fic: all i need is next to me, jon/brendon, nc17, 1/3

Aug 24, 2009 13:30

Title: All I Need Is Next to Me
Pairing: Jon/Cassie, Jon/Brendon
Rating: NC17
Summary: Brendon rolls his eyes. "He's just a chick now, it's not like he's dead," he says. "It's not the end of the world."
Warnings: Girlparts, filthy language, lots and lots of drugs
Notes: In which Jon wakes up a girl. Thanks a lot to ailleann23 and fictionalaspect for the hand-holding, astrangecity for the insightful commentary on the trans stuff and making sure I knew what I was talking about re: chest binders, and to anoneknewmoose and the nice Jon/Brendon mouse for looking it over and making sure it wasn't faily. Title from "Mona Lisa (When The World Comes Down)" by The All-American Rejects. 20k, in three parts.


***

Jon stumbles into the bathroom to piss before anyone else is up, when there's just the faintest bit of light worming its way into the dark, cold interior of the bus around the blackout shades. He isn't high anymore, but he's not hung over, either, which probably means that he's still drunk. He's surprisingly okay with this.

He fumbles his pajama pants down and reaches for his dick, already anticipating how fucking good it's going to feel not to have to piss anymore, and it takes him a couple of passes before he realizes that it's...not there.

"What," he asks the tiny bus bathroom, blinking in the ugly fluorescent light and frowning down at his crotch. He pulls his pants all the way away from his belly, peering into them in confusion, and when his visual inspection fails to turn up anything encouraging he reaches down and cups himself between his legs, wondering what the fuck is going on, because he definitely had a cock when he passed out in his bunk last night, or this morning, or whenever it was-whatever, the time wasn't important. What's important is that he appears to have misplaced his dick since then.

"Dammit," he says, and flicks off the light, shuffling back to his bunk.

He still has to piss, but that probably has to wait until he gets his penis back.

"Wakey, wakey!" Brendon sing-songs, pulling back Jon's curtain and letting the terrible, obnoxious light from the front lounge burn Jon's eyes.

Shit, Jon's definitely hung over now; he groans and turns over to face the wall, shielding his face with his hands. "If there isn't coffee, you're fucking dead," he informs Brendon, trying to blink himself awake. His head is fucking killing him.

Brendon makes a wounded noise. "Would I do that to you, Jon Walker?" he asks. "Would I, your most loyal and adoring friend, wake you up at this obscenely early hour of 1:48 p.m., after a night when we got incredibly fucked up, without first ensuring that there was coffee? I ask you."

If Jon had actually had any doubts as to whether anyone had made coffee, that right there would have put them to rest. It really shouldn't be legal for anyone to be that articulate in the morning, regardless of how much caffeine he consumes. At some point Brendon must have sacrificed a small animal to the gods of arabica and Red Bull, or something.

"Fine, I'm up," Jon says, and mentally braces himself for the monumental effort of rolling his hung-over ass out of his bunk and into the aisle.

Brendon is still right there, of course, offering Jon a hand to help him up, still chattering ridiculously about how Spencer is frying bread or something, but he stops short as soon as Jon's got his feet under him. "Jon," he says, eyes going wide. "Jon, what the fuck."

"What the fuck what, Bren?" Jon asks. He reaches up to rub the sleep from his eyes.

"That," Brendon says, and he pokes Jon in the chest. "Or, uh. Them, I guess?"

Jon looks down, a what the fuck is wrong with you? on the tip of his tongue, but, uh. Holy shit, he has tits. "I have tits," he says stupidly. He can't move for a second, paralyzed by the weirdness, but then he remembers his abortive bathroom expedition earlier, and reaches down to grope his crotch again, and-fuck, still no dick. "I-God damn."

Brendon is looking at him worriedly. "Jon?" he asks again, like he's looking for reassurance that Jon really doesn't have to give.

And fuck, he still really has to piss.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Spencer says, staring unashamedly at Jon's naked chest.

"I know," Jon groans. He's only been up for three minutes and he already wants to go hide in his bunk and never come out. Or at least not come out until his cock is back where it belongs; that is, actually present.

Ryan bites his lip anxiously, eyes darting between Spencer's look of shock and Jon's small but unmistakable breasts. "This is-oh my God." He pauses for a moment, and then declares, "I am never doing drugs again."

Brendon rolls his eyes. "He's just a chick now, it's not like he's dead," he says. "It's not the end of the world."

Ryan shrugs a little, conceding the point, and Jon feels kind of like saying that he'd love to see any of them wake up without their dicks and think it wasn't the end of the world.

He pulls his shirt back on, sighing when it doesn't stop him from feeling exposed. Okay, fine, it's not the end of the world, but he needs some time to process. And some coffee. He kind of has to shove Spencer out of the way to get to the coffeepot, because Spencer's gone from staring in shock to staring while freaking out, and he's not moving so well. But coffee is a very important matter, even for chicks. Maybe especially for chicks, Jon doesn't know.

"You should see a doctor," Spencer finally announces, watching Jon pour himself a cup of coffee. "We're in California, I'm sure they've seen weirder shit."

"No way," Jon says. "No doctors." The only good thing about this is that apart from the hangover, he doesn't feel sick. And nothing besides his...parts changed; there's a little more roundness to his hips, maybe, but other than the tits and the vagina he's still pretty much himself. He's even still got the beard, which-doesn't that look funny, he thinks, catching sight of himself in the mirrored kitchen cabinet doors. Ugh.

"This is so fucking weird," he mutters as he brings his coffee mug to his lips. The coffee is cool enough that he can pretty much throw the whole cup back in three gulps, and when he's done with it he pours another.

"I'm calling Pete," Ryan says abruptly as Jon walks toward the back, cradling his precious second cup of life-giving coffee to his chest.

"Sure," Jon says.

He has coffee. If he can concentrate on that, maybe everything else will somehow make itself okay.

The coffee is kind of a mixed blessing; on the one hand, it wakes him up a little and eases his hangover, but on the other, being more awake just makes him more aware of how incredibly fucked-up everything is. He drinks half the cup, thinking moodily about how much he doesn't want to be dealing with this when he's still hung over, and doesn't look up when there's a knock on the closed door to the back lounge.

Brendon lets himself in without waiting for Jon to acknowledge him, which might annoy Jon more if he were actually sulking. It's not that he doesn't want to see anyone; it's just that he doesn't think that there's any point to having a collective freak-out on top of everyone's individual freak-outs. It's counterproductive to actually calming anyone down, as Jon knows very, very well from his days with The Academy-or rather, with William and Mike and Tom's collective neuroses.

But Brendon, for his part, doesn't look like he's freaking out anymore. He hands Jon a bakery bag that has not one but two muffins in it, and one of those little roll things with sausage and cheese in it that all of them crave like burning when they're hung over.

"Pete's trying to convince Ryan to take pictures of your tits," Brendon says, sitting down on the couch next to Jon, close enough that their thighs are touching, "or tell him the exact combination of drugs and alcohol that made us all hallucinate that you'd turned into a girl. He thinks we're pranking him."

"Yeah, he would," Jon says. "It's not exactly an unfair assumption."

"Yeah." Brendon drums his fingers against his knee, giving Jon a considering look. "Spence is right, you know. You probably should see a doctor."

"Hell no." Jon snorts. "They'd think I was crazy. I don't need that. I just need to know what the hell happened." The and get my dick back goes without saying.

Brendon makes a wordless sound of agreement and lays his head on Jon's shoulder. It's a clear offer of physical reassurance; Brendon tends to cuddle when he doesn't know what else to do but still feels like he should be doing something. Jon's man enough-oh, and that's just hilarious, isn't it-to admit that he could use some cuddles right now.

He wraps his arm around Brendon's shoulders and pulls him a little closer, and it eases Jon's anxiety a little when Brendon settles in against him, careful to avoid poking his chin into Jon's tit.

"I wonder where it went?" Brendon muses against Jon's t-shirt. "I mean, it must have gone somewhere. And if it went somewhere, then that means you should be able to get it back."

Jon shrugs and tightens his hold on Brendon's shoulders.

His phone rings a few minutes later, the sound coming muffled but cheery from his bunk, and Brendon only protests a little when Jon extricates himself from his hold and gets up to answer it.

"Exactly how bad a trip is Ryan having, anyway?" Pete asks as soon as Jon picks up. "What did he even take? Does he need to go to the hospital?"

"You are the third person this morning to suggest that someone from this band go to the hospital," Jon says. "And it's not a bad trip, we haven't even-come on, man, we just got up."

"Okay, well, I know for a fact he's not that good an actor, so what the fuck is going on?"

Jon laughs, because he doesn't really know what else to do. "Sometime between two and five this morning," he says, slowly so there's no chance Pete will misunderstand him, "I turned into a chick."

Pete is silent on the other end for a long moment. "You know, the fucked-up thing is that I want to believe you, but I have this, like, undeniable need to demand photographic evidence. And then if you're telling the truth, I'm going to feel like an asshole, but if you're not, I'm going to feel like a fucking moron."

"Aww, Wentz, don't sell yourself short," Jon says. "You are more than capable of being both an asshole and a moron."

"True enough," Pete says placidly. Jon can hear Ashlee talking in the background, and then Pete adds, "My wife says that you shouldn't be so mean to me."

"Yeah, okay. I'll email you a picture, just give me a second."

It takes him six tries and a substantial amount of cursing as he fumbles with his phone in the bus's tiny bathroom, but Jon eventually manages to take a picture of himself shirtless that includes his beard but not the rest of his face, which just makes his tits look even stranger-incongruous, but undeniable. He sends the picture to Pete's personal email, the one that almost nobody knows, and then immediately deletes it from his phone, along with the first five failed attempts.

Not ten seconds after he finishes deleting the last picture, Pete calls him back. "Jesus, I am such an asshole," he says.

Jon shrugs, trusting that Pete will know what he's doing even if he can't see him do it. "It's not like this kind of shit happens often. I don't think anyone can blame you for wanting proof."

"I don't understand how you can be so, I don't know, calm about it. If it were me, I'd-" Pete breaks off, and Ashlee says something in the background again. "Okay, well, Ash says she'd still love me, but I'd be freaking out."

"You freak out over most things," Jon points out.

"Irrelevant," Pete replies. "But, hey, other than that, how do you feel? Are you sick? I can find you a doctor."

Jon smiles wryly at the shift in his tone, at the difference between Jon's-friend-Pete and technically-Jon's-boss-Pete. "I'm actually-you're not going to believe this, but I feel fine. Hung the fuck over, but fine." Other than that, of course.

"It's alright if you're not fine, dude. Do you want me to drive out there? I can totally drive out."

"Your wife is eight months pregnant, Pete. Stay the fuck home."

Pete makes a noncommittal sound. "If you want to cancel the tour, I can start making calls."

"Don't," Jon says immediately. "We're only five dates in, and it's not like I'm not still me. I can play."

The line is quiet for a second, and then Pete says, "And the rest of it?"

The thought of doing press or a meet & greet like this, of trying to hide this sudden change, makes Jon more than a little uncomfortable, but if the alternative is dropping out of the tour-well, that's no choice at all, really. He can handle it. "I can do it."

"Okay," Pete says, trusting where most other people would probably sound doubtful. "If you change your mind, just say the word. Or have one of the guys call me, or whatever."

"Yeah." Jon looks down, thinking. "I, um, I should probably call some people. My parents. Cassie. Tom. And fuck, what am I supposed to tell the other bands?"

"I don't know, but if you decide to tell them, you'd better call Nick, too," Pete suggests. "He'll be pissed as shit if he has to hear about this from De'Mar."

"Shit, that sucks," Zack says when they call him over from the tech bus to tell him the news.

Sometimes Jon really appreciates Zack's gift for understatement.

He doesn't mean to skip soundcheck, but by the time he gets off the phone with Pete he's got maybe fifteen minutes to get where he needs to be, and that simply isn't enough time for him to figure out something to find something to wear that will flatten out or otherwise disguise his tits. When Brendon pokes his head back into the bunks to tell him it's time to go, Jon is standing in the aisle, shirtless, with fully half of the clothing he owns spread out on his bunk and most of the rest laid out in Spencer's.

"Sorry, I'm just-" Jon breaks off, sighing. He's not sure whether or not he's imagining the way Brendon's gaze flicks down to his chest; he honestly doesn't know if he even cares. He still hasn't called his mom or his girlfriend, and the message he left Tom pretty much just said call me when you get a chance, because God knows that this isn't the kind of thing anyone should find out about from a voicemail.

"It's fine," Brendon assures him, while politely averting his eyes. Jon is so grateful that Brendon can, on occasion, be a gentleman. "It's not, like-well, you know. It's nothing I can't handle for a day."

Jon smiles gratefully. "Thanks."

Brendon shrugs and then looks up, eyes locking on Jon's without lingering on his chest. "No problem. You'll be okay for tonight, right?"

"Tonight i'll be wearing a jacket," Jon says. "I'll be fine."

"You want me to see if Zack can find you an ACE bandage or something?"

Jon blinks. "Why didn't I think of that?"

"You're just not as in touch with your feminine side as I am, Jon Walker," Brendon says, and he laughs when Jon throws a balled-up t-shirt at his head.

"Are you sure about this?" Spencer asks when they're waiting at the door before meet & greet, waiting for Zack to finish his thing. Zack's apparently on a roll; he's been talking for forty-five minutes already, and he's only to the part about the hair cookies. Maybe he's going for some kind of record.

Or maybe he's stalling for Jon's benefit. Hard to tell.

Jon shrugs, feeling the constraint of the bandage around his chest. At Keltie's suggestion, Brendon sprayed hairspray all over Jon's chest and back before he helped Jon put the stupid thing on, and apparently Keltie knows what she's talking about, because Jon spent probably ten minutes jumping up and down trying to dislodge it, and it didn't move an inch. He ended up borrowing one of Brendon's t-shirts, operating under the assumption that something tight would smooth him out a little, and it mostly worked; it feels strange, but he looks okay, because he's wearing another shirt and a hoodie over it to camouflage the extra bulk. Brendon's shirt clings tight to his skin, pulling at his shoulders a little, and it's almost but not quite more distracting than the bandage binding down his tits.

He still hasn't called Cassie.

Jon nods emphatically at Spencer. "Those girls aren't here to see just three of us," he says. "I can do this, it'll be okay."

And it is, but when it comes time for pictures, he's never been gladder for Zack's "no frontal hugging" rule. The second time he has to duck away from an overeager fan trying to hug him, Brendon leans in close, brushing his fingers against Jon's reassuringly. "You holding up okay?" he murmurs, for Jon's ears only, still smiling at the pair of girls, who are vibrating with excitement as Zack hands them back their camera.

Jon pokes Brendon's foot with the edge of his flip-flop, gives him a small smile. "I'm holding up."

When they're on stage, after "Nine" Brendon comes over to where Jon's standing, leans in close, and asks again, his almost-yell practically inaudible over the screaming of the crowd.

And there's sweat dripping down his back underneath the bandage and he's too warm and his pants don't fit right now that he has child-bearing hips and no dick, but Jon finds that if he closes his eyes and concentrates on the dull roar in his monitors, the feel of his rug beneath his bare feet, it really is okay.

"Fine, Bren," he mouths. "I'm fine."

Brendon grins and then dances back to center stage to begin the next song.

Brendon offers Jon first shower after the show, but Jon shies away from the thought of stripping off the bandages anywhere but in the privacy of the bus or a hotel room, no matter how uncomfortable it is to have the stupid thing stuck to his skin. "No, you go ahead," he says, and sits down on the arm of the couch in the green room to check his phone instead.

There's a terse text from Cass. Need to talk, it says, and Jon groans.

"What's wrong?" Ryan asks, coming over and hooking his chin over Jon's shoulder to peer down at Jon's phone.

"When you told Keltie," Jon says, "You didn't tell her that this was a secret, did you?"

Ryan frowns. "No," he says. "Should I have? I mean, it's not like anyone would believe her if she said anything, anyway, but. She can be discreet? I think."

"Apparently not discreet enough," Jon mutters, and mashes Call. "Hi, baby," he says immediately when she picks up, hoping to keep himself out of trouble by being as sweet as possible.

If only that strategy worked as well with Cassie as it always has with his mom. "I got an interesting phone call from Keltie tonight, Jon," she says, direct as ever.

"Define 'interesting,'" he hedges.

"Interesting in a my boyfriend has spontaneously turned into a girl and failed to call and tell me about it way," Cassie says. "Or a Keltie is playing a really elaborate and unfunny joke on me way, or possibly a Ryan got really, really fucked up last night and thinks his hallucinations are real way." She pauses. "Although I guess that last isn't really very interesting at all."

"Why does everyone always assume that Ryan is the one who's hallucinating?" Jon wonders.

"Jon."

He sighs. "I should have called you."

"So it's true?" He hears the dismay in her voice, and his heart sinks a little. "How is that even possible?"

"I don't know," Jon says. "It's just really weird, Cass, and I didn't know how to tell you. I haven't called Mom and Dad yet, either. Nobody knows but the guys and Pete."

"You called Pete, but you couldn't have called me?"

Now she sounds hurt on top of being disappointed. Jon feels like an asshole, even though he wasn't the one who called Pete at all. "I'm sorry, baby, I just didn't know what to say. I just-what would you do, if you woke up a guy?"

She's quiet on the other end for a long time. "That's not the point, Jon."

He can tell that she's freaking out. "You're freaking out," he says. "I'm okay, you don't have to freak out."

"What the hell else did you expect me to do?" Cassie demands. "Something like this happens, and you don't even think to tell me-"

"That's not fair," he says, cutting her off. Nothing about this is fair; it's just odd, and he doesn't need shit from Cassie on top of everything else.

"How long is it going to last?" she demands. "Have you seen a doctor? There's got to be some explanation for this, shit like this doesn't just happen."

"Well, apparently it does," he says, defensive, and then adds, "Look, I'm sorry I didn't call you."

"It isn't-babe, it's not just that, I just." She sighs.

"What is it?" Jon asks.

"I think I just need a little bit of time, okay? I'll see you when you're home."

"Cass, that's not for, like, two weeks," he says.

"Then I'll see you in two weeks," she says, and hangs up.

Jon stands there staring at his phone for a long moment. Okay, so she needs some time. Does that mean they're on a break? The mere thought of it makes his chest hurt. Is it because he's the wrong sex now? If he changes back, will she forgive him?

He hates not knowing.

"Hey," Brendon says from behind him, and Jon turns around, trying not to look as shell-shocked as he feels, to see Brendon standing there in clean jeans with a t-shirt draped over his neck, his hair wet from his shower and curling around his ears.

"Hey," Jon answers, hating the hollow edge he hears in his voice.

"Is everything okay?" Brendon asks, in that tone that Ryan swears Brendon learned from Spencer's mother, the one that says I know it's not, but I'm not going to make you say it unless you want to.

Jon shudders out a breath. "No," he says. "No, everything is not okay."

He expects the hug, but he doesn't expect the weird pressure on his chest through the bandage, or the way Brendon holds on like nothing has changed.

Jon is very, very thankful that the major cities of California are located so conveniently close together, because his chest really fucking itches where the sweat and hairspray have stuck the stretchy fabric of the bandage to his skin, and it would be almost impossible to get rid of that itchy feeling in the bus shower.

Ryan bumps his shoulder in the elevator on the way up. "Hey," he says. "Revolver or Rubber Soul?"

"What," Jon says, even as Brendon cries out in outrage and says that nobody should be asked to make that choice, but Ryan just hefts his acoustic in its case meaningfully, and Jon gets it. "I think it's a Revolver kind of night."

"Good plan," Ryan says.

Spencer pretty much demands that Brendon come back to the room and go to bed when Spencer does, because Brendon has a fairly annoying tendency to bump into things or trip or otherwise make loud noises and/or injure himself when he's trying to find his way to a bed in the dark.

"You are no fun, Spencer," Brendon says. "You are negative fun. You are like a suckhole of fun. Fun quicksand."

"Bren," Jon cuts in. "I can borrow your guitar for the night, right?"

Brendon looks down at the case he's carrying in his left hand. "Yeah, I guess. Since I'm rooming with the suckhole of fun." But his protests ring a little hollow when the last word trails off into a yawn. None of them is used to this tour yet, but it's Brendon with all of his running around onstage that gets hit the hardest at the beginning, until his body gets reaccustomed to the abuse.

"Your mom," is all Spencer says in reply, and then he picks up his bag as the elevator dings and the doors slide open.

Jon closets himself in the bathroom as soon as he and Ryan get to their room and strips off both of his t-shirts and his jeans, until he's standing there in front of the mirror in his boxers and the stupid ACE bandage. He stares at his reflection for a long moment and then deliberately turns around before he unhooks the clips of the bandage and pushes his boxers off his hips. This might be his body now-for now-but he doesn't really see any reason he has to look at it any more than is strictly necessary.

When he gets out, the mirror is misted over from the heat, blurring everything beyond recognition, and that suits him fine, too, as he pulls a clean pair of boxers and a clean t-shirt from his bag.

"Dude, I love the beginning of tour," he says as he emerges from the bathroom. "I have clean underwear and everything."

Ryan has changed into a pair of plaid flannel sleep pants that clash horribly with his half-undone floral buttondown and is sitting next to the open balcony door with a half-empty pack of Parliaments. "I know, right?" he says, waving his cigarette in Jon's general direction in agreement.

Jon sprawls out on one of the beds, studiously ignoring the shift of the flesh on his chest. "Is that all you're smoking?" he asks.

"Maybe," Ryan says slowly. "Maybe not."

Two bowls and a resoundingly awful duet of "Got To Get You Into My Life" later, Ryan puts his guitar down on the floor and lies down next to Jon on the bed, his thigh touching Jon's knee as he looks up at Jon with stoned-serious eyes.

"So really," he starts, and then pauses too long before continuing, "what's it like?"

Jon lays down Brendon's guitar, too, and falls backwards so he's lying next to Ryan. "It's like nothing," he says.

"Nothing?" Ryan asks, and Jon can hear the frown in his voice even if he can't see it, because they're both staring up at the ceiling.

"I feel exactly like I always do," Jon says. That's almost part of the problem, that he doesn't feel any different. If he closes his eyes and sits still, his body still feels like it's his, like there's nothing wrong, like he's just the same old Jon. It's only when he's looking down at the startling swell of his chest or shifting in his seat without feeling the accustomed press of the crotch of his pants against his balls that he knows that something isn't right.

Somehow he thinks that it should be a bigger deal when you suddenly wake up the wrong sex.

He doesn't think about Cassie, or the way he can feel the weight of the worried looks Spencer keeps sending him when he thinks Jon isn't paying attention, or the fact that he doesn't even want to look at himself in the mirror unless he's fully, safely clothed. "Seriously, Ryan, I'm okay."

"Just with tits," Ryan says.

Jon sighs. "Yeah, just with tits."

Ryan is silent for another long moment. "Buzzkill. M'sorry."

"Nah," Jon says, slowly curling upwards into a sitting position again. "'For No One' is a buzzkill."

"I like 'For No One,'" Ryan says, affronted.

"No accounting for taste," Jon says mournfully, and then reaches for the guitar again. "'Taxman?'"

Ryan sits up, too. "'Taxman,'" he agrees.

When they get to the venue in Sacramento, there's an unassuming package waiting for them that contains two of what the accompanying note informs Jon are "the best chest binders ever i read so on the internet -xo" in Pete's messy scrawl.

Ryan looks dubiously at the binders, which resemble nothing so much as tank tops cut out from wetsuits. "Well, if the internet said they're the best," he finally says, as though Jon was waiting for his approval; as far as Jon's concerned, anything is better than another show spent in a fucking ACE bandage.

"You don't need any help putting that on, do you?" Spencer asks, in the tone of voice that Jon knows means I'll do it if I have to, but please say no.

"No, I think I've got it," Jon says, and ducks into the back lounge so he can shuck off his shirt and try to wriggle into the tight black binder on his own. He finally gets the stupid thing smoothed down his chest, but he doesn't feel like the best judge of how well it's working, and there's no mirror in the back lounge. So he picks up his shirt again, pulls it over his head, and walks back out through the bunks.

Spencer, Ryan, and Brendon all stare at him.

"Well?" he demands, nervously shifting his weight from foot to foot.

"Jon Walker," Brendon says, "you're a real boy again!"

Jon starts to laugh in relief, and the others can't help but join in.

The binder makes him feel confident enough to call his parents, but thirty seconds into the conversation, he's wishing that he hadn't.

"Oh, honey," his mother sighs. "I know you're an adult, but you know how I feel about the drugs."

Jon resists the urge to bash his head against the side of his bunk. "Mom-"

"Jon?" his father says, probably having taken Jon's mom's phone right out of her hand. "What's this about drugs?"

"There's nothing about drugs!" Jon says, giving in and bonking his head against the wall of his bunk in frustration. "Why do you always think it's about drugs? Why does everybody always think it's about drugs?"

Dad is silent on the other end.

"...Okay, fine, I guess I deserved that," Jon says after a long pause.

"We're only saying, son-what are we saying, honey?" Jon hears his mother speaking agitatedly in the background. "Jon, if you're hallucinating that you've turned into a woman, your mother and I think you need to have Zack take you to the hospital."

"Dad," Jon says bluntly, "if this is a hallucination, it's lasted almost thirty-six hours, and it's a hallucination that the rest of the guys and Zack are having, too. I don't know what I have to do to convince you that I'm not joking or having a bad trip." He pauses. "Thanks a lot for assuming that I was on something instead of joking, by the way, that's really confidence-inspiring."

"Well, see," his dad says, "your jokes are usually a lot funnier than this. And not as easily explainable as hallucinations."

His mother snatches the phone back. "Jonathan," she says. "I'm serious about going to the hospital."

"They won't be able to do anything for me there," Jon argues. "And we don't have time, we're on fucking tour-"

"Language, Jonathan," Mom says.

"Look, Pete asked me to take a picture. Do you want me to? Because I will."

She sighs. "Whatever will make you happy, baby."

"What the hell did you do to yourself, Jonathan Jacob Walker?"

Jon pinches the bridge of his nose. "I told you. I told you, and you thought it was drugs."

"It was a reasonable assumption!"

"I don't think there are any drugs that make people spontaneously switch sexes, Mom."

"You need to go to the hospital," she insists again.

"Will you cut it out about the hospital?" Jon says, exasperated. "I am not going to the hospital. I am not going to see a doctor. I am going to continue this tour, and I will see you in ten days."

"But how do you know that you're okay if you don't see a doctor? Women are-Jon, you might have been a perfectly healthy boy, but you need to go to a, a gynecologist-"

Not just no, but fuck no. "There is no fucking way I'm going to a gynecologist, Mom."

She makes an anguished sound, and then his dad takes the phone. "Jon," he says.

Jon covers his eyes with his hand. "Yeah, Dad," he replies.

"Your mother is very worried about you."

"Yeah, I think I got that," Jon says. "But I'm fine, I promise. I don't need a doctor, I just need to stay here and keep doing my job. You understand?"

His father makes a vague affirmative sound. "If you start feeling-well, I guess you don't feel normal now, but if you start feeling bad, please do your mother a favor and go see a doctor."

"I will," Jon lies. "But I'll be okay, Dad, trust me."

"I do," Dad says. "Have a good show tonight, son."

Jon smiles a little. "I'll try," he promises.

The binder just makes it look like he's wearing a wifebeater under his shirt, which isn't really Jon's style, but it's far preferable to either the bandages or the B-cups. It doesn't interfere with his breathing, and the neck is high enough that it peeks out from under a v-neck shirt, but he's got plenty of crew-neck t-shirts and plenty more he can steal from Spencer if he runs out.

"You are not stealing my shirts," Spencer hollers at him from the back lounge.

"See if I don't!" Jon yells back, and then brings the phone up to his ear again. "Seriously, Pete, thank you."

"It was Ash's idea," Pete says, awkward as always at Jon's gratitude. Pete's the kind of guy who just wants to do nice things for people because he can, and it always makes him uncomfortable when anyone tries to make a big deal out of it. Normally Jon respects that, but he thinks that these are special circumstances.

"Then thank Ashlee, too," Jon says.

"Can do," Pete says. "You guys have a good show tonight."

"Can do," Jon repeats back. "Later, Wentz."

"Walker." The call disconnects.

Spencer pokes his head into the back lounge. "You are not stealing my shirts, Jon."

"Well, I can hardly steal from Bren or Ryan all the time," Jon points out.

"You stole from Brendon last night and it worked just fine," Spencer says, folding his arms across his chest.

"Yeah, he looked dreamy," Brendon says from the back, and Ryan giggles. Apparently they've broken out the bong in the six minutes Jon's been on the phone, even though they've got soundcheck in an hour and meet & greet in three.

"Motherfuckers," Jon says, and Spencer just laughs as Jon jumps to his feet and brushes past him on his way to the back.

The pot makes the pressure of the binder around his chest seem much lighter, in the same way that pot makes everything feel lighter, looser, more free. Soundcheck is a breeze, although Jon pays far more attention to the way the bass pulses through his feet and settles in his belly than he does to his cues or the demands of their sound guy. He didn't really have the opportunity to think about it much last night, preoccupied as he and Ryan were with trying to pick out the cello part for "Eleanor Rigby," but his high feels different now. Not better or worse, just...different.

At least something is, he supposes.

Meet & greet goes a lot better, too, partially because he feels more confident in the binder than he did in the bandages and partially because they smoke some more after soundcheck. He's almost surprised that they don't give the girls a contact high or something. If only Middle America knew.

"We're not in Middle America, Jon," Ryan says. "We're in California."

"Details which do not concern me," Jon says airily.

"It's the principle of the thing," Spencer agrees, and then all four of them start to laugh and totally ruin some fourteen-year-old's picture. Zack gives them a dirty look when he has to take it again.

Jon loves his life.

When it's their turn to go on, the high has faded a little-okay, a lot-and Jon's back and chest are beginning to hurt. It only gets worse when he picks up his bass, the muscles in his shoulders twinging in protest. He hasn't felt actually constricted by the binder yet, but this ache almost makes it hard to breathe, like no pain he's ever felt before.

He rolls his eyes at himself at that. It's the first full day he's spent in a contraption designed to bind down the breasts he didn't have two days ago; of course it's like no pain he's ever felt before. But he still smiles when Brendon asks if he's doing alright, if he's ready.

Pete finished a set on a broken foot once. Jon would never hear the end of it if he had to skip a show because his boobs hurt.

The pain gets steadily worse as the set goes on. He sucks down a beer, trying to dull it, but by the time they get to "Better If You Do," Jon can't even enjoy the "Heavy" outro that he and Ryan wrote for it because he hurts so much, and he's sweating from a lot more than the heat of the stage lights.

All he can do is count down the songs until they're done, stepping back into the shadows while Brendon clowns around during "Shout," leaning against his stack and waiting for it to be over.

"Hey," he says, catching Zack's arm as the band goes off stage and Zack goes on, ready to distribute sticks and guitar picks and help strike. "I need to get back to the bus. Now."

Zack's gaze flicks down to Jon's chest in a silent question, and Jon looks off to the side, embarrassed for no real reason. "Yeah," Zack finally says. "We can do that." Then he hollers for the others to inform them that they are not to move from their dressing room until Zack gets back.

"What's wrong?" Brendon asks.

Jon shifts his shoulders uncomfortably in his suit jacket, feeling the pull of the binder. "Nothing's wrong, I just need back on the bus. You guys go get cleaned up, I'll see you in half an hour."

Brendon looks extremely dissatisfied with this answer and opens his mouth like he wants to argue, but Spencer puts himself bodily between Brendon and Jon. "You are not getting back on our bus without taking a shower," Spencer tells Brendon, an ominous note to his tone. "This is not negotiable."

"But-" Brendon lifts up on his toes to look at Jon again over Spencer's shoulder, obviously worried.

"Not negotiable," Spencer repeats. He practically has to drag Brendon towards the dressing room.

"Come on, man," Zack tells Jon, watching out of the corner of his eye until the other three disappear into one of the marked doors down the hall. "This way."

Getting out of the best chest binder ever, by himself, when he's soaked with sweat, very slightly buzzed, and in a hell of a lot of pain, is certainly not the easiest thing Jon's ever done, but the relief when he finally gets the fucking thing off is practically orgasmic.

"Oh my God," he groans, standing in the middle of the bunks, one hand braced on each side, naked from the waist up with his jacket and shirt and tie lying in a haphazard pile on the floor. There are red marks across his collarbones and the sides of his breasts, and every muscle in his arms and core hurts from the effort of peeling the binder off. The worst of the ache is centered right in the middle of his back, which he guesses is probably just because of the unaccustomed weight he's carrying, but he really hopes he didn't pull something somewhere else.

He pushes his stage pants down his hips and stands there for a few minutes more, letting the air conditioner dry the sweat from his skin, and then digs around his bunk for a t-shirt and clean underwear. He trips over his stage clothes on his way to the bathroom; he's going to have to get those back to wardrobe later, and the wardrobe girls are definitely going to be pissed at him. He'll probably just end up giving them puppy-dog eyes, saying he was sick, and relying on their sympathy.

Cassie would probably punch him for even thinking about classifying the state of being female as "sick."

Jon really, really doesn't want to think about Cassie.

He shucks off his boxers and ducks into the tiny cubicle shower to rinse off, not bothering with his hair, just trying to feel clean enough to justify putting on fresh clothes. By the time he gets out, dressed in clean boxers and a clean-enough t-shirt, he can hear Brendon outside, and he has just enough time to dive into his bunk before the rest of the guys get on the bus.

"Jon?" Ryan says. "Your clothes are on the floor."

He sighs. "Yeah, I know. If somebody would take those back to wardrobe, I think they'd probably appreciate it."

"Probably," Spencer says. "You don't have to hide in your bunk, you know. It's just us."

Jon pokes his head out from his curtains. "No Alexes?"

Brendon shrugs. "Ian and Marshall asked if they could crash on the bus tonight, but I said no."

"Kids these days," Jon says.

"Have it way too easy," Spencer says, and then grins wickedly and looks at Ryan. "Remember Super Death Slug-Bug of Doom?"

Ryan snickers. "God, Brent was so-"

"It was a perfectly good game!" Brendon protests. "It was not my fault he didn't want to play."

Jon rolls out of his bunk as they reminisce about the van, feeling kind of weird like he always does when they talk about the Time Before, but their conversation stops when he straightens and stretches, his tits pressing against the thin material of his t-shirt. Oh, great, he thinks. "What?" he demands.

Spencer is the first to recover. "Nothing," he says, "nothing at all," but that just makes Jon want to fold his arms protectively across his chest, to hide the fact that he's a freak of nature now. He resists the urge, but his consternation must show on his face, because Brendon hurries to suggest that they watch a movie and grabs Jon by the wrist, pulling him to the front of the bus.

The menu for I ♥ Huckabees is just coming up when Zack knocks on the door of the bus and then codes his way in, poking his head out from the stairwell.

"Guys," he says. "The girls are asking for you, if you want to go out to sign."

Ryan, Brendon, and Spencer all immediately look at Jon, who is the only one of them dressed down, and also the only one of them to have spontaneously turned into a girl in the past few days.

"Shit," Spencer says. "I-but Jon..."

Jon shakes his head. "You should go. I can wait here."

"I'll go," Ryan offers, and then turns to Brendon. "You in, Bren?"

Brendon is still looking at Jon, and he starts a little when Ryan says his name. "No," he says. "I think I'll stay here."

"You don't have to," Jon says immediately, as Spencer and Ryan drag themselves up off the couch and both of them check their reflections in the mirror on the door before following Zack out.

"I know," Brendon says, and tucks himself against Jon's side just as the opening credits start to roll.

Part II

fic: content: slash, fic: fandom: patd, fic: genre: genderfuckery, fic: content: porn, fic: content: het, fic: girlpartsjon, fic

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