the stage is set. [8/11]
TITLE: The Stage Is Set. [8]
AUTHOR: therecordskipsx
RATING: R. Mature themes.
POV: Third-ish.
PAIRING: If you're reading, you know. =]
SUMMARY: AU. He met her on a Tuesday. Just an ordinary Tuesday, like any other day of the week, really, except that it wasn’t at all.
DISCLAIMER: I don’t own or know them, and I am 200% certain this never happened.
WARNINGS: Het, and it’s central to the plot.
A/N: Under the cut, ladies and gents!
You may or may not have noticed the shiny new addition to the title, that being a big fat '11'. Rest assured it's only tentatively placed, because my brain could do a u-turn and decide to turn out a couple more chapters before I feel satisfied it's the end. But, for now, it should be eleven.
Other than that, I have nothing to say. I like this chapter and the next much better than the previous. Hope you enjoy, as well! =]
///
He spends a long time thinking about it. Weighing pros and cons, testing the ropes of his resolve, letting the rusty wheels of old love trace up and down the lines, maybe fraying, maybe holding tight. He spends a lot of time curled up on his side in bed, a lot of time wandering aimlessly around the apartment. He wishes he had pictures, letters, something to look at to remind him of everything, to help him compartmentalize it, to organize the dark spaces in his brain into neat and tidy boxes with labels written in contrasting Sharpie.
It seems easier to distinguish ‘then’ and ‘now’ when Shane comes over, maybe curls up in the bed beside him, maybe sits on the floor and eats Chinese food out of cartons with him. He learns things about him that he didn’t already know, and it’s funny that he didn’t know, since he’s been sleeping with him. Things like that apartment he woke up in, that’s all paid for by his parents, to keep him out of their house. Shane is touchy about his parents.
Things like his favourite colour (the exact shade of his bedroom walls), his favourite food (these fantastic cheese potatoes that he only gets when he manages to drag himself to a family gathering), his favourite drink (he likes doing vodka shots, which leads to a really weird discussion about candle wax and rope). He learns that when he’s stressed, he smokes like a chimney and goes dancing, and also that he has an obsession with jeans. Like, he owns about four hundred pairs, he swears, but he only owns one pair of shoes.
Finally, one night, sitting on the floor eating ramen, his mouth opens before he has a chance to think.
“I think I want to talk to him,” he says, maybe finally has the pronouns straight in his head, and pokes into the carton with his fork. “I mean, it’s been almost a year and a half, right?” He swallows, and sets the carton down on the carpet. “Besides, I mean, closure. I never had any, and it’s kind of like, a human right or something.”
Shane looks at him, an eye shaded by the length of his hair, and twists his mouth.
“Are you sure? Because sometimes closure translates roughly into ‘tearing the bandages off something better left covered’. And yeah, sure, it could also be the last stitch, the last straw in getting over it, but then again…” he shrugs, daintily puts a forkful of noodles in his mouth, chews, swallows. “If you really want to, though, I know where he’ll be tonight.”
He picks a stray noodle out of the container and pops it into his mouth, and then stares at his lap for a second before glancing up.
“Yeah, yeah, let’s go.”
----------
He only gets dressed once. Shane sits on the bed, and Brendon looks over, pulling on a black t-shirt.
“Jon would hate you right now,” he says, and Shane’s brow furrows.
“Uhh, why?” and Brendon just laughs and grabs his sweater.
“Long story,” he says, smiling, and leans down to kiss the corner of Shane’s mouth, and grabs his keys. “S’get the fuck out of here, mm?”
-----------
The neon sign above the bar flash, flash, flashes, bright pink and yellow and blue. It’s out of place, out of touch with the dark, dirty brick surrounding it, with the concrete and the cars splashing through the rainbow skins of oil-soaked puddles. It’s perfectly congruent, however, with the vivid world behind the peeling door; a blinding world of flashing lights and colours, pound-pound-pounding away at the restraints of normalcy. He can tell without really trying, most of the people here are stoned out of their fucking minds, and there’s a really rich dude somewhere, pockets lined with pills and money. He can tell without really trying that he’s going to have a pounding headache behind his eyes in about, oh, thirty seconds. Maybe he should go find that guy.
Shane holds tight to his wrist, pale fingers knotted tight, and leans back to talk in his ear.
“If one of us lets go, we won’t find each other…so don’t let go!” Brendon nods and laughs, reaching out to push his free hand through Shane’s belt loop.
“Go!” he says into his neck, and Shane laughs and goes, plowing through the crowd surprisingly easily for being such a skinny kid, Brendon thinks. His eyes go ahead of him, Brendon can tell, scanning through the crowd, arching up on his tip toes to peer over people’s heads, laser-beaming the shadows along the walls trying to locate a familiar face. And all through it, the music pound-pound-pounds it’s way into them, shaking them all the way inside, so it feels like their cells are dancing along to the heavy beat even if their feet aren’t. The lights keep flashing. Brendon just stares at the tattoo on the back of Shane’s neck and holds on.
Finally, Shane’s grip on his wrist tightens, something like ‘hold on’, something like ‘brace yourself’, and he turns back and smiles at him before pulling him sharply left. Brendon can’t see where they’re going, can’t even think (he’s pretty sure the bass is killing his brain cells, and maybe that’s why people come here in the first place) so he just follows, just goes blindly, finger still looped through denim and rubbing against the cold metal and fake-leather-whatever of Shane’s belt.
“Hey,” Shane says, and Brendon can’t see who he’s talking to, can barely hear him, but it sounds so casual, so unaffected, Brendon thinks it’s someone else he’s talking to, must be. But then Shane reaches his arm back and loops it around Brendon, pulling him forward, and Brendon lifts his head, focuses his eyes through the flashing of lights and the depth-perception mind fuck that is strobe lights, and oh, so. Shane’s a good actor. That’s something else he didn’t know.
The kid sitting at the bar (Rachel, Brendon says in his head, and he wants to reach out his hand. He doesn’t know if he wants to hit, or just touch, to make it all real and tangible in his head. Ryan.) looks like he’s carved completely out of stone, perfectly still, Brendon doesn’t even think he’s breathing, and then he lets out an explosion of breath, and Brendon knows he wasn’t. Shane, because he’s the only one that seems to have an ounce of composure or grace, steps forward. Brendon can’t stop him or hold on, just stands there, getting jostled against, pushed around, by the dancing mass of people around him, thinner here, but no less violent, no less frenzied.
He watches Shane step forward again, say something to Rachel, Ryan, whatever, and Ryan’s eyes never leave him, even as he nods his head to whatever Shane says in his ear and clenches his hand tighter around the sweating glass on the bar beside him. Brendon focuses in on his hands, and oh, Jesus, it really is true, isn’t it? It really is her hands wrapped around that glass, he knows. He teased her once about how they didn’t suit her, because sure they were soft, delicate, long, but that was the thing, they were long, too-big for her body, even though she was tall. And here they are again.
Shane steps back, makes a motion like Brendon should sit down on the stool, and Brendon just steps forward, auto-pilot, and as he passes Shane says right into his ear, “I’ll be sitting right beside you, okay?” and Brendon just nods, once up, once down, and sits down carefully. He doesn’t look at the person sitting beside him. He looks at the bar, at the etched in, angular heart carved there, and when the server comes over he orders something. He says he doesn’t care what. Strong. He’ll probably need it.
AUTHOR: therecordskipsx
RATING: R. Mature themes.
POV: Third-ish.
PAIRING: If you're reading, you know. =]
SUMMARY: AU. He met her on a Tuesday. Just an ordinary Tuesday, like any other day of the week, really, except that it wasn’t at all.
DISCLAIMER: I don’t own or know them, and I am 200% certain this never happened.
WARNINGS: Het, and it’s central to the plot.
A/N: Under the cut, ladies and gents!
You may or may not have noticed the shiny new addition to the title, that being a big fat '11'. Rest assured it's only tentatively placed, because my brain could do a u-turn and decide to turn out a couple more chapters before I feel satisfied it's the end. But, for now, it should be eleven.
Other than that, I have nothing to say. I like this chapter and the next much better than the previous. Hope you enjoy, as well! =]
///
He spends a long time thinking about it. Weighing pros and cons, testing the ropes of his resolve, letting the rusty wheels of old love trace up and down the lines, maybe fraying, maybe holding tight. He spends a lot of time curled up on his side in bed, a lot of time wandering aimlessly around the apartment. He wishes he had pictures, letters, something to look at to remind him of everything, to help him compartmentalize it, to organize the dark spaces in his brain into neat and tidy boxes with labels written in contrasting Sharpie.
It seems easier to distinguish ‘then’ and ‘now’ when Shane comes over, maybe curls up in the bed beside him, maybe sits on the floor and eats Chinese food out of cartons with him. He learns things about him that he didn’t already know, and it’s funny that he didn’t know, since he’s been sleeping with him. Things like that apartment he woke up in, that’s all paid for by his parents, to keep him out of their house. Shane is touchy about his parents.
Things like his favourite colour (the exact shade of his bedroom walls), his favourite food (these fantastic cheese potatoes that he only gets when he manages to drag himself to a family gathering), his favourite drink (he likes doing vodka shots, which leads to a really weird discussion about candle wax and rope). He learns that when he’s stressed, he smokes like a chimney and goes dancing, and also that he has an obsession with jeans. Like, he owns about four hundred pairs, he swears, but he only owns one pair of shoes.
Finally, one night, sitting on the floor eating ramen, his mouth opens before he has a chance to think.
“I think I want to talk to him,” he says, maybe finally has the pronouns straight in his head, and pokes into the carton with his fork. “I mean, it’s been almost a year and a half, right?” He swallows, and sets the carton down on the carpet. “Besides, I mean, closure. I never had any, and it’s kind of like, a human right or something.”
Shane looks at him, an eye shaded by the length of his hair, and twists his mouth.
“Are you sure? Because sometimes closure translates roughly into ‘tearing the bandages off something better left covered’. And yeah, sure, it could also be the last stitch, the last straw in getting over it, but then again…” he shrugs, daintily puts a forkful of noodles in his mouth, chews, swallows. “If you really want to, though, I know where he’ll be tonight.”
He picks a stray noodle out of the container and pops it into his mouth, and then stares at his lap for a second before glancing up.
“Yeah, yeah, let’s go.”
----------
He only gets dressed once. Shane sits on the bed, and Brendon looks over, pulling on a black t-shirt.
“Jon would hate you right now,” he says, and Shane’s brow furrows.
“Uhh, why?” and Brendon just laughs and grabs his sweater.
“Long story,” he says, smiling, and leans down to kiss the corner of Shane’s mouth, and grabs his keys. “S’get the fuck out of here, mm?”
-----------
The neon sign above the bar flash, flash, flashes, bright pink and yellow and blue. It’s out of place, out of touch with the dark, dirty brick surrounding it, with the concrete and the cars splashing through the rainbow skins of oil-soaked puddles. It’s perfectly congruent, however, with the vivid world behind the peeling door; a blinding world of flashing lights and colours, pound-pound-pounding away at the restraints of normalcy. He can tell without really trying, most of the people here are stoned out of their fucking minds, and there’s a really rich dude somewhere, pockets lined with pills and money. He can tell without really trying that he’s going to have a pounding headache behind his eyes in about, oh, thirty seconds. Maybe he should go find that guy.
Shane holds tight to his wrist, pale fingers knotted tight, and leans back to talk in his ear.
“If one of us lets go, we won’t find each other…so don’t let go!” Brendon nods and laughs, reaching out to push his free hand through Shane’s belt loop.
“Go!” he says into his neck, and Shane laughs and goes, plowing through the crowd surprisingly easily for being such a skinny kid, Brendon thinks. His eyes go ahead of him, Brendon can tell, scanning through the crowd, arching up on his tip toes to peer over people’s heads, laser-beaming the shadows along the walls trying to locate a familiar face. And all through it, the music pound-pound-pounds it’s way into them, shaking them all the way inside, so it feels like their cells are dancing along to the heavy beat even if their feet aren’t. The lights keep flashing. Brendon just stares at the tattoo on the back of Shane’s neck and holds on.
Finally, Shane’s grip on his wrist tightens, something like ‘hold on’, something like ‘brace yourself’, and he turns back and smiles at him before pulling him sharply left. Brendon can’t see where they’re going, can’t even think (he’s pretty sure the bass is killing his brain cells, and maybe that’s why people come here in the first place) so he just follows, just goes blindly, finger still looped through denim and rubbing against the cold metal and fake-leather-whatever of Shane’s belt.
“Hey,” Shane says, and Brendon can’t see who he’s talking to, can barely hear him, but it sounds so casual, so unaffected, Brendon thinks it’s someone else he’s talking to, must be. But then Shane reaches his arm back and loops it around Brendon, pulling him forward, and Brendon lifts his head, focuses his eyes through the flashing of lights and the depth-perception mind fuck that is strobe lights, and oh, so. Shane’s a good actor. That’s something else he didn’t know.
The kid sitting at the bar (Rachel, Brendon says in his head, and he wants to reach out his hand. He doesn’t know if he wants to hit, or just touch, to make it all real and tangible in his head. Ryan.) looks like he’s carved completely out of stone, perfectly still, Brendon doesn’t even think he’s breathing, and then he lets out an explosion of breath, and Brendon knows he wasn’t. Shane, because he’s the only one that seems to have an ounce of composure or grace, steps forward. Brendon can’t stop him or hold on, just stands there, getting jostled against, pushed around, by the dancing mass of people around him, thinner here, but no less violent, no less frenzied.
He watches Shane step forward again, say something to Rachel, Ryan, whatever, and Ryan’s eyes never leave him, even as he nods his head to whatever Shane says in his ear and clenches his hand tighter around the sweating glass on the bar beside him. Brendon focuses in on his hands, and oh, Jesus, it really is true, isn’t it? It really is her hands wrapped around that glass, he knows. He teased her once about how they didn’t suit her, because sure they were soft, delicate, long, but that was the thing, they were long, too-big for her body, even though she was tall. And here they are again.
Shane steps back, makes a motion like Brendon should sit down on the stool, and Brendon just steps forward, auto-pilot, and as he passes Shane says right into his ear, “I’ll be sitting right beside you, okay?” and Brendon just nods, once up, once down, and sits down carefully. He doesn’t look at the person sitting beside him. He looks at the bar, at the etched in, angular heart carved there, and when the server comes over he orders something. He says he doesn’t care what. Strong. He’ll probably need it.