|The Definition of Onomatopoeia|Brendon/Spencer|R|
|The Definition of Onomatopoeia|6400 words|R|AU| In which time isn't linear and Brendon is a comedian. (Brendon/Spencer)
Written for fitofpique in the drawn_to holiday fic exchange extravaganza. I'm so sorry if this isn't what you were looking for, but I hope you like it regardless! ♥
Download the fic mix here!
(Bonus! I listened to John Mulaney's The Top Part almost exclusively during the last couple months as I was writing this fic, both because it's hilarious, but also to try and get the pacing and cadence of a comedy act right. I hope you enjoy it!)
Author's Notes: First of all, thanks to Foxxcub for running the challenge yet again this year. ♥ Secondly, I owe a huge debt of gratitude to adellyna for whipping the story into shape, sinuous_curve for the kind words and encouragement and finally gigantic without whom it wouldn't exist in the first place. ♥ ♥ ♥
**
Brendon's from Las Vegas, but he doesn't say it like that, doesn't say, "I'm from Las Vegas," because people invariably ask about the strip, about the gambling, say things like, "Did you know there are places where you can get your bacon and eggs from topless waitresses? Honestly, topless." People generally run the gamut; from shocked to amorous in three seconds flat, but Brendon's first response is and was and always will be, "...you got served by a pair of legs?" Because he thinks it's funnier.
True stories always start at the beginning. They have to; it's a fact of nature and life.
Maybe Brendon's story isn't true, but he still tells that joke all the time.
**
Comedy is the most unforgiving business. New York is the place to go, but there are too many people just like you, with the exact same jokes, matching haircuts and beat up Chucks, except theirs have gray masking tape holding them together and your masking tape is purple.
Brendon's is pink, but it's only because that's what they had left at CVS.
**
Upon first visit, Brendon hates New York.
**
On a dusky afternoon in May, Ryan says, "Everybody's the same until they decide to be different," and it takes a second, but Brendon does eventually say, "But isn't everybody deciding to be different?"
They're fifteen and sixteen, respectively and together, and Ryan's trying to blow smoke rings with the cigarette he stole from his dad's bedroom. He doesn't look like a pro, even though he'd said something like, "This is what it looks like; this is how it's done," and Brendon had agreed with him because he hadn't thought to argue.
Ryan looks even more like a chipmunk with his cheeks puffed out. He says, "Not everyone can be special, Brendon," but what he's really saying is that, yes, I think everyone is the same.
**
Brendon's first real gig, if you can even call it that, is at Rodney's, five minutes 'til last call. The room is practically empty save for Karen, Hector the janitor, Buddy the bartender and two middle-aged women with their backs turned to the stage and their knees spread.
He says, "I always love a packed house," and only Karen laughs. He can always count on that, at least.
**
When he gets off stage, Hector the janitor says, "At least you didn't cry," and, "All you have to do is get back on the horse, man," patting Brendon on the shoulder before he goes back to work.
Hector came to America when he was four years old. Despite the moniker of immigrant, he speaks the language without an accent, something few people bother to notice.
Hector has three daughters he wants to put through college.
**
Nine years and seven months later, Brendon still sends him a card every year for Christmas.
Hector is Brendon's second friend in New York.
**
The truth of the matter is--well.
Well.
**
Truth is subjective anyway.
**
On stage at 29, Brendon says, "You know, the first time I stood on a stage I pissed my pants?" The crowd laughs and he continues with, "No, honestly, I was four, and I had to go. Every time I asked Mrs. Flenderson, though, she just shook her head and said, 'Not now Brendon. The baby Jesus will weep if you're not the good little shepherd I know you can be.' I told her later that my pee on the floor was the baby Jesus' tears." The crowd laughs again, and Brendon grins, scratching at his neck with his fingernails, his other hand loped casually over the mic stand. "What," he says. "Not too much? Good. We'll get along just fine."
**
The first time Brendon goes on stage, he is thirteen. There's a town-wide spelling bee. His palms are sweating and he's already got stains under his jacket. The A/C in the church basement is broken, but his mom insists he wear the wool blazer his MeeMaw brought him for Christmas anyway.
"Brendon Urie," the proctor says, and Brendon stumbles a little as he walks to the microphone stand. The metal is slippery under his fingers and he clears his throat and waits for his word. "Onomatopoeia," the proctor says and Brendon clears his throat again, more nervous than the situation should really warrant.
"Onomatopoeia." He pauses. "Definition please?" His voice breaks, thirteen and shaky, warbling across the room. He blushes, but he's already sweating hard. He hopes no one notices.
"Onomatopoeia," the proctor says. "In language, the representation of a sound by an imitation thereof."
Brendon exhales, saying, "Onomatopoeia," and pauses again. "A, an--"
**
"How many of you are in relationships?" Brendon at 29 asks. The house lights are so bright that he can barely see two feet in front of his face, let alone distinguish different people in the crowd. There isn't anyone in particular that he's looking for anyway. "Yeah?" he asks, speaking directly into the mic as the crowd starts to clap again. "It sounds like it!" Taking a sip from the water bottle on the stool he's not using, Brendon says, "Well, I hate relationships." He rushes to add, "You only get disappointed in the end, right?" He huffs a laugh into the mic and then says, "That's why I have a plan, New York, and you're the only ones who know it. Are you ready?" The crowd hollers and Brendon grins. "I'm working on creating the Bionic Woman." He pauses. "Patent pending, of course."
**
Brendon meets Spencer the way anybody meets anybody. Spencer is a friend of a friend of a friend, an old friend, a Vegas friend, and Brendon spends the entirety of a minute staring as Ryan Ross says, "Have you met Spencer? He's from Las Vegas too." Ryan's slurring his s's, but that could be from the alcohol or by design. It's been almost eight years since Brendon's seen him, though, so that could just be the way he talks now.
"Ryan Ross!" Brendon says. "It's been a while." It's been eight years and a couple months. Brendon could probably calculate it correctly if he weren't slightly buzzed himself.
He's going to kill Karen.
"Have you met Spencer?" Ryan asks again, and it doesn't look like he's wearing eyeliner, or that his hip is cocked, or that he still has the same haircut he did at eighteen, but Brendon's having a hard time not drawing the comparisons anyway.
The truth: Ryan Ross looks like every other twenty-six year old banker in the room. He's wearing dark slacks, a button down and cuff-links that say GRR when the light glints off them. What's scary is that Brendon isn't even really surprised.
"No, man," Brendon says, and when he turns to shake the aforementioned Spencer's hand, he smiles. Smiling is only polite in these types of situations.
"Hi," the aforementioned Spencer says. "I'm Spencer."
"I gathered that," Brendon says, tipping his beer bottle forward, clicking their rims together. The music is loud, but it's not anything in particular, mostly set up for ambiance. "How are you liking New York, Spencer?" Brendon asks, because it's probably more polite than the staring contest he's got going with the wall behind Ryan's head.
Spencer smiles, leaning closer and says, "I should probably ask you the same thing." Brendon smiles back at him again. It's the first time the night has seemed even remotely promising.
**
At 29, Brendon says, "You know what's hilarious? When you run into your ex at a party and he's completely different than how you remembered." He gets the desired chuckles, and Brendon grins again, adding, "I mean, he's got a pot belly, he's losing his teeth, and he's wearing bifocals," he snorts, right into the mic, continuing with, "And I--I mean you still feel like I'm seventeen." He waits and gets the laugh, even though it takes longer than it should. "What," he says, and then, "I'm still probably built like a seventeen year-old, folks, it's true." There's another pause, ambience, mood music and another swig from his bottle of Poland Spring before Brendon says, "Oh. Did you know I was gay?" This time, there are cat-calls thrown into the mix for variety, just for fun. "What gave it away?" Brendon asks, and he can barely hear himself over their laughter.
**
If Brendon's being honest, they never dated.
**
Dating is such a definitive term, though. Did they actually, physically go on dates? No. Did they give each other handjobs once, under the bleachers after Brendon got out of marching band early? Yes, yes they did.
It wasn't a love connection or anything. Brendon was fifteen. Brendon thought that anybody who wanted to touch his dick was like, the reincarnation of Jesus Christ, Our Savior. Or something.
He's aware of the religious connotations, thanks.
**
When Brendon turned 20, he got a hundred bucks, a Happy Meal and a handjob. Only one of them was a present.
**
"People complain about turning thirty, right?" Brendon's leaning back against his stool, but not using it to sit on. "Turning 29 is worse, though." The crowd laughs all at once, in unison, and someone calls out,
"TRY TURNING FORTY!"
"That's what I'm saying!" Brendon laughs along with the audience. "I don't think I'm ready for that nervous breakdown," he pauses for another laugh and gets it. "But think about the whole year you have to do lead up. That whole year has got you thinking, 'shit, this is the last one. The last time I get to be in this decade'." He pauses, and then adds, "'The last time I get to be young again', in your case, sir."
**
For his 29th birthday, he gets pretty much the same, except instead of a cheeseburger he asks for Chicken McNuggets and the hand on his dick is Spencer's, calloused different.
**
"Do you ever feel like you're in the circus?" Brendon at 29 asks, holding the mic up close to his mouth. "I don't mean it in that way where the whole world is a stage, or where things are so crazy you can't keep up." He pauses, and when a few giggles start flowing in, he adds, "Not keeping up is for pussies anyway." He snorts at himself, laughing harder when the crowd gets into it too. "I mean it seriously, though, folks. How many of you have seal-ball training in your bathtubs?"
**
When Brendon is twenty-five, he stands on the tiny little fire escape of Karen's tiny little apartment that isn't a studio because it boasts a bedroom that was a closet in its former life, and smokes cigarette after cigarette, trying to get over the fact that his past was just staring him in the face.
From behind him, there's a lot of noise, a lot of it regular, the kind of noises that you can always find at a party in New York. Closer too, though, there's a frustrated sort of pecking that makes Brendon turn. It's the middle of March, so he can see his breath as well as the smoke from his cigarette, and if his life were a movie, it would look a lot cooler than it does. As it is, Brendon's shoulders are slumped low because it's so cold, and the even though it's the middle of the night, the sky looks more gunmetal than black. It almost looks like it's getting light outside.
Brendon turns and sees a guy working at the latch on the window, pushing up instead of trying to push out. It's a two-handed job, and he sighs a little as he squats down, holding his cigarette between his lips, trying to remember to breathe.
He makes it work. Out of his whole night, maybe, making this task look effortless is the only part that seems even remotely like it does in the movies. Brendon exhales slowly, trying not to cough or look too much like an amateur, and when he holds out his hand to steady himself into standing, he's got it down to a science.
"Hey," the guy says, when Brendon's moved away from the window. He's gone back to looking at the view, which from this building is an alley, some Dumpsters and the same homeless man Karen gave a dollar to on their way back from the market. Brendon had waved when he'd first climbed out, looking for someplace to think up new material. "Brendon, right?"
Brendon blinks, turning to face the guy standing that's now on the fire escape too. Even though the light is shitty inside, and even shittier outside, he can clearly make out that it's Ryan's friend Spencer. He nods a few times, trying for nonchalant but scoring higher on the awkward level.
"Oh," Brendon says, and he waves, too, with the hand that doesn't have the cigarette in it. "Yeah." A pause, and then, "What's up, man? Enjoying the party?"
Spencer shrugs, and Brendon notices three things about him in quick succession: he has a key ring hooked to a carabiner on his belt loop that glints in the vague light from the street lamp, he's got a nicer smile than Brendon remembers from earlier, and probably most importantly of all: he's drunk.
"I sort of am," Spencer says, and in his hand he's holding a blue plastic cup. Maybe it's contrary, but Brendon's always liked the blue ones better. Spencer leans closer, like he's sharing a secret, and says, "I don't really know anybody but Ryan and Karen, so it's like," he pauses, blinking and then shrugs as he adds, "So it's like. Weird." His breath smells like beer, but there's something minty there, too, like he's been chewing on a piece of gum that he only just now got rid of. Brendon's always been partial to spearmint himself.
"Does anybody ever know anybody at these parties?" he asks, going for affected and blasé, but funny, too, laugh-out-loud-trying-new-material funny.
Spencer does him a service, giggling outright, like Brendon is hilarious. Brendon prides himself on being hilarious. "You're the comedian, right?" Spencer asks, taking another pull from his plastic blue cup. "Karen mentioned it to Ryan, who uh." He finishes the thought off with a hand gesture, like he's too tired to continue with the complexities.
"It's just sort of something I fell into," Brendon says, smiling with all his teeth. It's his standard answer.
**
"Who drove here tonight?" Brendon at 29 asks the audience. He's leaning against his stool again. The crowd groans their displeasure, and he continues with, "Having a car in New York--" the crowd yells and laughs, and groans again, and Brendon laughs with them, holding his free hand up in front of him like a shield. "No, no, I know. If you're not a New Yorker, it doesn't seem like a big deal. A car is an important piece of merchandise." He accentuates the word and gets another laugh. "But turtles move faster--and more safely--than cars do out here. This I promise you." He takes a moment to wink, and then adds,"This is a true story folks; when I was in high school, I made out with a boy once, because his trunk was so big." This is the big sell, and Brendon takes a moment to savor it, waiting, holding for applause and the beginnings of amusement. "And I don't just mean his ass."
**
The only three people Brendon had sex with in high school were Karen (disastrous, but enlightening), Kevin Lorinado and Ryan, in the backseat of his father's car.
Brendon's track record was never as clean as it was supposed to be, but Karen still periodically tells him it wasn't as bad as it could've been.
**
They met in Kindergarten. Brendon's known Karen since he knew how to speak, practically. She was that annoying girl in class who'd taught herself how to read and never stopped talking about it. Brendon knew full well how annoying those people were. He'd been one of them himself.
At five, Brendon says, "Those are my blocks," because they are. He brought them from home and they have his name printed on the bottom in his mom's handwriting. Brendon can't write his own name yet (not yet, but he's getting better at the 'U' for Urie), but he can recognize it. He likes the way it looks against the plastic and he rubs the pads of his fingers against it, expecting the Sharpied letters to feel differently than they do.
"I know," Karen says. She's taller than Brendon is (this never changes) and she has frizzy red hair that's been pulled back away from her cheeks with elastic and barrettes. "If you build them up this way, though," she does something with the building blocks that Brendon tries to replicate almost immediately, and soon they've got a whole little wall built. "They won't fall as easy." She smiles at him when they're done, showing him her missing two front teeth and freckles.
Brendon's not sure if they're best friends after that, but she shares her extra piece of peanut butter and jelly with him every day at lunch.
**
"Ladies, ladies," Brendon at 29 says, gesturing with his arms out wide, holding the mic away from his mouth as the women in the crowd laugh their approval. "Have you ever been that friend?" Brendon over-enunciates the word, making sure to get his meaning across. "You know," he says, laughing a little into the mic. "You've been pals for life. You've seen him piss; he's thrown up in your hair," he pauses for acknowledgement and agreement, and gets it at this point, as usual. "And maybe--" he pauses, laughing right against the mic. "Maybe you fucked once, in high school, or fucking, like, college or something, but it was probably the worst time of your life, right?" A few more women join into the laughter, and Brendon keeps them going with, "But! But because of that first kiss, or first handjob, or first fuck, the girlfriend hates you, doesn't she?" The collective audience groans, but Brendon hears a few chuckles breaking the surface. He brings it home. "That's the thing, though," he says, pushing up on his tip-toes to settle better on the stool. "They're jealous of you, but not because of why you'd think. They don't want to clean puke out of their hair, and they're way fuckin' glad that he's gotten better at whatever it is he's doing down there, but." He takes a moment to laugh again. "But! You're the standard in his head. They think he's expecting them to live through what you lived through, that when they don't, he's just gonna think of the good times with you." He pauses, making his silence work in favor of the punchline. "The thing is though," he says. "The poor schmuck's probably just wondering why it matters that a friend he made before he knew about the wonders of masturbation makes you jealous. At five, your parts really don't matter."
**
Brendon's theory doesn't only apply to women. During the first six months of their relationship (relationship: a connection, association or involvement) Brendon and Spencer get into all of two fights.
**
"So, what," Karen says, when they're 26, snapping her gum. "He doesn't like me now?" Her hair is still frizzy and held back by product and barrettes, but now she's twenty years older, about 90 pounds heavier and she looks like a chimney when she smokes. She's two days older than Brendon exactly, and she's always lorded it over him. Always. "You know, my relationship with Spencer was much better before he started routinely fucking you in the ass."
It's July in New York, and people are still assholes, but they're assholes who eat outside now. They're having breakfast at a place that lets Brendon perform sometimes, as long as they don't have to pay him and he helps with clean-up afterwards. On a scale from 1 to 100, it ranks about a 97 in grossness, but it's also an actual stage and exposure, so. He'll take what he can get.
Also, their hash and eggs is pretty good, all things considered. "He doesn't dislike you," Brendon says, clearing his plate, although not in record time. "It's not about hating you." He shrugs. "I don't know how to explain it."
Karen sighs, like she doesn't have boyfriend trouble all on her own (and she does, oh, she does), and then says, "Why isn't he mad at Ryan? You guys had your thing--"
She might have a point, but Brendon has her beat. "First," he says. "We didn't have a thing. It wasn't a thing, and secondly, he lives with the dude, man," he says. "That'd be a violation of the roommate code."
"Fuck the code," Karen says, lighting another cigarette, even though there's an ordinance now. "He's just annoyed because I have a pussy and he doesn't." Brendon blinks at her for an entire minute before he cracks up, laughing harder than he has in a long time. "Feel free to use that in your act," she says, grinning at him through her shades. "Free of charge."
**
"Who wants to talk about first times?" Brendon at 29 asks. "Oh, oh!" he adds, jumping in place a little, the hand not holding the mic raised high in the air. "Me," he says, dropping his arm down and laughing. "Oh me, definitely, and since you all paid a ridiculous sum of money to see me up here, you get to hear it." He snorts, adding, "Aren't you excited?" The crowd cat-calls, and Brendon laughs along with them. "My first time was with ..." he lets his voice trail off, and the crowd as one shouts different things at him, making him laugh. "No," he says, going for serious. "No sir, it was not with your mother, but I can make that joke, too, if you're bored." He smiles, and there are a few camera flashes. The only people he can really make out are the crew that are filming this special, but even they aren't clear in his periphery. "Would you believe me if I told you my first time was with a cheerleader?" Brendon asks, and he hunches a little when they laugh. "Okay," he says. "Okay, I wouldn't believe me either." He pauses, and then adds, "It was with a girl, though. That much is true."
**
The first time they had sex was ridiculous.
It was the first time Brendon had had sex with anybody, and he was nervous as he started to push inside of her. Karen, for her part, held up a running commentary, nails digging against his back, leaving sharp little grooves against Brendon's skin, even through the two layers of shirts he was wearing.
At fifteen, Brendon sweat just by standing, exerting so much physical energy that it made his bangs stick to his forehead. "You look like a monkey right now," Karen said, and the only thing that differentiated this conversation between any of the thousands they'd had previously was that her voice sounded strained as she spoke.
Brendon moved inside her and she cringed, turning her head away and biting on her lip, not making a sound. "Yeah," Brendon said. "But you look really pretty."
It was probably the only thing he did right that day.
**
Brendon's read books, okay, and they all say that coming out to your parents is the scariest thing you'll ever have to live through. Brendon doesn't doubt the validity of that statement. The actual process is scary as hell, there's no disputing that, but.
But telling your parents you want to fuck off your Mission, move to New York and stand on stage, anywhere from 5 to 30 minutes a night, telling jokes to a sightless and often angry mass? That ranks pretty high up there too.
It's not that that coming out to them was an afterthought, it was that they'd already been let down enough. Fighting with Brendon about his sexuality wasn't going to get him to come home any quicker.
**
They have sex that first night. Spencer's still drunk, but he looks good on his feet, steady, even though his eyes are glassy, and his hands are warm on Brendon's hips when he presses his palms down. "Are you even gay?" Brendon asks, pulling back just far enough from Spencer's mouth to mumble the words out, mind fuzzy as Spencer works his pants down his hips, fumbling for the hand lotion.
He's been in Karen's bathroom a hundred times since she signed the lease on the apartment, but he's never been fucked here. Brendon can say that honestly, and he grits his teeth down, pressing his palm against his mouth, trying not to grunt too loudly.
"Are you?" Spencer asks, brows raised, and Brendon snorts, even as Spencer's shifting his hand, moving his lotion-covered fingers inside of Brendon, crooking them up just slightly, like either a pro or a rookie who's got a really good handle on the game.
"Fair enough," Brendon grunts out, and they don't talk very much after that.
**
"I can't believe you fucked him in my bathroom," Karen says. They're in the shoe department of Macy's, because she's applying for a new job again, and every interview deserves its own pair of shoes. Brendon's trying a pair of Uggs on, because they're soft and fuzzy and they keep his feet warm, but he doesn't have $150 to spend on rent, let alone boots.
"It's not like it was planned, Kar," he says, flopping back on the couch next to her and admiring his feet. "I could totally get away with tucking my jeans into these," he says, mulling the thought over, and he watches as she snorts and rolls her eyes.
"You want me to buy 'em for you?" she asks, kicking her own feet up next to Brendon's, elbowing his side. She's wearing four-inch snakeskin pumps which topple her right over the six foot mark, and Brendon just shakes his head, sighing as he straightens.
"If your daddy really wants to do me some favors, have him pay my rent this month," he says, but instead of getting offended, Karen just snorts again, rolling her eyes and moving to a sitting position. Her heels click as she sets her feet on the ground. "You're gonna blow all of the other secretaries out of the water," he says. "They'll lose in the battle of the timewarp."
That makes her laugh, finally, and as she kicks the shoes off, putting them back in their box, she says, "Really? My bathroom? You couldn't have picked anywhere less hygienic?"
**
Spencer doesn't call.
**
Neither does Brendon.
**
It's about a week afterwards. Maybe two, but Brendon's not counting, and the time and place are both innocuous. It's two in the afternoon, but Brendon's just rolled out of bed, and the apartment doesn't have coffee because he always forgets to stock up if he's been staying at Karen's for a couple days.
It doesn't actually happen in the coffee shop. His life is a cliché, but not entirely so, and Brendon spots Spencer before Spencer spots him or thinks to hide. When Spencer does notice him, he smiles and Brendon notices how white his teeth are. "Hey," Spencer says, holding out his hand, and Brendon takes it because it's proffered.
"Uh," Brendon says, and then averts his eyes, because this is the part that's always awkward; seeing someone you've fucked in the light of day. It's even weirder when you're not drunk anymore, although Brendon hadn't been as wasted as he could've been. "How's things, man?" He tries to avoid scuffing his sneaker against the sidewalk and drops Spencer's hand.
Spencer does him the service of shrugging, but his smile doesn't really falter. He's not friendly, exactly. Brendon can't read him. "I feel like this is the part where I'm supposed to say I had a really nice time," Spencer says, and he leans forward slightly, like they're sharing a secret. "But honest to god, man. I barely remember it."
"You were pretty wasted," Brendon says, shrugging. He looks nonchalant because he is nonchalant. This is a non-issue.
"Ross and I were supposed to go see this band tonight," Spencer continues, like Brendon hadn't spoken at all, and Brendon closes his mouth with a click. "The Pierces?" Spencer shakes his head, chuckling at a joke Brendon hasn't been let in on. "The guy bailed on me, though." There's a shrug here, like this news isn't particularly astonishing. It's been eight years and a few months, but that sounds pretty familiar behavior. "I have two tickets if you're not busy, later."
He speaks casually, easily, and his shoulders aren't hunched in at all. It's March, in New York, but today the sun is shining and Spencer's smile is bright enough to match it without being overpowering. Brendon blinks at him.
"You want me to go to a show with you?" He's usually more on his game than he is in this moment. Brendon blames it on the disconnect. It's the fact that he just woke up. It's the unexpected warmth and sunshine.
Spencer shrugs again. "Sure," he says, and the wattage on his smile doesn't dim. "You don't have to go with me, specifically, though," he adds. "You can buy one of the tickets off me, if you want. It's not like there are seats."
Brendon cracks a smile at him, but it feels forced. He keeps on with it anyway, saying, "You know, I was waiting by the phone for this call." He's a step above fluttering his lashes, going for the gold and all that, but he doesn't.
Spencer's smile still doesn't dim. He says, "It's good that we bumped into each other in person, then." He shrugs again. "I'm pretty terrible on the phone." He quirks his lips, self-deprecating, like it's a joke, and Brendon blinks before he laughs. "Honestly, though," he adds. "It's just 'cause I happened to see you first, man." He spreads his hands out wide. "No ulterior motives, I promise."
**
It's not really a date, but it's more a date than anything Brendon usually does.
**
"I'll leave you with this," Brendon at 29 says, adrenaline scrolling through him like fire. It's almost the end of another show, another group of people who've paid money to sit in a room with him for an hour and listen to his terrible jokes. It's not a phenomenon he'll ever get over. "When you think it's too good? It usually is." The crowd has already been laughing, so adding another chuckle at the end doesn't hurt them at all. "Get out while you can," Brendon stresses, but he laughs along with them. "You know that saying your mom told you when you were a kid? Well it is better to be safe than sorry." He huffs the words right against the mic. "We live in New York, man. If safe means that no one's breaking into my apartment while I sleep, I'll take it."
**
When Brendon finds Karen outside, he's not surprised to see her smoking, back leaned against the damp bricks of the wall, talking to some guy that looks vaguely familiar but that Brendon really can't place. The thing about New York is that it's smaller than everybody really thinks, and Brendon sees the same people everywhere, whether he's looking for them or not.
Karen spots him after a minute, flashing a smile up at the bachelor number thirty-three, heading over toward Brendon, holding out her cigarette before even saying hello. "We quit," Brendon says, but he takes it anyway, savoring the drag, the feel of it as the smoke hits his lungs.
Karen rolls her eyes, reaching out and taking the cigarette back. There's a ring of dark lipstick against the paper from her mouth and the stain it leaves looks like a bruise. Brendon watches it disappear each time Karen lifts the cigarette to her lips. "You know, you're broken up," she says. "Technically, you're broken up. The 'we' no longer applies."
"Yeah," Brendon says. "And technically, your mother still expects you to be a virgin on your wedding day."
Karen snorts despite herself and says, "Pretty sure she gave up on that pipe dream a long time ago, Urie." She straightens even as she's speaking, posture getting better as she stretches herself out. "Maybe I was wrong," she says. "Look who's here."
Brendon doesn't want to look, but he ends up turning his head anyway, watching as Spencer slips through the crowd, saying hi to people he recognizes, stopping to have little snippets of conversation that Brendon watches and starts to mimic. "We're still broken up," he says, but he's not looking at her. He can hear it pretty clearly when she snorts, even though people are chit-chattering around them, making too much noise for any of it to really be important.
"Yeah," she says, and from what Brendon can hear, she sounds amused. It's alright, though. It's cool. Karen's always laughing at him. "The way you're looking at him right now, that's a pretty clear indicator of how broken up you are."
"There were reasons," Brendon says, but he's not looking at her. Spencer hasn't seen him yet, and Brendon spares a second thinking about escape routes he knows he'll never take while Karen snorts at him for the millionth time.
"What were they?" Karen asks, still amused, and Brendon opens his mouth to speak, but changes tracks entirely when Spencer turns and sees him.
Coming closer, he says, "Brendon," he says, easily taller than half the crowd. In the five years Brendon's known him, and the four and a quarter they managed to be together, he's only seen that smile dim a few times. Less than he can count on one hand, anyway.
"Uh," Brendon says, lifting his hand in an awkward wave. He's still got adrenaline doing kick flips in his veins, but there's also nerves tingling in his fingers too. He can't catch a break, and he turns to look at Karen, but she and her cigarette are gone, probably talking to bachelor thirty-three again. "Hey, Spence."
"I caught the act," Spencer says, and he leans forward, bending slightly so that Brendon can hear him. So that they're sharing space again. "I liked the Bionic Woman bit. It was funnier than when you told me before."
"I've had some time to tweak," Brendon says. "You know."
Spencer nods reaching one of his hands between them, gripping Brendon's fingers for just a second before he lets go again. "Yeah," he says. "I know."
"I can't believe you're here," Brendon blurts, and Spencer just looks at him for a second, not frowning or smiling or anything at all, just looking. "I thought we said," he adds, ducking his head and huffing out a laugh, trying to play off the moment. "You know. You were leaving."
"Funding fell through," Spencer says, and Brendon picks his head back up fast, clearly surprised. He blinks, and Spencer smiles back at him, more of a smirk than anything else.
"Bull shit," Brendon says, raising a brow, and Spencer shrugs, his smile widening. Brendon starts to smile too, harder than he was smiling during the show, harder than he's smiled since Spencer said he'd taken the job in LA. "Spence," Brendon says after a minute, disbelief in his voice. "There's no way you couldn't get other investors." He looks way, not wanting to get too excited. "Spence, it was your own restaurant."
Spencer shrugs. "You mean, people in New York don't eat?"
**
Brendon doesn't get home, much. He has an apartment in Vegas that sits empty more than half the year; parents and siblings, but there's something about not needing to go back to the 89002 zip code that just makes him feel more accomplished, somehow.
He's finally made it big. He can tie his own shoelaces and everything.
**
At 31, Brendon stands on stage and says, "Fairy tales are a crock." The crowd gasps into laughing and Brendon smiles too, getting into it again, getting his feet wet. "Cinderella and Prince Charming probably got bored of each other in a day, Prince Eric was committing child molestation--I'm getting ahead of myself." It's a new city. Brendon's been to Baltimore before but he's never been to the Comedy Factory. It's nice, the little he can see of it. "The point is, folks, fairy tales don't exist." He pauses and then adds, "You know what makes up for it, though?" He waits, giving the punch line room to breathe and then says, "Really good head." He snorts as the crowd starts to laugh. "No, really," he says. "I'm talking legendary."
**
Until he was with Spencer, the only person Brendon ever brought home with him was Karen. It was a default thing; she looks great in a dress, has known his family since they were kids and besides, weddings and christenings are much easier to get through with her by his side.
They've been together for another year and more before Brendon says, "Hey, so my cousin Marie is getting married. Do you, um. You want to come to the wedding?" They're not sharing an apartment, but most of Brendon's stuff hangs out at Spencer's address nowadays anyway.
Spencer's a zombie before he has coffee in him, and the pot's still brewing when Brendon asks, leaning against the counter in yesterday's boxers and his glasses. He's not nervous, Spencer'll either say yes or he won't. It's not something to worry about.
"Um," Spencer says, and Brendon's stomach definitely doesn't clench, except for the part where it does. "In Vegas?" he asks after a minute, blinking to get the sleep out of his eyes and then rubbing his knuckles against them when it doesn't work.
Brendon stretches, standing on his toes to get some leverage, and then he nods, saying, "Yeah, I don't know. I was supposed to be in Chicago that weekend, but." He shrugs, adding, "Show got cancelled, and I'd feel like a douchebag not going when I have the chance to."
"Because you're not a douchebag the rest of the time?" Spencer asks, but he's smiling, too. He rifles through his bag on the chair, always messier at home than he is at work, and tugs out his BlackBerry, fiddling with the calendar ap. "What are the dates, babe?" he asks, not even really looking at Brendon. He's got stubble and he hasn't washed his hair yet, but Brendon's still stuck staring. He looks up and their eyes meet. "I'll move stuff around if I need to."
Written for fitofpique in the drawn_to holiday fic exchange extravaganza. I'm so sorry if this isn't what you were looking for, but I hope you like it regardless! ♥
Download the fic mix here!
(Bonus! I listened to John Mulaney's The Top Part almost exclusively during the last couple months as I was writing this fic, both because it's hilarious, but also to try and get the pacing and cadence of a comedy act right. I hope you enjoy it!)
Author's Notes: First of all, thanks to Foxxcub for running the challenge yet again this year. ♥ Secondly, I owe a huge debt of gratitude to adellyna for whipping the story into shape, sinuous_curve for the kind words and encouragement and finally gigantic without whom it wouldn't exist in the first place. ♥ ♥ ♥
**
Brendon's from Las Vegas, but he doesn't say it like that, doesn't say, "I'm from Las Vegas," because people invariably ask about the strip, about the gambling, say things like, "Did you know there are places where you can get your bacon and eggs from topless waitresses? Honestly, topless." People generally run the gamut; from shocked to amorous in three seconds flat, but Brendon's first response is and was and always will be, "...you got served by a pair of legs?" Because he thinks it's funnier.
True stories always start at the beginning. They have to; it's a fact of nature and life.
Maybe Brendon's story isn't true, but he still tells that joke all the time.
**
Comedy is the most unforgiving business. New York is the place to go, but there are too many people just like you, with the exact same jokes, matching haircuts and beat up Chucks, except theirs have gray masking tape holding them together and your masking tape is purple.
Brendon's is pink, but it's only because that's what they had left at CVS.
**
Upon first visit, Brendon hates New York.
**
On a dusky afternoon in May, Ryan says, "Everybody's the same until they decide to be different," and it takes a second, but Brendon does eventually say, "But isn't everybody deciding to be different?"
They're fifteen and sixteen, respectively and together, and Ryan's trying to blow smoke rings with the cigarette he stole from his dad's bedroom. He doesn't look like a pro, even though he'd said something like, "This is what it looks like; this is how it's done," and Brendon had agreed with him because he hadn't thought to argue.
Ryan looks even more like a chipmunk with his cheeks puffed out. He says, "Not everyone can be special, Brendon," but what he's really saying is that, yes, I think everyone is the same.
**
Brendon's first real gig, if you can even call it that, is at Rodney's, five minutes 'til last call. The room is practically empty save for Karen, Hector the janitor, Buddy the bartender and two middle-aged women with their backs turned to the stage and their knees spread.
He says, "I always love a packed house," and only Karen laughs. He can always count on that, at least.
**
When he gets off stage, Hector the janitor says, "At least you didn't cry," and, "All you have to do is get back on the horse, man," patting Brendon on the shoulder before he goes back to work.
Hector came to America when he was four years old. Despite the moniker of immigrant, he speaks the language without an accent, something few people bother to notice.
Hector has three daughters he wants to put through college.
**
Nine years and seven months later, Brendon still sends him a card every year for Christmas.
Hector is Brendon's second friend in New York.
**
The truth of the matter is--well.
Well.
**
Truth is subjective anyway.
**
On stage at 29, Brendon says, "You know, the first time I stood on a stage I pissed my pants?" The crowd laughs and he continues with, "No, honestly, I was four, and I had to go. Every time I asked Mrs. Flenderson, though, she just shook her head and said, 'Not now Brendon. The baby Jesus will weep if you're not the good little shepherd I know you can be.' I told her later that my pee on the floor was the baby Jesus' tears." The crowd laughs again, and Brendon grins, scratching at his neck with his fingernails, his other hand loped casually over the mic stand. "What," he says. "Not too much? Good. We'll get along just fine."
**
The first time Brendon goes on stage, he is thirteen. There's a town-wide spelling bee. His palms are sweating and he's already got stains under his jacket. The A/C in the church basement is broken, but his mom insists he wear the wool blazer his MeeMaw brought him for Christmas anyway.
"Brendon Urie," the proctor says, and Brendon stumbles a little as he walks to the microphone stand. The metal is slippery under his fingers and he clears his throat and waits for his word. "Onomatopoeia," the proctor says and Brendon clears his throat again, more nervous than the situation should really warrant.
"Onomatopoeia." He pauses. "Definition please?" His voice breaks, thirteen and shaky, warbling across the room. He blushes, but he's already sweating hard. He hopes no one notices.
"Onomatopoeia," the proctor says. "In language, the representation of a sound by an imitation thereof."
Brendon exhales, saying, "Onomatopoeia," and pauses again. "A, an--"
**
"How many of you are in relationships?" Brendon at 29 asks. The house lights are so bright that he can barely see two feet in front of his face, let alone distinguish different people in the crowd. There isn't anyone in particular that he's looking for anyway. "Yeah?" he asks, speaking directly into the mic as the crowd starts to clap again. "It sounds like it!" Taking a sip from the water bottle on the stool he's not using, Brendon says, "Well, I hate relationships." He rushes to add, "You only get disappointed in the end, right?" He huffs a laugh into the mic and then says, "That's why I have a plan, New York, and you're the only ones who know it. Are you ready?" The crowd hollers and Brendon grins. "I'm working on creating the Bionic Woman." He pauses. "Patent pending, of course."
**
Brendon meets Spencer the way anybody meets anybody. Spencer is a friend of a friend of a friend, an old friend, a Vegas friend, and Brendon spends the entirety of a minute staring as Ryan Ross says, "Have you met Spencer? He's from Las Vegas too." Ryan's slurring his s's, but that could be from the alcohol or by design. It's been almost eight years since Brendon's seen him, though, so that could just be the way he talks now.
"Ryan Ross!" Brendon says. "It's been a while." It's been eight years and a couple months. Brendon could probably calculate it correctly if he weren't slightly buzzed himself.
He's going to kill Karen.
"Have you met Spencer?" Ryan asks again, and it doesn't look like he's wearing eyeliner, or that his hip is cocked, or that he still has the same haircut he did at eighteen, but Brendon's having a hard time not drawing the comparisons anyway.
The truth: Ryan Ross looks like every other twenty-six year old banker in the room. He's wearing dark slacks, a button down and cuff-links that say GRR when the light glints off them. What's scary is that Brendon isn't even really surprised.
"No, man," Brendon says, and when he turns to shake the aforementioned Spencer's hand, he smiles. Smiling is only polite in these types of situations.
"Hi," the aforementioned Spencer says. "I'm Spencer."
"I gathered that," Brendon says, tipping his beer bottle forward, clicking their rims together. The music is loud, but it's not anything in particular, mostly set up for ambiance. "How are you liking New York, Spencer?" Brendon asks, because it's probably more polite than the staring contest he's got going with the wall behind Ryan's head.
Spencer smiles, leaning closer and says, "I should probably ask you the same thing." Brendon smiles back at him again. It's the first time the night has seemed even remotely promising.
**
At 29, Brendon says, "You know what's hilarious? When you run into your ex at a party and he's completely different than how you remembered." He gets the desired chuckles, and Brendon grins again, adding, "I mean, he's got a pot belly, he's losing his teeth, and he's wearing bifocals," he snorts, right into the mic, continuing with, "And I--I mean you still feel like I'm seventeen." He waits and gets the laugh, even though it takes longer than it should. "What," he says, and then, "I'm still probably built like a seventeen year-old, folks, it's true." There's another pause, ambience, mood music and another swig from his bottle of Poland Spring before Brendon says, "Oh. Did you know I was gay?" This time, there are cat-calls thrown into the mix for variety, just for fun. "What gave it away?" Brendon asks, and he can barely hear himself over their laughter.
**
If Brendon's being honest, they never dated.
**
Dating is such a definitive term, though. Did they actually, physically go on dates? No. Did they give each other handjobs once, under the bleachers after Brendon got out of marching band early? Yes, yes they did.
It wasn't a love connection or anything. Brendon was fifteen. Brendon thought that anybody who wanted to touch his dick was like, the reincarnation of Jesus Christ, Our Savior. Or something.
He's aware of the religious connotations, thanks.
**
When Brendon turned 20, he got a hundred bucks, a Happy Meal and a handjob. Only one of them was a present.
**
"People complain about turning thirty, right?" Brendon's leaning back against his stool, but not using it to sit on. "Turning 29 is worse, though." The crowd laughs all at once, in unison, and someone calls out,
"TRY TURNING FORTY!"
"That's what I'm saying!" Brendon laughs along with the audience. "I don't think I'm ready for that nervous breakdown," he pauses for another laugh and gets it. "But think about the whole year you have to do lead up. That whole year has got you thinking, 'shit, this is the last one. The last time I get to be in this decade'." He pauses, and then adds, "'The last time I get to be young again', in your case, sir."
**
For his 29th birthday, he gets pretty much the same, except instead of a cheeseburger he asks for Chicken McNuggets and the hand on his dick is Spencer's, calloused different.
**
"Do you ever feel like you're in the circus?" Brendon at 29 asks, holding the mic up close to his mouth. "I don't mean it in that way where the whole world is a stage, or where things are so crazy you can't keep up." He pauses, and when a few giggles start flowing in, he adds, "Not keeping up is for pussies anyway." He snorts at himself, laughing harder when the crowd gets into it too. "I mean it seriously, though, folks. How many of you have seal-ball training in your bathtubs?"
**
When Brendon is twenty-five, he stands on the tiny little fire escape of Karen's tiny little apartment that isn't a studio because it boasts a bedroom that was a closet in its former life, and smokes cigarette after cigarette, trying to get over the fact that his past was just staring him in the face.
From behind him, there's a lot of noise, a lot of it regular, the kind of noises that you can always find at a party in New York. Closer too, though, there's a frustrated sort of pecking that makes Brendon turn. It's the middle of March, so he can see his breath as well as the smoke from his cigarette, and if his life were a movie, it would look a lot cooler than it does. As it is, Brendon's shoulders are slumped low because it's so cold, and the even though it's the middle of the night, the sky looks more gunmetal than black. It almost looks like it's getting light outside.
Brendon turns and sees a guy working at the latch on the window, pushing up instead of trying to push out. It's a two-handed job, and he sighs a little as he squats down, holding his cigarette between his lips, trying to remember to breathe.
He makes it work. Out of his whole night, maybe, making this task look effortless is the only part that seems even remotely like it does in the movies. Brendon exhales slowly, trying not to cough or look too much like an amateur, and when he holds out his hand to steady himself into standing, he's got it down to a science.
"Hey," the guy says, when Brendon's moved away from the window. He's gone back to looking at the view, which from this building is an alley, some Dumpsters and the same homeless man Karen gave a dollar to on their way back from the market. Brendon had waved when he'd first climbed out, looking for someplace to think up new material. "Brendon, right?"
Brendon blinks, turning to face the guy standing that's now on the fire escape too. Even though the light is shitty inside, and even shittier outside, he can clearly make out that it's Ryan's friend Spencer. He nods a few times, trying for nonchalant but scoring higher on the awkward level.
"Oh," Brendon says, and he waves, too, with the hand that doesn't have the cigarette in it. "Yeah." A pause, and then, "What's up, man? Enjoying the party?"
Spencer shrugs, and Brendon notices three things about him in quick succession: he has a key ring hooked to a carabiner on his belt loop that glints in the vague light from the street lamp, he's got a nicer smile than Brendon remembers from earlier, and probably most importantly of all: he's drunk.
"I sort of am," Spencer says, and in his hand he's holding a blue plastic cup. Maybe it's contrary, but Brendon's always liked the blue ones better. Spencer leans closer, like he's sharing a secret, and says, "I don't really know anybody but Ryan and Karen, so it's like," he pauses, blinking and then shrugs as he adds, "So it's like. Weird." His breath smells like beer, but there's something minty there, too, like he's been chewing on a piece of gum that he only just now got rid of. Brendon's always been partial to spearmint himself.
"Does anybody ever know anybody at these parties?" he asks, going for affected and blasé, but funny, too, laugh-out-loud-trying-new-material funny.
Spencer does him a service, giggling outright, like Brendon is hilarious. Brendon prides himself on being hilarious. "You're the comedian, right?" Spencer asks, taking another pull from his plastic blue cup. "Karen mentioned it to Ryan, who uh." He finishes the thought off with a hand gesture, like he's too tired to continue with the complexities.
"It's just sort of something I fell into," Brendon says, smiling with all his teeth. It's his standard answer.
**
"Who drove here tonight?" Brendon at 29 asks the audience. He's leaning against his stool again. The crowd groans their displeasure, and he continues with, "Having a car in New York--" the crowd yells and laughs, and groans again, and Brendon laughs with them, holding his free hand up in front of him like a shield. "No, no, I know. If you're not a New Yorker, it doesn't seem like a big deal. A car is an important piece of merchandise." He accentuates the word and gets another laugh. "But turtles move faster--and more safely--than cars do out here. This I promise you." He takes a moment to wink, and then adds,"This is a true story folks; when I was in high school, I made out with a boy once, because his trunk was so big." This is the big sell, and Brendon takes a moment to savor it, waiting, holding for applause and the beginnings of amusement. "And I don't just mean his ass."
**
The only three people Brendon had sex with in high school were Karen (disastrous, but enlightening), Kevin Lorinado and Ryan, in the backseat of his father's car.
Brendon's track record was never as clean as it was supposed to be, but Karen still periodically tells him it wasn't as bad as it could've been.
**
They met in Kindergarten. Brendon's known Karen since he knew how to speak, practically. She was that annoying girl in class who'd taught herself how to read and never stopped talking about it. Brendon knew full well how annoying those people were. He'd been one of them himself.
At five, Brendon says, "Those are my blocks," because they are. He brought them from home and they have his name printed on the bottom in his mom's handwriting. Brendon can't write his own name yet (not yet, but he's getting better at the 'U' for Urie), but he can recognize it. He likes the way it looks against the plastic and he rubs the pads of his fingers against it, expecting the Sharpied letters to feel differently than they do.
"I know," Karen says. She's taller than Brendon is (this never changes) and she has frizzy red hair that's been pulled back away from her cheeks with elastic and barrettes. "If you build them up this way, though," she does something with the building blocks that Brendon tries to replicate almost immediately, and soon they've got a whole little wall built. "They won't fall as easy." She smiles at him when they're done, showing him her missing two front teeth and freckles.
Brendon's not sure if they're best friends after that, but she shares her extra piece of peanut butter and jelly with him every day at lunch.
**
"Ladies, ladies," Brendon at 29 says, gesturing with his arms out wide, holding the mic away from his mouth as the women in the crowd laugh their approval. "Have you ever been that friend?" Brendon over-enunciates the word, making sure to get his meaning across. "You know," he says, laughing a little into the mic. "You've been pals for life. You've seen him piss; he's thrown up in your hair," he pauses for acknowledgement and agreement, and gets it at this point, as usual. "And maybe--" he pauses, laughing right against the mic. "Maybe you fucked once, in high school, or fucking, like, college or something, but it was probably the worst time of your life, right?" A few more women join into the laughter, and Brendon keeps them going with, "But! But because of that first kiss, or first handjob, or first fuck, the girlfriend hates you, doesn't she?" The collective audience groans, but Brendon hears a few chuckles breaking the surface. He brings it home. "That's the thing, though," he says, pushing up on his tip-toes to settle better on the stool. "They're jealous of you, but not because of why you'd think. They don't want to clean puke out of their hair, and they're way fuckin' glad that he's gotten better at whatever it is he's doing down there, but." He takes a moment to laugh again. "But! You're the standard in his head. They think he's expecting them to live through what you lived through, that when they don't, he's just gonna think of the good times with you." He pauses, making his silence work in favor of the punchline. "The thing is though," he says. "The poor schmuck's probably just wondering why it matters that a friend he made before he knew about the wonders of masturbation makes you jealous. At five, your parts really don't matter."
**
Brendon's theory doesn't only apply to women. During the first six months of their relationship (relationship: a connection, association or involvement) Brendon and Spencer get into all of two fights.
**
"So, what," Karen says, when they're 26, snapping her gum. "He doesn't like me now?" Her hair is still frizzy and held back by product and barrettes, but now she's twenty years older, about 90 pounds heavier and she looks like a chimney when she smokes. She's two days older than Brendon exactly, and she's always lorded it over him. Always. "You know, my relationship with Spencer was much better before he started routinely fucking you in the ass."
It's July in New York, and people are still assholes, but they're assholes who eat outside now. They're having breakfast at a place that lets Brendon perform sometimes, as long as they don't have to pay him and he helps with clean-up afterwards. On a scale from 1 to 100, it ranks about a 97 in grossness, but it's also an actual stage and exposure, so. He'll take what he can get.
Also, their hash and eggs is pretty good, all things considered. "He doesn't dislike you," Brendon says, clearing his plate, although not in record time. "It's not about hating you." He shrugs. "I don't know how to explain it."
Karen sighs, like she doesn't have boyfriend trouble all on her own (and she does, oh, she does), and then says, "Why isn't he mad at Ryan? You guys had your thing--"
She might have a point, but Brendon has her beat. "First," he says. "We didn't have a thing. It wasn't a thing, and secondly, he lives with the dude, man," he says. "That'd be a violation of the roommate code."
"Fuck the code," Karen says, lighting another cigarette, even though there's an ordinance now. "He's just annoyed because I have a pussy and he doesn't." Brendon blinks at her for an entire minute before he cracks up, laughing harder than he has in a long time. "Feel free to use that in your act," she says, grinning at him through her shades. "Free of charge."
**
"Who wants to talk about first times?" Brendon at 29 asks. "Oh, oh!" he adds, jumping in place a little, the hand not holding the mic raised high in the air. "Me," he says, dropping his arm down and laughing. "Oh me, definitely, and since you all paid a ridiculous sum of money to see me up here, you get to hear it." He snorts, adding, "Aren't you excited?" The crowd cat-calls, and Brendon laughs along with them. "My first time was with ..." he lets his voice trail off, and the crowd as one shouts different things at him, making him laugh. "No," he says, going for serious. "No sir, it was not with your mother, but I can make that joke, too, if you're bored." He smiles, and there are a few camera flashes. The only people he can really make out are the crew that are filming this special, but even they aren't clear in his periphery. "Would you believe me if I told you my first time was with a cheerleader?" Brendon asks, and he hunches a little when they laugh. "Okay," he says. "Okay, I wouldn't believe me either." He pauses, and then adds, "It was with a girl, though. That much is true."
**
The first time they had sex was ridiculous.
It was the first time Brendon had had sex with anybody, and he was nervous as he started to push inside of her. Karen, for her part, held up a running commentary, nails digging against his back, leaving sharp little grooves against Brendon's skin, even through the two layers of shirts he was wearing.
At fifteen, Brendon sweat just by standing, exerting so much physical energy that it made his bangs stick to his forehead. "You look like a monkey right now," Karen said, and the only thing that differentiated this conversation between any of the thousands they'd had previously was that her voice sounded strained as she spoke.
Brendon moved inside her and she cringed, turning her head away and biting on her lip, not making a sound. "Yeah," Brendon said. "But you look really pretty."
It was probably the only thing he did right that day.
**
Brendon's read books, okay, and they all say that coming out to your parents is the scariest thing you'll ever have to live through. Brendon doesn't doubt the validity of that statement. The actual process is scary as hell, there's no disputing that, but.
But telling your parents you want to fuck off your Mission, move to New York and stand on stage, anywhere from 5 to 30 minutes a night, telling jokes to a sightless and often angry mass? That ranks pretty high up there too.
It's not that that coming out to them was an afterthought, it was that they'd already been let down enough. Fighting with Brendon about his sexuality wasn't going to get him to come home any quicker.
**
They have sex that first night. Spencer's still drunk, but he looks good on his feet, steady, even though his eyes are glassy, and his hands are warm on Brendon's hips when he presses his palms down. "Are you even gay?" Brendon asks, pulling back just far enough from Spencer's mouth to mumble the words out, mind fuzzy as Spencer works his pants down his hips, fumbling for the hand lotion.
He's been in Karen's bathroom a hundred times since she signed the lease on the apartment, but he's never been fucked here. Brendon can say that honestly, and he grits his teeth down, pressing his palm against his mouth, trying not to grunt too loudly.
"Are you?" Spencer asks, brows raised, and Brendon snorts, even as Spencer's shifting his hand, moving his lotion-covered fingers inside of Brendon, crooking them up just slightly, like either a pro or a rookie who's got a really good handle on the game.
"Fair enough," Brendon grunts out, and they don't talk very much after that.
**
"I can't believe you fucked him in my bathroom," Karen says. They're in the shoe department of Macy's, because she's applying for a new job again, and every interview deserves its own pair of shoes. Brendon's trying a pair of Uggs on, because they're soft and fuzzy and they keep his feet warm, but he doesn't have $150 to spend on rent, let alone boots.
"It's not like it was planned, Kar," he says, flopping back on the couch next to her and admiring his feet. "I could totally get away with tucking my jeans into these," he says, mulling the thought over, and he watches as she snorts and rolls her eyes.
"You want me to buy 'em for you?" she asks, kicking her own feet up next to Brendon's, elbowing his side. She's wearing four-inch snakeskin pumps which topple her right over the six foot mark, and Brendon just shakes his head, sighing as he straightens.
"If your daddy really wants to do me some favors, have him pay my rent this month," he says, but instead of getting offended, Karen just snorts again, rolling her eyes and moving to a sitting position. Her heels click as she sets her feet on the ground. "You're gonna blow all of the other secretaries out of the water," he says. "They'll lose in the battle of the timewarp."
That makes her laugh, finally, and as she kicks the shoes off, putting them back in their box, she says, "Really? My bathroom? You couldn't have picked anywhere less hygienic?"
**
Spencer doesn't call.
**
Neither does Brendon.
**
It's about a week afterwards. Maybe two, but Brendon's not counting, and the time and place are both innocuous. It's two in the afternoon, but Brendon's just rolled out of bed, and the apartment doesn't have coffee because he always forgets to stock up if he's been staying at Karen's for a couple days.
It doesn't actually happen in the coffee shop. His life is a cliché, but not entirely so, and Brendon spots Spencer before Spencer spots him or thinks to hide. When Spencer does notice him, he smiles and Brendon notices how white his teeth are. "Hey," Spencer says, holding out his hand, and Brendon takes it because it's proffered.
"Uh," Brendon says, and then averts his eyes, because this is the part that's always awkward; seeing someone you've fucked in the light of day. It's even weirder when you're not drunk anymore, although Brendon hadn't been as wasted as he could've been. "How's things, man?" He tries to avoid scuffing his sneaker against the sidewalk and drops Spencer's hand.
Spencer does him the service of shrugging, but his smile doesn't really falter. He's not friendly, exactly. Brendon can't read him. "I feel like this is the part where I'm supposed to say I had a really nice time," Spencer says, and he leans forward slightly, like they're sharing a secret. "But honest to god, man. I barely remember it."
"You were pretty wasted," Brendon says, shrugging. He looks nonchalant because he is nonchalant. This is a non-issue.
"Ross and I were supposed to go see this band tonight," Spencer continues, like Brendon hadn't spoken at all, and Brendon closes his mouth with a click. "The Pierces?" Spencer shakes his head, chuckling at a joke Brendon hasn't been let in on. "The guy bailed on me, though." There's a shrug here, like this news isn't particularly astonishing. It's been eight years and a few months, but that sounds pretty familiar behavior. "I have two tickets if you're not busy, later."
He speaks casually, easily, and his shoulders aren't hunched in at all. It's March, in New York, but today the sun is shining and Spencer's smile is bright enough to match it without being overpowering. Brendon blinks at him.
"You want me to go to a show with you?" He's usually more on his game than he is in this moment. Brendon blames it on the disconnect. It's the fact that he just woke up. It's the unexpected warmth and sunshine.
Spencer shrugs again. "Sure," he says, and the wattage on his smile doesn't dim. "You don't have to go with me, specifically, though," he adds. "You can buy one of the tickets off me, if you want. It's not like there are seats."
Brendon cracks a smile at him, but it feels forced. He keeps on with it anyway, saying, "You know, I was waiting by the phone for this call." He's a step above fluttering his lashes, going for the gold and all that, but he doesn't.
Spencer's smile still doesn't dim. He says, "It's good that we bumped into each other in person, then." He shrugs again. "I'm pretty terrible on the phone." He quirks his lips, self-deprecating, like it's a joke, and Brendon blinks before he laughs. "Honestly, though," he adds. "It's just 'cause I happened to see you first, man." He spreads his hands out wide. "No ulterior motives, I promise."
**
It's not really a date, but it's more a date than anything Brendon usually does.
**
"I'll leave you with this," Brendon at 29 says, adrenaline scrolling through him like fire. It's almost the end of another show, another group of people who've paid money to sit in a room with him for an hour and listen to his terrible jokes. It's not a phenomenon he'll ever get over. "When you think it's too good? It usually is." The crowd has already been laughing, so adding another chuckle at the end doesn't hurt them at all. "Get out while you can," Brendon stresses, but he laughs along with them. "You know that saying your mom told you when you were a kid? Well it is better to be safe than sorry." He huffs the words right against the mic. "We live in New York, man. If safe means that no one's breaking into my apartment while I sleep, I'll take it."
**
When Brendon finds Karen outside, he's not surprised to see her smoking, back leaned against the damp bricks of the wall, talking to some guy that looks vaguely familiar but that Brendon really can't place. The thing about New York is that it's smaller than everybody really thinks, and Brendon sees the same people everywhere, whether he's looking for them or not.
Karen spots him after a minute, flashing a smile up at the bachelor number thirty-three, heading over toward Brendon, holding out her cigarette before even saying hello. "We quit," Brendon says, but he takes it anyway, savoring the drag, the feel of it as the smoke hits his lungs.
Karen rolls her eyes, reaching out and taking the cigarette back. There's a ring of dark lipstick against the paper from her mouth and the stain it leaves looks like a bruise. Brendon watches it disappear each time Karen lifts the cigarette to her lips. "You know, you're broken up," she says. "Technically, you're broken up. The 'we' no longer applies."
"Yeah," Brendon says. "And technically, your mother still expects you to be a virgin on your wedding day."
Karen snorts despite herself and says, "Pretty sure she gave up on that pipe dream a long time ago, Urie." She straightens even as she's speaking, posture getting better as she stretches herself out. "Maybe I was wrong," she says. "Look who's here."
Brendon doesn't want to look, but he ends up turning his head anyway, watching as Spencer slips through the crowd, saying hi to people he recognizes, stopping to have little snippets of conversation that Brendon watches and starts to mimic. "We're still broken up," he says, but he's not looking at her. He can hear it pretty clearly when she snorts, even though people are chit-chattering around them, making too much noise for any of it to really be important.
"Yeah," she says, and from what Brendon can hear, she sounds amused. It's alright, though. It's cool. Karen's always laughing at him. "The way you're looking at him right now, that's a pretty clear indicator of how broken up you are."
"There were reasons," Brendon says, but he's not looking at her. Spencer hasn't seen him yet, and Brendon spares a second thinking about escape routes he knows he'll never take while Karen snorts at him for the millionth time.
"What were they?" Karen asks, still amused, and Brendon opens his mouth to speak, but changes tracks entirely when Spencer turns and sees him.
Coming closer, he says, "Brendon," he says, easily taller than half the crowd. In the five years Brendon's known him, and the four and a quarter they managed to be together, he's only seen that smile dim a few times. Less than he can count on one hand, anyway.
"Uh," Brendon says, lifting his hand in an awkward wave. He's still got adrenaline doing kick flips in his veins, but there's also nerves tingling in his fingers too. He can't catch a break, and he turns to look at Karen, but she and her cigarette are gone, probably talking to bachelor thirty-three again. "Hey, Spence."
"I caught the act," Spencer says, and he leans forward, bending slightly so that Brendon can hear him. So that they're sharing space again. "I liked the Bionic Woman bit. It was funnier than when you told me before."
"I've had some time to tweak," Brendon says. "You know."
Spencer nods reaching one of his hands between them, gripping Brendon's fingers for just a second before he lets go again. "Yeah," he says. "I know."
"I can't believe you're here," Brendon blurts, and Spencer just looks at him for a second, not frowning or smiling or anything at all, just looking. "I thought we said," he adds, ducking his head and huffing out a laugh, trying to play off the moment. "You know. You were leaving."
"Funding fell through," Spencer says, and Brendon picks his head back up fast, clearly surprised. He blinks, and Spencer smiles back at him, more of a smirk than anything else.
"Bull shit," Brendon says, raising a brow, and Spencer shrugs, his smile widening. Brendon starts to smile too, harder than he was smiling during the show, harder than he's smiled since Spencer said he'd taken the job in LA. "Spence," Brendon says after a minute, disbelief in his voice. "There's no way you couldn't get other investors." He looks way, not wanting to get too excited. "Spence, it was your own restaurant."
Spencer shrugs. "You mean, people in New York don't eat?"
**
Brendon doesn't get home, much. He has an apartment in Vegas that sits empty more than half the year; parents and siblings, but there's something about not needing to go back to the 89002 zip code that just makes him feel more accomplished, somehow.
He's finally made it big. He can tie his own shoelaces and everything.
**
At 31, Brendon stands on stage and says, "Fairy tales are a crock." The crowd gasps into laughing and Brendon smiles too, getting into it again, getting his feet wet. "Cinderella and Prince Charming probably got bored of each other in a day, Prince Eric was committing child molestation--I'm getting ahead of myself." It's a new city. Brendon's been to Baltimore before but he's never been to the Comedy Factory. It's nice, the little he can see of it. "The point is, folks, fairy tales don't exist." He pauses and then adds, "You know what makes up for it, though?" He waits, giving the punch line room to breathe and then says, "Really good head." He snorts as the crowd starts to laugh. "No, really," he says. "I'm talking legendary."
**
Until he was with Spencer, the only person Brendon ever brought home with him was Karen. It was a default thing; she looks great in a dress, has known his family since they were kids and besides, weddings and christenings are much easier to get through with her by his side.
They've been together for another year and more before Brendon says, "Hey, so my cousin Marie is getting married. Do you, um. You want to come to the wedding?" They're not sharing an apartment, but most of Brendon's stuff hangs out at Spencer's address nowadays anyway.
Spencer's a zombie before he has coffee in him, and the pot's still brewing when Brendon asks, leaning against the counter in yesterday's boxers and his glasses. He's not nervous, Spencer'll either say yes or he won't. It's not something to worry about.
"Um," Spencer says, and Brendon's stomach definitely doesn't clench, except for the part where it does. "In Vegas?" he asks after a minute, blinking to get the sleep out of his eyes and then rubbing his knuckles against them when it doesn't work.
Brendon stretches, standing on his toes to get some leverage, and then he nods, saying, "Yeah, I don't know. I was supposed to be in Chicago that weekend, but." He shrugs, adding, "Show got cancelled, and I'd feel like a douchebag not going when I have the chance to."
"Because you're not a douchebag the rest of the time?" Spencer asks, but he's smiling, too. He rifles through his bag on the chair, always messier at home than he is at work, and tugs out his BlackBerry, fiddling with the calendar ap. "What are the dates, babe?" he asks, not even really looking at Brendon. He's got stubble and he hasn't washed his hair yet, but Brendon's still stuck staring. He looks up and their eyes meet. "I'll move stuff around if I need to."