Roxanne (3/3); Patrick/Brendon; R
Brendon spends long hours on the radio with Mikey and Frank, and Pete and Joe when they're in range. He pours over Patrick's manuals, peppers him with questions about his logs. When they pull into WayRo headquarters a few days later, Frank and Gerard come out to meet them with Bob and Ray in tow. Brendon smiles at them shyly, intimidated by Bob's gruff demeanor, Ray's wild hair and leather jacket.
"So, you're the stray," Bob says around his cigarette when Gerard introduces them, and Ray shoots Patrick a sly grin when Brendon blushes and shakes his hand. "Nice to meet you," Ray says, polite as ever, and Frank pulls Brendon along as they head inside, talking about new engine parts for Ray and Bob's custom rig. Patrick's not sure why until he turns to see Gerard leaning against his truck, watching him.
"He wants to be a trucker now?" Gerard says with raised eyebrows. "What the hell, 'Trick?"
Patrick bristles. "He's not bad at it," he says, and he's surprised to realize he means it. Brendon's picked up everything Patrick's thrown at him.
"You can't keep him like a pet," Gerard says, not unkindly, and Patrick thinks about his conversation with Pete back in Chicago, Brendon's head warm on his shoulder. He doesn't want to keep Brendon, not really. It's just that, especially after what happened at that truck stop, he doesn't know how he's going to be able to let Brendon go without worrying about him every fucking second.
"I know that," he says, suddenly too tired to argue. He scrubs his hands over his face. "I just can't drop him off in Manhattan and hope for the best, Gee. And I don't know what else to do with him right now."
"Have you talked to him about going home?" Gerard asks.
Patrick hasn't. He thought about it, but he hates the look on Brendon's face whenever Patrick even tiptoes around the subject of Vegas, or his parents.
"Look," Gerard sighs. "I can turn my head for a little while longer, though you better not get pulled over anywhere, for anything." Patrick nods. "I put you guys on another run, out to San Diego. The route should take you close enough to Vegas that it's an option. Maybe the best one?" Gerard is being really reasonable, Patrick knows that, and he takes another deep breath, stuffs his hands in his pockets.
"Yeah, probably," he says, and hates the way his voice comes out low, hoarse. "I'll talk to him."
"Good," Gerard says, and slings an arm around Patrick's shoulders as they head back inside. "If that doesn’t work, maybe I can schedule a run through Iowa, see if you can make an honest man out of him," he whispers low in Patrick's ear. Patrick elbows Gerard in the stomach.
*
Brendon is totally excited about the San Diego run. Patrick would usually take the same roads he always does, but Brendon's enthusiasm is infectious and he plots a route straight across I-40, just so he and Brendon will have an excuse to stop in Nashville for a few hours to look at some record shops. Patrick's tempted to let the kid spend half a day in Dollywood, but they have a deadline on the freight. "It's cool, maybe on the way back," Brendon says, bouncing in his seat as the exit sign flies by, and Patrick feels his stomach twist.
Nashville is amazing, as always, and Brendon spends a few hours dragging Patrick up and down side streets, stopping to hear the music coming out of the front door of ever bary they walk past. Even at two in the afternoon there's music pouring from every doorway - jazz and country and bluegrass calling to them. Patrick watches as Brendon closes his eyes and leans on an old, warped door frame, trying to focus in on the sound of a woman with a steel-stringed guitar, singing about love and loss and the past. When he opens his eyes, he catches Patrick's gaze for a long minute, both of them just breathing in the music of the city with a shared yearning. "Come on," Patrick says, and Brendon tangles his fingers with Patrick's as they walk down to Patrick's favorite shop, full of refurbished guitars and pedals and amps, hanging from the ceiling at odd angles, low enough that even Patrick has to duck to get around some of them. Brendon picks up an old, battered acoustic with a scroll inlay of mother-of-pearl, chipped from years of use. He plucks at it while Patrick browses, hums a little Lyle Lovett under his breath. Patrick doesn't even think about it when the owner asks if he needs any help; he passes over a hundred bucks for the guitar and tries to look like he doesn't care when Brendon's eyes go wide. "Whatever, it's a good deal," Patrick scoffs, and lets Brendon carry it back to the truck, slung over his back by the worn leather strap.
"What are you going to do with an acoustic in your truck?" Brendon asks, laying out carefully on Patrick's bed. "Or is it just going to live at your mom's?" Patrick tucks his other purchases in the cabinets under his bunk.
Patrick doesn't say 'Thought I'd let you keep it,' because he knows Brendon wouldn't accept it, not without some careful planning on Patrick's part. "Might do some writing on it," he says instead, and Brendon's eyes light up.
"I didn't know you write music," he says eagerly and Patrick groans and sits back on his knees.
"It's not a big deal. Just stuff I throw together when I'm bored."
"Do you have anything? I want to hear it!" Brendon drops onto Patrick's bed, the mattress bouncing from his enthusiasm.
"No, Bren, it's not--," but Brendon is already picking up his laptop, kicking Patrick lightly in the thigh.
"Come on, 'Trick, I want to hear it."
No one's heard any of Patrick's songs but Pete, and even then it's only been over the tinny loudspeakers of Patrick's computer. He has some better recording equipment at his mom's, stuff he picked up on sale here and there, and he has a few songs he doesn't actually hate, but he's afraid to burn them on disk for Pete. Pete's promised if he did, they'd find their way to places like record labels, and that's not. Patrick's not that good, not really. But Brendon is looking at him expectantly, grinning, and... why the fuck not? Patrick could use another set of ears on his stuff, a set that could actually give decent, critical advice.
He doesn't cue up a new one, though. He opens iTunes and finds a song he wrote his first year on the road, about open spaces and coming home. It's the only song he has that he thinks is finished, that he hasn't remixed and rewritten a million times. He hits play and Brendon leans forward, elbows on his knees, and listens. He doesn't close his eyes, just lets them unfocus, his gaze aimed at the back of Patrick's chair. He's not seeing anything but the music, though. Patrick recognizes the tilt of Brendon's head, the slight movement in his fingers, the way he leans closer when he hears something that really catches his interest. Patrick chews on a ragged thumbnail and waits. It's not a long song, not nearly as complicated as some of his later stuff, just guitar over bass over drums, an old-school feel to it.
Patrick hits 'stop' as soon as the song ends, clicking the computer shut on his lap. Brendon looks up at him and smiles wide, head shaking. "That's... wow."
"Whatever," Patrick mumbles, because he doesn't need more of this, more pats on the back for a job well done.
"No, it's like. Waits meets the White Stripes?" Brendon says, frowning like the analogy isn't quite right. "There's a slight scratchy sound under the guitar, though. Is that supposed to be there? I mean, I like it, it's just... weird."
Patrick blinks at him. It took him three months to hear that, buried in all the layers of the finished song. "No, it was a fuck up on the soundboard," he says, slightly stunned. "I was going re-record, but... I kind of like it too." He smiles at Brendon, the kind of big, stupid smile always feels awkward on his face. "That's... I can't believe you heard that."
Brendon laughs and knocks their shoulders together. "Ears like a hawk, man," he says, and Patrick laughs.
"I think that's supposed to be eyes, moron."
"Whatever, I'm awesome," Brendon says. "Not unlike your song. It's really, really good, 'Trick," he adds, voice serious. Patrick blushes and tugs on his hat.
"Come on, five hundred to go today," he says, and slips into the driver's seat. Brendon sits down next to him, humming Patrick's song under his breath, and they pull back onto the road.
*
They have a routine now, Patrick notices: They do a quick shower and change at whatever rest stop they're at in the morning, and then Patrick is in charge of getting snacks for the road while Brendon picks out a playlist for the day. Brendon monitors the CB too, and helps navigate them around traffic jams using Patrick's GPS. It's handy, actually, and Patrick finds himself more relaxed on this drive than he has been in ages. Even when the truck starts making a weird wheezing noise around Little Rock, Brendon tells him not to worry until there's reason to and steers them to a service station where they tighten a few hoses and send them back on their way. "See? She's just fine," Brendon says, petting the dash like it's a cooperative puppy.
They have other routines, too, like the daily argument that breaks out over Brendon's inclusion of Tonight, Tonight on every playlist ("It's a classic, Patrick!" "It's not a classic until the lead singer is dead."), or the silent negotiations at every meal over how much Patrick will let Brendon put toward the check.
Brendon is still buying postcards every time they hit a new state, and Patrick catches him buying a pack of postcard stamps at the checkout of a rest stop in Little Rock. "Hey," he says, getting in line behind him with a bottle of pop and a bag of cashews. "Who are they for?" It's the most direct question Patrick's asked about Brendon's past so far, and Brendon clears his throat and doesn't answer until they're out the door, his fingers searching out the pen in his backpack so he can address the card.
"They're for my sister, the youngest one," he says. "She's in college in Nevada." Patrick leans against the building and pops the top on his drink. Brendon scribbles her address on the card and sticks a stamp on it.
"You gonna write her a note to go with that?" he asks, and Brendon shrugs.
"Nah, she knows they're from me," he says. "It's better if no one else--," he starts, but cuts himself off. He scuffs his sneakers on the concrete and scans the parking lot for a blue mailbox.
"What if she wants to write you back?" Patrick asks quietly.
"That would be kinda hard, wouldn't it?" Brendon replies with a small smile and a nod toward where Patrick's truck is parked. "It's okay." He spots the mailbox and jogs across the parking lot. Patrick tips his head back against the wall.
*
The first few nights, Patrick takes the bed and Brendon curls up in the passenger seat without complaint. But Patrick knows how uncomfortable those seats are to try and sleep in now, and he frowns at the way Brendon rolls his shoulders in the morning, trying to get the kinks out.
The third night, Patrick pulls into a cheap motel and says, "We both need real beds, come on."
The room is shabby but clean, and Brendon skips into the bathroom as soon as he tossed his bag on one of the beds. "Brendon," Patrick says through the door.
"First shower," Brendon calls back and Patrick huffs. It's late, and they're already full from dinner at the cheap Italian place down the street. Patrick lays down on top of the covers of his bed, his head pillowed on one arm. He closes his eyes. It doesn't take long before the shower turns on, loud through the paper-thin walls. Brendon's humming turns into snippets of songs, and Patrick's toes tap along to the rhythm. The singing eases off a little, slides into a low hum without any discernible tune. Patrick strains to hear it, to pick it up where Brendon left off, but then hum is replaced by a small gasp and Patrick's whole body goes taut and hot. Brendon's not... he isn't. But there's another gasp and a short moan, and Patrick's fingers twitch against the bedspread. Brendon has no idea how thin the walls are, he reminds himself. He's not putting on a fucking show for Patrick to get off on. But Patrick's eyes are still closed and he can picture it, Brendon's slight frame covered in rivulets of water from the shower, his fist curled around his dick. Patrick turns his face into the curve of his arm to muffle his own groan.
Brendon's not really loud, but Patrick's listening hard enough to hear every gasp, every whimper. He twists his fingers in the covers to keep from pressing the heel of his hand to his groin. He's half-hard already, just from the sounds Brendon is making, and Patrick is not going to jerk off to this, he's absolutely not. But he can feel it when Brendon hits the edge, the quiet where he's sure Brendon is barely breathing. Patrick holds his breath too, waiting, and he hears a thud where Brendon's back hits the wall, and underneath it a faint, "Fuck, 'Trick." Patrick's eyes fly open.
Oh, God.
The water runs for another minute before shutting off, Brendon already humming again. Patrick's heart is racing a mile a minute. He can still hear his own name, echoing in his ears, and wonders how the hell he's going to get through the next five minutes with Brendon, much less the next five days. Brendon opens the door and Patrick sits up like a shot, his erection straining in his jeans. "All yours, sorry," he says, holding a thin, white towel around his waist and Patrick hunches over his groin, fingers curled around the edge of the bed. "Hey, you okay?" Brendon takes a step toward him and Patrick gets up, grabbing his duffel from the floor and heading into the bathroom.
"'m fine," he says, once the door is safely closed between them, and he leans on the sink and looks at himself in the mirror. "Don't even think about it," he mouths to himself, all too aware of how well sound carries to the other side of the wall. He strips down efficiently, pointedly ignoring his cock, and ducks under the spray of the shower. He keeps it colder than he likes, and tries to make it quick, tries to focus his attention on anything other than the boy who's probably just feet from him, damp and half-dressed. But all he can conjure up is the mental image of Brendon standing in this same place, wet and flushed, thinking about Patrick, maybe about Patrick on his knees, or pushing him up against the cool tile... Patrick bites back a groan - he can't afford to let Brendon know how thin the walls are, can't let Brendon think anything is out of the ordinary at all. But he finally gives in and jerks himself off in fast, harsh strokes, his face tipped up into the stream of the water as his comes. He doesn't say Brendon's name, but all he can see is his wide, inviting mouth, the way his eyes smile at the corners whenever Patrick praises his song choice on the radio.
Patrick lets the water run for a while longer, until it's cold on his shoulders and the flush isn't so visible on his pale skin.
*
They're passing through Albuquerque the next day, and Patrick makes a thirty minute detour so Brendon can try the red and green enchiladas at his favorite restaurant. Guadalupe, the tiny and vivacious owner, claps her hands when she sees Patrick come in the door, and comes over to squeeze his cheeks and remark about how he looks like he's lost weight. Patrick blushes under all the attention, and he's most certainly not lost any weight, but a happy, warm feeling blooms in his chest. "Your usual place, mijo?" She asks, pointing to a stool at the end of the bar, away from the busy traffic, with a view into the kitchens. Patrick shakes his head, nodding to Brendon who's standing a few feet behind him, hands stuffed in his pockets.
"Table for two, Lupe?" he says, and he's suddenly embarrassed by the happy gleam in her eyes.
"You are here with our Patrick?" she asks, folding her wrinkled brown fingers around his arm and looking him up and down. "Very nice boy," she says and starts leading Brendon to a table near the back, bright red tablecloth lit by a candle. "Patrick is always alone," Lupe steers Brendon past a tray of fresh guacamole. "You keep him company?"
Brendon glances over his shoulder at Patrick, and Patrick hates himself for the way his eyes follow Brendon's tongue as it darts out to wet his lower lip. "I try," Brendon says, then leans in to whisper conspiratorially. "He's cranky today."
"Pshh," Lupe says, and turns to hit Patrick lightly on the arm. "You be nice. Sit." Patrick takes the seat opposite Brendon and Lupe doesn't even give them menus, just bustles to the kitchen to make them whatever she thinks will fatten Patrick up. Brendon leans his elbows on the table and grins at Patrick.
"I like her," he says, nose wrinkling. "She's like your mom, only scarier."
Patrick chuckles. "That's only because you haven't pissed off my mom." Lupe brings them iced tea and Brendon empties three sugar packets in his, the sugar swirling around inside the glass before settling slowly to the bottom.
"You haven't brought anyone else here?" he asks a few minutes later. He's not looking at Patrick, eyes skating over the brightly decorate walls draped in multicolored woven fabric, framed pictures of saints tacked up next to bone-white skull masks.
Patrick shrugs. "Don't usually have anyone with me on runs," he says. "I do most stuff alone. Part of the lifestyle."
"Does that, I mean...," Brendon frowns at his hands. "Aren't there guys who drive together? Like Bob and Ray?"
"Bob and Ray are... I mean, yeah. Plenty of guys drive in teams. Just wasn't for me, I guess."
"Why?" Brendon asks, and he's still not looking at Patrick. It sets Patrick on edge, just a little.
"I'm cranky, remember?" he replies with a wry smile, but it feels all wrong on his face. He sits back in his chair. "I don't know, Bren. I'm just not that good with people."
Brendon's eyebrows shoot up. "You're great with people. I mean, you're a dick sometimes, but you've got a ton of friends, 'Trick."
Patrick takes a long sip of his tea. "See how many of them would still be talking to me if they had to live in a eight-by-ten box with me every day."
"I'm still talking to you," Brendon says softly, and Patrick can feel the telltale pinprick under his skin, the urge to reach out and run his thumb over the top of Brendon's hand. He drops his hands into his lap, wraps his traitorous fingers around the seat of his chair.
"That's because you're insane," he says with a grin. "Or mentally challenged."
Brendon snorts. "Whatever, you could totally work with someone else. I mean, it's not like--,"
"Hey," Patrick says, because fuck, the kid is too easy to read, and he can see where this is going. The last thing either one of them needs is for Brendon to decide he's the Sundance Kid to Patrick's Butch Cassidy. "I'm happy on my own, okay? It works for me. I've got my music and my laptop and my own space, and I'm happy like that."
Brendon's face falls, and Patrick feels like he's kicked a puppy. Luckily, Lupe shows up with two huge plates, piled high with the best food in the state. "Eat, eat," she commands. She looks at Brendon's face, pinched and sad, and hits Patrick's shoulder again. "I said be nice," she snaps at him, over Patrick's indignant squawk. Brendon cracks a smile. "Don't chase away a friend," she adds, patting Patrick's cheek. "He likes you."
"Yeah," Patrick says, a little thickly, and he kicks Brendon's foot under the table. "Eat up, man, seriously. This stuff is amazing."
Brendon digs into his lunch and let's the rest of the conversation drop, but Patrick can't get the picture out of his head, him and Brendon driving through the west, Patrick's feet up on the dash, Brendon in the driver's seat, eyes wide.
It's probably the worst idea Patrick's ever had, but he can't quite shake it.
*
They're just past Flagstaff and Patrick's stomach is in knots. The next city is Kingman, with an exit to Vegas. It's a detour of half a day, but Gerard built the time into their run, just in case. He hasn't even broached the topic with Brendon, but when they pass the next sign for 93 North, he can feel Brendon tense up next to him. "Hey," he says as they pass a sign for the Hoover Dam, trying to keep his voice neutral. "Home."
"Yeah," Brendon says tightly.
"Been almost a month," Patrick says again, treading oh-so-carefully. Brendon's shoulder's hunch. "I'm just saying--"
"Yeah," he says again, and Patrick can feel him shutting down the conversation. He sighs.
"Bren--"
"Still a day to San Diego," he says. "We need gas?"
"Brendon," Patrick says again, firmly. The tension in the cab is palpable. "Look, do they even know where you are?"
"They don't care," Brendon says, and Patrick can hear the tremor under his biting tone.
"That's crazy," Patrick says. "Come on, you want to at least call--"
"I don't." Brendon takes a deep, shuddering breath. "Can we just let it go?"
"No, fuck, Brendon - we're two hours from your folks place. We can totally make it there by--"
"NO!" Brendon yells, and then folds in on himself, arms wrapped tight around his elbows, forehead propped on one knee. "Was this some fucking setup?" he asks, voice quavering, muffled through denim.
"No, Bren," Patrick says, even though it was, kind of. Brendon should be in his nice house, eating real, balanced meals with his mom and dad, freaking out over what to pack for college. "We just... I'm worried about you."
"Well, get over it," Brendon snaps at him.
"Just call them, Brendon," he says gently. "Just let them know you're okay."
"They don't want me," Brendon says softly. "They made that really clear when I left, and I really don't think they're waiting by the phone, Patrick." He sounds so fucking sad that Patrick has to swallow past the lump in his throat.
"Why?" he asks, like it hasn't been something he's wondered for weeks.
"Why do you think?"
"Bren--,"
"I'm gay, 'Trick. I'm not going to be magically ungay, no matter how many times my dad threatens to take my car, or not pay for college. I tried, I tried for years, and I went to Temple and I kept out of trouble and my grades were good, and it didn't fucking matter, because it's not something I can turn off." He's crying now, wiping at his eyes with his sleeve. "It's not something I want to turn off."
Patrick stares at the road ahead. This is why Brendon left home? He knows it happens, but not to good kids like Brendon, the kind who are basically a parent's wet dream. "So you left, because they told you--"
"Can we please drop it?" Brendon pleads.
They drive the next twenty miles in silence, Patrick's mind racing. He's known he was queer since high school too, even if his interest in guys was entirely theoretical. He told his mom his junior year, when he had a monumental bad-idea crush on Pete that wouldn't let him eat or sleep, and she'd baked him cookies and let him stay up late, and watched stupid Adam Sandler comedies with him on the couch until he felt better. The Pete thing had passed, but Patrick's mom hadn't ever stopped being awesome. She even joined a local chapter of PFLAG, and frowned whenever Patrick didn't want to participate in a local rally. "These are your rights we're fighting for," she chided him the last time he was home in an election year. She'd stood over him while he filled out his voter registration card, and kissed him on the cheek after, handing him a strong cup of coffee and a packed lunch for his next ride out.
Patrick glances over at Brendon, tries to imagine his own mom if he ever dropped off the face of the planet. She'd be frantic, he knows. Losing a kid for a month probably brings a lot of clarity, even if that kid doesn't fit your narrow perception of "ideal". Patrick pulls into a truck stop parking lot in Kingman. "Bathroom break," he says to Brendon, and Brendon just nods, eyes still fixed out the window.
*
There aren't too many Uries in Las Vegas, and Patrick has the operator connect him to the first one she finds. He's on his cell phone in the mostly empty bathroom. He prays no one flushes when Brendon's parents pick up.
"Hello?" The woman's voice on the other end of the line is polite but aloof.
"Hi, I'm sorry, this might sound strange," Patrick starts, his palms sweaty for some reason. "But do you have a son named Brendon?"
There's a long silence on the other end of the line. "No," she replies, and Patrick sighs.
"Sorry to bother--,"
"Wait," she says. "Is he... is he hurt?"
Patrick's heart is beating hard enough to burst through his chest. "No, ma'am, he's okay. He's been hanging out with me for a few weeks. He's just--"
"Alright, thank you," she says, the coolness back in her voice.
"I just... we're close to Vegas, and I thought you might want to see him."
She takes a deep breath. "He knows the conditions under which he can return to this house."
"What conditions?" Patrick asks, frowning at his own reflection in the mirror. Brendon's mom doesn't really sound like Patrick's mom at all, and it's starting to piss him off.
"He knows. If he wants to live an honest Christian life, his father and I will of course be happy to talk to him. But he's broken our trust, and it's going to be hard to get that back."
"Look, lady," Patrick snaps. "He's a good kid. He's got almost no money--"
"Well, if you're calling for money, you can stop right there. We gave him five hundred dollars when he left, and that's all he's getting. If he wants more, he knows what he has to do, and that doesn't include having immoral so-called friends call and beg from his mother."
The dial tone in his ear is sharp and abrupt. Patrick's breathing hard enough that it feels like he ran a marathon. Fucking bitch, he thinks, how dare you fucking call ME immoral! He leans on the sink, closing his eyes. He suddenly has an intense need to talk to his own mom, right the fuck now, but she's at work, probably no where near a phone. He dials Pete instead, hands shaking a little.
Pete picks up on the second ring. "'Trick, my sexy American-style boyfriend! What's up, man?"
Patrick doesn't even have it in him to yell. He leans against the grimy tile wall and tells Pete the whole story, of his drive to San Diego, his attempt to get Brendon home, the call to Brendon's mom. "Five hundred bucks!" he grits out. "That's gonna get him where? Where the fuck would he be if I hadn't picked him up? Who the fuck does that?"
"Welcome to shitty real life, dude," Pete says grimly. "Word to the wise, people sometimes really fucking suck."
"This is bullshit. This right here," Patrick says, his pulse still racing, "this is why I do this shit on my own."
Pete snorts. "Right, totally on your own. Except for me, and your mom, and Andy and Mix and Gee and Frank and a dozen other dudes who would drop everything to come help you out if you were ever in trouble. I hate to break it to you, Patrick, but the only reason you think you don't need people is because you have the biggest fucking safety net in the world. You want to see what alone looks like, you take a look at that kid in your passenger seat."
Patrick sags against the wall, rubs at his eyes with the heel of his hand. "Pete. I just." But Pete's right. Patrick's the shittiest non-people-person ever. He's got a stable full of people he loves, who love him back. Brendon's got... Patrick. "She's his mother, Pete. You should have heard her."
Pete starts to reply, but Patrick's focus is drawn to a movement in the mirror. Brendon is standing there, eyes wide and mouth open. He looks betrayed. "You called my mom?"
"Brendon," Patrick says, and hangs up on Pete with a muttered, "call you back."
"No, fuck you, you had no right to do that," Brendon says, and jerks back when Patrick reaches out a hand.
"I thought she'd want you home," Patrick says softly, and Brendon's eyes well up with tears even as he laughs.
"Do you think I'd be here if I had anywhere else to go, 'Trick? You think this is some game to me? This is my fucking life, okay, and they can kick me out with this fucking 'the door is open if you decide to live like we tell you to' clause, and then make it my fucking fault when I'm stuck here with nothing!"
"Brendon, I didn't know--"
"You really want to know what happened? My mom found gay porn on my computer," he says savagely. "They'd already laid down the law my sophomore year when I didn't know how to hide my tracks, and they found me watching an episode of fucking Queer as Folk I borrowed from a friend. No son of theirs was going to watch guys make out, it was totally disgusting. This time, they both hit the roof, yelling about my self-respect, and how I wasn't going to disrespect them and God under their roof. I told them if they thought that was bad, they should have been there after my graduation party, when I blew Mike Samuels in the downstairs bathroom. That was probably not the best thing to say," he adds with a bitter laugh. "After that, my options were: defer BYU for a year and agree to some group home reprogramming thing, or leave. None of my brothers or sisters were okay with the gay thing either, not really, except Kyla. And my parents are still mostly supporting her in school, so. I send her the postcards, so she knows I'm not dead in a ditch somewhere."
"Fuck, Brendon," Patrick breathes, "I'm sorry."
"You don't know, Patrick," Brendon yells. "You can't fucking fix this--" But Patrick doesn't let him finish, just pulls him close and puts his arms around Brendon, one hand wrapping around the back of his neck.
"I know," Patrick says, words pressed against Brendon's temple. "I know, I'm sorry."
"Patrick," Brendon sobs, broken, clinging to Patrick's shirt, and Patrick kisses his temple, his cheek, his throat. Brendon is amazing and talented and gorgeous and kind, and he can't imagine anyone not loving him as much as Patrick does right this second. If Patrick is the only person on earth who loves Brendon Urie, he's going to love him so much that Brendon's never, ever going to look like this again, small and scared and devastated.
"Bren," Patrick says, his voice catching, and Brendon tips his head up to look him in the eye. Patrick rubs his thumb over Brendon's cheekbone, wiping up tears, and when Brendon leans in Patrick meets him halfway, their mouths barely touching for a long moment before Brendon surges forward. It's not the least awkward kiss Patrick's ever had, pressed against the wall in a public bathroom, but Brendon's mouth is soft and hot, whimpering as Patrick's fingers tangle in his hair and pull him impossibly closer. Patrick's thigh slips between Brendon's and they both gasp.
"Patrick, Patrick," Brendon keens, and Patrick is already sliding his hand down to Brendon's ass when there's a loud bang just outside the door.
"Fuck," Patrick groans out, and pulls away a fraction. Brendon bites his spit-slick lip and Patrick takes a deep breath. "Brendon, do you really want to do this?"
"Oh my actual God," Brendon says with an eye-roll and presses his face to Patrick's shoulder. "I've wanted to do this since... I don't even know. Before Chicago. Patrick," he says, lifting his head, and Patrick can see it, that warm glow in his eyes that makes Patrick's whole body shiver.
"Okay, good," he says, nodding, and Brendon leans in again for a kiss, but Patrick steps out the way. "Not in the bathroom," he admonishes. Brendon slips his hand into Patrick's.
"I seem to remember you having a bed in your truck," he says, and Patrick pulls him out of the bathroom and across the parking lot at lightning speed. Brendon laughs, loud and real, and nearly beats him to the door.
"Up," Patrick orders when they reach the driver's side, and by the time Patrick's scrambled up behind him, locking the doors and putting up the sun screen in the front window, Brendon is laid out on Patrick's comforter, shirt and shoes discarded in the corner. "Brendon," he says, his mouth suddenly dry, and fuck, what is he doing.
"Come on," Brendon says, "Don't punk out on me now, Stumph." His voice is wrecked.
Patrick takes the two steps to the bed slowly, tossing his hat in the corner and toeing off his shoes. He kneels on the bed and Brendon sits up, pulling on Patrick's belt. Patrick's fingers ghost along his cheek and Brendon looks up at him with a small smile. "Bren, you don't have to--,"
"Shut up and take your damn shirt off," Brendon whispers and then he's tugging Patrick's jeans open, pressing open-mouthed kisses across Patrick's stomach. Patrick digs his fingers into Brendon's bicep, his hips jerking forward as Brendon mouths over the soft cotton of Patrick's underwear.
"Fuck, Brendon," he gasps and when Brendon looks up slyly, one hand palming over Patrick's insanely hard dick, Patrick growls low in his chest and pushes Brendon onto his back. He leans down to kiss him hard, his hands trailing down Brendon's lithe body, thumbs skating over hard nipples and making Brendon moan. He pushes his hips down and grunts at the rough scratch of denim against his bare skin. "Off," he says roughly, giving Brendon just enough room to peel their jeans down their thighs before pressing into Brendon's hip again. This time, all he can feel is the hot press of Brendon's erection against his, damp through two layers of cotton. He wants to feel skin, to touch Brendon everywhere, to taste him, but Brendon's kissing him again, hot and eager, and Patrick hands seem to be very happy where they are, tangled with Brendon's. He rolls his hips and can feel Brendon shake underneath him. "So fucking hot," he says, pressing down harder, faster, and Brendon whines, licks into Patrick's mouth hungrily as Patrick sets up a shaky rhythm.
Their kissing devolves into the press of hot mouths against bare skin. They disentangle one pair of hands and Brendon winds his arm around Patrick's neck as Patrick's hand tucks under Brendon's thigh, pulling them harder together, tight and hot and just perfect. "Oh God, 'Trick, 'Trick, 'm close, fuck," Brendon pants in his ear, and Patrick's not sure how he doesn't come right there, other than a stubborn desire to watch Brendon fall apart beneath him, the spasm of his muscles, the way his pupils blow out as he throws his head back against Patrick's pillow. "Come on, Patrick," Brendon says a second later, hoarse and needy, and then Brendon's shoving a hand between them, pushing into Patrick's briefs and giving him glorious skin to slide against.
"Brendon, fuck," he manages before Brendon's thumb presses behind the crown of his cock and Patrick is coming hard, face pressed to Brendon's neck.
They lay there for a few minutes in the quiet dark of the cab, tangled together in a mass of clothing and sweaty limbs. Patrick traces the arch of Brendon's ribcage with his fingers. Brendon tangles his fingers in Patrick's hair, and Patrick smiles into his skin. He tries to think of something to say that will encompass this huge, warm feeling in his chest, but what comes out is, "You know, you're pretty good at this being-a-trucker thing."
Brendon laughs, his whole body shaking under Patrick's. "I know," he says, skims his knuckles over Patrick's arm. "I kind of love it, actually."
Patrick turns his face up to see Brendon smiling at him. "I'm not actually, like, a crazy loner."
"I know," Brendon says, like he's known forever, and Patrick huffs. "Shut up," Brendon says fondly, and Patrick puts his head back on Brendon's shoulder and does as he's told.
*
Three months later:
"This is the Ice Man, come in Goose!" Pete's voice crackles over the radio and Patrick picks it up with a laugh.
"Hey, Wentz," he says, "Brendon isn't able to talk right now, so you'll have to settle for me."
"My Top Gun! Where's Bren?"
"I'm right here," Brendon says through clenched teeth and Patrick points out the window to indicate where they need to be turning off the highway. Brendon nods, eyes fixed on the road.
"He's driving right now, Pete, so you'll have to call back for you daily dose of flirting with my boyfriend."
"Woooo!" Pete calls down the line. "Don't kill anyone, Urie!"
"Thank you," Brendon snaps and Patrick shakes his head.
"He's doing fine, he's got his permit for this and everything," Patrick tells Pete, calm and relaxed. He could get used to this passenger seat thing. Brendon's only been allowed in the driver's seat for a few runs, but he's already getting better at driving, with just a little input from Patrick when they hit hills, or traffic. "Hey, we're getting off for lunch, I'll catch up with you later, man."
Patrick helps Brendon navigate the truck through the large parking lot, snagging a spot in the back. It's cool out, enough that Brendon steals one of Patrick's caps, and Brendon leans into Patrick's warmth as they cross the street. Lois greets them at the door of the Midlands with a wide grin, and Dave waves from behind the counter. "Any booth you want, kids," she says, and Brendon and Patrick slide into one in the back, hidden enough that Patrick can slip his foot against Brendon's calf under the table unseen.
"Hey," Brendon says, mouth open in mock-surprise. "That's sexual harassment from my supervisor."
"I can't help it, you're so damn sexy when you drive," Patrick says with a grin. Brendon tosses his head back and laughs.
"Now you know how I feel," he replies, just as Lois comes up to take their order. She looks from Patrick to Brendon and back again and crosses her arms.
"Now, Patrick, I don't know if I would have pointed him out if I thought you were going to keep him," she says, amused. Patrick can feel the blush creep up his neck.
"Sorry, ma'am," Brendon says, face serious. "I didn't mean to corrupt him like that." Patrick buries his face in his hands.
"Hey, well, don't do it again," Lois says with a wink and snap of her gum. "Why don't I start you boys out with some fries?"
END