Love Is Spelt Like Your Fist ~ Chapter Sixteen
Title: Love Is Spelt Like Your Fist
Author: repulsive_x
Rating: I'm just gonna keep it at R for general sexual content, swearing, alcohol and maybe some drug use, abuse.
Pairing: Brendon Urie/Ryan Ross, Brendon Urie/Jon Walker
POV: Third
Summary: Brendon Urie is what some would call 'privileged'. He was born into money, and was graced with good looks. He has good friends, and an amazing boyfriend that most people only dream of. Then Ryan Ross came along, and made that all change.
Disclaimer: fake like bdens denial of being a flaming homosexual (and for once in a fic, i would also like it to stay this way)
Beta: Jenumn, roadsidefury
Author's Notes: This is a fic about an abusive relationship, so if you're sensitive to that kind of thing, DO NOT READ!
Previous Chapters
C H A P T E R ` S I X T E E N
Brendon’s not a creep, but he kind of feels like one as he sits here on the uncomfortable, wooden bench picking at an orange, watching Jon flirt with some blonde-haired, big-boobed girl across the student courtyard. The last time Brendon checked, Jon wasn’t into that.
She’s not even pretty. Her eyes are too squinty and close together, and her face is too shiny and too fake, and she’s just so, so - fine, okay, maybe she’s a little gorgeous, but still, Jon could do so much better.
He could. Maybe.
Brendon’s considering the pros and cons of chucking his orange at the girl's head - who is she even? Obviously no one of importance if Brendon’s never even see her before and she apparently goes to his school. She’s probably one of those nobody nerds who just sit at home on a Friday night and play board games with her closest girl friends, sober - when Greta - AKA the backstabbing bitch who went and stuck her stupid, little plastic nose into his shit - comes and sits down beside him. She says, “Look, Bren, I know you probably hate me.”
Brendon turns and stares at her, popping a single piece of orange into his mouth. He blinks, once, twice, and waits for her to continue with whatever bullshit she’s going to pull out of her butt.
She sighs, and runs her hand through her long, golden hair that girls would kill for. “I just want you to know that at first I wasn’t planning on telling Jon. I didn’t want to get into something that doesn’t involve me, but a day went on and I just felt so bad keeping it from him, I felt he should know, and it just - came out. I’m sorry, Brendon, but you know he had to know, and I kind of had a feeling you weren’t going to tell him anytime soon.”
Brendon shrugs, and turns his attention back to Jon and that - that bimbo.
She sighs, again, runs her palms over her tiny stocking-covered thighs, and says, “you don’t have to forgive me, but I just wanted to see if you were alright.”
Brendon snaps his head to look at her, wrinkling his forehead into a frown. “I’m fine,” he snaps, and he doesn’t think he’s lying, not really.
“Okay,” she says quickly, nibbling at her lip-gloss coated lip. “I was just - I don’t know. I know this will probably sound stupid coming from me but you don’t look yourself. I guess I’m just worried, that’s all.”
Brendon’s still frowning, fists clenched tight at his sides as he mutters, “well, you don’t have to be.” He tries really hard not to think about his throbbing wrist, the one covered in soft, purple marks the size of fingertips. It was no big deal really, it was his fault after all. Ryan and he had been in another one of their arguments - Brendon can't seem to recall what for - and Brendon had stupidly enough stormed off while Ryan was still talking to him. Ryan had done the normal thing that any other human being would have done and grabbed onto his wrist to stop him - maybe just a little bit too tight, that’s all.
“Okay,” Greta repeats. She clears her throat, and sits there for a few seconds, bouncing her leg up and down like she’s waiting for Brendon to say something else. He doesn’t though, of course, he’s too busy shooting death rays at that whore who has her hand resting oh-so-casually on his Jon’s arm. Greta gets up, letting out a small, distressed breath of air, and says, “well, see you around, I guess.” She gives him a small, little wave and saunters off, and Brendon doesn’t even try to care.
He also tries not to care, or really more just pretends he doesn’t see Jon look at him, eyes thick with pity as he passes by, the blonde haired girl attached to his side.
He fails miserably.
- x -
Mrs. Winston, his creative writing teacher, who also happens to be his favorite teacher like, ever, stops him on the way out of class later on that day, and Brendon can't really say he wasn’t expecting it.
“Brendon,” she says, shuffling some papers around on her desk before focusing her attention back on him with an expression that Brendon can't quite read - although, he’s pretty sure he can guess. “What’s been going on?”
“Why is everyone asking me this?!” he cries, tightening his bag strap on his shoulder. Well, okay, maybe she’s only the second person to ask today, but still.
“You’ve just been acting… off lately. You were my best student, and now you’re handing in this.” She flashes a paper, his paper, in front of his face, a big, red F marked at the top of the page. Brendon kind of wants to cry. “Or you’re just not handing your assignments in at all. You’re not participating in class… I’m worried. I heard that you and Jon - ”
“It’s not about Jon, okay?” he snaps automatically, face heating and teeth clenching. It’s not about Jon, and it’s not about Ryan, it’s not even about his lack of friends and it’s not about his shitty excuse for a family that he doubts even notices that he’s never home anymore. “I’m just having a bad week.” Or two weeks, three weeks, whatever. “I’ll be fine,” he says, and he will, eventually. “And like, it’s just creative writing, okay? No offense but really, it’s not like I plan on making a career out of writing. I’m not even good. Maybe if it was an actual useful subject like math or science or some shit like that I’d actually put more effort into it, but it’s not. I just took this course for an extra credit, and I’ve just been busy. It’s not one of my top priorities.”
The second he finishes, and he sees the expression spread over Mrs. Winston’s face - a little bit of shock, a little bit of anger, and a whole lot of hurt - he kind of just wants to take it all back. It’s not even true, not really, because Brendon’s not putting much of an effort into any class, ‘useful’ or not, and he loves writing. It’s the only thing he’s ever really taken interest in before Ryan came along, besides like, parties and Jon, and he thinks, it’d be his fucking dream to make a career out of writing. He doesn’t apologize though, and he can't take it back, so instead he just turns his back and heads towards the door before Mrs. Winston can say a word, tell him how much of a disappointment he is.
- x -
Brendon’s at his locker, shoving binders and books into his bag - which is pretty pointless considering he knows he’s not even going to look at them - when someone comes sauntering up to him, and says ‘hi’ real soft and quiet. Brendon’s ready to turn around and scream, and swear, and say, for the third time today that he’s o-fucking-kay!
Brendon turns, mouth open and ready. However, he immediately shuts it when he sees Jon standing there, hands stuffed in his pockets, lips shoved in between his teeth looking nervous as hell. Brendon can't say he was expecting that at all. He can't think of much else to say or do besides mumble a quiet "hi" as he turns back to his locker, heart pounding.
“What’s um, going on?” Jon asks, resting an arm against his neighboring locker.
Brendon hasn’t been this close to Jon, not for weeks, not since he broke up with him, and he now understands, with Jon’s amazing, musky, fucking sex scent filling the around him, why that was probably a good thing. Brendon finds no other choice but to hold his breath. “Nothing,” he replies. His voice comes out cool, collected, nonchalant which is pretty fucking amazing considering inside he’s dying.
“Yeah, alright,” Jon mutters, and runs a few fingers through his scruffy beard. “Look, I was just wondering if you were okay.”
Brendon rolls his eyes, slams his locker shut and turns to face him, annoyed. “Just peachy. Or no, wait,” he snaps, “are you just asking me this so you can hear me say how I’ve been such a fucking wreck? That I’ve been dying since you broke up with me? Is that what you wanted to hear?”
“No,” Jon says instantly, offended. “That’s not it at all.” He takes a deep breath, and looks down, cheeks pink through his beard. “You know, you make it seem like it was my choice - that I wanted to break up with you,” he says, voice muffled, quiet enough so the people that just so happened to have appeared since they started talking can't overhear.
Brendon shrugs, and slides his bag over his shoulder. “No one forced you to.”
Jon looks up, eyes wide and flashing with what seems to be anger. “You were cheating on me, Brendon,” he hisses. “What’d you expect?”
“We could have worked it out,” Brendon replies, and he actually, seriously believes it. They could have if Jon wouldn’t have freaked out the way he did, threw his ring at him and stormed out. He could have heard what Brendon had to say then none of this would have been happening. He wouldn’t have fucking bruises all over his wrist from Ryan. He wouldn’t have to feel like he was constantly stepping on eggshells around some guy that claimed he loved him.
Jon scoffs. “I’m not one for cheaters.”
Brendon’s had enough. “Okay, right.” He nods. “You know what? I’m great, alright? Just great, thank you for asking. I’ll see you around, Jon.” He doesn’t wait for an answer before he’s pushing past a crowd of gawking teenagers, and stalks off down the hall.
- x -
That night when Brendon tells Ryan that he wants to sleep in his own bed, in his own house for the first time in weeks, Ryan, naturally, isn’t too thrilled.
“What? You don’t want to spend time with me?” Is the first thing out of Ryan’s mouth, accompanied with a raised eyebrow and pursed lips.
Brendon lets out a small sigh without thinking, but then quickly covers it up with a shake of his head before Ryan takes it as a yes, and freaks out on him. “No. No, it’s not that, Ryan, you know that. I just - I haven’t spent a night at my house in over a week, and my parents are starting to bug me about it.” The last part is a lie, of course, but Ryan does not need to know that. “It’s just one night,” Brendon adds.
Ryan looks just as pissed as he stares ahead at the television screen, forehead wrinkled, but much to Brendon’s surprise he mutters a displeased, “okay, whatever.” His shoulders drop, muscles relaxing, and Brendon cannot believe Ryan let up that easy.
After a few minutes of silence, CSI on the screen in front of them, Ryan says, “Hey, so, you know my friend, Spencer that I told you about?”
Brendon nods.
“Well, he invited me down to his beach house in California this weekend, and I wanted you to come with,” he said with a sly smile, tucking his fingers inside Brendon’s.
“Oh…” is all Brendon’s mind can come up with.
Ryan stares at him, deadpanned. “So…” he says, and Brendon can tell by the tone of his voice that he doesn’t really have a choice on the matter.
“Yeah,” Brendon agrees automatically, and he does want to go. Plus, a break from work would be good for Ryan, a weekend at the beach with his best friend and boyfriend. Maybe he’ll be able to unwind and stop getting mad at Brendon for such trivial things such as leaving crumbs on the counter.
A wide grin breaks out across Ryan’s face as he squeezes hard onto Brendon’s hand that’s intertwined with his. “Great!” he enthuses. “Good. It’ll be amazing, Bren. You, me, the ocean. God, you’ll love it.”
Brendon squeezes back, a genuine smile spreading across his own lips, and yeah, he thinks, he will.
a/n: aaah, im so sorry it took so long again. but now im officially on christmas break so i'll be able to write a lot more. it also helps that i'm going to BC and i wont have sims to take up 98% of my time.