Panic! At The Disco/Cobra Starship, Prompt: Red/#2, makemebreak, PG
Title: Sleep Perchance To Dream
Author: makemebreak
Genre: Pre-Slash
Claim: Brendon Urie/Gabe Saporta
Prompt: Red
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1866
Summary: Brendon usually dealt with the nightmares on his own by going to the kitchen of his house, the kitchen of the apartment, and getting a glass of milk.
Warnings: No warnings.
Notes: Beta'd by sweetrecovery She's been very patient with me on this one. Thank her.
Disclaimer: This is very much made-up, I take no credit and make no profit.
Once upon a time there was nothing and Brendon was okay with that. He was okay with dreams where he wandered a black abyss alone and unafraid. Then there was something, a fiery red expanse and a demon calling after him, chasing him, seemingly unaware of who Brendon was or what he was doing there, sometimes even unaware of his presence as the demon mumbled to himself in Spanish.
The dreams started when he was eleven, old enough to understand the concept of nightmares but far too young to stop having them.
And then the dreams stopped. Brendon hadn't changed anything about his life at all. He continued to watch the same movies, read the same books, talk to the same people as always. They slowed down when Brendon joined Panic! At The Disco and stopped altogether long before the album was released. Brendon didn't know what the difference was but he enjoyed not waking up covered in cold sweat and clutching at the covers.
He tried to write the dream out because it didn't vary -- it was a constant. Red rocks as far as he could see, and a demon, twenty or thirty feet tall, coming to attack him. Sometimes, not always, but sometimes the demon breathed fire. He was too tall for Brendon to make out any distinguishing facial features, not that Brendon had ever been keen on the idea. Swirls of color always seemed to follow the demon, to be reaching out and grabbing at Brendon's clothing, trying to pull him back.
Brendon might not have been the best Mormon ever, but he was still a Mormon and he knew better than to believe that was what most Christians would call hell. There was no way it could be. He knew what hell was and he knew that wasn't it.
Brendon usually dealt with the nightmares on his own by going to the kitchen of his house, the kitchen of the apartment, and getting a glass of milk. He would sit in the sickly fluorescent light, look around and assure himself that there was nothing, nothing at all that was coming to hurt him. He rarely thought about where he sat, even though it was always the same place. He sat in his father's chair and when he moved out, he sat in the equivalent space, taking small sips of milk as if staying awake longer reduced his chances of going back to the dream. Sometimes he played music, not so loud he couldn't hear someone approaching, but loud enough that the sounds attached themselves to his ears and refused to be shaken off.
The first apartment he'd looked at when he started looking for his own place had a rust colored kitchen, Brendon hadn't made it past the entry way before walking out. He would never feel comfortable in that.
Brendon tried to explain the dream to Ryan one afternoon when they were playing Grand Theft Auto. As their cars swerved in and out of alleys onscreen, Brendon described the terrain. "It's always the same shade of red. You know how in your dreams, the coloring is always off on something? Like, maybe your dog has gray fur but in your dream it's brown? This stuff never changes. And this thing, it's like a monster, it's always chasing me and yelling at me. And it's huge. I never know what it wants, though."
"That's kind of messed up. You've tried staying away from spicy foods, right?" Ryan's initial answer to everything was in diet.
"Yes, I've stayed away from spicy foods. Ryan, this is something that's been going on for years. Since I was a kid."
"Maybe it's astral projection." The tip of Ryan's tongue poked out the corner of his mouth in concentration.
"Excuse me?" Brendon allowed his car to stop onscreen to watch Ryan.
"Astral projection. Like. Okay. Physically, we're all on this plane of existence, right? But our minds and our souls, they're free to wander when the body is incapacitated. What better time than when you're asleep. Maybe you're meeting someone from another time. Or maybe you're meeting someone from another galaxy." Ryan flicked his eyes briefly over to Brendon. "You're not arrogant enough to believe that we're really the smartest species in the entire universe, are you?"
"No. I. I just don't think this thing is. Look, whatever, forget it. What's the next mission?" Brendon picked up his controller, only too happy Ryan was willing to drop the subject.
Spencer was slightly more helpful, though his theory was a lot more disturbing. "Maybe someone tried to kidnap you."
"Really? You really think that's the answer that's going to make me feel better about this dream?" Brendon shot him a look as he tuned his guitar.
"I'm just saying. You're running, this thing is a fuckload taller than you. Maybe this is some repressed memory trying to make its way to the surface." Spencer shrugged and tightened his snare. No one else had been in the basement, so Brendon felt comfortable asking Spencer. After all, Spencer helped Ryan with the demons that haunted him while he was awake, it stood to reason he would be able to help Brendon with the ones from his sleep.
"Thanks. I'll keep that in mind." Brendon nodded and turned back to his guitar in time to snap the e string.
The first time they had to drive more than an hour for a show, Brent pulled out the book. The Definitive Guide To The Subconscious World by Jeanette Dureaux.
"I thought it might help." Everyone had seen Brendon recovering from one of the dreams at one point or another. Brent woke the easiest and was constantly finding Brendon sitting in the kitchen of wherever they happened to be staying. "So, when you dream of hell-"
"No, that's not hell. That's. Okay. It's most people's interpretation of hell, but that's. If there's a hell, I don't think it's like that." Brendon shook his head and tried to lay back down for another hour of sleep before they got to the venue.
"No. But it's the textbook definition of hell and whatever you think hell is that's so terrible is probably something your mind doesn't want to picture, so you picture this place." Brent shoved the open book in front of Brendon.
Hell - to dream of hell suggests a fear of placing your destiny in someone else's hands. It represents a fear of being trapped by decisions.
"You think…" Brendon trailed off and he looked around the van. He thought of the phone calls he made to his parents that went unreturned, of the school applications he hadn't even looked at. After a moment he nodded. Brent quickly flipped the pages and shoved it in front of Brendon's face again.
Unidentifiable persons - to dream of a person lacking defining characteristics suggests a lack of personal identity. The dream will be resolved upon realizing ones own identity.
Brendon didn't try to analyze the look Brent gave him at the last definition. He knew exactly what it meant. It was the same look Spencer gave him the time he'd caught Brendon making out with a boy from the crowd at one of the shows. It was the same look he'd given himself in the mirror after punching the boy in the gut and walking off.
He tried to put the different interpretations out of his mind as they recorded, as they toured. It worked. No dreams. There was nothing, and then again there was something.
The identical second Brendon realized where he was, the same dusty expanse of red, he curled in on himself. He'd gone to sleep in the van, wrapped around a teddy bear no one needed to know lived at the bottom of his sleeping bag. He concentrated all his energy on waking up there. He would play the show tired, but he wouldn't stay in this version of hell.
Looking up, Brendon's fears were confirmed. The demon was there, smoke curling from its nose. Well, where Brendon assumed his nose would be if he could see any of his face.
"No. This isn't right, I stopped having this dream." Brendon shook his head and looked away from the demon. He wasn't chasing him this time, which was a plus. He hated when he got chased and yelled at. It was always the same thing. Brendon couldn't remember it when he was awake, but it came back to him every time he had the dream.
Tu no estás digno del tiempo de la cárcel.
"You're the one having this dream?" For once the demon spoke in a normal tone, no hint of an accent. "This is my dream."
"Mine." Brendon stayed on the ground, letting it wrap around him and keep him safe from whatever this presence was. "This is my dream and I haven't had it for well over a year. And I thought I stopped having it and seriously, if you could not chase me this time, that'd be awesome." He pulled the hoodie he had fallen asleep in over his head and drew the strings tight. It blacked everything out and for a moment Brendon's heart swelled with hope that the action would remove him from the dream. It didn't work; all Brendon could do was picture the demon getting larger and towering over him.
"I've chased you? Did you really just make me taller? Do you control that stuff here?"
"Go away. I don't want to see you. Just leave." Brendon could hear his own voice echo within his hood. It seemed louder than should be possible. "Don't you understand? I don't want you here."
"I. This isn't even my choice! You can't choose what you dream." The ground shook with the sound of the demon's voice. "Besides, this is totally my dream and I'm not even drunk. I keep having this dream and now all of a sudden you're in it, claiming that I chased you!"
"Then wake up!" Finally Brendon turned and saw what was really there. No demon, just a man. A boy, really. He was older than Brendon, but by years, not centuries. He had more than a head of height on Brendon, though. "Wake up and get out of my dream! I hate having you here!"
He'd seen the face before but couldn't place it. It brought up everything he'd been trying to suppress for months, years. Taking a step forward, Brendon pushed at the other boy's chest until he was falling, toppling over.
Brendon leaned back against the rocks as the figure hit the ground and disappeared. The red vanished again and before he knew it, he was being shaken awake by his bandmates.
"Wake up. Brendon. Wake the fuck up, we're here." Brent had his hoodie halfway on and was kicking at Brendon's legs.
"Yeah, sorry." Brendon swallowed with a dry mouth and began to gather up everything he needed for the show. His fingers brushed over the hoodie he was wearing, the purple one he'd purchased only a few days before, the hoodie that had saved him in his dream. It would be his talisman; it would keep him safe.
Author: makemebreak
Genre: Pre-Slash
Claim: Brendon Urie/Gabe Saporta
Prompt: Red
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1866
Summary: Brendon usually dealt with the nightmares on his own by going to the kitchen of his house, the kitchen of the apartment, and getting a glass of milk.
Warnings: No warnings.
Notes: Beta'd by sweetrecovery She's been very patient with me on this one. Thank her.
Disclaimer: This is very much made-up, I take no credit and make no profit.
Once upon a time there was nothing and Brendon was okay with that. He was okay with dreams where he wandered a black abyss alone and unafraid. Then there was something, a fiery red expanse and a demon calling after him, chasing him, seemingly unaware of who Brendon was or what he was doing there, sometimes even unaware of his presence as the demon mumbled to himself in Spanish.
The dreams started when he was eleven, old enough to understand the concept of nightmares but far too young to stop having them.
And then the dreams stopped. Brendon hadn't changed anything about his life at all. He continued to watch the same movies, read the same books, talk to the same people as always. They slowed down when Brendon joined Panic! At The Disco and stopped altogether long before the album was released. Brendon didn't know what the difference was but he enjoyed not waking up covered in cold sweat and clutching at the covers.
He tried to write the dream out because it didn't vary -- it was a constant. Red rocks as far as he could see, and a demon, twenty or thirty feet tall, coming to attack him. Sometimes, not always, but sometimes the demon breathed fire. He was too tall for Brendon to make out any distinguishing facial features, not that Brendon had ever been keen on the idea. Swirls of color always seemed to follow the demon, to be reaching out and grabbing at Brendon's clothing, trying to pull him back.
Brendon might not have been the best Mormon ever, but he was still a Mormon and he knew better than to believe that was what most Christians would call hell. There was no way it could be. He knew what hell was and he knew that wasn't it.
Brendon usually dealt with the nightmares on his own by going to the kitchen of his house, the kitchen of the apartment, and getting a glass of milk. He would sit in the sickly fluorescent light, look around and assure himself that there was nothing, nothing at all that was coming to hurt him. He rarely thought about where he sat, even though it was always the same place. He sat in his father's chair and when he moved out, he sat in the equivalent space, taking small sips of milk as if staying awake longer reduced his chances of going back to the dream. Sometimes he played music, not so loud he couldn't hear someone approaching, but loud enough that the sounds attached themselves to his ears and refused to be shaken off.
The first apartment he'd looked at when he started looking for his own place had a rust colored kitchen, Brendon hadn't made it past the entry way before walking out. He would never feel comfortable in that.
Brendon tried to explain the dream to Ryan one afternoon when they were playing Grand Theft Auto. As their cars swerved in and out of alleys onscreen, Brendon described the terrain. "It's always the same shade of red. You know how in your dreams, the coloring is always off on something? Like, maybe your dog has gray fur but in your dream it's brown? This stuff never changes. And this thing, it's like a monster, it's always chasing me and yelling at me. And it's huge. I never know what it wants, though."
"That's kind of messed up. You've tried staying away from spicy foods, right?" Ryan's initial answer to everything was in diet.
"Yes, I've stayed away from spicy foods. Ryan, this is something that's been going on for years. Since I was a kid."
"Maybe it's astral projection." The tip of Ryan's tongue poked out the corner of his mouth in concentration.
"Excuse me?" Brendon allowed his car to stop onscreen to watch Ryan.
"Astral projection. Like. Okay. Physically, we're all on this plane of existence, right? But our minds and our souls, they're free to wander when the body is incapacitated. What better time than when you're asleep. Maybe you're meeting someone from another time. Or maybe you're meeting someone from another galaxy." Ryan flicked his eyes briefly over to Brendon. "You're not arrogant enough to believe that we're really the smartest species in the entire universe, are you?"
"No. I. I just don't think this thing is. Look, whatever, forget it. What's the next mission?" Brendon picked up his controller, only too happy Ryan was willing to drop the subject.
Spencer was slightly more helpful, though his theory was a lot more disturbing. "Maybe someone tried to kidnap you."
"Really? You really think that's the answer that's going to make me feel better about this dream?" Brendon shot him a look as he tuned his guitar.
"I'm just saying. You're running, this thing is a fuckload taller than you. Maybe this is some repressed memory trying to make its way to the surface." Spencer shrugged and tightened his snare. No one else had been in the basement, so Brendon felt comfortable asking Spencer. After all, Spencer helped Ryan with the demons that haunted him while he was awake, it stood to reason he would be able to help Brendon with the ones from his sleep.
"Thanks. I'll keep that in mind." Brendon nodded and turned back to his guitar in time to snap the e string.
The first time they had to drive more than an hour for a show, Brent pulled out the book. The Definitive Guide To The Subconscious World by Jeanette Dureaux.
"I thought it might help." Everyone had seen Brendon recovering from one of the dreams at one point or another. Brent woke the easiest and was constantly finding Brendon sitting in the kitchen of wherever they happened to be staying. "So, when you dream of hell-"
"No, that's not hell. That's. Okay. It's most people's interpretation of hell, but that's. If there's a hell, I don't think it's like that." Brendon shook his head and tried to lay back down for another hour of sleep before they got to the venue.
"No. But it's the textbook definition of hell and whatever you think hell is that's so terrible is probably something your mind doesn't want to picture, so you picture this place." Brent shoved the open book in front of Brendon.
Hell - to dream of hell suggests a fear of placing your destiny in someone else's hands. It represents a fear of being trapped by decisions.
"You think…" Brendon trailed off and he looked around the van. He thought of the phone calls he made to his parents that went unreturned, of the school applications he hadn't even looked at. After a moment he nodded. Brent quickly flipped the pages and shoved it in front of Brendon's face again.
Unidentifiable persons - to dream of a person lacking defining characteristics suggests a lack of personal identity. The dream will be resolved upon realizing ones own identity.
Brendon didn't try to analyze the look Brent gave him at the last definition. He knew exactly what it meant. It was the same look Spencer gave him the time he'd caught Brendon making out with a boy from the crowd at one of the shows. It was the same look he'd given himself in the mirror after punching the boy in the gut and walking off.
He tried to put the different interpretations out of his mind as they recorded, as they toured. It worked. No dreams. There was nothing, and then again there was something.
The identical second Brendon realized where he was, the same dusty expanse of red, he curled in on himself. He'd gone to sleep in the van, wrapped around a teddy bear no one needed to know lived at the bottom of his sleeping bag. He concentrated all his energy on waking up there. He would play the show tired, but he wouldn't stay in this version of hell.
Looking up, Brendon's fears were confirmed. The demon was there, smoke curling from its nose. Well, where Brendon assumed his nose would be if he could see any of his face.
"No. This isn't right, I stopped having this dream." Brendon shook his head and looked away from the demon. He wasn't chasing him this time, which was a plus. He hated when he got chased and yelled at. It was always the same thing. Brendon couldn't remember it when he was awake, but it came back to him every time he had the dream.
Tu no estás digno del tiempo de la cárcel.
"You're the one having this dream?" For once the demon spoke in a normal tone, no hint of an accent. "This is my dream."
"Mine." Brendon stayed on the ground, letting it wrap around him and keep him safe from whatever this presence was. "This is my dream and I haven't had it for well over a year. And I thought I stopped having it and seriously, if you could not chase me this time, that'd be awesome." He pulled the hoodie he had fallen asleep in over his head and drew the strings tight. It blacked everything out and for a moment Brendon's heart swelled with hope that the action would remove him from the dream. It didn't work; all Brendon could do was picture the demon getting larger and towering over him.
"I've chased you? Did you really just make me taller? Do you control that stuff here?"
"Go away. I don't want to see you. Just leave." Brendon could hear his own voice echo within his hood. It seemed louder than should be possible. "Don't you understand? I don't want you here."
"I. This isn't even my choice! You can't choose what you dream." The ground shook with the sound of the demon's voice. "Besides, this is totally my dream and I'm not even drunk. I keep having this dream and now all of a sudden you're in it, claiming that I chased you!"
"Then wake up!" Finally Brendon turned and saw what was really there. No demon, just a man. A boy, really. He was older than Brendon, but by years, not centuries. He had more than a head of height on Brendon, though. "Wake up and get out of my dream! I hate having you here!"
He'd seen the face before but couldn't place it. It brought up everything he'd been trying to suppress for months, years. Taking a step forward, Brendon pushed at the other boy's chest until he was falling, toppling over.
Brendon leaned back against the rocks as the figure hit the ground and disappeared. The red vanished again and before he knew it, he was being shaken awake by his bandmates.
"Wake up. Brendon. Wake the fuck up, we're here." Brent had his hoodie halfway on and was kicking at Brendon's legs.
"Yeah, sorry." Brendon swallowed with a dry mouth and began to gather up everything he needed for the show. His fingers brushed over the hoodie he was wearing, the purple one he'd purchased only a few days before, the hoodie that had saved him in his dream. It would be his talisman; it would keep him safe.