised to find that they have more than an egg in common. Their guitar tabs vs sheet music argument lasts right up to the counter in Starbucks.
John Oh orders two Java Chip Frappucinos without even asking and won't let Brendon pay.
"My poor choice in baby names lead to this outing, Bden. Can I call you Bden? Or is that a friend thing?"
Brendon's heart and lungs and hands and feet and mouth and tongue can't handle much more of this. Emphasis on his tongue. If he bites down on it any harder, he'll chew right through.
"I guess it's a friend thing. So yeah, you can call me that".
He can't quite keep the look from his eyes, the 'I am kind of stupidly in like with you, please don't laugh at my pathetic attempts at flirtation' shine and seriously, his tongue, OW.
John Oh quirks and eyebrow at him and faces shouldn't be able to have this much effect on Brendon, it's just plain unfair. John smiles then and hip checks Brendon as they shuffle down to the counter to collect their drinks and this can't be happening. This can't be real.
Brendon in on a maybe-date-dude-hangout with a boy he's had the most pathetic crush on for like a year now and he's pretty sure he isn't exactly being entirely secretive about that fact and he hasn't been punched in the face yet.
In fact, John Oh is kind of grinning to himself. A dopey blissed out smile that sits on his mouth like he's forgotten he isn't entirely alone right now and Brendon can't help it, he has to reach out and touch. If some part of him doesn't form a point of contact with John's skin this very minute, he's going to fall off the earth and cease to exist. He's not stupid, he knows this is probably all in his head. He's pretty sure John Oh is humoring him, knows about his pathetic crush and is just not bothered enough by it to do something to put Brendon out of his misery. Maybe he doesn't want to hurt Brendon's feelings. Maybe he thinks it's kind of cute. Maybe, just maybe, some small divergent pocket of him doesn't find the idea all that unappealing. Brendon isn't ready to let himself believe that just yet, but he likes this shift in their orbits, he's grateful for this stupid project that brought them crashing into one anothers awareness.
He doesn't want to freak John out or drive him away, but he has to do something, he has to let himself have this one second of whatif.
But John Oh beats him to it.
They're standing at the counter, waiting for their drinks in silence as Brendon shuffles frantically from foot to foot hoping the movement will twist his brain-to-mouth filter more firmly into place. His hands are crammed into his pockets and he's looking anywhere but at John Oh when he feels it. He's certain it wasn't him, because aside from his shuffling he hasn't moved an inch. He's holding his shoulders ribs hips knees as firmly in place as he can, so he knows it wasn't him that changed the space between them. He knows it wasn't his movements that pushed the air and silence and tentative interlude apart and away, leaving no uncertainty to keep he and John Oh apart. Brendon has to pause, take a moment to make sure he's still conscious and alert. Yep, they're still in Starbucks. He can still smell the heady aroma of fresh beans and hear the whirsh of milk being steamed. They're both still facing forward, neither making eye contact or having taken their hands from their pockets. You could almost think they were strangers if it weren't for how they're suddenly standing completely sealed together, points of contact fusing them at bicep to elbow, waist to hip to thigh.
Brendon can feel the warmth of John's skin where their shirts can't keep it covered. There's no force behind the press, just a gentle hum of pressure. It's as if the space between them just fell away.
Brendon takes a breath and his lungs fill with what feels like all the air in the room. The second blooms in his chest and he wouldn't be surprised to find that time is standing still.
John Oh's movement ends the moment; he twists forward to lean an elbow on the counter and somehow manages to keep his hip and thigh pressed with Brendon's and lean around to face him too. He's a tall dude with long limbs and a lean torso that seems to stretch for miles. The flexibility isn't much of a surprise.
He just looks up at Brendon from beneath the fall of his fringe and it's ALMOST like he's waiting for a response to something. Brendon doesn't think he's said anything in the last few minutes, but he opens his mouth to ask, to make sure.
But before he can speak, their bubble is shattered by a sudden explosion of noise from behind the counter. Both boys turn to look, and see the Batista who was making their drinks standing at the bar covered head to toe in globs of whipped cream. The metal canister is still in his hand and from the looks of it, the nozzle had been reversed. Nice. Brendon isn't really sure how to react, and both John Oh and the cream covered dude seem to be in a similar predicament, all three of them just staring at the canister and it's expelled contents with expressions of shock, confusion and horror in turn.
The other Batista on duty seems to take it in her stride though. She just laughs. And laughs and laughs and laughs until Brendon and John Oh have to look at one another with subtle "wtf" expressions. Seriously, this woman is laughing so hard she looks like she might hurt herself. She still manages to take the situation in hand, throwing a cloth at the whipped creams victim and shooing him into the back. She steps over to the counter and finishes up their drinks herself, still laughing the entire time. "Janice :)" spots a customer at the counter and slides their drinks to them with a tube of chocolate drizzle, asking in between barks of laughter if they mind topping their own beverages.
John Oh, of course, doesn't mind at all. He insists that they customize each other's drinks. Brendon draws the first thing that comes to mind, a smiley face with X's for eyes - Blink 182 style, and they swap. John has drawn a circle of hearts around the mound of whipped cream on Brendon's frapp, with strange wonky bits on the top. Brendon blushes at the gesture and has to say something disparaging before the ridiculous giveaways hiding under his tongue push their way past his teeth and out of his mouth.
"Uh .. nice hearts. But what in the hell are they wearing?".
John Oh grins as he sucks his straw into his mouth and guides Brendon to a table in the back by hooking a finger into his belt loop and tugging.
"Isa ahs! Ike om ah ehh!"
Brendon swings his bag under the table and scoots his chair close enough to pull the straw out of John Oh's mouth.
"Okay, let's try that again".
John Oh almost giggles around his mouthful and swallows with a gulp and a grin.
"Sorry. Tongue-freeze. I said - It's a hat! Like on our egg!"
Brendon had forgotten all about their yolk-y charge. He pulls it out of the nest they constructed for it in the side pocket of his bag and props Eggbert up on the table. They both just look at him for a moment, considering him as they slurp their drinks.
"'Eggbert' isn't so bad. And I don't think I can disagree with someone who buys me caffeinated beverages".
Brendon coos at his frapp.
"If I'd known all it took was coffee, I wouldn't have had to rig the partner process for this project just to get to hang out with you."
Brendon's laugh is clear and bright, too startled to be anything but.
John Oh just stares, though.
"Uh ..... WHAT!?"
He cracks a smile at that. Or maybe at how Brendon's eyes are roughly the size of dinner plates.
"I'm not kidding; and Ms Daly is a hard sell." John eyes are shining and his shrug isn't half as sheepish as it's probably meant to be. He has to be joking. He has to be.
"You don't pay much attention in Home Ec, do you? Our classes are divided in a douche to non-douche ratio of 10:1. I had my egg's upbringing to consider. I had to do something to ensure my baby-daddy was the best available candidate".
Brendon's heart plummets through the lining of his stomach and falls in pieces between his toes.
"Oh. Right. I mean ... yeah. I guess my grades are pretty good. So if you just want me to write up this presentation by myself, I'll just give you notes to read out or something. I'll bring them to class or something when it's due, don't worry about it. I'll take the egg till then too, it'll be easier if only one of us has it. I guess."
His pathetic hopes tumble into the air with the rushed sentences and by the time Brendon stands up and makes a move to leave his knees aren't feeling so steady.
A hand on his wrist stops him and god, since when are hands all he can think about? John Oh's fingers close completely around his wrist, thumb overlapping fingers that are pressing hard enough to leave prints and Brendon has to close his eyes for a second to let the black behind his eyes swallow the technicolor thoughts of this hand, these fingers pulsing maps across his skin.
Oh well. He was stupid to think that this was a possibility in the first place. John O'Callahan isn't into guys and even if he was, Brendon still wouldn't have a chance. He's an idiot, and he doesn't want to be here anymore. He wants to run home and barricade himself into his bedroom and berate himself for falling so hard for someone that sees him as no more than an easy grade. He's embarrassed and hurt and shame and bile are climbing his throat in equal measures when he turns to shake off John's grip.
John Oh doesn't let go though. He tugs. He pulls sharply on Brendon's wrist until he's stumbles and time trickles past them in molasses waves when John surges from his seat to meet Brendon in the middle and halts his movement and heartbeat with the slick press of his mouth.
THE END.
lol, just kidding.
It's nothing major. A quick little act that's impulsive and unexpected and it should be awkward, but it's not. Their lips meet soft and sweet and space just falls away again, taking Brendon with it. He tumbles headfirst into nothingness, lost in the way their mouths fit together.
Everything shifts then, and Brendon is rising onto his tip-toes to stay connected to John Oh's mouth. John is standing now, sliding his free hand to rest on the back of Brendon's head as he uses his grip on Brendon's wrist to tug him closer. Brendon gets one blissful moment of pure vicious lust snaking through his veins before John Oh pulls away.
He blinks indignantly at the reality that is so rude to invade the best minute and twenty six seconds of his life and in his confusion forgets how to stand. His knees buckle when he realizes what just happened and wow, this is embarrassing. John Oh is still standing close - so close, and when he laughs Brendon feels it stick to his kiss slick lips.
"You're such a dork. Lucky for you though, I just happen to be into that".
John Oh relinquishes his hold on Brendon's wrist to tangle their fingers together, and Brendon trails behind when he starts to pull him out of the store. He's confused and hopeful and kind of stupidly turned on, so all in all he thinks his delayed reaction syndrome is to be expected. He forgets to ask where they're going until John has lead him down the street and towards the park. It's past dusk now, the sunlight fading with every step they take and Brendon should maybe check that John isn't intent on murdering him under the cover of darkness or something.
John Oh has that covered too though.
"We need to talk, man. You're kind of .... intense. And you bring that out in me too, so I feel kind of like I need to ..... declare my intentions or some shit".
No really, when are Ryan and Spencer going to jump out of a bush to tape his reaction to this practical joke? Sometimes his thoughts could almost be sharpied across his forehead and this must be one of those times because when John Oh stops at the base of the hill that overlooks the ocean the next thing he says is
"And stop doing that".
Brendon blinks.
"Seriously, stop. You might think you've been super sly about checking me out for the past couple of months, but I'm perceptive, dude. Plus, Spencer told me about your crush."
Fucking Spencer. Brendon knew this could never happen for him for real.
"Oh my god, Brendon, lookit.."
John Oh isn't gentle this time. He fists a hand in Brendon's hair, dragging him foward and crushing their mouths together. Brendon's lips part in surprise and John Oh hums, dragging his tongue across Brendon's plump bottom lip before licking past his teeth. He's kissing Brendon with intent, telling him with his mouth what Brendon probably wouldn't believe in words. His hands are at Brendon's sides now, brushing along his ribs and sliding to rest on his hips, his fingers curling completely around them and his thumbs tracing lines across the skin above his jeans.
Brendon is quicker to catch on this time, reassured by the fact that nobody could kiss someone the way John Oh is currently kissing him if they didn't really mean it. He's lost in the knowledge that this is real. The only things keeping him standing and sane are the hands on his waist, the tongue tangling with his, the soft sounds that short out his senses and the spikes of want that shock them back to life.
He fists his hands at the collar of John's shirt and pulls him closer still, closing his teeth on the curve of John Oh's lip and chasing the hiss it causes back into the heat of his mouth.
They're impossibly close, pressed together from chest to knee, tugging at one anothers clothes and hair and it's not enough. Brendon needs more, anything, everything. He slides his thigh to fit between John's and their hips collide. John Oh's hands dart to palm Brendon's ass, hauling him closer and pushing forward to grind down. Denim sucks, but Brendon really doesn't care. Being this close this way with John is more than enough for right now. Or, nearly is.
Brendon's fingers sneak beneath the waistband of John O's jeans and use the hold to pull his hips back into line with his own. They twist against one another, fast and dirty movements that match the moans they trade with wet licks and soft bites against one anothers mouths.
John Oh's fingers find Brendon's belt buckle and things are just starting to get really interesting when a stray hip ruins everything. Brendon jerks back and they both stare in horror at the front of his jeans. He reaches into his pocket with reluctant fingertips and pulls them back out with a shudder. It's completely dark now, the stars had stolen into the sky while they were lost in one another, but the moon is full and bright and making it impossible to miss the viscous liquid that drips from Brendon's fingers when he holds his hand up between them.
Eggbert is no more.
Neither of them move or speak, seemingly frozen in shock by this tragic turn of events. But when Brendon lifts his eyes to John Oh's face, he's trying his hardest not to laugh. He is flushed and bright eyed, his hair a mess from Brendon's hands and his mouth faring no better. His chest is heaving with the effort it takes to breathe normally again and he's still hard in his jeans. He looks ridiculous. And standing there in the dark with the remains of his child a sticky mess in his pocket, Brendon has never seen anything better. He darts forward to wipe his hand off on the flushed skin across John's throat and has started running before John Oh even registers the gesture.
His legs are longer though, and he catches Brendon just as they reach the top of the hill. He hauls him back with a hand in his back pocket and they tumble to the grass in a panting heap. They lie there for a moment in a tangled knot of limbs, staring to the sky and ignoring the way their hands find one another immediately.
John Oh leans up on an elbow and pushes Brendon's sweaty bangs from his face, letting his fingers trail across his cheekbone and catch on his lip. Brendon sighs and closes his eyes, feeling the light of the stars touch his face in bright whispers.
"Hey ... "
He cracks open and eye and quirks an eyebrow at John Oh. It's harder than it sounds.
"I really like you. And not just because I wanna jump your bones. You're smart and dorky and honest and whenever you're not around, my world feels smaller. I don't know how to ask you this, but ........"
Brendon sits up and the look of intense distress on John's face makes him feel like he has two livers. He holds his breath until John Oh finishes.
"Brendon. Will you ........... will you write me dirty letters when we go to prison for humping Eggbert to death?"
Brendon shoves at his shoulder and they fall back, John Oh's laughter thrumming through both of their body's where Brendon lies half on top of him.
The stars are still shining, he has John O'Callahan's hand in one pocket and a puddle of egg yolk in the other and there's nowhere else Brendon would rather be.
Pairing: Brendon/John Oh [from The Maine]
Rating: PG13.
Word Count: 9,000
Disclaimer: Didn't happen.
Notes: Thanks to
tarii_cakes for looking this over! <3 This was written for romasquerade , who is brilliant and hilarious and funny and delightful and provides me with awesome prompts when I can't write.
Brendon takes even longer than usual getting ready that morning. He burrows back under his cover when his alarm goes off and has to bribe himself with the idea of blueberry pop-tarts before his body will consider the possibility of getting out of bed. He doesn't sniff his shirt before he pulls it over his head, and that's a pretty serious statement when you consider the veritable Russian Roulette of dirty laundry strewn across his bedroom floor. He forgoes the complications of contacts in favor of squeezing his red plastic frames into the pocket of his jeans and pulls the strap of his messenger bag across his chest as he heads downstairs.
He's almost out the door, pop-tart in hand, when his mother calls from the kitchen.
"Brendon Boyd! Your permission slip!"
He sighs. Almost made it.
"You're lucky you didn't leave without this, or you wouldn't have been able to go on your field trip!"
His mom tucks the slip of paper into the front pocket of his bag and kisses him on the forehead.
"Have a good day".
Brendon makes it all the way to the corner before his curses escape from under his breath.
Spencer and Ryan are already there, sitting on the kerb and shoving at one another. They probably fought over the unicorn shirt again this morning. They look up when Brendon's shadow announces his arrival and stop bickering for long enough to grunt greetings at him. He swears at them in response.
"Dude. It's a field trip. A trip to somewhere that isn't school".
Brendon has never heard Ryan express emotion this early in the morning, and he's stunned to find that Ryan is capable of expressing excitement at any time of the day. So stunned in fact, that he manages to forget about the day ahead for a few brief but blissful seconds.
Spencer is the one to ruin it.
"Plus, it's fucking DISNEY WORLD".
*********************
Spencer and Ryan conveniently retreat behind one of their best-friends-forever-mind-melding force fields and Brendon's left to entertain himself in the queue for the one ride he'd agreed to go on - some Tower thing. It hadn't sounded too bad in the guidebook, just like an exaggerated elevator simulator. Brendon figures that once he doesn't have to see his own feet flip over his head when he's strapped upside down on a metal track hundreds of feet off the ground, he can handle it.
It's almost cute, how wrong he turns out to be.
Because once he's actually trapped in this thing, this tiny metal box that seems to be getting smaller and darker with each passing second, the reality of the situation becomes apparent. He's being pulled slowly skyward, the slow jerky motion of the ride jolting his insides until he feels like they're falling out of him and plunging down the dark shaft he's ascending. He can't change his mind, he can't go back, he can't step out of this rattling rusted coffin, he can't make it stop; and he's about to die.
The other kids around him are whooping and laughing, chatting to one another like the hitches in their voices are nothing more than hiccups. Spence and Ryan are behind him, he can feel Ryan's shoes scuff at the back of his seat as he jigs his foot. There hadn't been two free seats together in his row, so OF COURSE they'd abandoned him to the mercy of strangers. Or worse, other kids from his grade.
In his heightened state of hysteria, revelling in the rush that comes with knowing that one's death is surely imminent, Brendon actually turns to see who he's sitting next to. It seems only polite to at least be aware of the person you're about to descend through the burning fires of hell with. A sideways glance to his left reveals Becky Tator, a nervous sort of girl that he sometimes borrows notes from in Geometry. She bites her lip in his direction and grimaces, her way of trying to articulate that she'd stop to chat if she weren't so preoccupied trying to break her own knuckles judging by the grip she has on her seat, he guesses.
Brendon winces back at her and decides that maybe looking around isn't the best idea. Seeing his terror reflected on the face of his classmates isn't actually helping and Brendon would like to go to his grave thinking happy thoughts. He's just settling back into his seat, trying to ignore the finality of the click-lurch that brings the elevator to a sudden stop, when something brushes against the pinkie of his right hand. He looks down at the large tanned hand resting next to his and is about to slip back into his happy place when the mystery hand owner sitting to his right speaks.
"Uh ... sorry man". A sheepish grin accompanies the words and slight cough that follows and Brendon finds himself looking up into the eyes of John O Callaghan.
Or 'John O' if you're one of his buddies. Brendon isn't, but he mentally stresses that he could probably still call John by the nickname and not get punched for it. That's an important distinction when categorizing the majority of Brendon's experiences with his classmates.
John O Callaghan has been in Brendon's grade for four years now. Brendon hadn't even noticed him at first, he'd kept his hair short and spiked, wore polo shirts with the collar turned up and looked generally like jock assholes do. But something must have happened the summer between junior and senior year because he'd come back to school a totally different guy. Brendon heard he'd started a band and maybe that had inspired the change. He'd let his hair grow out, almost touching his shoulders at the back and sides with shorter bangs just long enough to fall into his eyes and short layers on top that made the whole thing look artfully mussed. He constantly looked like he'd just fallen out of bed.
Striped polos have become striped vests or plain v-neck shirts and baggy stonewashed jeans have become a second skin in the form of tight black denim that struggles to cover the point where tanned abdomen gives way to the slightly lighter hollow that stretches between hipbones that peek out above the ever evident waistband of grey boxers.
The features that had always seemed slightly too big for his face now fell right into place. His generous mouth didn't look sloppy anymore, just prominent and prone to default smirks. You'd think that those sly smiles would distract from everything else, but anybody who looks at John O Callahan and isn't automatically drawn to his eyes must be legally blind. Light brown and not especially unusual thereafter, Brendon wants to say that they light up his entire face, that they peek out from under the fall of his fringe like tentative stars that would blind, given the chance and finding the confidence. Brendon wants to say that every time he sees the dark centre of those soft golden pools expand with the change in light, he feels something akin to the cramps he got that time he ate some bad fish.
But Brendon isn't good with words, and all he knows for sure is this: John O isn't pretty like Spencer or Ryan. His mouth isn't sinful and his cheekbones probably couldn't even cut through paper, but for some reason the combination of his lazy grins and searching eyes leaves Brendon feeling empty. Empty and hungry, because everything that he is, everything that he thinks and dreams and feels and sees has been turned to pure sharp want that fizzes through his veins and rises through the vertebrae of his spine until it's almost as though every cell of his being is trained and straining towards John Oh. His fingers twitch and his heart pounds drum beats through the valves of his heart and then John Oh looks up or Ryan snaps his fingers before Brendon's face and everything freezes for a second before falling back down to the pit of his stomach with a thump.
Reality can bite him. And frequently does.
John Oh travels in different circles now but still managed to stay in favor with the popular kids. He doesn't sit at the back of classes and grunt anymore, but Brendon isn't sure if moving to the middle and sleeping on his arms in between sarcastic comments is really much of an improvement. He would think John Oh a lazy slacker if it weren't for what he sees when he peeks at the notes spilling off John's desk. Notes on books they haven't even read yet. Notes detailing the answers to questions the teacher won't set for homework until tomorrow. John Oh seems constantly ahead and perpetually interested, particularly in English. Brendon can't force back the smiles that his mouth automatically form when he sees John Oh's scrawled handwriting get sloppy in a way that only excitement can cause. He sees him sometimes at lunch or between classes, hastily scribbling on loose sheets and in the margins of novels they haven't been set, trapping down thoughts and ideas before they flit from his grasp.
In reward for the extra credit attention he pays, Brendon learns a lot about John Oh that year. From the glimpses and snatched sentences that Brendon keeps, he thinks he and John O could get along. Should be friends. But aside from shared interests and borrowed opinions, it's their differences that tell the true story.
Brendon tries and mostly succeeds in flying under the radar. He doesn't attract the attention of bullies but isn't necessarily a coveted lunch buddy either. He has his small group of friends and if he sometimes wishes he could walk the halls with the ease that comes with knowing more than a handful of people, he doesn't dwell on it.
John O, on the other hand, probably isn't capable of dwelling on things. He's one of the few people Brendon has come across in his lifetime that seem completely and totally at ease. In their own skin, in the world, in general. John has approximately twelve billion friends. The thing that had attracted Brendon's attention in the first place though, was the nonchalance with which John Oh handles his social interactions. He doesn't work for his popularity but he certainly doesn't reject it. John doesn't try to be noticed or shy away from attention. Brendon has seen him walk straight from a conversation with his skater buddies into a group of suddenly blushing cheerleaders as if it was nothing.
John O fascinates Brendon because he seems to be his complete and exact antithesis. Brendon is loud and animated and constantly in motion. John is quiet and restrained and sometimes the concentrated gazes he fixes Brendon under leave him breathless. Brendon feels safe and easy in his circle of close friends. He doesn't blame John Oh for sometimes looking lost in his sea of acquaintances. Brendon learned a long time ago that being different isn't something to fear or deny. John Oh, despite having changed and blossomed with the seasons, still seems blind to the worlds that lie between different and indifferent. He's relaxed and easy in any setting Brendon has seen him in, but he's never passionate or free.
He may have moved to the middle of the class, but he still hides his notes beneath loose limbs and feigned disinterest. He has broken free of his mould but still lets the clinging plaster change his shape.
Brendon longs to see him dust himself off. To see him leap onto his desk and bellow his thoughts from the top of his lungs. To wipe the sleep from his lashes and open his eyes to the world.
Brendon might also want to be the prince whose kiss awakens John Oh from his dream-state, but we'll get back to repressing that another time, or y'know ... if Brendon makes it out of this deathtrap alive.
He smiles back at John O and opens his mouth to say something about how their hands are going to have to co-operate if they're to inhabit this shared armrest, but then the bottom drops out of his world and what comes out instead is more like a shriek than he'd like to admit.
His hand gropes blindly in the dark and finds John's, locking their fingers together like the contact might save his life.
Brendon's probably clinging tight enough to hurt, but he can't let go. Every cell of his being is screaming in terror as they hurtle towards their end and Brendon needs some sort of physical contact in this moment, some reminder that he's still alive, at least for now.
The drop stops as suddenly as it started and Brendon wants to cry when the elevator lurches, dragging them skyward again. He peeks past his panic for a second to register that his hand is still curved tight around John O's and he hopes he won't notice that that happened at all if Brendon can just relax his hand long enough to pull it away. He starts releasing his grip on John's fingers when the world falls out from underneath them once more and this time it's John O twisting his hand beneath Brendon's, flipping his palm upward to let his fingers tangle with Brendon's properly.
Brendon's breath whooshes straight out of his lungs and it takes him almost a heartbeat to remember to scream.
When the ride mercifully ends everyone around them starts shuffling around, whispering breathlessly to one another about who screamed the loudest. Brendon sits perfectly still. Partly because his default reaction in frightening situations is to go as still as he possibly can and partly because John O isn't moving either. They sit in the dark, staring straight ahead, the palms of their hands sealed so tightly together that Brendon can't tell their racing pulses apart. The adrenaline of the ride gives him a sudden rush of courage, a sudden careless drive and he turns to John Oh. John Oh must feel the movement because his attention snaps to Brendon, his wide eyes mirrored in Brendon's. John Oh's gaze drops a couple of inches and Brendon's tongue peeks out subconsciously to slick his too-dry lips and then John's gaze drops lower still. He glances down at their clasped hands and Brendon doesn't know what exactly the side-effects of adrenaline spikes are, but he doesn't think he imagines it when John Oh tightens his grip for a split second, the pulse of pressure like a heartbeat around Brendon's smaller hand. Before Brendon can even think about the fact that he's sitting in a dark elevator full of his classmates, holding hands with a guy that is amongst other things, a guy, his thumb pulls itself from under John's and settles itself back on the other side of the digit, slowly stroking a semi circle from the knuckle on John's thumb back down to the soft thin skin of his wrist and back again. He hears John O suck in a breath and tears his eyes away from the movement of his thumb across John's skin when the lights flicker on and Spencer is flicking him on the back of the neck.
He doesn't even know who moves first, but their hands wrench apart and Brendon has never hated fluorescent lighting and his best friend's inopportune timing as he does in that second.
**************************
Monday morning arrives as unwanted and inevitable as ever and Brendon wishes he had died on that ride. Almost. Immediately after, maybe.
He struggles into his clothes, still too distracted to sniff first, and makes it to the corner before Ryan and Spencer. He sits down and swings his bag to rest on his toes, jigging his feet to see-saw the weight in a pleasant little shuffle dance. He's humming the circus theme to himself when Ryan and Spence arrive.
"Dude, you're early! Don't you have Home Ec first period?"
"I'll have you know, Ryan Ross" Brendon begins, getting to his feet and joining them on the sidewalk, "not all of us are as hopeless in the kitchen as you are. I for example, can actually produce edible substances without setting anything on fire".
Ryan pulls him into a headlock and musses his hair, but he's laughing as he does so Brendon figures he's had an alright weekend.
By the time they get to school, they've established that Ryan did in fact have a great weekend. He stayed at Spencer's for the most part and Brendon would be put out at not being invited if he wasn't more interested in seeing Ryan smile like that than he was in being included. They didn't do anything that exciting anyway, just watched movies and fucked around on the computer. Brendon isn't really one for taking pictures of his ass and asking scary looking girls to write about what they think of it in 160 characters or less, so he probably would have been bored anyway. Not that his weekend was any better. Game night with his family is regularly a cause for consternation but doesn't often result in the need to spend the rest of his weekend laying on his bedroom floor and counting dust particles as they flit in and out of the sunlight.
Sometimes Brendon thinks that his constant motion is nothing more than an avoidance tactic.
The days when he runs out of steam, runs out of reasons to tap out silent beats and bend his limbs in ways unintended, these are the days that he'd dread - if he paused long enough to think about it.
Days that drain the energy from Brendon's limbs until the constant hum beneath his skin finally quiets and he has nothing to distract him from the buzzing between his ears.
The buzzing has always sounded remarkably like his fathers voice, if you could put the expression that his face folds into when Brendon wears his jeans too tight or too low, when his excuses for being late fall somewhere past believable, into sound.
This week, it had been different. When it had started at the breakfast table, hidden at first inside the whistle of the teapot and laced between the quiet graces of his family, it began like any other time. Soft at first but building steadily, rising in volume and strength until it over-powered him and forced him to retreat behind closed doors. To seek refuge from worried glances that could only be found across blank ceilings.
But when he'd slumped against the door of his bedroom, leaning against the divide in more ways than the obvious, it hadn't been the disappointment of his father that he'd heard. The buzzing faded to a hum, a gentle soothing sound that had poured out across his skin like the warmth of touch. When Brendon awoke hours later, his hands were closing around fistfuls of stale air, his fingers still chasing the memory of how John Oh's hand felt beneath his own.
Brendon's wrists feel awkward even now. The hands he sees connected to them don't look like his. Two days - 48 hours - later, and Brendon still expects to find thicker, longer fingers tangled amongst his own. These knuckles that he supposes are his seem lost in the space that surrounds them, severed and aimless without their darker, jutting counterparts to keep them in place. His hands feel alien. Clearly present, every cell expected accounted for, Brendon wonders if this is what is meant by "phantom aches". The limb is still there, but these aches have no cause.
He puts his hands away as they climb the front steps and head for the lockers. He tucks his fingers into his pockets, padded by his confusion and dread, and hopes for holes along the hems.
Ryan and Spencer are still talking, over his head now as they fumble with the lockers either side of his. Brendon's first period doesn't require a text book so he just hangs his jacket up inside his locker and lets his feet take him toward class. Spence and Ryan probably won't even notice he's not there until their conversation reaches a stalemate. They're kind of freakishly alike, so that might not be until lunch or Thursday.
Brendon takes his usual seat in the Home Ec kitchen, last station on the right and the only one without a working oven. It's for the best. He cushions his head on his folded forearms and is just about to drift off into a daydream about how awesome it'd be to have hooks for hands when the teacher slams her recipe book down onto her desk.
"Now that I've got your attention; let me just apologize for this interruption to your regularly scheduled slacking".
The rest of the class are actually stunned into silence and Brendon might be amused by this if he could name the woman standing at the blackboard without glancing down at his schedule. Home Ec usually goes one of two ways. They have a practical and make a mess, or have theory and nap. Beyond taking attendance and the first period of the year, he's pretty sure he's never even heard Miss Daly talk. She reads, the class sleeps, all nighters before exams pull steady C's and everybody wins. Home Ec is a valuable class and all, but Brendon figures most of the class were just in it for the cookies.
So it's understandable, really, that they're greeting this foreign prospect of participation with suspicion.
"Oh quiet down, you're not getting homework, I'm not a masochist. And put your hand down Nick I'm not explaining masochism to you. GUYS. You have a project to complete. It involves no written work whatsoever and you'll be graded based on your performance and an itsy bitsy 5 minute class presentation that you can submit orally. Pat stop giggling. Any questions?"
Twenty two hands shoot into the air.
"Good. Take one from the box and pass it on"
Miss Daly pulls a cardboard box out from underneath her desk and passes it to the kid sitting at the first desk in Brendon's row. Everyone watches in horror as she reaches in and pulls out .......... an egg. An egg wearing a knitted hat, no less.
"Welcome to parenthood, kids. For the next 7 days, yes weekend included, you'll be caring for these as though you hatched them yourselves. Now, as it takes two to make the mess, you'll be doing this project in pairs.."
At this the silence is broken by hurried whispers of "Partners?" and the frantic limb waving that has become the universal signal for "don't you dare pair up with that bitch or you can kiss those boots you let me borrow goodbye".
Brendon sits on his own in this class and hasn't so much as said hello to any of the other kids in it since the start of the semester. He would have made the effort, but it was first period on a Monday and not even he is capable of initiating awkward conversation this early. He figures Miss Daly will pair them alphabetically anyway, she's always mumbling to herself about "broadening horizons past the boundaries of safe friendships" when the six cheerleaders in the class rearrange the desks to sit together.
Brendon takes an egg from the box when it reaches him [the one wearing the yellow hat stood out], and starts trying to work out who he's going to be paired with when the classroom door opens and Ms Cody leads the other Home Ec class for this period into the room.
"Ah, now in the interest of broadening your horizons beyond the boundaries of routine, we'll be combining both classes for this period and picking the partners at random from this ... sieve" Miss Daly holds up the silver strainer filled with folded triangles of paper and Brendon grins at the sharp intake of breath from his classmates.
Random partners and the dreaded egg project? Even the class president looks like she might throw up. Brendon's secretly kind of stoked. As far as projects go, not smashing an egg will be pretty simple. Once whoever he gets paired with isn't a complete jackass, this might actually be an easy A.
"Ok, Pat you're with Kellyhope. Alex M? Taelor. Sarah and Justin. Audrey, you've got Jacqueline. No snickering, please. Parental ability isn't gender specific. Nick and Taylor with a Y, Hayley you got Josh, Brendon and John O Callahan ......."
Holy mother-fucking snot balls. John O's mouth twists up on one side as he walks toward where Brendon's sitting and it could be a shy smile or a polite grimace. Either way, Brendon's swallowing lumps the size of golf balls and this poor adopted egg never even had a chance.
"So ... um ... hey, I guess. I'm John".
For a second, Brendon is terrified that when he opens his mouth the hysterical laughter bubbling in his chest is going to spill right out into the air.
"Oh yeah, I know. I mean, uh, we have health together. I think. Brendon".
John nods and holds out his hand. Brendon almost faints, until his brain catches up with his cow eyes and realizes John just wants the egg. Their egg. Their adopted baby egg. How is this his life? A week ago John and Brendon had never spoken in their lives. Two days ago, they held hands at Disneyland. And now they're adopting offspring together. Brendon's head is spinning. Liking guys is one thing, a thing he's learned to carefully avoid thinking about, talking about, acting on and trying to talk himself out of, but John O could be some homophobic asshole who is about to kick his teeth in for what happened. He certainly doesn't seem like the sort of guy who'd do something like that, and Brendon's pretty sure he's about as far as an asshole as you can get but random acts of sissy can bring about strange reactions in people. Particularly 17 year old boys, who aren't exactly the most level-headed sort to begin with.
He hands over their egg, avoiding any and all physical contact and is wondering how the hell he's going to get out of this when John interrupts his train of thought.
"So. Let's give this fucker a face!"
He reaches for the sharpie that's hanging off the key-chain clipped at his hip and uncaps it with his teeth, turning to Brendon with the sharpie poised over the surface of the egg. Brendon takes a deep breath, pointedly ignores the way the egg looks so tiny in John's large tanned hand; forces himself not to think about how the angle of the sharpie lid is pulling John's bottom lip between his teeth, and grins at the pure unholy glee he finds when he forces himself to meet John's eyes.
"Dude, anime eyes. And glasses! I want this egg to feel smart, the yellow hat might be a confidence downer"
"And you wanna fix that by making him a nerd too? No dice."
John turns the egg over in his hand, looking at it from all angles with his thumb and forefinger cupping his chin, surveying it with a squint.
"I think ................. a moustache. Definitely"
Brendon really, really hopes his facial expression is adequately expressing his horror at this suggestion because no amount of words will ever do it justice.
"Our egg will NOT be cultivating facial hair at any point of it's existence"
He carefully snatches the egg back from John, cupping it in his hand and cradling it against his chest, glowering at John. Who just laughs.
"Veto noted. Uni-brow?"
They argue back and forth, until they eventually agree on a minimalist approach: tiny dots for eyes and a grin to rival the Cheshire cat's. Brendon thinks the thing looks more than a little deranged, but John Oh fights his corner admirably. His eventual victory on the matter might have less to do with his fervent "less is more" argument and more to do with how when Brendon protests, he feels compelled to tug the red frames from where they're sticking out of his pocket and slide them onto Brendon's face.
"Are you seeing straight NOW? Simple is not a synonym for lacking, dude".
Brendon is too busy trying to cool the blush that spreads along the path John Oh's fingertips had burnt along his cheekbones to argue.
By the end of class, they've agreed that they'll swap egg responsibilities between every class for the rest of the day, and alternate nights for home visits. They've spent the period slipping easily in and out of conversation and Brendon is so surprised by how easy it is to talk to John Oh that he almost forgets that he's spent the past hour talking to John Oh. It's not until they're walking out of the kitchens together, snickering about UH SOMETHING that Brendon remembers to feel awkward.
As they file out into the hall, the sudden rush of voices and laughter and the dull din of locker doors washes over him like a cold shower. He must tense or pause because John Oh has turned back to him, head ducked. And here it is, the moment when John Oh realizes they're back where they can be seen together and ditches Brendon like last weeks lunch. Brendon starts to turn and flee but is stopped by John Oh's hand on his elbow. He's leaning down and whispers into Brendon ear "Don't look now, bro, but Hayley was totally not bluffing about having a dog leash that would fit her egg". He's laughing soft and slow and Brendon wants to curl into him, to shift closer and have that laugh wrapped around him. But John Oh is pulling back, tightening his grip on Brendon's elbow and using it to tug him down the corridor by his side and toward the cafeteria, and that's enough.
Maybe more than.
********
The rest of the day passes without incident. If John Oh's friends look questioningly at Brendon when he arrives at their lunch table at John's side, he doesn't notice. And if Spencer and Ryan smirk knowingly when John Oh meets Brendon by the steps out front to hand over their yolk-y charge, he doesn't react.
They do start to question him about this development, but Brendon distracts them by pointing out that Ryan's eyeliner has smudged beneath one eye. ["Spencer! Spence FIX IT!"] He's snickering to himself and juggling the egg between his hands when he hears a shout.
"Dude .... DUDE, wait up".
Brendon doesn't turn around until he feels the tug on his hood. He's walking with Spence and Ryan, who else could be calling after him?
But when he does turn, John Oh's there - leaning forward with his hands on his knees and looking kind of like he might blow chunks.
"You ....... you ........... hat ............ egg hat".
'Egg hat' is a pretty lame insult and Brendon's just about to point this out when John Oh manages to pull himself upright for as long as it takes him to wriggle his fingers into the front pocket of his jeans and produce the tiny yellow knitted hat.
"It's getting chilly............. Eggbert needs his woollies".
John Oh grins and it's almost nearly not quite enough to draw Brendon's attention away from the car crash that is that name.
"........... eggbert? EGGBERT? You have got to be kidding".
John Oh's grin turns sharper and plaits itself through the nerves along Brendon's spine.
"Not a fan of my naming skills, Urie? I tell you what, I've been dreaming about java chip frapps all day. Come to Starbucks with me and you can voice your complaints?"
Brendon has never been so thankful for his shitty luck with laces in all his life. He quickly ducks to fix the knots and tucks his face against his shoulder to hide it's blush.
"Uhh sure, just let me tell my friends"
John Oh nods and grins and tucks his hands into his pockets and oh my god Brendon is NOT going to squeal when he tells Spencer and Ryan that John O Callahan just asked him to hang out, he is NOT. He jogs up to where Spence and Ryan were waiting for him at the next corner and clears his throat. Not because he's afraid his voice has gone all high and squeaky like a girls, but because he has mucus build-up, OKAY?
"I ....... am going to Starbucks with John O Callahan. I mean ..... John. Oh. John Oh."
Ryan and Spencer stare.
And then laugh so hard they have to hold one another up.
Brendon fucking hates his friends.
"You .......... John Oh ............ Starbucks! Coffee! Caffeine! ........... You!".
Brendon is totally going to enjoy watching Ryan choke to death on his own laughter.
"Later assholes".
He pointedly ignores Ryan's gasped "Call me later so I can laugh at you some more!" and shakes his head as he returns to the sidewalk where John Oh is slouching and drumming his fingers against his thighs to a rhythm that sounds suspiciously like it's from a Taylor Swift song.
"You done?"
"Uh huh, TO THE 'BUX!" Brendon throws back his imaginary cape and strikes an impressive superhero stance. In situations like this, his brain tends to defer to it's most basic point of development. Even in these moments, he still makes more sense than Ryan Ross can manage so it doesn't tend to be a problem. Teenage boys are dumb by default.
John Oh just laughs and holds out his hand
"Holy enthusiasm, Batman. Hand over the egg before someone gets smashed".
"Hey, I am a totally responsible parent!"
"You left Eggbert on the windowsill in Study Hall. In the sunlight. Without his hat. If it were left to you, we would have fried offspring right about now!"
"Oh my god, one slip up! Half our class have broken or eaten their projects by now! I think I'm allowed one teeny tiny mistake. And seriously, EGGBERT?"
"I don't hear you coming up with anything better, Batpants"
John Oh's clever fingers fit perfectly between Brendon's ribs and he's thankful that he's busy trying not to piss his pants giggling right now, otherwise he might be able to concentrate on the contact and end up ......... pissing his pants.
The nearest Starbucks is only two blocks away and Brendon doesn't trip up or embarrass himself once. Talking to John Oh is stupidly easy and he has to make a mental note to thank Spencer lately. These past couple years of friendship with someone so prone to sarcasm has sharpened Brendon's wit reflexes like a pencil.
They talk about school and music and movies and Brendon isn't surprised to find that they have more than an egg in common. Their guitar tabs vs sheet music argument lasts right up to the counter in Starbucks.
John Oh orders two Java Chip Frappucinos without even asking and won't let Brendon pay.
"My poor choice in baby names lead to this outing, Bden. Can I call you Bden? Or is that a friend thing?"
Brendon's heart and lungs and hands and feet and mouth and tongue can't handle much more of this. Emphasis on his tongue. If he bites down on it any harder, he'll chew right through.
"I guess it's a friend thing. So yeah, you can call me that".
He can't quite keep the look from his eyes, the 'I am kind of stupidly in like with you, please don't laugh at my pathetic attempts at flirtation' shine and seriously, his tongue, OW.
John Oh quirks and eyebrow at him and faces shouldn't be able to have this much effect on Brendon, it's just plain unfair. John smiles then and hip checks Brendon as they shuffle down to the counter to collect their drinks and this can't be happening. This can't be real.
Brendon in on a maybe-date-dude-hangout with a boy he's had the most pathetic crush on for like a year now and he's pretty sure he isn't exactly being entirely secretive about that fact and he hasn't been punched in the face yet.
In fact, John Oh is kind of grinning to himself. A dopey blissed out smile that sits on his mouth like he's forgotten he isn't entirely alone right now and Brendon can't help it, he has to reach out and touch. If some part of him doesn't form a point of contact with John's skin this very minute, he's going to fall off the earth and cease to exist. He's not stupid, he knows this is probably all in his head. He's pretty sure John Oh is humoring him, knows about his pathetic crush and is just not bothered enough by it to do something to put Brendon out of his misery. Maybe he doesn't want to hurt Brendon's feelings. Maybe he thinks it's kind of cute. Maybe, just maybe, some small divergent pocket of him doesn't find the idea all that unappealing. Brendon isn't ready to let himself believe that just yet, but he likes this shift in their orbits, he's grateful for this stupid project that brought them crashing into one anothers awareness.
He doesn't want to freak John out or drive him away, but he has to do something, he has to let himself have this one second of whatif.
But John Oh beats him to it.
They're standing at the counter, waiting for their drinks in silence as Brendon shuffles frantically from foot to foot hoping the movement will twist his brain-to-mouth filter more firmly into place. His hands are crammed into his pockets and he's looking anywhere but at John Oh when he feels it. He's certain it wasn't him, because aside from his shuffling he hasn't moved an inch. He's holding his shoulders ribs hips knees as firmly in place as he can, so he knows it wasn't him that changed the space between them. He knows it wasn't his movements that pushed the air and silence and tentative interlude apart and away, leaving no uncertainty to keep he and John Oh apart. Brendon has to pause, take a moment to make sure he's still conscious and alert. Yep, they're still in Starbucks. He can still smell the heady aroma of fresh beans and hear the whirsh of milk being steamed. They're both still facing forward, neither making eye contact or having taken their hands from their pockets. You could almost think they were strangers if it weren't for how they're suddenly standing completely sealed together, points of contact fusing them at bicep to elbow, waist to hip to thigh.
Brendon can feel the warmth of John's skin where their shirts can't keep it covered. There's no force behind the press, just a gentle hum of pressure. It's as if the space between them just fell away.
Brendon takes a breath and his lungs fill with what feels like all the air in the room. The second blooms in his chest and he wouldn't be surprised to find that time is standing still.
John Oh's movement ends the moment; he twists forward to lean an elbow on the counter and somehow manages to keep his hip and thigh pressed with Brendon's and lean around to face him too. He's a tall dude with long limbs and a lean torso that seems to stretch for miles. The flexibility isn't much of a surprise.
He just looks up at Brendon from beneath the fall of his fringe and it's ALMOST like he's waiting for a response to something. Brendon doesn't think he's said anything in the last few minutes, but he opens his mouth to ask, to make sure.
But before he can speak, their bubble is shattered by a sudden explosion of noise from behind the counter. Both boys turn to look, and see the Batista who was making their drinks standing at the bar covered head to toe in globs of whipped cream. The metal canister is still in his hand and from the looks of it, the nozzle had been reversed. Nice. Brendon isn't really sure how to react, and both John Oh and the cream covered dude seem to be in a similar predicament, all three of them just staring at the canister and it's expelled contents with expressions of shock, confusion and horror in turn.
The other Batista on duty seems to take it in her stride though. She just laughs. And laughs and laughs and laughs until Brendon and John Oh have to look at one another with subtle "wtf" expressions. Seriously, this woman is laughing so hard she looks like she might hurt herself. She still manages to take the situation in hand, throwing a cloth at the whipped creams victim and shooing him into the back. She steps over to the counter and finishes up their drinks herself, still laughing the entire time. "Janice :)" spots a customer at the counter and slides their drinks to them with a tube of chocolate drizzle, asking in between barks of laughter if they mind topping their own beverages.
John Oh, of course, doesn't mind at all. He insists that they customize each other's drinks. Brendon draws the first thing that comes to mind, a smiley face with X's for eyes - Blink 182 style, and they swap. John has drawn a circle of hearts around the mound of whipped cream on Brendon's frapp, with strange wonky bits on the top. Brendon blushes at the gesture and has to say something disparaging before the ridiculous giveaways hiding under his tongue push their way past his teeth and out of his mouth.
"Uh .. nice hearts. But what in the hell are they wearing?".
John Oh grins as he sucks his straw into his mouth and guides Brendon to a table in the back by hooking a finger into his belt loop and tugging.
"Isa ahs! Ike om ah ehh!"
Brendon swings his bag under the table and scoots his chair close enough to pull the straw out of John Oh's mouth.
"Okay, let's try that again".
John Oh almost giggles around his mouthful and swallows with a gulp and a grin.
"Sorry. Tongue-freeze. I said - It's a hat! Like on our egg!"
Brendon had forgotten all about their yolk-y charge. He pulls it out of the nest they constructed for it in the side pocket of his bag and props Eggbert up on the table. They both just look at him for a moment, considering him as they slurp their drinks.
"'Eggbert' isn't so bad. And I don't think I can disagree with someone who buys me caffeinated beverages".
Brendon coos at his frapp.
"If I'd known all it took was coffee, I wouldn't have had to rig the partner process for this project just to get to hang out with you."
Brendon's laugh is clear and bright, too startled to be anything but.
John Oh just stares, though.
"Uh ..... WHAT!?"
He cracks a smile at that. Or maybe at how Brendon's eyes are roughly the size of dinner plates.
"I'm not kidding; and Ms Daly is a hard sell." John eyes are shining and his shrug isn't half as sheepish as it's probably meant to be. He has to be joking. He has to be.
"You don't pay much attention in Home Ec, do you? Our classes are divided in a douche to non-douche ratio of 10:1. I had my egg's upbringing to consider. I had to do something to ensure my baby-daddy was the best available candidate".
Brendon's heart plummets through the lining of his stomach and falls in pieces between his toes.
"Oh. Right. I mean ... yeah. I guess my grades are pretty good. So if you just want me to write up this presentation by myself, I'll just give you notes to read out or something. I'll bring them to class or something when it's due, don't worry about it. I'll take the egg till then too, it'll be easier if only one of us has it. I guess."
His pathetic hopes tumble into the air with the rushed sentences and by the time Brendon stands up and makes a move to leave his knees aren't feeling so steady.
A hand on his wrist stops him and god, since when are hands all he can think about? John Oh's fingers close completely around his wrist, thumb overlapping fingers that are pressing hard enough to leave prints and Brendon has to close his eyes for a second to let the black behind his eyes swallow the technicolor thoughts of this hand, these fingers pulsing maps across his skin.
Oh well. He was stupid to think that this was a possibility in the first place. John O'Callahan isn't into guys and even if he was, Brendon still wouldn't have a chance. He's an idiot, and he doesn't want to be here anymore. He wants to run home and barricade himself into his bedroom and berate himself for falling so hard for someone that sees him as no more than an easy grade. He's embarrassed and hurt and shame and bile are climbing his throat in equal measures when he turns to shake off John's grip.
John Oh doesn't let go though. He tugs. He pulls sharply on Brendon's wrist until he's stumbles and time trickles past them in molasses waves when John surges from his seat to meet Brendon in the middle and halts his movement and heartbeat with the slick press of his mouth.
THE END.
lol, just kidding.
It's nothing major. A quick little act that's impulsive and unexpected and it should be awkward, but it's not. Their lips meet soft and sweet and space just falls away again, taking Brendon with it. He tumbles headfirst into nothingness, lost in the way their mouths fit together.
Everything shifts then, and Brendon is rising onto his tip-toes to stay connected to John Oh's mouth. John is standing now, sliding his free hand to rest on the back of Brendon's head as he uses his grip on Brendon's wrist to tug him closer. Brendon gets one blissful moment of pure vicious lust snaking through his veins before John Oh pulls away.
He blinks indignantly at the reality that is so rude to invade the best minute and twenty six seconds of his life and in his confusion forgets how to stand. His knees buckle when he realizes what just happened and wow, this is embarrassing. John Oh is still standing close - so close, and when he laughs Brendon feels it stick to his kiss slick lips.
"You're such a dork. Lucky for you though, I just happen to be into that".
John Oh relinquishes his hold on Brendon's wrist to tangle their fingers together, and Brendon trails behind when he starts to pull him out of the store. He's confused and hopeful and kind of stupidly turned on, so all in all he thinks his delayed reaction syndrome is to be expected. He forgets to ask where they're going until John has lead him down the street and towards the park. It's past dusk now, the sunlight fading with every step they take and Brendon should maybe check that John isn't intent on murdering him under the cover of darkness or something.
John Oh has that covered too though.
"We need to talk, man. You're kind of .... intense. And you bring that out in me too, so I feel kind of like I need to ..... declare my intentions or some shit".
No really, when are Ryan and Spencer going to jump out of a bush to tape his reaction to this practical joke? Sometimes his thoughts could almost be sharpied across his forehead and this must be one of those times because when John Oh stops at the base of the hill that overlooks the ocean the next thing he says is
"And stop doing that".
Brendon blinks.
"Seriously, stop. You might think you've been super sly about checking me out for the past couple of months, but I'm perceptive, dude. Plus, Spencer told me about your crush."
Fucking Spencer. Brendon knew this could never happen for him for real.
"Oh my god, Brendon, lookit.."
John Oh isn't gentle this time. He fists a hand in Brendon's hair, dragging him foward and crushing their mouths together. Brendon's lips part in surprise and John Oh hums, dragging his tongue across Brendon's plump bottom lip before licking past his teeth. He's kissing Brendon with intent, telling him with his mouth what Brendon probably wouldn't believe in words. His hands are at Brendon's sides now, brushing along his ribs and sliding to rest on his hips, his fingers curling completely around them and his thumbs tracing lines across the skin above his jeans.
Brendon is quicker to catch on this time, reassured by the fact that nobody could kiss someone the way John Oh is currently kissing him if they didn't really mean it. He's lost in the knowledge that this is real. The only things keeping him standing and sane are the hands on his waist, the tongue tangling with his, the soft sounds that short out his senses and the spikes of want that shock them back to life.
He fists his hands at the collar of John's shirt and pulls him closer still, closing his teeth on the curve of John Oh's lip and chasing the hiss it causes back into the heat of his mouth.
They're impossibly close, pressed together from chest to knee, tugging at one anothers clothes and hair and it's not enough. Brendon needs more, anything, everything. He slides his thigh to fit between John's and their hips collide. John Oh's hands dart to palm Brendon's ass, hauling him closer and pushing forward to grind down. Denim sucks, but Brendon really doesn't care. Being this close this way with John is more than enough for right now. Or, nearly is.
Brendon's fingers sneak beneath the waistband of John O's jeans and use the hold to pull his hips back into line with his own. They twist against one another, fast and dirty movements that match the moans they trade with wet licks and soft bites against one anothers mouths.
John Oh's fingers find Brendon's belt buckle and things are just starting to get really interesting when a stray hip ruins everything. Brendon jerks back and they both stare in horror at the front of his jeans. He reaches into his pocket with reluctant fingertips and pulls them back out with a shudder. It's completely dark now, the stars had stolen into the sky while they were lost in one another, but the moon is full and bright and making it impossible to miss the viscous liquid that drips from Brendon's fingers when he holds his hand up between them.
Eggbert is no more.
Neither of them move or speak, seemingly frozen in shock by this tragic turn of events. But when Brendon lifts his eyes to John Oh's face, he's trying his hardest not to laugh. He is flushed and bright eyed, his hair a mess from Brendon's hands and his mouth faring no better. His chest is heaving with the effort it takes to breathe normally again and he's still hard in his jeans. He looks ridiculous. And standing there in the dark with the remains of his child a sticky mess in his pocket, Brendon has never seen anything better. He darts forward to wipe his hand off on the flushed skin across John's throat and has started running before John Oh even registers the gesture.
His legs are longer though, and he catches Brendon just as they reach the top of the hill. He hauls him back with a hand in his back pocket and they tumble to the grass in a panting heap. They lie there for a moment in a tangled knot of limbs, staring to the sky and ignoring the way their hands find one another immediately.
John Oh leans up on an elbow and pushes Brendon's sweaty bangs from his face, letting his fingers trail across his cheekbone and catch on his lip. Brendon sighs and closes his eyes, feeling the light of the stars touch his face in bright whispers.
"Hey ... "
He cracks open and eye and quirks an eyebrow at John Oh. It's harder than it sounds.
"I really like you. And not just because I wanna jump your bones. You're smart and dorky and honest and whenever you're not around, my world feels smaller. I don't know how to ask you this, but ........"
Brendon sits up and the look of intense distress on John's face makes him feel like he has two livers. He holds his breath until John Oh finishes.
"Brendon. Will you ........... will you write me dirty letters when we go to prison for humping Eggbert to death?"
Brendon shoves at his shoulder and they fall back, John Oh's laughter thrumming through both of their body's where Brendon lies half on top of him.
The stars are still shining, he has John O'Callahan's hand in one pocket and a puddle of egg yolk in the other and there's nowhere else Brendon would rather be.