Touching Leads To Kissing [s/a]
Title: Touching Leads To Kissing
Rating: PG
Pairing: Johnson (The Cab)/Brendon (PATD)
Disclaimer: Not true.
Author Notes:Dedicated to bunniesontoast because it's her birthday.
“Dude, we should get a bus. Why do we not have a bus?” Cash asks from where he’s sprawled out on the floor of the front lounge of Panic’s tour bus. Johnson grunts his agreement, to busy letting his body sink into the real cushions of the couch. Seriously, why do they not have a bus? Johnson could get used to this.
“Johnson! Alex! Alex Johnson! Johnson, Johnson. Oh wow. You’re name sounds weird, Alex.” Johnson groans. He was quite enjoying the peace and quiet being on such a big bus with so much space.
“What is it, Brendon?” he forces himself to ask, adding, “and do not call me Alex… Boyd.”
Brendon cringes. Johnson can feel the smug smirk making its way onto his face. “You, Mr Johnson, are a mean, mean… meanie. And, to pay for such meanness, I demand snuggles!”
Johnson groans again, albeit exaggeratedly, because he’s always kind of loved Brendon as more than just his crazy, hyper, little friend-slash-labelmate. And his snuggles are a little bit legendary; it’s a known fact amongst the FBR clan. So he shifts and makes room for the Panic frontman to squeeze himself between the armrest of the couch and Johnson’s side. Not that the rest of the couch is free or anything. Brendon just likes being difficult and Johnson is slowly getting used to that fact.
Brendon throws his legs over Johnson’s lap and nestles in against his side, getting himself comfortable under the drummer’s arm. He manages to get his arms around Johnson’s waist and buries his face in the crook of his neck.
“Alex Johnson, I’ve never met such a comfortable human pillow.” Brendon sighs, and Johnson can feel Brendon completely melt into him. It scares him how much he likes it and he can sense all the tension from the rest of his body seep through him and settle around his chest. His crush is getting more and more meaning to it each day and it’s starting to frighten him. He shouldn’t be feeling this much for someone, it’s not right.
Brendon pokes him in the side. “Hey. Why’re you suddenly all stiff? You’re totally ruining your status as Most Comfortable Human Pillow In The Universe, you know.” Johnson can actually hear the capitals.
He sighs, trying to shake off the tightness around his heart that Brendon causes just by sitting next to him. ‘You’re so pathetic, Alex’ he tells himself. Brendon relaxes against him, trying to get comfortable again.
But after five minutes of shifting and fidgeting, Brendon finally lets out a frustrated sound and pushes against Johnson’s chest to get himself to eye level with the drummer, staring him down. “You’re not liking the snuggles, are you?” he asks, an obvious tone of hurt creeping into his voice. Everybody likes his snuggles. He pouts, and that shouldn’t make Johnson’s heartbeat pick up as much as it does. Johnson realises his mistake in not answering when Brendon says, “Fine. I shall move my snuggles elsewhere.” With that, he peels himself away from Johnson’s side and moves over to nudge Cash with his bright purple sneakers.
Johnson’s side feels cold.
“Cash Money, please tell me you are better with snuggles than Johnson.” Cash grunts, rolling over onto his stomach, flipping Brendon off in the process.
“Bilvy! Bilvy Beckett, get your skinny ass in here, now.” Brendon stamps his foot, crossing his arms over his chest and adopting his infamous pout, complete with puppy dog eyes. A few moments later, William appears in the doorway from the bunks, asking,
“What’s wrong, B?”
“These guys can’t snuggle, Bilvy. They’re incapable,” he says, resisting the urge to stamp his foot again. There’s only so much tantrum-throwing Ryan lets him get away with and he really doesn’t want to start an argument with him in the middle of a 3 month long tour. (When he says ‘argument’, he means blowing raspberries at each other for a couple of days. They’ve gotten past the point of caring too much about petty arguments and raspberry-blowing makes the whole process of living on top of each other much easier. Because, well. Blowing raspberries is funny.) William wraps a long arm around his shoulder, bringing Brendon closer.
“You want me to go find Gabe?” he asks softly, not without a hint of amusement around the edges.
“Yes,” Brendon mutters quietly into William’s worn-soft t-shirt.
Johnson stands up abruptly and leaves.
.
It’s a couple of nights later, a little while after the show when Johnson decides to go back onto Panic’s bus. (What? He had things to do, okay?)
He doesn’t knock, but just enters the code Spencer gave him and pulls the door open. A week into the tour, Spencer gave The Cab boys the code to their bus, complaining that he couldn’t be bothered to open the door every time somebody knocked. He realises that maybe he should’ve made himself more noticeable.
Right there, in the doorway between the bunks and the front lounge, is Brendon. In bright blue underpants. Singing ‘I Will Survive’. Dancing.
The higher functions of Johnson’s brain have decided to stop, grab a chair and just watch while Brendon dances around, shaking his hips, obviously just out of the shower and getting changed into his pyjamas. His Winnie the Pooh pyjamas. Johnson’s just about ready to collapse.
A quiet, desperate whine manages to slip free from his lips (and he is totally going to kill his brain for not being able to work properly around Brendon) which seems to alert Brendon of his presence. He quickly spins around, clutching his pyjama top to his chest, eyes wide with shock.
“Jesus, Johnson, you scared me!” He laughs, the smile making his glasses slip down his nose a bit. Johnson has to make a conscious effort not to let the embarrassing noises flitting around his mind, out through his lips. Brendon goes to put on his pyjama top, but somehow manages to get his head stuck in the process, leaving his torso exposed, the muscles twitching as he tries to get himself free. After watching him struggle for a moment, Johnson moves forward to help him pull the top down. Brendon jerks and forces the top down, catching his glasses, leaving them perched on the very tip of his nose.
His eyes are shocked again. “What-”
“Fuck.” Then maybe… maybe Johnson runs because he maybe just stroked Brendon’s stomach in a way that isn’t completely appropriate (even in the FBR clan) for friends.
“Fuck.”
.
Johnson is not avoiding the guys from Panic, he is not. Well, okay he is a little, because what happened with Brendon was just the tiniest bit mortifying for the quiet drummer. He’s been chastising himself, for the full week and three days since the incident, that he let himself be within touching distance of Brendon when he knows his brain quite likes to give up and stare around him.
So, there he is, sulking against the side of the van, the cigarette between his fingers forgotten as he replays it over and over in his mind.
“He’s been doing the same thing everyday for the past week, guys. What the hell is wrong with him?” Singer asks, looking at Johnson from across the parking lot of the venue they’re playing in tonight. He can’t remember the name of the city, let alone the day. He pokes Cash in the head when he doesn’t answer, too busy sleeping (on the concrete floor, Singer doesn’t understand how that can be comfortable).
“Dude, I’m not asking him. He’ll punch me in the face, then what will you have to look at all the time?” Cash grumbles. Pretty much everybody on tour knows that Johnson has no tolerance when it comes to Cash’s stupid questions, Cash has the bruises to prove it. Singer tries pouting. “No! Yesterday I only asked him if he had a light and he punched me. No. My face is too pretty to sacrifice.” He rubs his arm absentmindedly, the bruise still an ugly purple colour.
“Do you think it’s something to do with the Panic guys? Maybe we should get one of them to ask him. He wouldn’t punch them.” Singer stops to think. “Right?”
.
Singer enlists the help of one Jon Walker. Everybody loves, Jon and Johnson wouldn’t, couldn’t, punch Jon in the face, he’s too nice. (“And their names are pretty much the same,” Ian helpfully provides which prompts an eye-roll from Marshall. It quickly escalates to a three hour long poking match that will no doubt end up with the pair breaking a couple of Singer’s rules about the van).
“So, Johnson. What’s eating you?”
’Well, he certainly doesn’t beat around the subject.’ Singer thinks from his eavesdropping position, crouched down on the other side of the van.
“Dude, I can practically hear you thinking, shut up,” Cash whispers from beside him. Marshall and Ian disappeared about half an hour ago and Singer really does not want to know.
“What do you mean?” Johnson asks. His tone isn’t quite defensive, but Singer can tell it’s something big.
“Singer tells me you’ve been moping for over a week.” Singer’s eyes widen. Fuck, he is in so much trouble when Jon’s gone. “Pretty much the same amount of time Brendon’s been acting weird. Something you’re not telling me?”
Johnson clears his throat. “Brendon’s been acting weird? Like how?” He tries not to show his interest but he’s pretty sure he failed at that. Singer has to fight back a giggle and Cash punches him in the arm.
“He’s been unusually quiet. Which isn’t much compared to, well… you. If he was as quiet as you are, Jesus, I’d be worried for his life. But he’s closer to your level of quietness than his, which is still pretty damn worrying, you know?” Johnson hums his agreement. “Something happen between you two?” Jon asks, his tone clearly saying ‘I know, so you might as well tell me’.
“Fuck.” Johnson stubs out his cigarette with his shoe without taking a drag from it. If Cash had seen that, he may have cried. “It was just. Nothing really happened. I touched him?” He ends it in a question, not sure what he’s supposed to say. This time it’s Cash who has to fight back a snort of laughter.
Jon raises his eyebrow, “You touched him.” It’s not so much a question.
“Yeah. He was… he’d got his head stuck in his pyjama top and I went to go help but then. I kind of maybe ended up strokinghisstomachinstead?” He breathes the words out quickly jumbling them up and causing Jon to stop for a minute to make sure he understood what the young drummer had just said. A minute or so passes in silence and finally Jon bursts out laughing, doubled over and complete with thigh-slapping. “Dude. What…”
“You two. Oh God. You two are idiots,” is all he says. Then he’s gone.
’What the fuck?’
.
It was about half an hour before The Cab had to go on and Singer was in the dressing room doing his vocal warm ups when Johnson walks in. Singer freezes with his hand half way through hair, his voice dying at the sight of Johnson.
“Err. Hi, Johnson,” he says nervously, fingers pulling at a loose thread on his tank top.
“Singer.” Johnson nods, moving around him to get to his stuff. He leans down, shifting through his duffle bag to find a t-shirt. He can feel Singer’s eyes on his back and he looks over his shoulder to raise an eyebrow and ask, “What?”
“N-Nothing. Yeah. Nothing. Sorry. I’ll just… Bye!” He waves awkwardly while backing out of the room, thanking any higher being that he’s still alive. Johnson just stares at the door, confused.
.
The show that night is pretty kick ass if Johnson’s completely honest. He felt like everyone played with everything they’ve got (except Marshall and Ian, because they turned up five minutes before they had to go on, out of breath and looking decidedly sated. The assholes could’ve at least tried to hide it). Johnson is unwinding on the couch in The Cab’s dressing room, iPod in and eyes closed, focussing on dispelling the tension from his muscles, so he doesn’t notice Brendon slip in, sweaty and hyped up on adrenaline. Brendon presses his back to the door, gently closing it, all the while staring at Johnson’s relaxed form.
He quietly tip-toes over to Johnson, hovering next to him, the drummer still oblivious to his presence. (Contrary to popular believe, Brendon has incredible stealth skills.) Brendon takes a second to think about how to make himself known and decides that sitting on his lap would be the best option. Nodding to himself, he plops down on Johnson’s lap, legs either side of the drummer’s skinny hips. Johnson’s eyes fly open looking at Brendon with huge eyes, immediately tensing up.
“Brendon. What’re you-” Johnson stops mid-sentence when he feels Brendon’s fingers playing with his hair.
“Your hair’s getting really long,” Brendon says and immediately berates himself (’Smooth, Captain Obvious. Very smooth.’). He coughs and shifts, feeling Johnson tense up even more. “Am I making you uncomfortable?” he asks with a grin.
“A little bit,” Johnson replies defiantly. He’s not letting Brendon win this one.
“Good.” He’s just about to stick his tongue out when he feels Johnson’s hands move up his thighs and he can’t help but shiver in pleasure as Johnson’s thumbs press into the dip above his hipbones.
“You okay there, Brendon?” Johnson asks, smirking slightly and trying to keep the smugness out of his voice. It’s kind of turning Brendon on and he unknowingly tightens his fingers in Johnson’s hair. Johnson has to work to keep a moan from slipping through his lips, but he still makes an embarrassing noise. Dammit.
Brendon giggles (and Johnson will never say this out loud, but it’s the cutest thing he’s ever heard) and finally… finally he leans down to kiss him and all Johnson can think is, ’he totally just won’.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Johnson (The Cab)/Brendon (PATD)
Disclaimer: Not true.
Author Notes:Dedicated to bunniesontoast because it's her birthday.
“Dude, we should get a bus. Why do we not have a bus?” Cash asks from where he’s sprawled out on the floor of the front lounge of Panic’s tour bus. Johnson grunts his agreement, to busy letting his body sink into the real cushions of the couch. Seriously, why do they not have a bus? Johnson could get used to this.
“Johnson! Alex! Alex Johnson! Johnson, Johnson. Oh wow. You’re name sounds weird, Alex.” Johnson groans. He was quite enjoying the peace and quiet being on such a big bus with so much space.
“What is it, Brendon?” he forces himself to ask, adding, “and do not call me Alex… Boyd.”
Brendon cringes. Johnson can feel the smug smirk making its way onto his face. “You, Mr Johnson, are a mean, mean… meanie. And, to pay for such meanness, I demand snuggles!”
Johnson groans again, albeit exaggeratedly, because he’s always kind of loved Brendon as more than just his crazy, hyper, little friend-slash-labelmate. And his snuggles are a little bit legendary; it’s a known fact amongst the FBR clan. So he shifts and makes room for the Panic frontman to squeeze himself between the armrest of the couch and Johnson’s side. Not that the rest of the couch is free or anything. Brendon just likes being difficult and Johnson is slowly getting used to that fact.
Brendon throws his legs over Johnson’s lap and nestles in against his side, getting himself comfortable under the drummer’s arm. He manages to get his arms around Johnson’s waist and buries his face in the crook of his neck.
“Alex Johnson, I’ve never met such a comfortable human pillow.” Brendon sighs, and Johnson can feel Brendon completely melt into him. It scares him how much he likes it and he can sense all the tension from the rest of his body seep through him and settle around his chest. His crush is getting more and more meaning to it each day and it’s starting to frighten him. He shouldn’t be feeling this much for someone, it’s not right.
Brendon pokes him in the side. “Hey. Why’re you suddenly all stiff? You’re totally ruining your status as Most Comfortable Human Pillow In The Universe, you know.” Johnson can actually hear the capitals.
He sighs, trying to shake off the tightness around his heart that Brendon causes just by sitting next to him. ‘You’re so pathetic, Alex’ he tells himself. Brendon relaxes against him, trying to get comfortable again.
But after five minutes of shifting and fidgeting, Brendon finally lets out a frustrated sound and pushes against Johnson’s chest to get himself to eye level with the drummer, staring him down. “You’re not liking the snuggles, are you?” he asks, an obvious tone of hurt creeping into his voice. Everybody likes his snuggles. He pouts, and that shouldn’t make Johnson’s heartbeat pick up as much as it does. Johnson realises his mistake in not answering when Brendon says, “Fine. I shall move my snuggles elsewhere.” With that, he peels himself away from Johnson’s side and moves over to nudge Cash with his bright purple sneakers.
Johnson’s side feels cold.
“Cash Money, please tell me you are better with snuggles than Johnson.” Cash grunts, rolling over onto his stomach, flipping Brendon off in the process.
“Bilvy! Bilvy Beckett, get your skinny ass in here, now.” Brendon stamps his foot, crossing his arms over his chest and adopting his infamous pout, complete with puppy dog eyes. A few moments later, William appears in the doorway from the bunks, asking,
“What’s wrong, B?”
“These guys can’t snuggle, Bilvy. They’re incapable,” he says, resisting the urge to stamp his foot again. There’s only so much tantrum-throwing Ryan lets him get away with and he really doesn’t want to start an argument with him in the middle of a 3 month long tour. (When he says ‘argument’, he means blowing raspberries at each other for a couple of days. They’ve gotten past the point of caring too much about petty arguments and raspberry-blowing makes the whole process of living on top of each other much easier. Because, well. Blowing raspberries is funny.) William wraps a long arm around his shoulder, bringing Brendon closer.
“You want me to go find Gabe?” he asks softly, not without a hint of amusement around the edges.
“Yes,” Brendon mutters quietly into William’s worn-soft t-shirt.
Johnson stands up abruptly and leaves.
.
It’s a couple of nights later, a little while after the show when Johnson decides to go back onto Panic’s bus. (What? He had things to do, okay?)
He doesn’t knock, but just enters the code Spencer gave him and pulls the door open. A week into the tour, Spencer gave The Cab boys the code to their bus, complaining that he couldn’t be bothered to open the door every time somebody knocked. He realises that maybe he should’ve made himself more noticeable.
Right there, in the doorway between the bunks and the front lounge, is Brendon. In bright blue underpants. Singing ‘I Will Survive’. Dancing.
The higher functions of Johnson’s brain have decided to stop, grab a chair and just watch while Brendon dances around, shaking his hips, obviously just out of the shower and getting changed into his pyjamas. His Winnie the Pooh pyjamas. Johnson’s just about ready to collapse.
A quiet, desperate whine manages to slip free from his lips (and he is totally going to kill his brain for not being able to work properly around Brendon) which seems to alert Brendon of his presence. He quickly spins around, clutching his pyjama top to his chest, eyes wide with shock.
“Jesus, Johnson, you scared me!” He laughs, the smile making his glasses slip down his nose a bit. Johnson has to make a conscious effort not to let the embarrassing noises flitting around his mind, out through his lips. Brendon goes to put on his pyjama top, but somehow manages to get his head stuck in the process, leaving his torso exposed, the muscles twitching as he tries to get himself free. After watching him struggle for a moment, Johnson moves forward to help him pull the top down. Brendon jerks and forces the top down, catching his glasses, leaving them perched on the very tip of his nose.
His eyes are shocked again. “What-”
“Fuck.” Then maybe… maybe Johnson runs because he maybe just stroked Brendon’s stomach in a way that isn’t completely appropriate (even in the FBR clan) for friends.
“Fuck.”
.
Johnson is not avoiding the guys from Panic, he is not. Well, okay he is a little, because what happened with Brendon was just the tiniest bit mortifying for the quiet drummer. He’s been chastising himself, for the full week and three days since the incident, that he let himself be within touching distance of Brendon when he knows his brain quite likes to give up and stare around him.
So, there he is, sulking against the side of the van, the cigarette between his fingers forgotten as he replays it over and over in his mind.
“He’s been doing the same thing everyday for the past week, guys. What the hell is wrong with him?” Singer asks, looking at Johnson from across the parking lot of the venue they’re playing in tonight. He can’t remember the name of the city, let alone the day. He pokes Cash in the head when he doesn’t answer, too busy sleeping (on the concrete floor, Singer doesn’t understand how that can be comfortable).
“Dude, I’m not asking him. He’ll punch me in the face, then what will you have to look at all the time?” Cash grumbles. Pretty much everybody on tour knows that Johnson has no tolerance when it comes to Cash’s stupid questions, Cash has the bruises to prove it. Singer tries pouting. “No! Yesterday I only asked him if he had a light and he punched me. No. My face is too pretty to sacrifice.” He rubs his arm absentmindedly, the bruise still an ugly purple colour.
“Do you think it’s something to do with the Panic guys? Maybe we should get one of them to ask him. He wouldn’t punch them.” Singer stops to think. “Right?”
.
Singer enlists the help of one Jon Walker. Everybody loves, Jon and Johnson wouldn’t, couldn’t, punch Jon in the face, he’s too nice. (“And their names are pretty much the same,” Ian helpfully provides which prompts an eye-roll from Marshall. It quickly escalates to a three hour long poking match that will no doubt end up with the pair breaking a couple of Singer’s rules about the van).
“So, Johnson. What’s eating you?”
’Well, he certainly doesn’t beat around the subject.’ Singer thinks from his eavesdropping position, crouched down on the other side of the van.
“Dude, I can practically hear you thinking, shut up,” Cash whispers from beside him. Marshall and Ian disappeared about half an hour ago and Singer really does not want to know.
“What do you mean?” Johnson asks. His tone isn’t quite defensive, but Singer can tell it’s something big.
“Singer tells me you’ve been moping for over a week.” Singer’s eyes widen. Fuck, he is in so much trouble when Jon’s gone. “Pretty much the same amount of time Brendon’s been acting weird. Something you’re not telling me?”
Johnson clears his throat. “Brendon’s been acting weird? Like how?” He tries not to show his interest but he’s pretty sure he failed at that. Singer has to fight back a giggle and Cash punches him in the arm.
“He’s been unusually quiet. Which isn’t much compared to, well… you. If he was as quiet as you are, Jesus, I’d be worried for his life. But he’s closer to your level of quietness than his, which is still pretty damn worrying, you know?” Johnson hums his agreement. “Something happen between you two?” Jon asks, his tone clearly saying ‘I know, so you might as well tell me’.
“Fuck.” Johnson stubs out his cigarette with his shoe without taking a drag from it. If Cash had seen that, he may have cried. “It was just. Nothing really happened. I touched him?” He ends it in a question, not sure what he’s supposed to say. This time it’s Cash who has to fight back a snort of laughter.
Jon raises his eyebrow, “You touched him.” It’s not so much a question.
“Yeah. He was… he’d got his head stuck in his pyjama top and I went to go help but then. I kind of maybe ended up strokinghisstomachinstead?” He breathes the words out quickly jumbling them up and causing Jon to stop for a minute to make sure he understood what the young drummer had just said. A minute or so passes in silence and finally Jon bursts out laughing, doubled over and complete with thigh-slapping. “Dude. What…”
“You two. Oh God. You two are idiots,” is all he says. Then he’s gone.
’What the fuck?’
.
It was about half an hour before The Cab had to go on and Singer was in the dressing room doing his vocal warm ups when Johnson walks in. Singer freezes with his hand half way through hair, his voice dying at the sight of Johnson.
“Err. Hi, Johnson,” he says nervously, fingers pulling at a loose thread on his tank top.
“Singer.” Johnson nods, moving around him to get to his stuff. He leans down, shifting through his duffle bag to find a t-shirt. He can feel Singer’s eyes on his back and he looks over his shoulder to raise an eyebrow and ask, “What?”
“N-Nothing. Yeah. Nothing. Sorry. I’ll just… Bye!” He waves awkwardly while backing out of the room, thanking any higher being that he’s still alive. Johnson just stares at the door, confused.
.
The show that night is pretty kick ass if Johnson’s completely honest. He felt like everyone played with everything they’ve got (except Marshall and Ian, because they turned up five minutes before they had to go on, out of breath and looking decidedly sated. The assholes could’ve at least tried to hide it). Johnson is unwinding on the couch in The Cab’s dressing room, iPod in and eyes closed, focussing on dispelling the tension from his muscles, so he doesn’t notice Brendon slip in, sweaty and hyped up on adrenaline. Brendon presses his back to the door, gently closing it, all the while staring at Johnson’s relaxed form.
He quietly tip-toes over to Johnson, hovering next to him, the drummer still oblivious to his presence. (Contrary to popular believe, Brendon has incredible stealth skills.) Brendon takes a second to think about how to make himself known and decides that sitting on his lap would be the best option. Nodding to himself, he plops down on Johnson’s lap, legs either side of the drummer’s skinny hips. Johnson’s eyes fly open looking at Brendon with huge eyes, immediately tensing up.
“Brendon. What’re you-” Johnson stops mid-sentence when he feels Brendon’s fingers playing with his hair.
“Your hair’s getting really long,” Brendon says and immediately berates himself (’Smooth, Captain Obvious. Very smooth.’). He coughs and shifts, feeling Johnson tense up even more. “Am I making you uncomfortable?” he asks with a grin.
“A little bit,” Johnson replies defiantly. He’s not letting Brendon win this one.
“Good.” He’s just about to stick his tongue out when he feels Johnson’s hands move up his thighs and he can’t help but shiver in pleasure as Johnson’s thumbs press into the dip above his hipbones.
“You okay there, Brendon?” Johnson asks, smirking slightly and trying to keep the smugness out of his voice. It’s kind of turning Brendon on and he unknowingly tightens his fingers in Johnson’s hair. Johnson has to work to keep a moan from slipping through his lips, but he still makes an embarrassing noise. Dammit.
Brendon giggles (and Johnson will never say this out loud, but it’s the cutest thing he’s ever heard) and finally… finally he leans down to kiss him and all Johnson can think is, ’he totally just won’.