The role of the hero in antiquity 5/7
Waking up next to someone was nicer then Jon wanted to really admit. Jon was not a morning person. He hated the world and everyone in it with a fierce passion until he was at least on coffee number three. Still, there was something about Brendon huddled up in mountains of blankets and cushions that made him want to go and grab his camera. Brendon looked tiny and peaceful, like a sleeping kitten.
Jon rolled his eyes at himself and snorted. Brendon woke up, blinking at him and frowning like he could absolutely not explain Jon’s presence in his bedroom.
“Um… I was just. Coffee.” Jon mumbled and Brendon beamed hopefully, though the sleepy haze still hadn’t quite vanished from his face.
“Yeah okay, I’ll be right back.”
He went downstairs and waited for the machine to work its magic, grabbing two mugs from the shelf over the sink. Ryan and Spencer, who had been faking reading the paper, exchanged a glance.
“You got laid and she stayed for coffee?” Ryan asked incredulously.
“Don’t infer, Ryan. Who says Jon’s not finally ready to be a real man?” Spencer interjected, voice dripping with sarcasm. Jon wanted both of them dead, seriously.
“It’s for Brendon,” he mumbled and after saying that, he wanted himself dead, too.
Ryan’s eyes made him look like some mutating beetle species for a moment.
“Wow, you totally are his one true love.”
Jon looked up and eyed Spencer for a moment, wondering if it made him guilty by association if he asked Spencer to sometime tie down, gag and beat the living crap out of his significant other.
Spencer just smiled sweetly. “Gotta admit, free sex from a hooker… That’s gotta mean you’re practically soulmates.”
Jon raised an eyebrow. He would not shout at his retarded flatmates. They were not worth wasting precious energy. He still couldn’t believe he was hearing this. From them of all people.
“You two are gonna fucking try to give me relationship advice? I hate to say this, but you’re leaving yourselves more open then you left each other after that six hour fisting session. Seriously, do not go there.”
Jon relished their utterly stunned facial expressions for a moment and busied himself with sugar and cream before taking the coffee upstairs without either Ryan or Spencer saying a single word. That had to be a win.
Brendon had sat up in bed, leaning against the headboard with his hair sticking out at weird angles and one of the blankets draped loosely over his legs. Jon might or might not have been staring before he cleared his throat awkwardly and passed Brendon one of the mugs.
“If you’re done thinking lighting and camera angles, could you pass the ashtray?”
Yeah, fuck. Brendon lit a cigarette before tossing him the packet and cocked an eyebrow. “Hey, maybe that’s not even a bad idea.” He inhaled and grinned at Jon.
“I could do with a couple of new profile pictures. How much do you charge for that kind of thing?”
Jon took a drag. A long one, long enough he could feel the ground fibreglass in Brendon’s Marlboros cutting into his lungs. He found the sensation strangely comforting.
“You - what?!”
Brendon smiled. “Profile pictures. You know, the dating sites where I get my hook-ups? Most people just put cock-shots or fucked up blurry cell-phone photos, but if you’re charging people, it’s gotta be a bit better then that.”
“Cock-shots?” Jon echoed. Brendon giggled.
“Don’t tell me you’ve never been on one of those sites.”
Jon shook his head. “Hell, no.”
“Dude.”
Brendon’s tone of voice kinda made it sound like Jon had missed out on a profound experience. Then, he leaned down and picked up his laptop from the floor.
“C’mere.”
And maybe Jon really shouldn’t have. But he was a laid-back kind of guy. He didn’t mind porn. He had no problem with Brendon’s job. He could totally deal with the overwhelming gayness surrounding him. This wasn’t a big deal and he was fine with sitting next to Brendon logging into an account on a site featuring something huge and muscular and sporting a moustache next to boxes for the nick and password. Jesus Christ, he was so fucked.
“Right, so. This,” Brendon klicked on a small star in the top corner, “is my profile. Such as it is. The pictures aren’t all that, though.”
Thankfully, they weren’t all that explicit, either. Jon could deal with this. No worries.
“What the fucking… are those tick boxes for kinks?”
Brendon giggled. “You know it.”
Jon read for a moment. Brendon seemed to have quite the repertoire.
“Christ, Brendon. I did not need to know about your Speedo fetish. What the fuck?”
Brendon grinned even wider, which shouldn’t have been humanly possible.
“It sells, dude. Can’t you just see me as someone’s hot pool boy?”
Jon groaned.
“So, how much?” Brendon inquired politely.
“You’re not serious?”
“You do weddings.”
Jon sighed. That was apparently the argument to end all arguments.
“No cock-shots?” He really wanted to be sure of that.
“Scout’s honour.”
“Yeah, probably just another kink with the boy scout thing.”
Brendon looked thoughtful for a moment and Jon shook his head frantically.
“Dude, no. Forget I said that. God. Okay, I’m in. Whatever. Just. No cock-shots.”
Brendon beamed.
“No shit? How much?”
“I don’t need the cash.”
“Jon.”
“Brendon, I’m not taking your money.”
Brendon nodded. “Okay. I’ll find someone else, no problem.”
Jon turned round to glance at him, but Brendon’s face didn’t give anything away. It didn’t need to, really. Brendon probably knew a lot more about owing people then Jon ever hoped to learn.
“Right. 50. I’ll do digital. You won’t need prints?”
“You reckon I get asked for an autographed picture after a fuck?”
Jon didn’t answer. He could not believe he had agreed to do this.
“Spencer will kill me, by the way.”
Jon just wanted that clear. Very clear. Spencer would kill him and serve his testicles in a light white-wine sauce. It wasn’t a pleasant thought.
“Spencer doesn’t need to know.”
Brendon had not known Spencer long enough, apparently. No way would Spencer not find out about this. And then proceed to kill him and serve his testicles…
“Yeah, whatever the fuck.” He didn’t need to think about that. Not right now.
“So, how does Tuesday sound?”
Jon nodded. This was so wrong.
It hadn’t suddenly become right by Tuesday, either.
At least Spencer was working and Ryan was writing, so maybe there was a chance… Jon didn’t even finish the thought. He wasn’t very good at self-delusions unless they revolved around his sexual orientation. Spencer would kill Jon.
“Where do you want me?” Brendon smiled and while it was only meant to be bullshit-seductive, he still did it far too well, complete with the pout and suggestively raised eyebrow.
“Christ, do you even… You really have no shame, right?”
“Dude, I’m a hooker, remember?”
“Right. Okay. Lemme just. We should.”
Pictures, Jon thought. Photographs. Light, camera, action. He was good at this. He managed to make pigs in white dresses look like happily-ever-after brides. He lit a cigarette.
“So. Is there anything in particular we’re going for?”
Cause Jon was totally a professional and able to incorporate the client’s ideas into his own artistic vision.
“The more diverse they are, the better. Something to cater to everyone’s needs, ya know?”
Jon really didn’t, actually.
“Also, try drawing attention to my ass and my lips. Kinda essential features. And if you managed a few where I look about seventeen that’d be sweet.”
Jon rubbed his eyes and stopped just short of pinching himself. This wasn’t even real, he was sure. It couldn’t be.
“Okay, let’s do it. Just… for a start, try not to freak out about the camera. Just. Do your thing.”
That was pretty much the extent of instructions Jon’s brain could come up with right now, but it wasn’t like Brendon needed any more.
Usually, when Brendon didn’t have his act on, he was pretty much a complete spaz, hands moving and feet tapping and general restlessness coming off him like electric waves.
Now, it was like someone was channel surfing through the entire range of human emotions on Brendon’s face. Each expression chased away by the next, every single one of them absolutely dead-on, appearing completely honest and genuine, his body language complementing it perfectly.
They needed ten minutes and Jon was pretty sure they’d covered everything. He also really wanted a cigarette.
“Jesus fuck, how did you even learn to lie like that?” he asked and then maybe he wished he’d kept his mouth shut when something else and definitely unrehearsed flickered over Brendon’s face.
“Part of the job description. Where in your contract was the part about complementary cigarettes, by the way? That happens to be my packet.”
“Yeah, suck it up. I needed that.”
Brendon lit one for himself and leaned over Jon’s shoulder, exhaling in the same breath as Jon did.
“Preview?”
Jon scrolled through the images on the small display and felt Brendon nodding next to him.
“Okay, these look awesome. Now, are you gonna freak out if I take my shirt off?”
“Um.” Professional. Pigs in white dresses. “Sure, be my guest.”
Jon tried very hard to not even look while they were doing the second run of pictures, but yeah, fat brides this wasn’t. Brendon was just so fucking ridiculously good at this, it wasn’t even fair. Jon would have abandoned all pretence about the mostly straight there and then, basically. Except he kept remembering why Brendon was good at this, why he had to be and suddenly, the fluent movements and seeming effortlessness weren’t all that anymore.
Jon was the guy behind the camera. Jon had seen a lot of shit through the lens overtime and he had learned to discern the difference between real beauty and cheap theatrics, so he didn’t miss the way Brendon hunched his shoulders slightly between poses, didn’t miss the way Brendon occasionally closed his eyes and took a breath to force his muscles to relax.
He also didn’t miss the way that his own stupid, treacherous dick wasn’t deterred by the fact that none of this was actually real. Brendon on his knees with his shirt off, eye-fucking Jon’s camera lens with a pout on his lips was not real. Cheap theatrics. Damn it, this was ridiculous.
“I’ve got it. You can stop now.” Jon was kinda proud he’d managed a full sentence and Brendon nodded. Still shirtless. Still on his knees. Still fucking pouting. Not cool.
Jon looked away.
“I’ll… um. Get these on my computer straight away, okay?”
Brendon got up and grabbed a random grey T-Shirt from the chair by his desk, pulled it over his head and sat down on the bed. Jon was still holding the camera and he took another shot before he went off to look through picture material covering every possible sexual fantasy involving Brendon Urie anyone could ever conjure in their minds.
Except for the last photo, he hated the turn-out. He really, really hated it, to the point where he struggled to even name a pile these could end up in. He’d probably have to make one up, something along the lines of the fake-fake-fake-and-for-fuck’s-sake-stop-pretending-this-isn’t-hurting-you-pile, which wasn’t exactly concise, but pretty much summed it up.
The last picture was the one he fell in love with. That was worse. The lighting and exposure weren’t quite right, the camera was too close to Brendon’s face, catching every single imperfection, the angry inflamed spots in the places where his eyebrows or stubble had irritated the skin burning red, his lips dry and cracked and slightly swollen, the corners of his mouth curving down, the shadows under his eyes not-quite-hidden.
His eyes. Now, Jon wasn’t a girl. Jon didn’t get off on elaborating about this shade of chocolate and that shade of baby blue and all that crap. But fuck, Brendon’s eyes. There was so fucking much in there right at that moment, a frozen memory of utter dejection and faint self-disgust and detachment, a snap-shot of the in-between-smiles-Brendon that was so fucking hard to get to. He wasn’t looking at the camera, nor at Jon behind the camera, his eyes were shifting over to the place where he’d just gone through all those poses, an expression of weary not-quite surprise letting on he couldn’t believe what he’d just done so easily, so effortlessly.
Jon was positive that every time Brendon had finished a job, that look appeared during the elevator ride to the lobby of the hotel or on the bus-ride back or where ever Brendon was sure no one could see it. By the time he’d found his way back to their place, he’d always been back in control.
Jon stored that file on his hard drive and pulled the rest of the shots on an external disk and went back to Brendon’s room.
“Damn, you’re good”, Brendon commented with a grin when he’d put them onto his own laptop and scrolled through them. “I look like a walking wet dream. Also jailbait.” He went through the lot, picking and pointing and nodding and eventually finishing off by smiling up at Jon. “Dude, I’d fuck me. Thank you so much, these are just what I needed.”
Jon took the fifty bucks and got the fuck out. He needed a bit of time to reconcile the photo-Brendon with the real one. Not so real one. Fake one. What the fuck ever. He needed a smoke and some peace of mind, preferably far away from Ryan fucking Ross, cause it was a given Ryan would pick up on the mood and create an emo epic without knowing the first thing about the situation.
Also out of reach of Spencer Smith, cause Spencer? Would kill Jon.
In actual fact, Jon couldn’t think of a single one of his friends he actually wanted around right now, so he just left and headed down to the shoreline, ignoring the icy gusts of wind that were the piss-poor Chicago imitation of late summer. Jon had no idea just how long he’d given into his urge to stare at the ocean with his blood thrumming through his veins and his mind blank, each and every pile in his head for now labelled with do-not-fucking-go-there in block capitals.
And wouldn’t you know it? That was precisely the moment Tom fucking Conrad called.
Jon couldn’t process a single thing, couldn’t process how he knew it had to be Tom without looking at caller ID, couldn’t process the way Tom’s breath sounded ragged on the other end of the line, doing that painful rasping thing against the back of Tom’s throat that had been so hot a million years ago, couldn’t process Tom’s voice, rough and gritty from too many bottles of whiskey chased with too many cigarettes. Tom’s voice. Tom. Sounding scared out of his fucking mind.
“Jonny, I need bail.”
Jon didn’t ask. Couldn’t ask. There were three million questions in his mind, mostly variations of “How could you even do this to me?” some more pathetic or hysterical then others, but in a nutshell all pretty much expressing the same thought.
Jon didn’t say a single word and listened to each and every painful sounding breath.
“Jonny, come on man, fucking… you gotta help me out, Jonny. Please?”
Jon closed his eyes and counted to ten.
“How much?”
The rasp in Tom’s breaths stopped for a moment.
“10,000.”
Jon continued counting, slowly, in time with both their breathing patterns.
“Jonny. Fuck, Jonny, I’m so fucking sorry, okay? Please, man. You’re my friend.”
Jon was still counting.
“Jonny.”
“Your bank details still the same?” Jon choked out from somewhere his brain didn’t even control right now.
“I… yeah. Fuck, Jonny, I’m so sorry.”
“I’ll… two days, okay? I’ll get you out of there.”
“I’ll pay you back, Jonny. I swear to God, I’ll make this up to you.”
“Two days.”
Jon ended the call and stopped counting. Stopped breathing. Turned around and walked back to the house while everything had just stopped, frozen in time like one of those for shit photographs on their meaningless piles.
There was only one person who knew how to get that kind of money.