[fic] the future is a thing with feathers [brendon/shane; r] (1/3)
the future is a thing with feathers
Brendon/Shane. 25888 words. R.
Wherein Brendon takes in a stray sinosauropteryx.
Props to mondegreen, for making some neat art (that is linked in-line and at the end of the story, since it's a spoiler), to sinuous_curve, for betaing, and to dreamofthem for much the same!
Brendon doesn’t usually take out the trash at two AM, only he fucked up making dinner and the smell is awful and he can’t sleep because of it. Thus, clad only in a pair of smiley-face boxers and bunny slippers, he’s trudging down the back stairs of his building with a garbage bag over his shoulder.
He opens up one of the big black trash cans to throw the bag in when he hears this shuffling, scratching noise across the alley. He turns around, and the first thing he sees is the gleam of light off some animal’s eyes, reflective and more than a little unsettling.
The animal tilts its wedge-shaped head to the side and makes a cooing sound, approaching with dainty footsteps. Brendon’s pretty tired, but he knows a dinosaur when he sees one, and right now there’s a dinosaur - without so much as a collar on- rubbing its head against his leg.
He drops down to his knees and lets the dinosaur sniff his hand before ruffling the crest of feathers on the crown of its head. The dinosaur peers up at him, mouth gaping open happily. The skin of its face is mostly smooth, pale yellow-green feathers not starting until after its narrow jaws.
Brendon looks around, but the alley is quiet and still. There’s no one else out here, and nobody coming. The thing can’t have just gotten off of its leash - never mind the lack of a collar, someone would definitely be following it. "You lost, little dude?" Brendon wonders.
The little dinosaur yawns, showing off its rows of sharp little teeth, and blinks at Brendon. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t answer.
The dinosaur is complacent when he pushes back the downy feathers at the base of its neck, searching for the telltale bump of a tracking implant.
There’s nothing.
-
Brendon doesn’t actually go to sleep that night. He makes himself a pot of coffee and stays up, making sure the dinosaur doesn’t get into trouble around his apartment. His place isn’t very big, but thankfully neither is the dinosaur - it’s about a foot tall at the shoulders, and somewhere just over three feet long from head to tail.
As soon as eight rolls around - a little early, but whatever -- he calls Jon.
"Jon," Brendon says. "Jon, guess what I found."
"A twenty?"
"No," Brendon says. "A dinosaur."
Jon yawns. "Wait, really?"
"Yeah."
"Aren’t those - where?"
"Digging through the trash."
"Dude," Jon says.
"I know, right?" Brendon says, refilling a bowl of water at the sink and setting it down. The dinosaur’s been napping under the kitchen table, but at the sound of water and the bowl it gets up to drink. "He doesn’t even have a - a tracking thing."
"Dude," Jon repeats.
"So have you got, like. Anything? I know you own cats, but man, I don’t even know where to start taking care of this guy."
"I don’t think taking care of a dinosaur is the same as taking care of a cat," Jon says. "Like, I doubt they’re going to wear the same sweaters."
"Shit, they make sweaters for dinosaurs?" Brendon perks up at the idea, already imagining Dylan decked out in neon and argyle.
"The ones without as many feathers," Jon explains. "They get cold or some shit, right?"
"I guess. This little dude is fluffy as fuck, though." Brendon sighs, shoulders slumping a little. He'd been really excited for the chancel to dress up his new pet. "Probably doesn’t need a sweater."
"You’re gonna need food, though. And - oh, hey, I got a second litter box when I got Clover but she always just uses the old one," Jon says. "Do you think you can litter train dinosaurs? How big is it?"
"Pretty small," Brendon says. "Pretty small. I mean, he’s bigger than Clover, but."
"I’ll bring some shit over later." Jon pauses. "I’ve actually got to go get ready for work now, but I can probably get off early, so I’ll head over - whenever. You gonna be there after three?"
"Yeah, I can be," Brendon says. "I was just going to be mixing some stupid little thing I did. I’ll be around. Just, hey, don’t tell anybody, alright?"
"Yeah, of course. Hey, did you tell me before or after Lily?"
"What? Oh, I’m not telling her."
"Dude, why not? Oh, oh! Just gonna let it be a surprise for next time you see her?"
"No, we - I’m not talking to her anymore."
"I thought you really liked her."
"Yeah, it was just, I don’t know," Brendon says. "She was kind of clingy."
"Wasn’t the problem with your last girlfriend that she didn’t give you enough attention?"
"Yeah, yeah, shut up," Brendon says.
Jon says, "Right, fine. Anyway, I seriously do have to go. Later, dude."
"Adios."
-
The second person Brendon calls is Ryan. "Hey, man, guess what."
"You found a dinosaur," Ryan says.
"Did Jon tell you?"
"Wait, what?" Ryan says.
"I told him not to tell."
"What are you talking about?" Ryan asks. "What happened?"
"What?"
"Never mind." After a pause, Ryan says, "So, Brendon. Hi. How are you?"
"I’m good. I need more sleep, though."
"Then go to sleep. You’re unemployed."
"I’m self employed, dude, shut the fuck up. Anyway, look, so I stayed up all night," Brendon says. "Coffee is fucking amazing. Look, right, whatever, that’s good, but the point is. My point is, Ryan Ross, that last night, last night I made an amazing scientific discovery."
"Okay."
"You’re not excited enough."
"Gadzooks," Ryan intones, his voice devoid of inflection. "Whatever could it be."
"Better," Brendon says. "Anyway, I totally found a dinosaur. Little guy was going through the trash in the alley."
"What’s his name?"
"I don’t know."
"Brendon. Yes, you do." Ryan sounds almost excited. "You should name him Dylan."
"That’s Jon’s cat’s name. His other cat."
"Exactly," Ryan says.
"I’m not naming him Dylan," Brendon says. "I was just wondering if you had any, like, treats Hobo didn’t like lying around or something."
"Sit, Brendon," Ryan says. "Now beg."
"Shut the fuck up," Brendon says. "Are you going to give me free shit or not?"
"That doesn’t sound like something a responsible pet owner would say," Ryan says.
"I’m not even a legal pet owner, man, cut me some slack."
"I’ll get you a book or something," Ryan says.
-
Ryan shows up around noon, because for all that he likes to tease Brendon for being unemployed, he’s unable to hold down a regular job either.
Ryan pushes his way into the apartment, looking around past Brendon. "There’s more stuff at the bottom of the stairs. You get it; I want to meet Dylan."
"His name’s not Dylan," Brendon calls over his shoulder as he heads downstairs. Ryan really brought a lot of stuff, and it takes a while for Brendon to figure out the best way to distribute the weight of the many bags. Brendon appreciates Ryan's altruism, he does, but it makes navigating the stairs more difficult than usual. The stairs are fairly narrow to begin with, and the landings are cramped. With such bulky bags, the trip is even more difficult than usual, and Brendon ends up at his door almost out of breath. He dumps the bags just inside the front door and bumps it closed with his shoulder.
The dinosaur has already found Ryan, and is eating treats right from his hand. "Dylan seems really tame," Ryan says. "Are you sure he doesn’t belong to somebody?"
"Well, he’s probably got to," Brendon says. "Seeing as they’re, like, bred to order."
"So someone’s going to want him back." Ryan leans down so he’s nose to snout with Dylan, attempting a staring contest. Then Dylan sneezes in his face. Ryan wipes his face off and bats Dylan on the nose, then, at the dinosaur’s contrite expression, pets him all the way from head to tail a few times.
"Even if they didn’t," Brendon says. "This guy’s got to be accounted for somewhere, right? Like, if he wasn’t a pet yet. Maybe he escaped from a truck on the way to somebody’s house."
"Or on the way back," Ryan says. "His eyes are different colors."
"Man, who would turn down a dinosaur just because its eyes are - wait, really?" Brendon drops down to his knees, shuffling over to Ryan and Dylan. He clicks his tongue, trying to get Dylan’s attention, but the dinosaur ignores him. "Dyyyyylan," he sings, waving his hand in the dinosaur’s direction. Dylan’s head snaps around, and he blinks several times in quick succession, inner eyelid retracting slower than the first. "Oh, sweet."
One of Dylan’s eyes is bright blue, and the other a pale grey-brown color. It really is sort of cool. Dylan makes a whiny little chirp, then climbs into Brendon’s lap and attempts to scale his chest. Brendon carefully pulls Dylan’s claws out of the material of his shirt and holds the dinosaur at arm’s length, legs dangling just above the floor. "Where the heck are you trying to go, little dude?"
Dylan squawks.
Ryan says, "He just wants some love, Brendon. You of all people have to know what it’s like to be a reject."
"Dylan’s not a reject. You’re not, are you, little dude?" Brendon lifts Dylan up, nuzzling his nose against the dinosaur’s snout. Then Dylan wriggles out of his grasp, managing to get to a perch on Brendon’s shoulder, claws both digging in a little. "Ow, ow. Careful. And - hey, wait, shut the fuck up, Ryan Ross."
Ryan laughs, and starts going through the bags of stuff he bought. "I wanted a dinosaur pretty bad when they first announced them," he says, as he digs through the bags of things he brought. "Back when it looked like it might actually be easy to get one, you know. I did a lot of reading and shit."
"You read books, so you went shopping."
"No, look, okay, I got food and shit. They’ll actually eat a lot of things besides just therapod food, and it’d look suspicious if you were always buying that without a permit anyway," Ryan says, opening up a plastic container pulled from one of the bags. "I’m not sure what kind Dylan is, though."
"Dude, mealworms?" Brendon makes a face. "How do I keep them from infesting my apartment or whatever?"
"Refrigeration," Ryan says, holding a few of the sluggishly-moving mealworms out in the palm of his hand. They’re a little closer to Brendon’s face than Brendon would like, but Dylan licks them out of Ryan’s hand and swallows them in short order, staring at Ryan expectantly. "They go to sleep. It’s the magic of science."
"I’ll refrigerate you," Brendon says. Dylan hops down from his shoulder, hind claws clicking against the floor as he walks cautiously towards Ryan and sniffs his jacket.
"That’s what she said," Ryan says, rather unfocused, as he digs for a container of yogurt to give to Dylan.
-
The thing is, the refrigerator’s full of food for Dylan now, but Brendon’s basically out of anything for himself. There’s a lonely package of wilted celery he’s pretty sure he didn’t buy, a couple bottles of beer, and that’s about it. His cupboards are similarly uninspired, to the extent that he’s honestly considering trying to make biscuits out of flour and water.
Grocery shopping seems like a better solution.
He runs by the print shop first, and ends up spending half an hour talking to Ian about up-and-coming designers and bitchy customers. Someone else comes in, and Brendon turns to leave, then realizes - "Wait, shit, I didn’t even give you my CD. Look, I typed instructions up in a text file in there for you. Blue on that brown paper, pretty much, okay?"
"Oh, you actually have another show coming up?"
"Yes, I actually have a show." Brendon laughs. "I’ve been writing some new stuff lately, remind me to send you the demos later, too. But look - the sooner that’s done, the better, okay?"
"Yeah, no problem, we’ll have this done in a New York minute." Ian gives him the thumbs up. "Anything else?"
"Nah, I’m good," Brendon says. "We need to hang out sometime. You and your band of miscreants, I mean. I’ve gotta go do some other errands."
"Glad to know that visiting your friends is an errand, man. Send me those demos," Ian says, and waves goodbye before turning his attention to the other customer.
-
Whenever Brendon practices, Dylan likes to sing along, chirping and squawking and in no way following the melody or rhythm.
It’s sort of annoying, but it’s better than shutting Dylan into his bedroom and listening to him claw at the door and whine. A couple of pointed shushes and taps on the nose seem to be enough to get Dylan to shut up most of the time anyway, at least for a little while.
And Dylan tends to settle down before too long anyway, curling up next to Brendon’s leg while he strums the guitar.
-
Dylan sings in the morning. It’s louder and more frustrating than birds singing outside since it’s coming from inside the house - usually right outside Brendon’s bedroom door. Otherwise the dinosaur is well-behaved, though Brendon’s learned his lesson when it comes to leaving food on the table - Dylan can jump really high, flailing his feathered arms whenever he does.
A few days after he finds Dylan, after going to the post office to ship out some merch, Brendon spends several hours at the library looking up publicly available literature about pet dinosaurs.
"I’m just curious," Brendon tells the librarian. "I mean, I won’t ever be able to get one, obviously. There’s no way I’d ever be able to afford the adoption costs, let alone getting a license. Nope. No chance. They’re just neat. So if you could point me in the right direction, you know, that’d be cool?"
"Are you looking for pet-care, or general interest, or what?"
"I don’t know, general pet stuff," Brendon says. "Or something more science-y, I guess. Behavior?"
"There was a really good paper in Nature a couple years back, I’m pretty sure."
"Uh - yeah, that’d be cool." Brendon nods quickly. "What kind was that for?"
"I think it was one of the lab-only species, actually," she says. "Avimimus, maybe? They were a little big to keep as pets, so they studied a few specimens for a few years and then eliminated them. It’s interesting reading, anyway. I’ll show you where the pet care books are and try to pull the article up while you look, if you want."
"Thanks, yeah." Brendon nods again, following after her through the stacks, trailing his fingers along the spines of books as he goes. When they get to the right section, he has to stand on his tiptoes and lean his head back to read the titles of the upper rows of books.
The dinosaur books follow right after the bird books, with a few overlaps in both directions. Brendon’s going through looking at covers, and - this is what he was afraid of - none of them look quite like Dylan. Chirostenotes looks kind of similar, only its feathers are a lot longer and it’s got a weird crest. Microraptor’s a little closer, only it has a wide fan of feathers on its tail and hind legs.
Brendon pulls those two books anyway. He hadn’t actually realized there were so many revived species around - sometimes when he’s walking around in one of the nicer neighborhoods, heading back to his car after a show at a swanky bar, he’ll see people taking theirs out for walks, but he thought it was more like how there are different breeds of dog than differences in species.
He skims through the books, looking for - he’s not sure what. Advice. He really has no idea where to start.
The librarian comes back with a printout of the journal article, and just for the hell of it, he asks her where the paleontology books are and grabs an ancient-looking book called the Dinosaur Encyclopedia. The last time it was checked out was before Brendon was born, sometime in the late nineteen hundreds.
It’s a long bus ride home, because Brendon doesn’t really want to take any of his books out of his backpack. He’s kind of paranoid.
When he finally gets home, Dylan is still asleep in the cat bed Jon brought over, curled up with his head tucked under one feathered arm, long tail trailing over the edge of the bed and disappearing underneath a bookshelf. On his way to the kitchen, Brendon leans down to run a hand along Dylan’s back, and Dylan lifts his head to squint at Brendon for a moment before going back to sleep.
There are other things that Brendon should be doing, but instead he stays up until 2AM reading everything.
When he wakes up again, around noon, it’s to the sound of Dylan scratching at his bedroom door. Dylan chirps when the door opens, then lowers his head, bobbing it up and down as he wags his tail from side to side.
"Uh, I can’t tell if you’re hungry or want to play, so I’m just going to get you some breakfast." Dylan trots after him to the refrigerator, butting his head against Brendon’s ankles along the way. "Hey, calm down."
He gives Dylan a few mealworms, then gets an idea from something he read last night and pulls an egg out from the carton. Dylan takes the egg delicately in his claws, regarding it for a moment before tilting his head back and cracking it in half above his open jaws, swallowing the white and yolk in one protracted gulp. Dylan drops the shell to the floor and looks up at Brendon, tail wagging from side to side.
Dylan retreats a few steps, then runs back to Brendon, and repeats this motion a few times before going farther and staring at Brendon. Brendon gets the hint eventually and follows.
Dylan picks up a piece of rawhide and keeps staring at him until Brendon flops down on the floor to play tug-of war with him.
Jon calls, asking if he can come over to watch some terrible medical drama he's obsessed with, because his TV is apparently broken again. Brendon’s not quite paying attention to his excuse, because he’s still playing with Dylan.
Jon says something, and Dylan sneezes. "Wait, what?" Brendon asks.
"I said I’ll see you soon."
"Oh, okay, yeah," Brendon says. "Later, dude. Sorry, Dylan’s begging for attention and shit."
"Good luck with that." Jon sounds like he’s smiling. "Bye."
Brendon decides, belatedly, that he probably should take a shower at some point during the day. Probably he should have done it before he went to the library.
The water takes a while to heat up, so Brendon makes faces at himself in the mirror as he waits for it to get comfortable enough to tolerate.
He’s just opening his bottle of shampoo when he hears the click of Dylan’s claws against the tile floor, and then the dinosaur pushes its head around the edge of the shower curtain. Brendon laughs, and flicks water at him, hoping that will encourage Dylan to go away. "Dude, you’re a dinosaur. Get out."
Dylan cocks his head to the side and chirps, then hops and scrabbles his way into the tub, standing under the water and fussing with his feathers. Brendon steps aside, and nudges at Dylan with his foot. The dinosaur only looks up at him for a second, making an annoyed noise - followed by a sneeze - and goes back to preening under the water.
"Fine, whatever." Brendon rolls his eyes. "I was almost done anyway."
He steps out of the shower and dries himself off, but leaves the water running until Dylan scampers back out of the tub and runs off, trailing water in his wake. "Aw, fuck," Brendon says, and remembers to turn the water off before chasing Dylan down with a towel. "You better not get anything important wet, asshole!"
-
Jon asks, "Is he sick or something?"
"Nah." Brendon flips through channels on the TV, but nothing’s catching his interest. "I don’t think so. I hope not? He was running around being a total douchebag earlier."
"He looks kind of sick." Jon leans over, staring down at where Dylan’s curled up on the floor. "I mean, I don’t know a whole lot about dinosaurs or anything, but he’s acting kind of like Dylan did when he was sick."
"Yeah, but Dylan got better, right?"
"After I took him to the vet, sure."
"I can’t take Dylan to the vet, though," Brendon says. "I mean - man, fuck Ryan Ross for naming my dinosaur Dylan. That’s confusing as hell."
"I wasn’t going to say anything." Jon holds his hands up. "Wasn’t going to say a word."
"Look, dude, I appreciate your discretion, but you should have yelled at Ryan or something."
"Seriously, you could have just called him something else. I think even Ryan would have had to allow that."
"Untrue." Brendon starts going through the channels for the fourth time in a row, barely paying attention to what’s on each anymore. "He’s crafty and manipulative. Besides, after he started calling him Dylan I couldn’t think of anything better."
"You should have named him Lennon."
"Then a crazy person would end up trying to kill him, Jon," Brendon says. "Nobody’s shooting my dinosaur. Anyway, look, he’s fine, see?"
Dylan’s gotten to his feet and is pacing back and forth in front of the couch, staring up at the two of them and chirping. Jon looks down at him, and Dylan sits back on his haunches with his head tilted up and mouth gaping like he expects to get a treat. "I haven’t got anything for you, bro," Jon says.
"Do you think dinosaurs get the munchies?"
Jon laughs. "What? No, I know you and you’re not smoking up your dinosaur. I don’t think his lungs could handle it. He’s from the past."
"He is not from the goddamn past," Brendon says. "He’s a miracle of science, and this is the future."
"I don’t think it’s the future quite yet, dude."
"Jon. Jon, they are developing a flying car, so it had better damn well be the future."
"Fuck, we've been to Mars and we still don't even have flying cars. If this is the future, it fucking sucks," Jon says. "Hey, look, When Animals Attack. Dude, no, go back."
Dylan hops up on the couch and settles down on Jon’s lap, bumping his head up against Jon’s hand when Jon starts idly petting him.
After a while, Brendon falls asleep on the couch. He’s not sure how much later it is when Jon kicks him in the ankle, but When Animals Attack isn’t on anymore. It looks like maybe some show about car chases. Brendon turns his head and looks at Jon curiously.
Dylan sneezes. Jon looks over at Brendon. "See what I told you?"
"So he sneezed," Brendon says. "He’s fine."
Jon’s phone buzzes, and he rolls his eyes at it and taps out a reply before explaining. "Tom needs me to save the day. Apparently. I’m not really even sure, but I have to drive halfway across town to pick him up from somewhere."
"Alright, yeah." Brendon waves a hand, flashing Jon a quick grin before finally turning off the TV. "Drive safely, Jon Walker."
"Will do, man. You can trust in me."
-
Brendon wakes up kind of late the next morning. In the past week or so, he's gotten used to being woken up right around sunrise by Dylan’s weird warbly singing (and, on mornings when he’s awake enough, sometimes he’ll sing nonsense back and the dinosaur will almost harmonize). The sun’s been up for a while before he gets up today, though, and he figures he must have slept through it.
He yawns, taking his time getting up and out of bed, shuffling around his room to find a pair of socks and figure out where the hell his boxers went this time. He knows he wore them to bed, but their present whereabouts are a mystery.
He finds them on top of his old computer’s monitor. With that mystery solved, he goes to take a shower. Dylan doesn’t join him, nor does Dylan come investigate when Brendon starts digging around in the kitchen to find the easiest possible breakfast.
Dylan doesn’t come to investigate, so Brendon looks out over the pseudo-bar that divides his kitchen from the rest of the living room. Dylan’s still curled up asleep in the cat bed, and for a moment Brendon’s terrified that he’s dead or something, but then Dylan moves a little, just pressing his head further under one feathered arm and reorienting his tail.
Brendon grabs a banana and unpeels it, heading over to stare down at Dylan. Dylan doesn’t move except to breathe. Brendon sits down. "Hey, man, what’s up?"
Dylan pulls his head out from under his arm and squints at him, his labored breathing audible now that it’s not muffled by feathers. His eyes are sort of filmy and his pupils hugely dilated.
"Fuck, little dude," Brendon says. "Hold up." He goes to the kitchen to grab the bowl of water he’d put down for Dylan, and takes the tub of mealworms out of the refrigerator as well. Dylan eats gratefully from his hand, then pushes himself up on his haunches to lean over the water dish and drink. As he’s drinking, Brendon goes to put the mealworms away and grab some of the yogurt and dog food Ryan had brought. Dylan seems to perk up a little after eating and drinking his fill. Still, Brendon pours another bottle of water into the bowl and leaves it near Dylan’s bed.
He gets to work - replying to messages and comments on his music Myspace before checking Facebook, then his personal accounts on both. A few more people have bought his album off iTunes, so he’s looking forward to seeing the money from that. Someone in Kansas ordered a t-shirt, so he digs through the bins shoved in the back corner of his living room until he finds the right size, shoves it in an envelope, and drops it in front of the door so he’ll remember to send it out later.
Then it’s back to the Internet, and sneaking glances at Dylan to make sure his little chest is still moving. Dylan’s breaths come shallow but steady, each one audible with a slight whistle. Brendon hums something tuneless that might be the beginnings of a new song.
After a while, Dylan comes over and Brendon helps the dinosaur into his lap. Dylan curls up there, tail drooping to the ground, and Brendon has to sit back further from his desk to type but he doesn’t mind.
Dylan doesn’t seem to be getting any worse. It’s not that he’s acting any better, necessarily, but - Brendon doesn’t really know what there is for him to do. He figures it’ll be okay to leave for a while, though, just to head over to the print shop. It’s pretty close. They give him sweet discounts, but the trouble is that - since he’s not paying full price - the guys at the shop tend to slack off and not finish anything for him in a timely manner unless he comes in and reminds them. Taking a detour to check in on them won't take too long, and it'll get him out of the house.
He grabs a box of cookies at a convenience store along the way, and as he pushes his way through the door - the bells tied to the handle jingling - he lifts the box up over his head. "Guys, I come bearing gifts. Please tell me you finished the posters already?"
"Oh, shit," one of the Alexes says. "Look, we’ve got the design queued up but we had somebody from a real band come in."
"I’m a real band, too," Brendon says. "With records and merch and everything. All I’m missing is fucking promo materials. Come on, I brought you guys cookies."
Singer says, "We were thinking of starting a band."
Ian comes out from the back room, fingers (and nose, what the fuck) stained with ink and hair messy. "Hey, Brendon, I was just setting up the screen for your poster. You still wanted it in blue, right? On the brown paper?"
"Yes," Brendon says. "Like I told you. And wrote down for you."
"Okay, wow, I was just checking."
"B’s just being pissy," Cash says, yawning.
"Why are you all here today, anyway?" Brendon wonders, because usually he only sees maybe two of the print shop kids together at any given time.
Alex raises his hand before speaking. "There’s a party tonight."
"Dude, did you just - no. Fine, whatever. So you all came in to work."
Singer says, "We didn’t want anybody getting lost before we went."
"I." Brendon stops himself. "Okay."
Cash says, "You don’t look like a dude who’s having a good day, bro, you should come. It’ll be chill, don’t worry."
"I’m kind of busy tonight," Brendon says. "Is this another shitty house party?"
"Nah, it’s at a bar after some show," Singer says. "Nick said we should show up."
"You guys are the weirdest motherfuckers." Brendon shakes his head, laughing.
"You know it." Cash ducks under the counter and gets Brendon into a headlock, ruffling his hair. "Come on, bro, you should totally come."
"I’m seriously busy, man. Some shit’s come up, I don’t know."
"Like what? Seriously, I don’t know what you’ve been doing but you look like you need a drink or six."
"Maybe I could," Brendon says.
"Since when do you argue against going to a party?" Singer asks.
"Fine, okay, I’ll come, I’ll come," Brendon says.
"Seriously, bro, there are going to be so many hot chicks there," Cash says. "It’s going to be awesome."
-
Brendon swings home first, putting away his groceries and checking on Dylan. Dylan’s curled up on Brendon’s pillow, breath rattling a little in his tiny chest. Brendon sighs, and moves the water and food dish into his room so Dylan won’t have to go as far to get to them.
He feels kind of bad, leaving Dylan here unattended, even though he knows there’s not a lot he can do even if Dylan gets worse while he’s out. At the same time, though, he’s decided that unwinding a little - and maybe getting laid, whatever - will help take his mind off things.
It turns out there aren’t quite as many hot chicks as Cash had estimated. The party is actually kind of a sausage fest, and Brendon doesn’t really feel like competing with frat boys for any of the women’s attention.
Cash gets shot down pretty early on, so he and Brendon stake out a table in the corner for a while and drink too much. "Look, I’m paying, because you’re a bum," Cash says. "I work at a legitimate establishment."
"We probably make the same amount of money."
"Only I make it regularly," Cash says. "Are you trying to turn down free drinks, dude?"
"Nah, I’m good," Brendon says. "I’m just saying."
"Okay, cool, you make more money than me, now cheer up."
"Dude, I’m not even sad. I don’t need cheering up."
"I can tell, bro, I can tell. Bros can tell."
"I thought that was girls who could tell."
"I can too."
Brendon laughs. "So what you’re saying is you’re a chick?"
"No, man, fuck you, I’m saying you’re being a loser." Cash rolls his eyes and goes to get more drinks.
Brendon drags Cash onto the dance floor for a bit, and that’s fun until an actual, real live girl actually starts paying attention to Cash and so Brendon just gets more drunk and hangs out with Ian and Singer for a while.
He’s not entirely sure what happens after that.
He manages to get home okay, somehow, but has no idea if he walked or caught a cab or got a ride or what. For all Brendon knows, maybe he teleported back to the apartment. He wakes up with Dylan curled up against his side, breathing loud and shallow.
Brendon yawns, stroking Dylan’s disheveled feathers smooth again. Dylan’s feathers are looking pretty dull, and a few get knocked loose just by Brendon’s light touch.
Brendon’s chest hurts. He hasn’t had Dylan for long, but the little dinosaur’s been relying on him to take care of it, and right now there’s not a lot of he can think of to do.
He gets up and shuffles his way to the bathroom, taking a piss and splashing his face with water before going to make coffee. He carries Dylan out to the kitchen with him, the dinosaur calm and acquiescent in his arms, before he realizes that he let Cash crash on his couch last night.
Cash is awake, mostly. "Morning, dude," Cash says, rubbing at his eyes.
Brendon sets Dylan down on the kitchen floor. "Hey. You want coffee?"
"Yes. Yes, please. Coffee. Fuck, yeah, that sounds good."
"Right," Brendon says.
"Was that a dinosaur?"
"No."
"Okay," Cash says.
Brendon pours a bowl of cereal for himself, and one for Cash as well when Cash begs for it, and takes both to the living room. He sits on the floor in front of the coffee table, while Cash leans over the table from his spot on the couch.
Cash says, "Man, my head hurts like a motherfucker. Seriously, you have to cut me off or something."
"Yeah? You’re the one who kept buying more drinks," Brendon says. "You’ve got to, like. Learn to pace yourself."
"Shut up, I had a good time," Cash says.
"This is your penance," Brendon says.
"What the fuck, you sound philosophical as hell saying that," Cash says.
"You’ll learn one day, padawan." Brendon yawns, and slurps the milk from his bowl. He’s not actually done with his cereal yet. "You’ll get wise."
Dylan teeters out of the kitchen and to the coffee table, where he stands up on his toes, bracing his arms against the edge of the table as he licks at the cereal in Cash’s bowl. "I’m pretty hungover," Cash says.
"Yes."
"But that’s a dinosaur."
"Where?"
"Man," Cash says. "I don’t feel like arguing. That’s a dinosaur eating my breakfast."
Dylan licks up a few more pieces of cereal then sneezes, three times in quick succession. Cash says, "Why the fuck didn’t you tell me you were getting a dinosaur, man? Spill, okay, how many years have you been saving up?"
"I found him," Brendon says. "So he was free. Kind of. Except some of the supplies and shit I got for him, but Jon and Ryan bought half of that." Jon and Ryan probably got more than half - more like nine tenths or something, if Brendon was feeling pedantic, which he isn’t. "So he’s a secret, okay, don’t tell anybody."
"He doesn’t look too good," Cash says. Dylan is sitting on his haunches, running his hands over his face, eyes squinted shut. He wheezes a little with every shallow intake of breath.
"Promise you won’t tell."
"Seriously, man," Cash says. "Whoever used to own him probably let him go because he was going to die of dinosaur AIDS or whatever the fuck."
"That’s not even a disease." Dylan preens ineffectively at his feathers for a few moments before giving up and crawling over to curl up on top of Brendon’s feet.
"Shut up, I don’t know what dinosaurs get sick with," Cash says.
"I’m serious. Promise." Brendon leans over, staring down at Dylan. Dylan cracks one eye open again, looking back up at him.
"Yeah, okay," Cash says. "Are you sure you can’t take him to the vet?"
"I’m sure."
Cash says, "I might know a guy."
"No," Brendon says. He looks back up at Cash, staring wide-eyed. "Little dude isn’t legal. I don’t want them taking him away. Fucking promise, okay? Swear you won’t tell, man, I don’t have five thousand dollars to spare right now."
"Dude, is that how much they cost?"
"No, that’s the minimum fine for keeping one without a license," Brendon says.
"Shit," Cash says. "Okay, fine, I won’t tell."
"You swear?"
"I swear, dude."
"Okay." Brendon nods, visibly relaxing back into a grin. "Okay, cool."
Dylan, still curled up atop Brendon’s feet, lets out a little whine in his sleep.
-
Brendon ignores Cash for a while in favor of getting some social networking done. Some kid keeps messaging him about coming to play in Toronto, even though he’s barely toured more than three states away so far, barring an unsuccessful jaunt down the East coast a couple years back when he was still in college and no one knew who he was. Actually, he’s kind of thinking of giving that another shot. It’s still not playing a foreign country.
He’s thumbing absently through the Dinosaur Encyclopedia and ignoring the Canadian kid’s IMs when Jon calls. He's needed new promo shots for months, now, but Brendon had entirely forgotten they were going to do a photoshoot today. Taking silly pictures in the mirror only gets him so far.
He’s sort of reluctant to leave Dylan behind, but there’s already a set of him standing around in his kitchen and he doesn’t want to repeat that. So, once Jon shows up at the door, he sighs, pats Dylan on the head, and heads outside.
"Hey, man," Jon nods. "How’s it going?"
"Eh." Brendon shrugs, and takes the tripod from Jon as they wander down the street.
"How’s the, uh. How’s that thing you were talking about?"
"Not so good," Brendon says. "I’ll tell you later. Where are we going?"
Jon says, "I was thinking in front of that construction site, maybe."
Even after they get the tripod set up and Jon’s adjusted the camera for the current lighting, Brendon isn’t exactly focused. They wrap up quickly; Jon flips through the shots he’s got and shows a few good ones to Brendon, then turns the camera off again.
"Want to get some sandwiches or something?" Jon says. "If I could drop this stuff at your place first, I mean."
"Yeah, I guess."
"Man," Jon says. "You didn’t try to fuck up even one picture. Your fans are going to think you’re all wistful and shit if you use any of these."
Brendon laughs. "I’ll just have to write some new songs or something, I guess. I don’t know if I’d be able to pull it off, bro."
"You could do it ironically," Jon says.
"Well, that’d make the hipsters like me more, at least," Brendon says. He stuffs his hands into his pockets, head down and quiet the rest of the way back to his apartment.
Dylan is still exactly where Brendon left him, lying sprawled out on the couch and wheezing.
"Dude, what’s wrong with the little guy?"
"No clue," Brendon says. "He just got sick or something the other day. He’s been like this since yesterday, I think."
"Shit, man, I told you," Jon says. "And you can’t even take him to the vet."
"Seriously," Brendon says. "I’ve been trying to find shit on the Internet, but mostly all I’m finding is saying, you know. Vet."
"Yeah." Jon nods. "That sucks. Do, uh - is there anything I can do?"
"Not really," Brendon says. "Let’s at least get those pictures off your camera. I can still get some work done, right? Not like there’s anything else I can do."
Jon’s quiet for a minute, but then he smiles. "Yeah, sure. Might as well."
-
When Cash calls the next day, asking if he can come over - "It’s really important, dude, I swear" - Brendon doesn’t really think much of it. Cash refuses to tell him what’s up, and sounds pretty excited, so Brendon figures it’s probably another stupid tattoo.
So.
Brendon shouts, "C’mon in!" from the couch, because he hadn’t bothered locking the door after taking out the trash.
"Bden Boyd," Cash calls cheerfully, waving. "The day is saved!"
The other dude says, "Hey, where is the little guy?"
"The - what are you talking about? Cash, get the fuck out," Brendon says, getting up. "Actually both of you. The fuck, Cash, you promised."
"Uh, sorry?" the stranger begins, hooking his thumbs under the straps of his backpack and taking a step back away towards the still-open door.
"No, look, man, it’s cool." Cash cuts the other guy off. "Brendon. Bden. Look, the dude’s cool, he’s Ian’s cousin."
"I don’t care if he’s your mom," Brendon says, trying not to let his voice betray too much tension. "Sorry, man, I’m not trying to be a douche, but Cash is just making shit up again, whatever he told you. And, uh. I haven’t cleaned my apartment?"
The living room is nearly immaculate, except for the stray dog bone lying in front of the TV.
Cash says, "No, seriously, man, Shane is cool, I swear. Shane, this is Brendon; Brendon, Shane. He’s a - you’re a vet, dude, right? Is that your official job title?"
"Technically, yeah," Shane says. "That’s what I end up doing most of the time. Look, I don’t have any reason to turn you in if you’ve got a dinosaur. It doesn’t do me any good to report this shit; I get job experience anyway."
"Well," Brendon says, resisting the urge to punch Cash in the face only because it's too late for it to make a difference.
Cash says, "Seriously, dude, he’s cool."
"Fine, okay," Brendon says. "Okay, yeah. I’ll - do you want me to bring Dylan out here?"
"Yeah, that’d be good," Shane says. "Unless he’s been - he hasn’t been having seizures or anything, right? No uncontrolled twitching or whatever?"
"Nah, just the sneezing and all."
"The sneezing and all, that’s scientific," Shane says, laughing. "Whatever, I’ll take a look at him."
Brendon heads back to his bedroom and picks Dylan up, carrying him back out to the living room cradled in his arms. Dylan struggles a little for a moment, but then calms down and starts gnawing at Brendon’s shirt.
Shane looks kind of surprised.
"So, here he is," Brendon says. "What’s wrong with him, doc?"
"That’s not how medicine works, bro," Cash says. "He’s gotta, like, examine him."
Shane laughs. "Uh, yeah. Do you want to - the coffee table okay?"
Brendon sets Dylan down on the coffee table, and Dylan lies on his side, legs sprawled out to the side rather than curled up under him as he usually does. Crouching down next to the table, Brendon runs a hand along Dylan’s feathered side, and the dinosaur sighs. Brendon looks up at Shane. "I hope you can figure out what’s wrong."
"I’ll try," Shane says, sitting down in front of the table with his legs crossed. He leans over, softening his voice as he holds his hand out for Dylan to sniff. Dylan lifts his head a little, decides he can’t be bothered, and lets his eyes close again. "Hey, little guy, I just want to check you out. I’m not going to hurt you," Shane says, voice soft. He looks up again. "What’s his name?"
"Dylan."
Shane’s expression is difficult to read, until he starts laughing. "Yeah? I always wanted to name a dog Dylan. You beat me to it, I guess, sort of."
"Well, my friend Jon’s already got a cat named Dylan," Brendon says.
Shane hums thoughtfully, pressing his fingers against Dylan’s throat, then pressing at the sides of his jaw. Dylan opens his mouth and Shane leans over to look inside. Dylan whines a little, tail twitching, but he doesn’t seem as upset as he could be.
Cash, who’s now leaning against the wall, says, "So is he going to be okay?"
Shane says, "Shh."
"Sorry, dude," Cash says. "I’ll shut up. I know you’ve got to, like, focus and shit."
"Cash."
"Right," Cash says.
Shane says, "So has he at least been eating?"
"Not today," Brendon says. "He was yesterday. I had to bring his food to him, though. Like, he was kind of walking around and stuff off and on, but he wasn’t as into playing as he normally is. And, uh. He didn’t try to sneak in the shower, which is good, I guess."
"No, see, he’s probably doing that to get a bath," Shane says. "His feathers keep him insulated, and water helps clean them. Obviously, I guess. Clean feathers are better for insulating and all, so."
"Oh," Brendon says.
"So my point is, that means he’s not even bothering to try and keep clean. Which is why his feathers are all dull anyway."
Shane shrugs his backpack off, searching through its contents for something. "Do you have water?"
"Uh, yes?" Brendon says.
"Can you go get some?"
"Cash, go get some water," Brendon says. "There’re bottles in the fridge. Bottled is okay, right?"
"Yeah," Shane says. "That’s fine. Or tap, either way. Which have you been giving him, by the way?"
"Bottled, mostly," Brendon says. "Pretty much depends on if I’ve got any or not."
"The water here’s pretty good, so that’s okay," Shane says. "So, look, if he hasn’t been eating as much - you’ve noticed he eats a lot, right? He’s got a really fast metabolism, so not eating …" Shane trails off for a moment, trying to think of the right phrasing. "Dinosaurs starve a lot faster than you and me, basically. So I’m going to be giving him, like, the dinosaur equivalent of Pedialyte, I guess. Basically."
"Is that - but that won’t make him better, right?"
"It’ll keep him from starving so he has more chance of getting better in the first place," Shane says. "We’ve lost more dinosaurs to starvation than any sickness, seriously." Cash finally comes back with a bottle of water, and Shane nods his thanks before twisting the cap off and pouring some powder into it. He closes the bottle again and shakes it vigorously before pouring it into a small bowl.
"You need anything else?" Cash asks.
"I’m good for now," Shane says. "Thanks."
Cash says, "Okay, as long as - Brendon, did you need anything?"
"No, I’m good," Brendon says.
"I’ve got some homework and shit to finish up," Cash says, "So I’m gonna head over to Starbucks or something, I don’t know. I might go home. If that’s cool. As long as you guys don’t need me to get anything. Do you need me to get anything?"
"Seriously, pretty sure I’m alright," Shane says, laughing. "Be free, Cash Money."
"Fly, little bro, fly," Brendon says.
"Okay, as long as you guys are sure."
"Yes," Shane says. "Go. Get out." He lowers his head, ignoring Cash as he helps Dylan drink from the bowl, supporting the dinosaur’s head with one hand. Dylan laps greedily at the water, eyes closed and as close to looking content as he has been in the last few days.
Brendon reaches out to stroke Dylan’s back, keeping his voice quiet. "You’ll be okay, Dylan, Dr. Shane here’s gonna make it all better. Right?"
Shane’s been intent on Dylan, and his hand runs into Brendon’s as he moves to pet Dylan too. He looks up. "Huh? Yeah, hopefully. I’m going to want to put him on a course of antibiotics, though. I’m hoping I know what he’s got; these guys had some nasty respiratory issues."
"Yeah? I couldn’t figure out what he was," Brendon says.
"Where did you find him, anyway?" Shane asks, going back into his bag for something. "And do you have some yogurt or meat or something? He fucking hates - he probably - they’re not big fans of pills," Shane says. "Got to sneak it by them and all."
"Oh, yeah, hold up," Brendon says, and comes back with a piece of precooked chicken from a salad in the refrigerator that he hadn’t quite finished. "He was eating trash out back. Or he was digging through it, at least. Do you think that made him sick?"
"Huh. Maybe, maybe not," Shane says. "It’s tough to say."
"Okay," Brendon says, and sits quietly and watches, occasionally grabbing things as Shane asks for them. "Hey, do you want tea or coffee or something? Or water?"
"Coffee’d be good."
"Exploitation is pretty delicious. I was too broke to get fair trade or whatever, hope you don’t mind."
"It’s all good. The broken dreams of poor South American farmers make it taste better."
So Brendon disappears to the kitchen and waits for a pot of coffee to brew, and when he brings it back Shane is holding one of Dylan’s eyes wide open and shining a little light towards it. Brendon waits until he's done before handing him his coffee.
Shane sits back and takes a careful sip, then nods appreciatively. "Thanks."
"No problem. So how’s - is Dylan gonna be okay?"
Shane says, "Yeah, so just make sure to give him the antibiotics twice a day. Morning and night is best, if you can. And don’t stop giving them to him just because he seems better; finish the course or he could just relapse." Shane sits cross legged, stroking Dylan’s head with one hand. He tosses the bottle of pills to Brendon, who only just manages not to drop them. "Make sure he’s getting enough food and water, if it seems like he isn’t eating."
Brendon keeps his eyes on the label, though he doesn't actually read it, mouth quirked in a sardonic smile. "So how deep in debt am I about to go?"
"Hm?"
Brendon shakes his head, laughing a little. "I just meant - like, how much do I owe you?"
"Oh, hey, no, don’t worry about it," Shane says. "I’m happy to help."
Brendon looks up. "Even for the drugs?"
"They’re pretty cheap." Shane shrugs. "You can give me ten bucks for those if you really want, I guess, but seriously, it’s no big deal."
"Look, if I’d actually taken Dylan to the vet, like - if I put the guy in a crate and drove him to your office or whatever, how much would I be paying?"
"Uh. I’m not sure. Seriously, it’s fine."
Brendon looks down at the bottle of pills again, then leans forward over the table so he’s nose to nose with Dylan. "Hey, bro, do you think I shouldn’t pay Shane? What’s that? Yeah? That’s a great idea, man, thanks." He sits up straight again. "Dylan says I should at least cook you dinner. For your efforts and shit."
Shane laughs. "Wouldn’t want to upset the dinosaur. I’m not gonna die eating your attempts at food, right?"
"I dunno, I’ve learned a few things in my time," Brendon says. He pauses. "About cooking."
"Really? Shit, I thought you meant about poverty in South America."
Brendon just nods. "Oh, well yeah, that too. I saw Emperor’s New Groove, man, I know my shit."
"A scholarly film, that."
"Seriously, though," Brendon says, getting to his feet and giving Dylan a little pat on the head. He heads for the kitchen, calling back over his shoulder. "I feel like I owe you now, man."
"Nah, Dylan’s the one who owes me." Shane gets up and follows Brendon, leaning in the door frame while Brendon roots through the refrigerator. "And I don’t think he’s going to get around to paying me back, so whatever."
"Little guy’s going to ruin his credit score."
Shane snorts.
Brendon says, "Man, fuck this, I don’t have anything good in my kitchen right now unless you want to eat, like, Cheerios and yogurt."
"I told you, I’m good," Shane says. "I’ve got shit to get done at home tonight anyway."
"Right," Brendon says. "Okay. Yes. So - bye. Thanks again."
"Yeah, man, good luck," Shane says. "Uh, if Dylan isn’t showing signs of improvement, then - I guess you can call Cash or - you should have my number, Cash sucks at passing shit along. Gimme your phone, I’ll put my number in."
Brendon hands his phone over, and stands with his hands shoved in his pockets while he waits for Shane to finish entering his number. "Do you - want mine or anything?"
"What?" Shane says. "Uh, that’s okay. I’m just going to."
"Right," Brendon says. "Yeah, go. Do - things."
"I will." Shane nods.
Brendon laughs, ducking his head. "Okay."
"Okay," Shane agrees, turning with a slight wave as he leaves.
next
Brendon/Shane. 25888 words. R.
Wherein Brendon takes in a stray sinosauropteryx.
Props to mondegreen, for making some neat art (that is linked in-line and at the end of the story, since it's a spoiler), to sinuous_curve, for betaing, and to dreamofthem for much the same!
Brendon doesn’t usually take out the trash at two AM, only he fucked up making dinner and the smell is awful and he can’t sleep because of it. Thus, clad only in a pair of smiley-face boxers and bunny slippers, he’s trudging down the back stairs of his building with a garbage bag over his shoulder.
He opens up one of the big black trash cans to throw the bag in when he hears this shuffling, scratching noise across the alley. He turns around, and the first thing he sees is the gleam of light off some animal’s eyes, reflective and more than a little unsettling.
The animal tilts its wedge-shaped head to the side and makes a cooing sound, approaching with dainty footsteps. Brendon’s pretty tired, but he knows a dinosaur when he sees one, and right now there’s a dinosaur - without so much as a collar on- rubbing its head against his leg.
He drops down to his knees and lets the dinosaur sniff his hand before ruffling the crest of feathers on the crown of its head. The dinosaur peers up at him, mouth gaping open happily. The skin of its face is mostly smooth, pale yellow-green feathers not starting until after its narrow jaws.
Brendon looks around, but the alley is quiet and still. There’s no one else out here, and nobody coming. The thing can’t have just gotten off of its leash - never mind the lack of a collar, someone would definitely be following it. "You lost, little dude?" Brendon wonders.
The little dinosaur yawns, showing off its rows of sharp little teeth, and blinks at Brendon. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t answer.
The dinosaur is complacent when he pushes back the downy feathers at the base of its neck, searching for the telltale bump of a tracking implant.
There’s nothing.
-
Brendon doesn’t actually go to sleep that night. He makes himself a pot of coffee and stays up, making sure the dinosaur doesn’t get into trouble around his apartment. His place isn’t very big, but thankfully neither is the dinosaur - it’s about a foot tall at the shoulders, and somewhere just over three feet long from head to tail.
As soon as eight rolls around - a little early, but whatever -- he calls Jon.
"Jon," Brendon says. "Jon, guess what I found."
"A twenty?"
"No," Brendon says. "A dinosaur."
Jon yawns. "Wait, really?"
"Yeah."
"Aren’t those - where?"
"Digging through the trash."
"Dude," Jon says.
"I know, right?" Brendon says, refilling a bowl of water at the sink and setting it down. The dinosaur’s been napping under the kitchen table, but at the sound of water and the bowl it gets up to drink. "He doesn’t even have a - a tracking thing."
"Dude," Jon repeats.
"So have you got, like. Anything? I know you own cats, but man, I don’t even know where to start taking care of this guy."
"I don’t think taking care of a dinosaur is the same as taking care of a cat," Jon says. "Like, I doubt they’re going to wear the same sweaters."
"Shit, they make sweaters for dinosaurs?" Brendon perks up at the idea, already imagining Dylan decked out in neon and argyle.
"The ones without as many feathers," Jon explains. "They get cold or some shit, right?"
"I guess. This little dude is fluffy as fuck, though." Brendon sighs, shoulders slumping a little. He'd been really excited for the chancel to dress up his new pet. "Probably doesn’t need a sweater."
"You’re gonna need food, though. And - oh, hey, I got a second litter box when I got Clover but she always just uses the old one," Jon says. "Do you think you can litter train dinosaurs? How big is it?"
"Pretty small," Brendon says. "Pretty small. I mean, he’s bigger than Clover, but."
"I’ll bring some shit over later." Jon pauses. "I’ve actually got to go get ready for work now, but I can probably get off early, so I’ll head over - whenever. You gonna be there after three?"
"Yeah, I can be," Brendon says. "I was just going to be mixing some stupid little thing I did. I’ll be around. Just, hey, don’t tell anybody, alright?"
"Yeah, of course. Hey, did you tell me before or after Lily?"
"What? Oh, I’m not telling her."
"Dude, why not? Oh, oh! Just gonna let it be a surprise for next time you see her?"
"No, we - I’m not talking to her anymore."
"I thought you really liked her."
"Yeah, it was just, I don’t know," Brendon says. "She was kind of clingy."
"Wasn’t the problem with your last girlfriend that she didn’t give you enough attention?"
"Yeah, yeah, shut up," Brendon says.
Jon says, "Right, fine. Anyway, I seriously do have to go. Later, dude."
"Adios."
-
The second person Brendon calls is Ryan. "Hey, man, guess what."
"You found a dinosaur," Ryan says.
"Did Jon tell you?"
"Wait, what?" Ryan says.
"I told him not to tell."
"What are you talking about?" Ryan asks. "What happened?"
"What?"
"Never mind." After a pause, Ryan says, "So, Brendon. Hi. How are you?"
"I’m good. I need more sleep, though."
"Then go to sleep. You’re unemployed."
"I’m self employed, dude, shut the fuck up. Anyway, look, so I stayed up all night," Brendon says. "Coffee is fucking amazing. Look, right, whatever, that’s good, but the point is. My point is, Ryan Ross, that last night, last night I made an amazing scientific discovery."
"Okay."
"You’re not excited enough."
"Gadzooks," Ryan intones, his voice devoid of inflection. "Whatever could it be."
"Better," Brendon says. "Anyway, I totally found a dinosaur. Little guy was going through the trash in the alley."
"What’s his name?"
"I don’t know."
"Brendon. Yes, you do." Ryan sounds almost excited. "You should name him Dylan."
"That’s Jon’s cat’s name. His other cat."
"Exactly," Ryan says.
"I’m not naming him Dylan," Brendon says. "I was just wondering if you had any, like, treats Hobo didn’t like lying around or something."
"Sit, Brendon," Ryan says. "Now beg."
"Shut the fuck up," Brendon says. "Are you going to give me free shit or not?"
"That doesn’t sound like something a responsible pet owner would say," Ryan says.
"I’m not even a legal pet owner, man, cut me some slack."
"I’ll get you a book or something," Ryan says.
-
Ryan shows up around noon, because for all that he likes to tease Brendon for being unemployed, he’s unable to hold down a regular job either.
Ryan pushes his way into the apartment, looking around past Brendon. "There’s more stuff at the bottom of the stairs. You get it; I want to meet Dylan."
"His name’s not Dylan," Brendon calls over his shoulder as he heads downstairs. Ryan really brought a lot of stuff, and it takes a while for Brendon to figure out the best way to distribute the weight of the many bags. Brendon appreciates Ryan's altruism, he does, but it makes navigating the stairs more difficult than usual. The stairs are fairly narrow to begin with, and the landings are cramped. With such bulky bags, the trip is even more difficult than usual, and Brendon ends up at his door almost out of breath. He dumps the bags just inside the front door and bumps it closed with his shoulder.
The dinosaur has already found Ryan, and is eating treats right from his hand. "Dylan seems really tame," Ryan says. "Are you sure he doesn’t belong to somebody?"
"Well, he’s probably got to," Brendon says. "Seeing as they’re, like, bred to order."
"So someone’s going to want him back." Ryan leans down so he’s nose to snout with Dylan, attempting a staring contest. Then Dylan sneezes in his face. Ryan wipes his face off and bats Dylan on the nose, then, at the dinosaur’s contrite expression, pets him all the way from head to tail a few times.
"Even if they didn’t," Brendon says. "This guy’s got to be accounted for somewhere, right? Like, if he wasn’t a pet yet. Maybe he escaped from a truck on the way to somebody’s house."
"Or on the way back," Ryan says. "His eyes are different colors."
"Man, who would turn down a dinosaur just because its eyes are - wait, really?" Brendon drops down to his knees, shuffling over to Ryan and Dylan. He clicks his tongue, trying to get Dylan’s attention, but the dinosaur ignores him. "Dyyyyylan," he sings, waving his hand in the dinosaur’s direction. Dylan’s head snaps around, and he blinks several times in quick succession, inner eyelid retracting slower than the first. "Oh, sweet."
One of Dylan’s eyes is bright blue, and the other a pale grey-brown color. It really is sort of cool. Dylan makes a whiny little chirp, then climbs into Brendon’s lap and attempts to scale his chest. Brendon carefully pulls Dylan’s claws out of the material of his shirt and holds the dinosaur at arm’s length, legs dangling just above the floor. "Where the heck are you trying to go, little dude?"
Dylan squawks.
Ryan says, "He just wants some love, Brendon. You of all people have to know what it’s like to be a reject."
"Dylan’s not a reject. You’re not, are you, little dude?" Brendon lifts Dylan up, nuzzling his nose against the dinosaur’s snout. Then Dylan wriggles out of his grasp, managing to get to a perch on Brendon’s shoulder, claws both digging in a little. "Ow, ow. Careful. And - hey, wait, shut the fuck up, Ryan Ross."
Ryan laughs, and starts going through the bags of stuff he bought. "I wanted a dinosaur pretty bad when they first announced them," he says, as he digs through the bags of things he brought. "Back when it looked like it might actually be easy to get one, you know. I did a lot of reading and shit."
"You read books, so you went shopping."
"No, look, okay, I got food and shit. They’ll actually eat a lot of things besides just therapod food, and it’d look suspicious if you were always buying that without a permit anyway," Ryan says, opening up a plastic container pulled from one of the bags. "I’m not sure what kind Dylan is, though."
"Dude, mealworms?" Brendon makes a face. "How do I keep them from infesting my apartment or whatever?"
"Refrigeration," Ryan says, holding a few of the sluggishly-moving mealworms out in the palm of his hand. They’re a little closer to Brendon’s face than Brendon would like, but Dylan licks them out of Ryan’s hand and swallows them in short order, staring at Ryan expectantly. "They go to sleep. It’s the magic of science."
"I’ll refrigerate you," Brendon says. Dylan hops down from his shoulder, hind claws clicking against the floor as he walks cautiously towards Ryan and sniffs his jacket.
"That’s what she said," Ryan says, rather unfocused, as he digs for a container of yogurt to give to Dylan.
-
The thing is, the refrigerator’s full of food for Dylan now, but Brendon’s basically out of anything for himself. There’s a lonely package of wilted celery he’s pretty sure he didn’t buy, a couple bottles of beer, and that’s about it. His cupboards are similarly uninspired, to the extent that he’s honestly considering trying to make biscuits out of flour and water.
Grocery shopping seems like a better solution.
He runs by the print shop first, and ends up spending half an hour talking to Ian about up-and-coming designers and bitchy customers. Someone else comes in, and Brendon turns to leave, then realizes - "Wait, shit, I didn’t even give you my CD. Look, I typed instructions up in a text file in there for you. Blue on that brown paper, pretty much, okay?"
"Oh, you actually have another show coming up?"
"Yes, I actually have a show." Brendon laughs. "I’ve been writing some new stuff lately, remind me to send you the demos later, too. But look - the sooner that’s done, the better, okay?"
"Yeah, no problem, we’ll have this done in a New York minute." Ian gives him the thumbs up. "Anything else?"
"Nah, I’m good," Brendon says. "We need to hang out sometime. You and your band of miscreants, I mean. I’ve gotta go do some other errands."
"Glad to know that visiting your friends is an errand, man. Send me those demos," Ian says, and waves goodbye before turning his attention to the other customer.
-
Whenever Brendon practices, Dylan likes to sing along, chirping and squawking and in no way following the melody or rhythm.
It’s sort of annoying, but it’s better than shutting Dylan into his bedroom and listening to him claw at the door and whine. A couple of pointed shushes and taps on the nose seem to be enough to get Dylan to shut up most of the time anyway, at least for a little while.
And Dylan tends to settle down before too long anyway, curling up next to Brendon’s leg while he strums the guitar.
-
Dylan sings in the morning. It’s louder and more frustrating than birds singing outside since it’s coming from inside the house - usually right outside Brendon’s bedroom door. Otherwise the dinosaur is well-behaved, though Brendon’s learned his lesson when it comes to leaving food on the table - Dylan can jump really high, flailing his feathered arms whenever he does.
A few days after he finds Dylan, after going to the post office to ship out some merch, Brendon spends several hours at the library looking up publicly available literature about pet dinosaurs.
"I’m just curious," Brendon tells the librarian. "I mean, I won’t ever be able to get one, obviously. There’s no way I’d ever be able to afford the adoption costs, let alone getting a license. Nope. No chance. They’re just neat. So if you could point me in the right direction, you know, that’d be cool?"
"Are you looking for pet-care, or general interest, or what?"
"I don’t know, general pet stuff," Brendon says. "Or something more science-y, I guess. Behavior?"
"There was a really good paper in Nature a couple years back, I’m pretty sure."
"Uh - yeah, that’d be cool." Brendon nods quickly. "What kind was that for?"
"I think it was one of the lab-only species, actually," she says. "Avimimus, maybe? They were a little big to keep as pets, so they studied a few specimens for a few years and then eliminated them. It’s interesting reading, anyway. I’ll show you where the pet care books are and try to pull the article up while you look, if you want."
"Thanks, yeah." Brendon nods again, following after her through the stacks, trailing his fingers along the spines of books as he goes. When they get to the right section, he has to stand on his tiptoes and lean his head back to read the titles of the upper rows of books.
The dinosaur books follow right after the bird books, with a few overlaps in both directions. Brendon’s going through looking at covers, and - this is what he was afraid of - none of them look quite like Dylan. Chirostenotes looks kind of similar, only its feathers are a lot longer and it’s got a weird crest. Microraptor’s a little closer, only it has a wide fan of feathers on its tail and hind legs.
Brendon pulls those two books anyway. He hadn’t actually realized there were so many revived species around - sometimes when he’s walking around in one of the nicer neighborhoods, heading back to his car after a show at a swanky bar, he’ll see people taking theirs out for walks, but he thought it was more like how there are different breeds of dog than differences in species.
He skims through the books, looking for - he’s not sure what. Advice. He really has no idea where to start.
The librarian comes back with a printout of the journal article, and just for the hell of it, he asks her where the paleontology books are and grabs an ancient-looking book called the Dinosaur Encyclopedia. The last time it was checked out was before Brendon was born, sometime in the late nineteen hundreds.
It’s a long bus ride home, because Brendon doesn’t really want to take any of his books out of his backpack. He’s kind of paranoid.
When he finally gets home, Dylan is still asleep in the cat bed Jon brought over, curled up with his head tucked under one feathered arm, long tail trailing over the edge of the bed and disappearing underneath a bookshelf. On his way to the kitchen, Brendon leans down to run a hand along Dylan’s back, and Dylan lifts his head to squint at Brendon for a moment before going back to sleep.
There are other things that Brendon should be doing, but instead he stays up until 2AM reading everything.
When he wakes up again, around noon, it’s to the sound of Dylan scratching at his bedroom door. Dylan chirps when the door opens, then lowers his head, bobbing it up and down as he wags his tail from side to side.
"Uh, I can’t tell if you’re hungry or want to play, so I’m just going to get you some breakfast." Dylan trots after him to the refrigerator, butting his head against Brendon’s ankles along the way. "Hey, calm down."
He gives Dylan a few mealworms, then gets an idea from something he read last night and pulls an egg out from the carton. Dylan takes the egg delicately in his claws, regarding it for a moment before tilting his head back and cracking it in half above his open jaws, swallowing the white and yolk in one protracted gulp. Dylan drops the shell to the floor and looks up at Brendon, tail wagging from side to side.
Dylan retreats a few steps, then runs back to Brendon, and repeats this motion a few times before going farther and staring at Brendon. Brendon gets the hint eventually and follows.
Dylan picks up a piece of rawhide and keeps staring at him until Brendon flops down on the floor to play tug-of war with him.
Jon calls, asking if he can come over to watch some terrible medical drama he's obsessed with, because his TV is apparently broken again. Brendon’s not quite paying attention to his excuse, because he’s still playing with Dylan.
Jon says something, and Dylan sneezes. "Wait, what?" Brendon asks.
"I said I’ll see you soon."
"Oh, okay, yeah," Brendon says. "Later, dude. Sorry, Dylan’s begging for attention and shit."
"Good luck with that." Jon sounds like he’s smiling. "Bye."
Brendon decides, belatedly, that he probably should take a shower at some point during the day. Probably he should have done it before he went to the library.
The water takes a while to heat up, so Brendon makes faces at himself in the mirror as he waits for it to get comfortable enough to tolerate.
He’s just opening his bottle of shampoo when he hears the click of Dylan’s claws against the tile floor, and then the dinosaur pushes its head around the edge of the shower curtain. Brendon laughs, and flicks water at him, hoping that will encourage Dylan to go away. "Dude, you’re a dinosaur. Get out."
Dylan cocks his head to the side and chirps, then hops and scrabbles his way into the tub, standing under the water and fussing with his feathers. Brendon steps aside, and nudges at Dylan with his foot. The dinosaur only looks up at him for a second, making an annoyed noise - followed by a sneeze - and goes back to preening under the water.
"Fine, whatever." Brendon rolls his eyes. "I was almost done anyway."
He steps out of the shower and dries himself off, but leaves the water running until Dylan scampers back out of the tub and runs off, trailing water in his wake. "Aw, fuck," Brendon says, and remembers to turn the water off before chasing Dylan down with a towel. "You better not get anything important wet, asshole!"
-
Jon asks, "Is he sick or something?"
"Nah." Brendon flips through channels on the TV, but nothing’s catching his interest. "I don’t think so. I hope not? He was running around being a total douchebag earlier."
"He looks kind of sick." Jon leans over, staring down at where Dylan’s curled up on the floor. "I mean, I don’t know a whole lot about dinosaurs or anything, but he’s acting kind of like Dylan did when he was sick."
"Yeah, but Dylan got better, right?"
"After I took him to the vet, sure."
"I can’t take Dylan to the vet, though," Brendon says. "I mean - man, fuck Ryan Ross for naming my dinosaur Dylan. That’s confusing as hell."
"I wasn’t going to say anything." Jon holds his hands up. "Wasn’t going to say a word."
"Look, dude, I appreciate your discretion, but you should have yelled at Ryan or something."
"Seriously, you could have just called him something else. I think even Ryan would have had to allow that."
"Untrue." Brendon starts going through the channels for the fourth time in a row, barely paying attention to what’s on each anymore. "He’s crafty and manipulative. Besides, after he started calling him Dylan I couldn’t think of anything better."
"You should have named him Lennon."
"Then a crazy person would end up trying to kill him, Jon," Brendon says. "Nobody’s shooting my dinosaur. Anyway, look, he’s fine, see?"
Dylan’s gotten to his feet and is pacing back and forth in front of the couch, staring up at the two of them and chirping. Jon looks down at him, and Dylan sits back on his haunches with his head tilted up and mouth gaping like he expects to get a treat. "I haven’t got anything for you, bro," Jon says.
"Do you think dinosaurs get the munchies?"
Jon laughs. "What? No, I know you and you’re not smoking up your dinosaur. I don’t think his lungs could handle it. He’s from the past."
"He is not from the goddamn past," Brendon says. "He’s a miracle of science, and this is the future."
"I don’t think it’s the future quite yet, dude."
"Jon. Jon, they are developing a flying car, so it had better damn well be the future."
"Fuck, we've been to Mars and we still don't even have flying cars. If this is the future, it fucking sucks," Jon says. "Hey, look, When Animals Attack. Dude, no, go back."
Dylan hops up on the couch and settles down on Jon’s lap, bumping his head up against Jon’s hand when Jon starts idly petting him.
After a while, Brendon falls asleep on the couch. He’s not sure how much later it is when Jon kicks him in the ankle, but When Animals Attack isn’t on anymore. It looks like maybe some show about car chases. Brendon turns his head and looks at Jon curiously.
Dylan sneezes. Jon looks over at Brendon. "See what I told you?"
"So he sneezed," Brendon says. "He’s fine."
Jon’s phone buzzes, and he rolls his eyes at it and taps out a reply before explaining. "Tom needs me to save the day. Apparently. I’m not really even sure, but I have to drive halfway across town to pick him up from somewhere."
"Alright, yeah." Brendon waves a hand, flashing Jon a quick grin before finally turning off the TV. "Drive safely, Jon Walker."
"Will do, man. You can trust in me."
-
Brendon wakes up kind of late the next morning. In the past week or so, he's gotten used to being woken up right around sunrise by Dylan’s weird warbly singing (and, on mornings when he’s awake enough, sometimes he’ll sing nonsense back and the dinosaur will almost harmonize). The sun’s been up for a while before he gets up today, though, and he figures he must have slept through it.
He yawns, taking his time getting up and out of bed, shuffling around his room to find a pair of socks and figure out where the hell his boxers went this time. He knows he wore them to bed, but their present whereabouts are a mystery.
He finds them on top of his old computer’s monitor. With that mystery solved, he goes to take a shower. Dylan doesn’t join him, nor does Dylan come investigate when Brendon starts digging around in the kitchen to find the easiest possible breakfast.
Dylan doesn’t come to investigate, so Brendon looks out over the pseudo-bar that divides his kitchen from the rest of the living room. Dylan’s still curled up asleep in the cat bed, and for a moment Brendon’s terrified that he’s dead or something, but then Dylan moves a little, just pressing his head further under one feathered arm and reorienting his tail.
Brendon grabs a banana and unpeels it, heading over to stare down at Dylan. Dylan doesn’t move except to breathe. Brendon sits down. "Hey, man, what’s up?"
Dylan pulls his head out from under his arm and squints at him, his labored breathing audible now that it’s not muffled by feathers. His eyes are sort of filmy and his pupils hugely dilated.
"Fuck, little dude," Brendon says. "Hold up." He goes to the kitchen to grab the bowl of water he’d put down for Dylan, and takes the tub of mealworms out of the refrigerator as well. Dylan eats gratefully from his hand, then pushes himself up on his haunches to lean over the water dish and drink. As he’s drinking, Brendon goes to put the mealworms away and grab some of the yogurt and dog food Ryan had brought. Dylan seems to perk up a little after eating and drinking his fill. Still, Brendon pours another bottle of water into the bowl and leaves it near Dylan’s bed.
He gets to work - replying to messages and comments on his music Myspace before checking Facebook, then his personal accounts on both. A few more people have bought his album off iTunes, so he’s looking forward to seeing the money from that. Someone in Kansas ordered a t-shirt, so he digs through the bins shoved in the back corner of his living room until he finds the right size, shoves it in an envelope, and drops it in front of the door so he’ll remember to send it out later.
Then it’s back to the Internet, and sneaking glances at Dylan to make sure his little chest is still moving. Dylan’s breaths come shallow but steady, each one audible with a slight whistle. Brendon hums something tuneless that might be the beginnings of a new song.
After a while, Dylan comes over and Brendon helps the dinosaur into his lap. Dylan curls up there, tail drooping to the ground, and Brendon has to sit back further from his desk to type but he doesn’t mind.
Dylan doesn’t seem to be getting any worse. It’s not that he’s acting any better, necessarily, but - Brendon doesn’t really know what there is for him to do. He figures it’ll be okay to leave for a while, though, just to head over to the print shop. It’s pretty close. They give him sweet discounts, but the trouble is that - since he’s not paying full price - the guys at the shop tend to slack off and not finish anything for him in a timely manner unless he comes in and reminds them. Taking a detour to check in on them won't take too long, and it'll get him out of the house.
He grabs a box of cookies at a convenience store along the way, and as he pushes his way through the door - the bells tied to the handle jingling - he lifts the box up over his head. "Guys, I come bearing gifts. Please tell me you finished the posters already?"
"Oh, shit," one of the Alexes says. "Look, we’ve got the design queued up but we had somebody from a real band come in."
"I’m a real band, too," Brendon says. "With records and merch and everything. All I’m missing is fucking promo materials. Come on, I brought you guys cookies."
Singer says, "We were thinking of starting a band."
Ian comes out from the back room, fingers (and nose, what the fuck) stained with ink and hair messy. "Hey, Brendon, I was just setting up the screen for your poster. You still wanted it in blue, right? On the brown paper?"
"Yes," Brendon says. "Like I told you. And wrote down for you."
"Okay, wow, I was just checking."
"B’s just being pissy," Cash says, yawning.
"Why are you all here today, anyway?" Brendon wonders, because usually he only sees maybe two of the print shop kids together at any given time.
Alex raises his hand before speaking. "There’s a party tonight."
"Dude, did you just - no. Fine, whatever. So you all came in to work."
Singer says, "We didn’t want anybody getting lost before we went."
"I." Brendon stops himself. "Okay."
Cash says, "You don’t look like a dude who’s having a good day, bro, you should come. It’ll be chill, don’t worry."
"I’m kind of busy tonight," Brendon says. "Is this another shitty house party?"
"Nah, it’s at a bar after some show," Singer says. "Nick said we should show up."
"You guys are the weirdest motherfuckers." Brendon shakes his head, laughing.
"You know it." Cash ducks under the counter and gets Brendon into a headlock, ruffling his hair. "Come on, bro, you should totally come."
"I’m seriously busy, man. Some shit’s come up, I don’t know."
"Like what? Seriously, I don’t know what you’ve been doing but you look like you need a drink or six."
"Maybe I could," Brendon says.
"Since when do you argue against going to a party?" Singer asks.
"Fine, okay, I’ll come, I’ll come," Brendon says.
"Seriously, bro, there are going to be so many hot chicks there," Cash says. "It’s going to be awesome."
-
Brendon swings home first, putting away his groceries and checking on Dylan. Dylan’s curled up on Brendon’s pillow, breath rattling a little in his tiny chest. Brendon sighs, and moves the water and food dish into his room so Dylan won’t have to go as far to get to them.
He feels kind of bad, leaving Dylan here unattended, even though he knows there’s not a lot he can do even if Dylan gets worse while he’s out. At the same time, though, he’s decided that unwinding a little - and maybe getting laid, whatever - will help take his mind off things.
It turns out there aren’t quite as many hot chicks as Cash had estimated. The party is actually kind of a sausage fest, and Brendon doesn’t really feel like competing with frat boys for any of the women’s attention.
Cash gets shot down pretty early on, so he and Brendon stake out a table in the corner for a while and drink too much. "Look, I’m paying, because you’re a bum," Cash says. "I work at a legitimate establishment."
"We probably make the same amount of money."
"Only I make it regularly," Cash says. "Are you trying to turn down free drinks, dude?"
"Nah, I’m good," Brendon says. "I’m just saying."
"Okay, cool, you make more money than me, now cheer up."
"Dude, I’m not even sad. I don’t need cheering up."
"I can tell, bro, I can tell. Bros can tell."
"I thought that was girls who could tell."
"I can too."
Brendon laughs. "So what you’re saying is you’re a chick?"
"No, man, fuck you, I’m saying you’re being a loser." Cash rolls his eyes and goes to get more drinks.
Brendon drags Cash onto the dance floor for a bit, and that’s fun until an actual, real live girl actually starts paying attention to Cash and so Brendon just gets more drunk and hangs out with Ian and Singer for a while.
He’s not entirely sure what happens after that.
He manages to get home okay, somehow, but has no idea if he walked or caught a cab or got a ride or what. For all Brendon knows, maybe he teleported back to the apartment. He wakes up with Dylan curled up against his side, breathing loud and shallow.
Brendon yawns, stroking Dylan’s disheveled feathers smooth again. Dylan’s feathers are looking pretty dull, and a few get knocked loose just by Brendon’s light touch.
Brendon’s chest hurts. He hasn’t had Dylan for long, but the little dinosaur’s been relying on him to take care of it, and right now there’s not a lot of he can think of to do.
He gets up and shuffles his way to the bathroom, taking a piss and splashing his face with water before going to make coffee. He carries Dylan out to the kitchen with him, the dinosaur calm and acquiescent in his arms, before he realizes that he let Cash crash on his couch last night.
Cash is awake, mostly. "Morning, dude," Cash says, rubbing at his eyes.
Brendon sets Dylan down on the kitchen floor. "Hey. You want coffee?"
"Yes. Yes, please. Coffee. Fuck, yeah, that sounds good."
"Right," Brendon says.
"Was that a dinosaur?"
"No."
"Okay," Cash says.
Brendon pours a bowl of cereal for himself, and one for Cash as well when Cash begs for it, and takes both to the living room. He sits on the floor in front of the coffee table, while Cash leans over the table from his spot on the couch.
Cash says, "Man, my head hurts like a motherfucker. Seriously, you have to cut me off or something."
"Yeah? You’re the one who kept buying more drinks," Brendon says. "You’ve got to, like. Learn to pace yourself."
"Shut up, I had a good time," Cash says.
"This is your penance," Brendon says.
"What the fuck, you sound philosophical as hell saying that," Cash says.
"You’ll learn one day, padawan." Brendon yawns, and slurps the milk from his bowl. He’s not actually done with his cereal yet. "You’ll get wise."
Dylan teeters out of the kitchen and to the coffee table, where he stands up on his toes, bracing his arms against the edge of the table as he licks at the cereal in Cash’s bowl. "I’m pretty hungover," Cash says.
"Yes."
"But that’s a dinosaur."
"Where?"
"Man," Cash says. "I don’t feel like arguing. That’s a dinosaur eating my breakfast."
Dylan licks up a few more pieces of cereal then sneezes, three times in quick succession. Cash says, "Why the fuck didn’t you tell me you were getting a dinosaur, man? Spill, okay, how many years have you been saving up?"
"I found him," Brendon says. "So he was free. Kind of. Except some of the supplies and shit I got for him, but Jon and Ryan bought half of that." Jon and Ryan probably got more than half - more like nine tenths or something, if Brendon was feeling pedantic, which he isn’t. "So he’s a secret, okay, don’t tell anybody."
"He doesn’t look too good," Cash says. Dylan is sitting on his haunches, running his hands over his face, eyes squinted shut. He wheezes a little with every shallow intake of breath.
"Promise you won’t tell."
"Seriously, man," Cash says. "Whoever used to own him probably let him go because he was going to die of dinosaur AIDS or whatever the fuck."
"That’s not even a disease." Dylan preens ineffectively at his feathers for a few moments before giving up and crawling over to curl up on top of Brendon’s feet.
"Shut up, I don’t know what dinosaurs get sick with," Cash says.
"I’m serious. Promise." Brendon leans over, staring down at Dylan. Dylan cracks one eye open again, looking back up at him.
"Yeah, okay," Cash says. "Are you sure you can’t take him to the vet?"
"I’m sure."
Cash says, "I might know a guy."
"No," Brendon says. He looks back up at Cash, staring wide-eyed. "Little dude isn’t legal. I don’t want them taking him away. Fucking promise, okay? Swear you won’t tell, man, I don’t have five thousand dollars to spare right now."
"Dude, is that how much they cost?"
"No, that’s the minimum fine for keeping one without a license," Brendon says.
"Shit," Cash says. "Okay, fine, I won’t tell."
"You swear?"
"I swear, dude."
"Okay." Brendon nods, visibly relaxing back into a grin. "Okay, cool."
Dylan, still curled up atop Brendon’s feet, lets out a little whine in his sleep.
-
Brendon ignores Cash for a while in favor of getting some social networking done. Some kid keeps messaging him about coming to play in Toronto, even though he’s barely toured more than three states away so far, barring an unsuccessful jaunt down the East coast a couple years back when he was still in college and no one knew who he was. Actually, he’s kind of thinking of giving that another shot. It’s still not playing a foreign country.
He’s thumbing absently through the Dinosaur Encyclopedia and ignoring the Canadian kid’s IMs when Jon calls. He's needed new promo shots for months, now, but Brendon had entirely forgotten they were going to do a photoshoot today. Taking silly pictures in the mirror only gets him so far.
He’s sort of reluctant to leave Dylan behind, but there’s already a set of him standing around in his kitchen and he doesn’t want to repeat that. So, once Jon shows up at the door, he sighs, pats Dylan on the head, and heads outside.
"Hey, man," Jon nods. "How’s it going?"
"Eh." Brendon shrugs, and takes the tripod from Jon as they wander down the street.
"How’s the, uh. How’s that thing you were talking about?"
"Not so good," Brendon says. "I’ll tell you later. Where are we going?"
Jon says, "I was thinking in front of that construction site, maybe."
Even after they get the tripod set up and Jon’s adjusted the camera for the current lighting, Brendon isn’t exactly focused. They wrap up quickly; Jon flips through the shots he’s got and shows a few good ones to Brendon, then turns the camera off again.
"Want to get some sandwiches or something?" Jon says. "If I could drop this stuff at your place first, I mean."
"Yeah, I guess."
"Man," Jon says. "You didn’t try to fuck up even one picture. Your fans are going to think you’re all wistful and shit if you use any of these."
Brendon laughs. "I’ll just have to write some new songs or something, I guess. I don’t know if I’d be able to pull it off, bro."
"You could do it ironically," Jon says.
"Well, that’d make the hipsters like me more, at least," Brendon says. He stuffs his hands into his pockets, head down and quiet the rest of the way back to his apartment.
Dylan is still exactly where Brendon left him, lying sprawled out on the couch and wheezing.
"Dude, what’s wrong with the little guy?"
"No clue," Brendon says. "He just got sick or something the other day. He’s been like this since yesterday, I think."
"Shit, man, I told you," Jon says. "And you can’t even take him to the vet."
"Seriously," Brendon says. "I’ve been trying to find shit on the Internet, but mostly all I’m finding is saying, you know. Vet."
"Yeah." Jon nods. "That sucks. Do, uh - is there anything I can do?"
"Not really," Brendon says. "Let’s at least get those pictures off your camera. I can still get some work done, right? Not like there’s anything else I can do."
Jon’s quiet for a minute, but then he smiles. "Yeah, sure. Might as well."
-
When Cash calls the next day, asking if he can come over - "It’s really important, dude, I swear" - Brendon doesn’t really think much of it. Cash refuses to tell him what’s up, and sounds pretty excited, so Brendon figures it’s probably another stupid tattoo.
So.
Brendon shouts, "C’mon in!" from the couch, because he hadn’t bothered locking the door after taking out the trash.
"Bden Boyd," Cash calls cheerfully, waving. "The day is saved!"
The other dude says, "Hey, where is the little guy?"
"The - what are you talking about? Cash, get the fuck out," Brendon says, getting up. "Actually both of you. The fuck, Cash, you promised."
"Uh, sorry?" the stranger begins, hooking his thumbs under the straps of his backpack and taking a step back away towards the still-open door.
"No, look, man, it’s cool." Cash cuts the other guy off. "Brendon. Bden. Look, the dude’s cool, he’s Ian’s cousin."
"I don’t care if he’s your mom," Brendon says, trying not to let his voice betray too much tension. "Sorry, man, I’m not trying to be a douche, but Cash is just making shit up again, whatever he told you. And, uh. I haven’t cleaned my apartment?"
The living room is nearly immaculate, except for the stray dog bone lying in front of the TV.
Cash says, "No, seriously, man, Shane is cool, I swear. Shane, this is Brendon; Brendon, Shane. He’s a - you’re a vet, dude, right? Is that your official job title?"
"Technically, yeah," Shane says. "That’s what I end up doing most of the time. Look, I don’t have any reason to turn you in if you’ve got a dinosaur. It doesn’t do me any good to report this shit; I get job experience anyway."
"Well," Brendon says, resisting the urge to punch Cash in the face only because it's too late for it to make a difference.
Cash says, "Seriously, dude, he’s cool."
"Fine, okay," Brendon says. "Okay, yeah. I’ll - do you want me to bring Dylan out here?"
"Yeah, that’d be good," Shane says. "Unless he’s been - he hasn’t been having seizures or anything, right? No uncontrolled twitching or whatever?"
"Nah, just the sneezing and all."
"The sneezing and all, that’s scientific," Shane says, laughing. "Whatever, I’ll take a look at him."
Brendon heads back to his bedroom and picks Dylan up, carrying him back out to the living room cradled in his arms. Dylan struggles a little for a moment, but then calms down and starts gnawing at Brendon’s shirt.
Shane looks kind of surprised.
"So, here he is," Brendon says. "What’s wrong with him, doc?"
"That’s not how medicine works, bro," Cash says. "He’s gotta, like, examine him."
Shane laughs. "Uh, yeah. Do you want to - the coffee table okay?"
Brendon sets Dylan down on the coffee table, and Dylan lies on his side, legs sprawled out to the side rather than curled up under him as he usually does. Crouching down next to the table, Brendon runs a hand along Dylan’s feathered side, and the dinosaur sighs. Brendon looks up at Shane. "I hope you can figure out what’s wrong."
"I’ll try," Shane says, sitting down in front of the table with his legs crossed. He leans over, softening his voice as he holds his hand out for Dylan to sniff. Dylan lifts his head a little, decides he can’t be bothered, and lets his eyes close again. "Hey, little guy, I just want to check you out. I’m not going to hurt you," Shane says, voice soft. He looks up again. "What’s his name?"
"Dylan."
Shane’s expression is difficult to read, until he starts laughing. "Yeah? I always wanted to name a dog Dylan. You beat me to it, I guess, sort of."
"Well, my friend Jon’s already got a cat named Dylan," Brendon says.
Shane hums thoughtfully, pressing his fingers against Dylan’s throat, then pressing at the sides of his jaw. Dylan opens his mouth and Shane leans over to look inside. Dylan whines a little, tail twitching, but he doesn’t seem as upset as he could be.
Cash, who’s now leaning against the wall, says, "So is he going to be okay?"
Shane says, "Shh."
"Sorry, dude," Cash says. "I’ll shut up. I know you’ve got to, like, focus and shit."
"Cash."
"Right," Cash says.
Shane says, "So has he at least been eating?"
"Not today," Brendon says. "He was yesterday. I had to bring his food to him, though. Like, he was kind of walking around and stuff off and on, but he wasn’t as into playing as he normally is. And, uh. He didn’t try to sneak in the shower, which is good, I guess."
"No, see, he’s probably doing that to get a bath," Shane says. "His feathers keep him insulated, and water helps clean them. Obviously, I guess. Clean feathers are better for insulating and all, so."
"Oh," Brendon says.
"So my point is, that means he’s not even bothering to try and keep clean. Which is why his feathers are all dull anyway."
Shane shrugs his backpack off, searching through its contents for something. "Do you have water?"
"Uh, yes?" Brendon says.
"Can you go get some?"
"Cash, go get some water," Brendon says. "There’re bottles in the fridge. Bottled is okay, right?"
"Yeah," Shane says. "That’s fine. Or tap, either way. Which have you been giving him, by the way?"
"Bottled, mostly," Brendon says. "Pretty much depends on if I’ve got any or not."
"The water here’s pretty good, so that’s okay," Shane says. "So, look, if he hasn’t been eating as much - you’ve noticed he eats a lot, right? He’s got a really fast metabolism, so not eating …" Shane trails off for a moment, trying to think of the right phrasing. "Dinosaurs starve a lot faster than you and me, basically. So I’m going to be giving him, like, the dinosaur equivalent of Pedialyte, I guess. Basically."
"Is that - but that won’t make him better, right?"
"It’ll keep him from starving so he has more chance of getting better in the first place," Shane says. "We’ve lost more dinosaurs to starvation than any sickness, seriously." Cash finally comes back with a bottle of water, and Shane nods his thanks before twisting the cap off and pouring some powder into it. He closes the bottle again and shakes it vigorously before pouring it into a small bowl.
"You need anything else?" Cash asks.
"I’m good for now," Shane says. "Thanks."
Cash says, "Okay, as long as - Brendon, did you need anything?"
"No, I’m good," Brendon says.
"I’ve got some homework and shit to finish up," Cash says, "So I’m gonna head over to Starbucks or something, I don’t know. I might go home. If that’s cool. As long as you guys don’t need me to get anything. Do you need me to get anything?"
"Seriously, pretty sure I’m alright," Shane says, laughing. "Be free, Cash Money."
"Fly, little bro, fly," Brendon says.
"Okay, as long as you guys are sure."
"Yes," Shane says. "Go. Get out." He lowers his head, ignoring Cash as he helps Dylan drink from the bowl, supporting the dinosaur’s head with one hand. Dylan laps greedily at the water, eyes closed and as close to looking content as he has been in the last few days.
Brendon reaches out to stroke Dylan’s back, keeping his voice quiet. "You’ll be okay, Dylan, Dr. Shane here’s gonna make it all better. Right?"
Shane’s been intent on Dylan, and his hand runs into Brendon’s as he moves to pet Dylan too. He looks up. "Huh? Yeah, hopefully. I’m going to want to put him on a course of antibiotics, though. I’m hoping I know what he’s got; these guys had some nasty respiratory issues."
"Yeah? I couldn’t figure out what he was," Brendon says.
"Where did you find him, anyway?" Shane asks, going back into his bag for something. "And do you have some yogurt or meat or something? He fucking hates - he probably - they’re not big fans of pills," Shane says. "Got to sneak it by them and all."
"Oh, yeah, hold up," Brendon says, and comes back with a piece of precooked chicken from a salad in the refrigerator that he hadn’t quite finished. "He was eating trash out back. Or he was digging through it, at least. Do you think that made him sick?"
"Huh. Maybe, maybe not," Shane says. "It’s tough to say."
"Okay," Brendon says, and sits quietly and watches, occasionally grabbing things as Shane asks for them. "Hey, do you want tea or coffee or something? Or water?"
"Coffee’d be good."
"Exploitation is pretty delicious. I was too broke to get fair trade or whatever, hope you don’t mind."
"It’s all good. The broken dreams of poor South American farmers make it taste better."
So Brendon disappears to the kitchen and waits for a pot of coffee to brew, and when he brings it back Shane is holding one of Dylan’s eyes wide open and shining a little light towards it. Brendon waits until he's done before handing him his coffee.
Shane sits back and takes a careful sip, then nods appreciatively. "Thanks."
"No problem. So how’s - is Dylan gonna be okay?"
Shane says, "Yeah, so just make sure to give him the antibiotics twice a day. Morning and night is best, if you can. And don’t stop giving them to him just because he seems better; finish the course or he could just relapse." Shane sits cross legged, stroking Dylan’s head with one hand. He tosses the bottle of pills to Brendon, who only just manages not to drop them. "Make sure he’s getting enough food and water, if it seems like he isn’t eating."
Brendon keeps his eyes on the label, though he doesn't actually read it, mouth quirked in a sardonic smile. "So how deep in debt am I about to go?"
"Hm?"
Brendon shakes his head, laughing a little. "I just meant - like, how much do I owe you?"
"Oh, hey, no, don’t worry about it," Shane says. "I’m happy to help."
Brendon looks up. "Even for the drugs?"
"They’re pretty cheap." Shane shrugs. "You can give me ten bucks for those if you really want, I guess, but seriously, it’s no big deal."
"Look, if I’d actually taken Dylan to the vet, like - if I put the guy in a crate and drove him to your office or whatever, how much would I be paying?"
"Uh. I’m not sure. Seriously, it’s fine."
Brendon looks down at the bottle of pills again, then leans forward over the table so he’s nose to nose with Dylan. "Hey, bro, do you think I shouldn’t pay Shane? What’s that? Yeah? That’s a great idea, man, thanks." He sits up straight again. "Dylan says I should at least cook you dinner. For your efforts and shit."
Shane laughs. "Wouldn’t want to upset the dinosaur. I’m not gonna die eating your attempts at food, right?"
"I dunno, I’ve learned a few things in my time," Brendon says. He pauses. "About cooking."
"Really? Shit, I thought you meant about poverty in South America."
Brendon just nods. "Oh, well yeah, that too. I saw Emperor’s New Groove, man, I know my shit."
"A scholarly film, that."
"Seriously, though," Brendon says, getting to his feet and giving Dylan a little pat on the head. He heads for the kitchen, calling back over his shoulder. "I feel like I owe you now, man."
"Nah, Dylan’s the one who owes me." Shane gets up and follows Brendon, leaning in the door frame while Brendon roots through the refrigerator. "And I don’t think he’s going to get around to paying me back, so whatever."
"Little guy’s going to ruin his credit score."
Shane snorts.
Brendon says, "Man, fuck this, I don’t have anything good in my kitchen right now unless you want to eat, like, Cheerios and yogurt."
"I told you, I’m good," Shane says. "I’ve got shit to get done at home tonight anyway."
"Right," Brendon says. "Okay. Yes. So - bye. Thanks again."
"Yeah, man, good luck," Shane says. "Uh, if Dylan isn’t showing signs of improvement, then - I guess you can call Cash or - you should have my number, Cash sucks at passing shit along. Gimme your phone, I’ll put my number in."
Brendon hands his phone over, and stands with his hands shoved in his pockets while he waits for Shane to finish entering his number. "Do you - want mine or anything?"
"What?" Shane says. "Uh, that’s okay. I’m just going to."
"Right," Brendon says. "Yeah, go. Do - things."
"I will." Shane nods.
Brendon laughs, ducking his head. "Okay."
"Okay," Shane agrees, turning with a slight wave as he leaves.
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