fic: Save It Were Lightly
Save It Were Lightly by Beezus
Brandon Flowers/Brendon Urie | PATD/The Killers | PG-13
Written for eleanor_lavish for the popoffacork holiday exchange. London AU of ridiculousness. Warnings for Pete Doherty and the unforgivable abuse of British slang.
He briefly considers lighting his copy of The Guardian on fire, just incinerating the thing to mere ashes. It would be a kindness at this point. The pages are smudged and deeply creased by frequent readings; ...a fascinating example of a band's ability to challenge their own audience and take them somewhere else. "Bullshit," Brandon spits out heavily under his breath.
"What's that now?" Carl looks up from the floor behind the register. He's organizing a batch of cassette tapes an aging hipster (clad in classic All-Stars and a flannel button-up) dropped off an hour before in exchange for the new Klaxons album. It took a lot out of Brandon not to mock the customer outright.
"This... review, if you could call it that." Brandon tosses the paper soundly against the counter with a grand sweep of his arm. "People follow them so blindly, which I don't understand at all. What's the appeal?"
Carl stares at him blankly. "Who... oh." Comprehension clears the lines from Carl's face. "You're still smarting over those wee ones, are you? I thought you got over that some months ago," he mumbles, blowing loose dust off a copy of Ziggy Marley's One Bright Day, motes spraying up every which way in a hazy cloud that shawls Brandon's skin with a fine layer of dust.
Last October Brandon declared it long past time to put The Killer's many rivalries to rest. They were to keep their eyes forward, marching onward to their glorious futures as world famous musicians, revered by all, and not to be distracted by piddling bands of insignificant stature and importance. Yet here Brandon is, distracted. He blames the fucking paper. How can he concentrate on penning the most capable lyrics his peers will have heard in decades when a band named Panic at the Disco, of all the ridiculous things, is dominating the local music press? It’s impossible. Brandon can't write lyrics; the irritation swims so thick in his head he can barely concentrate.
Carl sighs heavily from his crouch on the floor. "Just try-try keeping your mind off it, yeah? We're going out tonight to see that new band Pete's on about. That should cheer you up right."
The newspaper glares at Brandon from the corner of his vision, broadcasting unpleasant catch-phrases like "piano-plonking anthems" and drawing comparisons to the likes of Billy Joel and Henry Rollins. He pictures himself using Carl's lighter to vaporize thing, but he knows the satisfaction would be fleeting at best. Besides, Brandon has yet to finish the crossword puzzle. Thirty-eight across is Marilyn Monroe, and he's saving it for later; Brandon likes to plan ahead.
- - -
What was advertised as new club is really the dank basement of a creaky old warehouse downtown, up a winding cobbled road and situated between a vacant repair shop and a doddering cafe. The floorboards are uneven, laid directly over packed earth. The wood is warped from years of age and flood damage. Frankly, it's a dive, but Brandon finds he likes the place despite, or maybe by virtue, of that very fact. He's charmed to note a piano, a true relic of it's time, perched catty-corner from the audience on the narrow stage.
Carl and Pete are nowhere to be seen. Brandon supposes they ran out to share a fag or maybe they're in the bathroom, crowded together in a cramped stall, their feet overlapping on the sticky lino as they toke up. They'll stumble in halfway though the set, reeking of nutty cloves and cinnamon, and sling merry arms around Brandon's neck, yowling along with the performers with dual grins as wide and cracking as any he's seen before as they recite poetry into his ears.
The lights dim. Brandon sips from his dixie cup of Jack and Coke. A hum of anticipation buzzes low through the room and Brandon, despite himself, gets swept up in the excitement. London. The reality of living here is exhilarating, still. Even the days when he absolutely hates it, when it's rained for weeks straight and Brandon wants kick up a fantastic racket, yell like a cowboy, shred every copy of NME he spots on the train and hop the next flight out to Texas or someplace similar, sultry and southern, where the girls on street corners speak soft and slow, no trace of the hackneyed consonants or posh, clipped British accents he's grown weary of. Yet, in spite of his waning appreciation for the people and attitudes, Brandon still loves the show, the audience.
A towering, beaky sort of bloke in a muscle tank emerges from stage left and seats himself at the piano with a slight nod to the crowd. Another body steps forward, considerably less in height but equally dark and enigmatic. The second boy is fashioned in tight black jeans and a ruffled white button-up. He tosses his hair out of his face in a careless gesture, stepping up to grab the mic and launching into a wailing cover of The Zutons, stomping his feet and growling his way though the chorus. His voice is pitchy at some points, almost whining at others, but it also rings out clear as a bell and Brandon finds himself entranced, as if this strange boy has cast a spell over the room and everyone in it.
The crowd goes wild. Brandon's never seen this kind of reaction for just a two-piece act, but the kids holler and dance and chant along when the singer thrusts the mic into the audience. The pianist sways along to the razzmatazz melodies, rolling his shoulders as the boy dominates the stage, pacing from side to side. He even climbs up on the piano for one song, smirking at the pianist and arching his back. There's a gap of light between his round ass and shoulder blades that Brandon wants to slide a hand under and guide the pistoning movement of his hips. Brandon, to his own admittance, is an absolute whore for a good front man, and this kid is stunning, rocking up onto his heels and lifting his pelvis towards the ceiling. It's indecent. Brandon's rendered stock-still and silent; unable to tear his eyes away from the spectacle, not even during the encore when the singer straps on an acoustic guitar and serenades the crowd with a swinging rockabilly number, banging a tambourine against his head.
It’s not till after the lights have gone back up and the crowd's dispersed slightly that Brandon remembers Carl and Pete. They never made it back from wherever it was they disappeared off to. He’s grateful they weren't present to witness Brandon’s captivity. With them gone, it’s easier to slide backstage with a nod from his buddy, Paul, who works security. The dressing room's stuffy and packed with too many drunk bodies for such a small show. Brandon senses he’s missed a crucial piece of information when Pete crows his name from the far side of the room.
Carl spots Brandon at the door and ushers him to Pete's corner, hissing in his ear, "I'm sorry, mate. I should have warned you before, but Pete's made friends with one of their lot; I think they share a dealer."
"Brandon," Pete says, "We've gote some blokes here just dying to make your acquaintance. My dear fellows, this is Flowers. Brandon, have you met Panic at the Disco?" Pete's smile is wicked. He's standing with two men; one short and compact, with something distinctly American about him, and the other unnaturally long and thin, decked out in tweed from head to toe.
Brandon flounders. Visibly. Carl keeps a steadying hand at his back as he coughs out, "Nice to meet you," extending his arm awkwardly.
The taller of the two men pins him with a benign stare. He offers a long-fingered hand for Brandon to shake. "I'm Ryan. That’s Jon," he says. "We're big fans of your band, really."
Tight-lipped, Brandon smiles. He wipes a clammy palm on his pant-leg.
"And this, Pete says exultantly, "is Brendon."
The singer materializes out of thin air like an apparition or something out of a Bruce Springsteen song.
"Hi," Brendon pants out, breathless and sweaty and utterly human, and it feels something like a revelation.
- - -
"So you're not at all bothered?" Carl asks wonderingly
In all honesty, he'd thought the after-party was a noisy, over-blown affair. But there had been specific moments which gave the ordeal merit. A sunny smile, the curve of muscle under sweaty fabric. Brendon had cornered him after introductions, leaning in close to be heard over the room’s din. “Did you like the show?”
“It was a good show.” Brandon says to Carl. An echo of his reply from the previous night. Carl snorts but he doesn’t prompt Brandon for further reaction, which is a big part of why they get on as well as they do.
Afternoon drags on in the little shop. There are a limited number of menial tasks to keep them occupied on rainy days such as these. There’s another guy, Jeph, who works the odd weekend, but he mostly hangs out behind the register and reads comic books. Occasionally he'll pull out his phone to text… someone. Brandon suspects the muscle-bound jock type who hangs around after closing, waiting to drive Jeph home. In any case, Jeph takes care of the customers, which frees time for Brandon and Carl to tackle personal projects. For Carl, this means holing up in the storeroom, drinking Kahlua and running figures on their deteriorating fossil of a desktop computer. Brandon on the other hand prefers the more laborious, time consuming chores. This month he systematically emptied, cleaned, and re-organized the browser racks, section by section. He’s almost through. There’s only the Jazz and Country left to go, and he hopes to finish by early evening.
Small tasks and manufactured responsibility compose the fabric of Brandon’s waking hours. It’d be depressing if Brandon weren’t petrified by the prospect of switching jobs, going back to Uni, or committing himself to something that requires his engagement with the world at large.
“Having fun?”
He blinks up through a haze of self-pity and cleaning fumes. The voice belongs to Brendon; leaning casually against the rack opposite, hands jammed in the tight pockets of his skinny jeans. He’s wearing a violently yellow t-shirt under a tan corduroy jacket, a slick pair of shades looped though the coat’s lower buttonhole. He looks good.
“How do you feel about cleaning?” Brandon asks.
“That all depends.”
“On what?”
“On who I’m cleaning with.”
Brandon fights a smile, fiddling with an empty CD case he found jammed between sectionals.
Brendon's grin is apologetic. “I would totally stay and help, but I’ve gotta take off in minute. Spencer, our drummer-“ Brendon inclines his head in the direction of a bearded young man perusing the magazine rack by the front door. “We're on a quest to find the perfect sub; I had to bribe him to stop.”
“How much?”
“Five quid! And I promised to pay for his meal.” Brendon leans in closer and says in a shouted whisper, “Spencer takes his subs very seriously.” The last word dissolves in helpless laughter. Brendon's gaze darts nervously to his drummer, but the other boy doesn't seem aware that his obsessive quest for sandwiches is the topic of conversation.
“Anyway, there's a mission to this madness. I'm here to invite you to a party. Tonight. Are you busy?”
Brandon is never busy. He pretends, when his mom calls, when his exes call, that his schedule's filled with a glittering array of terribly important appointments. But in reality he leads a quiet life. Tonight for instance, Brandon had planned on sitting home with take-away boxes, watching Mr. Bean reruns on the telly.
“No, I'm-” The words catch in his throat. Brandon can't quite believe this enchanting manchild who's waltzed his way into Brandon's commonplace existence and is now requesting his presence for social gatherings. This kind of thing doesn't happen to him. This kind of thing doesn't happen, period. Brandon shakes his head. “What time should I be there?”
After jotting down his cell number and the address for the party, Brendon departs with a smile and a wave, dragging his friend bodily from the store by the crook of his elbow. Brandon sits dumbly for several beats, staring uncomprehendingly at the scrap of paper in his hands. He hears a snort from the front of the store. Jeph is laughing at him from behind the register.
“Where did you pick him up, the playground?”
Brandon chooses not to dignify Jeph's remark with a response.
- - -
As parties go, this is rather tame. The host has yet to identify themselves; the apartment was unlatched when Brandon arrived, people spilling out into the hall. The loft is austere in appearance, no wall hangings, and very little in the way of furniture, save for the couch parked in the center of the room; a lone ship in a sea of bodies.
He spots Brendon camped out on said couch with his arms encircling his calves and knees tucked up under his chin like a little boy. Squeezed beside Brendon on the discolored, sagging cushions is a young woman; short, dark, with a labret piercing. The two of them sit unnecessarily close and their faces brush when Brendon leans forward to whisper in her ear. At once, Brandon feels very stupid.
He pushes rudely past the crowd loitering on the stairwell. He bursts though the front door to the street. Damp London air seeps though his clothes, his skin. He lights a fag to keep his hands occupied. Closing his eyes, he listens to the roar of traffic, of motorists and cabbies roaring past in a blur of sound. Brandon could hail one of those cabs, swan around the city for hours till the itch beneath his skin subsided to something more tolerable.
“Hiya, Sailor. ”
He opens his eyes.
Brendon stands before him, dangling a cigarette campily between his pointer and index fingers.
“Gotta light? ”
“You're ridiculous.” The way Brandon says it sounds nothing like an insult, and Brendon doesn't interpret it as one. He angles closer and presses the butt of his cigarette to Brandon's, lighting his end with the glowing cherry. The sign from the Indian restaurant across the way paints red and orange streaks on the damp pavement. Brendon moves closer. A lorry passes, loud, kicking up a spray of water with it's tires.
“Not a big fan of parties?”
Brandon weaves his left arm in a formless pattern then runs the attached hand though his hair, frustrated. “I used to be. I don’t know, it’s just- lately, not as much.”
“Yeah. I’m not really feeling it tonight, either." Brendon exhales, blowing smoke out the side of his mouth. The smoke lingers around his head, catching light from the street lamps. It cloaks the air around them in a hazy net of light. "We should get out of here. I want- can I come home with you?”
Brandon is taken aback by the blunt nature of the question and it's implications. In all his life, he's never come across another being in possession of as much confidence as Brandon aims to project on a daily basis. It's sexy as hell, and more than a bit frightening.
“Sure,” he says at last. “It’s a few blocks that way if you don’t mind walking.”
Brendon ducks his head, smiling. He doesn't seem to mind.
- - -
The flat is empty and quiet, just as Brandon left it. His roommate has taken a temporary leave of absence, off exploring Rome with her girlfriend. She occasionally sends Brandon postcards with what she considers inspiring messages scrawled across the back in spiky handwriting: Don't forget to water my plants, asshole. Love, S. One such card is mounted proudly on their fridge, script side out.
If he possessed any manners at all, Brandon would give his guest the grand tour. He'd walk Brendon though the four dusty rooms while chattering nervously on about vintage tables and their collection of rubber stamps. Brandon has no manners. He leads Brendon directly to the bedroom and shuts the door behind them with a dry click of the lock.
“Oh, no, ” Brendon says in mock dismay. “Looks like we're trapped. Whatever shall we do now?” His tone morphs from light humor to something absurdly hot as he steps forward and pins Brandon up against the door with just the slight bulk of his wiry frame.
The bedroom is small and dark and quiet around them. It amplifies the noise generated between their two bodies. The blinds were left open and Brandon wonders if anyone else is watching, if they can see Brendon’s quick fingers as they skid hotly under Brandon’s shirt, blazing an open-palmed trail across his lower belly.
Brandon can't believe what's happening now, nor the events that transpired in the moments leading up to this moment. He watches, delirious, as Brendon drops to the ground with a muffled thump against the thin carpet. Ow, he thinks.
Brendon captures his flailing hand and brings it to his full mouth to kiss Brandon's oblong thumb, his bony knuckles. The cavern of his mouth is wet and hot. Brandon crooks his pointer and index fingers and strokes the ribbed roof of Brendon's mouth.
"You know, Brandon says slowly as it occurs to him. "I don't think you have any idea what you're doing." He rubs softly along the broad plane of Brendon's tongue, because he wants to. Because he's in the position to do so, and Brandon likes to press his advantage when he can.
Brendon bites down playfully with his sharp canines. "Neither do you," he replies pointedly and licks the indentations left behind by his teeth. "Do you really think it matters?"
"No," Brandon says, voice soft. "I guess it doesn't."
Brendon beams up at Brandon from the floor. His eyes crinkle at the corners and he's alive and careless and beautiful and everything Brandon never wanted, wrapped up in this bawdy mess of a human being.
He says, "That's right, buster. And, hey, get used to me being right all the time. Remember this moment in the future, 'cause it won't be the last time."
Brandon Flowers/Brendon Urie | PATD/The Killers | PG-13
Written for eleanor_lavish for the popoffacork holiday exchange. London AU of ridiculousness. Warnings for Pete Doherty and the unforgivable abuse of British slang.
He briefly considers lighting his copy of The Guardian on fire, just incinerating the thing to mere ashes. It would be a kindness at this point. The pages are smudged and deeply creased by frequent readings; ...a fascinating example of a band's ability to challenge their own audience and take them somewhere else. "Bullshit," Brandon spits out heavily under his breath.
"What's that now?" Carl looks up from the floor behind the register. He's organizing a batch of cassette tapes an aging hipster (clad in classic All-Stars and a flannel button-up) dropped off an hour before in exchange for the new Klaxons album. It took a lot out of Brandon not to mock the customer outright.
"This... review, if you could call it that." Brandon tosses the paper soundly against the counter with a grand sweep of his arm. "People follow them so blindly, which I don't understand at all. What's the appeal?"
Carl stares at him blankly. "Who... oh." Comprehension clears the lines from Carl's face. "You're still smarting over those wee ones, are you? I thought you got over that some months ago," he mumbles, blowing loose dust off a copy of Ziggy Marley's One Bright Day, motes spraying up every which way in a hazy cloud that shawls Brandon's skin with a fine layer of dust.
Last October Brandon declared it long past time to put The Killer's many rivalries to rest. They were to keep their eyes forward, marching onward to their glorious futures as world famous musicians, revered by all, and not to be distracted by piddling bands of insignificant stature and importance. Yet here Brandon is, distracted. He blames the fucking paper. How can he concentrate on penning the most capable lyrics his peers will have heard in decades when a band named Panic at the Disco, of all the ridiculous things, is dominating the local music press? It’s impossible. Brandon can't write lyrics; the irritation swims so thick in his head he can barely concentrate.
Carl sighs heavily from his crouch on the floor. "Just try-try keeping your mind off it, yeah? We're going out tonight to see that new band Pete's on about. That should cheer you up right."
The newspaper glares at Brandon from the corner of his vision, broadcasting unpleasant catch-phrases like "piano-plonking anthems" and drawing comparisons to the likes of Billy Joel and Henry Rollins. He pictures himself using Carl's lighter to vaporize thing, but he knows the satisfaction would be fleeting at best. Besides, Brandon has yet to finish the crossword puzzle. Thirty-eight across is Marilyn Monroe, and he's saving it for later; Brandon likes to plan ahead.
- - -
What was advertised as new club is really the dank basement of a creaky old warehouse downtown, up a winding cobbled road and situated between a vacant repair shop and a doddering cafe. The floorboards are uneven, laid directly over packed earth. The wood is warped from years of age and flood damage. Frankly, it's a dive, but Brandon finds he likes the place despite, or maybe by virtue, of that very fact. He's charmed to note a piano, a true relic of it's time, perched catty-corner from the audience on the narrow stage.
Carl and Pete are nowhere to be seen. Brandon supposes they ran out to share a fag or maybe they're in the bathroom, crowded together in a cramped stall, their feet overlapping on the sticky lino as they toke up. They'll stumble in halfway though the set, reeking of nutty cloves and cinnamon, and sling merry arms around Brandon's neck, yowling along with the performers with dual grins as wide and cracking as any he's seen before as they recite poetry into his ears.
The lights dim. Brandon sips from his dixie cup of Jack and Coke. A hum of anticipation buzzes low through the room and Brandon, despite himself, gets swept up in the excitement. London. The reality of living here is exhilarating, still. Even the days when he absolutely hates it, when it's rained for weeks straight and Brandon wants kick up a fantastic racket, yell like a cowboy, shred every copy of NME he spots on the train and hop the next flight out to Texas or someplace similar, sultry and southern, where the girls on street corners speak soft and slow, no trace of the hackneyed consonants or posh, clipped British accents he's grown weary of. Yet, in spite of his waning appreciation for the people and attitudes, Brandon still loves the show, the audience.
A towering, beaky sort of bloke in a muscle tank emerges from stage left and seats himself at the piano with a slight nod to the crowd. Another body steps forward, considerably less in height but equally dark and enigmatic. The second boy is fashioned in tight black jeans and a ruffled white button-up. He tosses his hair out of his face in a careless gesture, stepping up to grab the mic and launching into a wailing cover of The Zutons, stomping his feet and growling his way though the chorus. His voice is pitchy at some points, almost whining at others, but it also rings out clear as a bell and Brandon finds himself entranced, as if this strange boy has cast a spell over the room and everyone in it.
The crowd goes wild. Brandon's never seen this kind of reaction for just a two-piece act, but the kids holler and dance and chant along when the singer thrusts the mic into the audience. The pianist sways along to the razzmatazz melodies, rolling his shoulders as the boy dominates the stage, pacing from side to side. He even climbs up on the piano for one song, smirking at the pianist and arching his back. There's a gap of light between his round ass and shoulder blades that Brandon wants to slide a hand under and guide the pistoning movement of his hips. Brandon, to his own admittance, is an absolute whore for a good front man, and this kid is stunning, rocking up onto his heels and lifting his pelvis towards the ceiling. It's indecent. Brandon's rendered stock-still and silent; unable to tear his eyes away from the spectacle, not even during the encore when the singer straps on an acoustic guitar and serenades the crowd with a swinging rockabilly number, banging a tambourine against his head.
It’s not till after the lights have gone back up and the crowd's dispersed slightly that Brandon remembers Carl and Pete. They never made it back from wherever it was they disappeared off to. He’s grateful they weren't present to witness Brandon’s captivity. With them gone, it’s easier to slide backstage with a nod from his buddy, Paul, who works security. The dressing room's stuffy and packed with too many drunk bodies for such a small show. Brandon senses he’s missed a crucial piece of information when Pete crows his name from the far side of the room.
Carl spots Brandon at the door and ushers him to Pete's corner, hissing in his ear, "I'm sorry, mate. I should have warned you before, but Pete's made friends with one of their lot; I think they share a dealer."
"Brandon," Pete says, "We've gote some blokes here just dying to make your acquaintance. My dear fellows, this is Flowers. Brandon, have you met Panic at the Disco?" Pete's smile is wicked. He's standing with two men; one short and compact, with something distinctly American about him, and the other unnaturally long and thin, decked out in tweed from head to toe.
Brandon flounders. Visibly. Carl keeps a steadying hand at his back as he coughs out, "Nice to meet you," extending his arm awkwardly.
The taller of the two men pins him with a benign stare. He offers a long-fingered hand for Brandon to shake. "I'm Ryan. That’s Jon," he says. "We're big fans of your band, really."
Tight-lipped, Brandon smiles. He wipes a clammy palm on his pant-leg.
"And this, Pete says exultantly, "is Brendon."
The singer materializes out of thin air like an apparition or something out of a Bruce Springsteen song.
"Hi," Brendon pants out, breathless and sweaty and utterly human, and it feels something like a revelation.
- - -
"So you're not at all bothered?" Carl asks wonderingly
In all honesty, he'd thought the after-party was a noisy, over-blown affair. But there had been specific moments which gave the ordeal merit. A sunny smile, the curve of muscle under sweaty fabric. Brendon had cornered him after introductions, leaning in close to be heard over the room’s din. “Did you like the show?”
“It was a good show.” Brandon says to Carl. An echo of his reply from the previous night. Carl snorts but he doesn’t prompt Brandon for further reaction, which is a big part of why they get on as well as they do.
Afternoon drags on in the little shop. There are a limited number of menial tasks to keep them occupied on rainy days such as these. There’s another guy, Jeph, who works the odd weekend, but he mostly hangs out behind the register and reads comic books. Occasionally he'll pull out his phone to text… someone. Brandon suspects the muscle-bound jock type who hangs around after closing, waiting to drive Jeph home. In any case, Jeph takes care of the customers, which frees time for Brandon and Carl to tackle personal projects. For Carl, this means holing up in the storeroom, drinking Kahlua and running figures on their deteriorating fossil of a desktop computer. Brandon on the other hand prefers the more laborious, time consuming chores. This month he systematically emptied, cleaned, and re-organized the browser racks, section by section. He’s almost through. There’s only the Jazz and Country left to go, and he hopes to finish by early evening.
Small tasks and manufactured responsibility compose the fabric of Brandon’s waking hours. It’d be depressing if Brandon weren’t petrified by the prospect of switching jobs, going back to Uni, or committing himself to something that requires his engagement with the world at large.
“Having fun?”
He blinks up through a haze of self-pity and cleaning fumes. The voice belongs to Brendon; leaning casually against the rack opposite, hands jammed in the tight pockets of his skinny jeans. He’s wearing a violently yellow t-shirt under a tan corduroy jacket, a slick pair of shades looped though the coat’s lower buttonhole. He looks good.
“How do you feel about cleaning?” Brandon asks.
“That all depends.”
“On what?”
“On who I’m cleaning with.”
Brandon fights a smile, fiddling with an empty CD case he found jammed between sectionals.
Brendon's grin is apologetic. “I would totally stay and help, but I’ve gotta take off in minute. Spencer, our drummer-“ Brendon inclines his head in the direction of a bearded young man perusing the magazine rack by the front door. “We're on a quest to find the perfect sub; I had to bribe him to stop.”
“How much?”
“Five quid! And I promised to pay for his meal.” Brendon leans in closer and says in a shouted whisper, “Spencer takes his subs very seriously.” The last word dissolves in helpless laughter. Brendon's gaze darts nervously to his drummer, but the other boy doesn't seem aware that his obsessive quest for sandwiches is the topic of conversation.
“Anyway, there's a mission to this madness. I'm here to invite you to a party. Tonight. Are you busy?”
Brandon is never busy. He pretends, when his mom calls, when his exes call, that his schedule's filled with a glittering array of terribly important appointments. But in reality he leads a quiet life. Tonight for instance, Brandon had planned on sitting home with take-away boxes, watching Mr. Bean reruns on the telly.
“No, I'm-” The words catch in his throat. Brandon can't quite believe this enchanting manchild who's waltzed his way into Brandon's commonplace existence and is now requesting his presence for social gatherings. This kind of thing doesn't happen to him. This kind of thing doesn't happen, period. Brandon shakes his head. “What time should I be there?”
After jotting down his cell number and the address for the party, Brendon departs with a smile and a wave, dragging his friend bodily from the store by the crook of his elbow. Brandon sits dumbly for several beats, staring uncomprehendingly at the scrap of paper in his hands. He hears a snort from the front of the store. Jeph is laughing at him from behind the register.
“Where did you pick him up, the playground?”
Brandon chooses not to dignify Jeph's remark with a response.
- - -
As parties go, this is rather tame. The host has yet to identify themselves; the apartment was unlatched when Brandon arrived, people spilling out into the hall. The loft is austere in appearance, no wall hangings, and very little in the way of furniture, save for the couch parked in the center of the room; a lone ship in a sea of bodies.
He spots Brendon camped out on said couch with his arms encircling his calves and knees tucked up under his chin like a little boy. Squeezed beside Brendon on the discolored, sagging cushions is a young woman; short, dark, with a labret piercing. The two of them sit unnecessarily close and their faces brush when Brendon leans forward to whisper in her ear. At once, Brandon feels very stupid.
He pushes rudely past the crowd loitering on the stairwell. He bursts though the front door to the street. Damp London air seeps though his clothes, his skin. He lights a fag to keep his hands occupied. Closing his eyes, he listens to the roar of traffic, of motorists and cabbies roaring past in a blur of sound. Brandon could hail one of those cabs, swan around the city for hours till the itch beneath his skin subsided to something more tolerable.
“Hiya, Sailor. ”
He opens his eyes.
Brendon stands before him, dangling a cigarette campily between his pointer and index fingers.
“Gotta light? ”
“You're ridiculous.” The way Brandon says it sounds nothing like an insult, and Brendon doesn't interpret it as one. He angles closer and presses the butt of his cigarette to Brandon's, lighting his end with the glowing cherry. The sign from the Indian restaurant across the way paints red and orange streaks on the damp pavement. Brendon moves closer. A lorry passes, loud, kicking up a spray of water with it's tires.
“Not a big fan of parties?”
Brandon weaves his left arm in a formless pattern then runs the attached hand though his hair, frustrated. “I used to be. I don’t know, it’s just- lately, not as much.”
“Yeah. I’m not really feeling it tonight, either." Brendon exhales, blowing smoke out the side of his mouth. The smoke lingers around his head, catching light from the street lamps. It cloaks the air around them in a hazy net of light. "We should get out of here. I want- can I come home with you?”
Brandon is taken aback by the blunt nature of the question and it's implications. In all his life, he's never come across another being in possession of as much confidence as Brandon aims to project on a daily basis. It's sexy as hell, and more than a bit frightening.
“Sure,” he says at last. “It’s a few blocks that way if you don’t mind walking.”
Brendon ducks his head, smiling. He doesn't seem to mind.
- - -
The flat is empty and quiet, just as Brandon left it. His roommate has taken a temporary leave of absence, off exploring Rome with her girlfriend. She occasionally sends Brandon postcards with what she considers inspiring messages scrawled across the back in spiky handwriting: Don't forget to water my plants, asshole. Love, S. One such card is mounted proudly on their fridge, script side out.
If he possessed any manners at all, Brandon would give his guest the grand tour. He'd walk Brendon though the four dusty rooms while chattering nervously on about vintage tables and their collection of rubber stamps. Brandon has no manners. He leads Brendon directly to the bedroom and shuts the door behind them with a dry click of the lock.
“Oh, no, ” Brendon says in mock dismay. “Looks like we're trapped. Whatever shall we do now?” His tone morphs from light humor to something absurdly hot as he steps forward and pins Brandon up against the door with just the slight bulk of his wiry frame.
The bedroom is small and dark and quiet around them. It amplifies the noise generated between their two bodies. The blinds were left open and Brandon wonders if anyone else is watching, if they can see Brendon’s quick fingers as they skid hotly under Brandon’s shirt, blazing an open-palmed trail across his lower belly.
Brandon can't believe what's happening now, nor the events that transpired in the moments leading up to this moment. He watches, delirious, as Brendon drops to the ground with a muffled thump against the thin carpet. Ow, he thinks.
Brendon captures his flailing hand and brings it to his full mouth to kiss Brandon's oblong thumb, his bony knuckles. The cavern of his mouth is wet and hot. Brandon crooks his pointer and index fingers and strokes the ribbed roof of Brendon's mouth.
"You know, Brandon says slowly as it occurs to him. "I don't think you have any idea what you're doing." He rubs softly along the broad plane of Brendon's tongue, because he wants to. Because he's in the position to do so, and Brandon likes to press his advantage when he can.
Brendon bites down playfully with his sharp canines. "Neither do you," he replies pointedly and licks the indentations left behind by his teeth. "Do you really think it matters?"
"No," Brandon says, voice soft. "I guess it doesn't."
Brendon beams up at Brandon from the floor. His eyes crinkle at the corners and he's alive and careless and beautiful and everything Brandon never wanted, wrapped up in this bawdy mess of a human being.
He says, "That's right, buster. And, hey, get used to me being right all the time. Remember this moment in the future, 'cause it won't be the last time."