Fic: Keep Your Love (Away From Me) 1/3
He capped the pen with a divisive click, shoved it and the mess of papers at the man to his right. He averted his eyes as his attorney slid a copy across the sleek mahogany tabletop to Cassie’s lawyer.
Cassie leaned over to whispers something into the man's ear, her voice carrying in the quiet of the absurdly opulent conference room. “Could you give us a minute?”
He supposed that now that the divorce was official they didn’t really require hundred-dollar-an-hour chaperones. At Jon’s nod of agreement both men stood.
As the two men made their unobtrusive exit, it occurred to Jon that he hadn’t actually been alone with Cassie since she’d asked him for the divorce nearly a year earlier. He sincerely hoped that whatever she planned to say now went more smoothly than that conversation had.
When Cassie left him she hadn’t been particularly angry. She had just seemed incredibly sad, and really fucking tired. At the time Jon thought that he would have preferred anger. He needn’t have worried, that came later, along with the discussion of the property settlement.
Cassie had filed for divorce citing irreconcilable differences. Jon had known for a while that things weren’t working with them, but her request for a divorce caught him by surprise. He didn’t know how she could call their issues irreconcilable when they didn’t actually try to reconcile them. His halfhearted suggestion of counseling was met with stony silence, and that was that.
“Got something to say, Cass?” He tried not to take too much pleasure in her slight flinch at his use of the nickname.
“Yes. I just wanted to make sure that you were okay," she said. Her voice was concerned, but her words struck Jon as being unintentionally condescending.
“Well, my marriage of three years just ended, so I’d say I’m doing great.” He’d heard once that sarcasm was the lowest form of humor. It was a good thing he wasn’t trying to be funny.
“Jon, don’t do that." Cassie was trying desperately to meet his gaze, and Jon finally gave in. "I know we can’t be friends right now, but I’d like to at least be cordial.” She was still as beautiful as she’d always been, still had the power to move him.
“It’s kind of hard to be cordial when I’m still not really sure why we’re not married anymore.” He didn’t even attempt to hide his bitterness.
Cassie sighed, as if she was already weary at the thought of having to cover such familiar ground.
“Jon, we’ve been over this. It just wasn’t working. We both knew that.”
He thought his mutinous silence spoke for itself.
“All right then, fine. We’re getting a divorce for the same reason we broke up the first time," she said, finally reaching straight up exasperation. "You were never there, Jon.”
He opened his mouth to protest, but Cassie held up a hand to fend it off. “Yes, I know that you were actually physically present this time. But in all the ways that mattered, you weren’t.” She wasn’t angry as she said it, as she hadn’t been angry at the beginning, just resigned.
He couldn’t really say anything to that, but he tried anyway. “I really did love you, Cass.”
She shot him a wistful smile as she began to gather her things. “I know. That’s what makes this so hard.”
As she reached the door she turned back to look at him, her body framed by the light of the hallway. “When was the last time you were really happy, Jon?” She swept through the doorway, tossing back over her shoulder, “Just something to think about.”
Cassie was maybe still a little pissed off.
-
If Jon really thought about it, and he would honestly rather sit through an interview with a teen magazine than think about it, the last time he was really happy was probably when he and Ryan were touring for Take a Vacation.
They were making music and there were no expectations, just him and Ryan, their friends and their fucking vision.
The venues were smaller, as were the paychecks, but it was exactly what Jon had wanted. People finally recognized them as legitimate musicians. Things felt easy for the first time in a long time.
He and Ryan were doing what they wanted to do; Spencer and Brendon were doing the same, and if there was still some bad blood between them, Jon was confident that the decision was for the best.
Ryan cornered Jon in the bathroom of the concert hall the night of their first real show as The Young Veins. He appeared anxious, as he hadn’t in years, still a little unsure of himself in his role as sole front man.
“Are you sure about this, Jon? Because it’s not too late. We don’t have to do this.”
Jon was pretty sure that seeing as they were about to go on in a little under an hour, that it was in fact too late to change his mind, but he wasn’t so new to being Ryan Ross’ friend that he didn’t see right through the offered out.
“Yeah, Ryan. I’m sure. It’ll be awesome. We’re awesome.” He gave him a tight hug, his arms crushing Ryan’s skinny form to his body.
“I’m really glad you’re here, Jon.” His words were muffled by Jon’s shoulder.
“Where else would I be?” he said, trying to make it a joke. But they both knew the answer to that question.
He released Ryan, met his bandmate’s huge grin with one of his own. He felt excited as he hadn’t in a long time, ready to make great music with one of his best friends.
They had written an album as a new band, and it was good, and touring was good and their new friends were good. It was all good, until it just wasn’t anymore.
They made it into the studio to write their second album as this new and improved band. They wrote and recorded a few songs, when suddenly Ryan’s words stopped flowing and Jon’s melodies all began to sound the same.
It was worse than the cabin. It was worse because this time there was no infighting over how a line should be sung or what direction they wanted to go in. There were no strained silences or catty exchanges. They just couldn’t write songs, and they had only themselves to blame.
They released an EP, did a few shows and just kind of drifted back to their respective corners of the world. Neither of them ever said the word ‘hiatus’, they never even officially stated that the band was breaking up, it just kind of became apparent that they couldn’t call themselves a band if they didn’t actually write songs or play music together.
The Young Veins lasted two years. Jon thought that it could have been worse. That was longer than the first band he'd been in.
-
Jon hadn’t seen Tom in months. He hadn’t been very good at keeping in touch since Tom had moved to New York with the band. Much as he loved Tom, it still kind of stung to hear about how well things were working out with Tommy’s band.
The last time he’d seen an Empires show the venue had been considerably smaller, it seemed that they’d really moved up in the world since. Jon was just glad that he was going straight backstage and wouldn’t have to spend hours in the crush of screaming fans.
He held his pass up for the muscular security guard to check, then made his way back toward the dressing room. He didn’t think that he would ever get used to being one of the potential weirdoes that security screened, as opposed to being the one they screened the weirdoes for.
Jon got to the door of Empires' dressing room, the piece of paper marking it in stark bold-faced type. He couldn’t help the smile that spread over his face. He really was proud of Tommy.
He rapped his knuckles against the door before pushing it open, expecting to see the band on laptops, listening to iPods or sleeping on the always-questionable dressing room couches.
What he did not expect was to see Brendon Urie holding court in the center of the room.
Ryan J. spotted him first, looking over Brendon’s shoulder and calling out a cheerful, “ Jon Walker, as I live and breathe.”
He promptly jumped up off the couch to cross the room and envelope Jon in an enthusiastic hug. Jon hugged him back automatically, his mind racing as he tried to figure out why the fuck Brendon Urie would be standing in Empires’ dressing room.
When Ryan finally released him, he heard a quiet, “Hey, Jonny,” from behind him. He turned to find a smirking Tom Conrad waiting his turn to meet him with an embrace and a manly thump on the back.
Jon buried his face in Tom’s shoulder and tried to remember how to breathe. He could swear that he could actually feel Brendon’s eyes on him from across the room. Like he was fucking staring at him, as if Jon had wandered his way into a kid’s activity book and Brendon had decided that he was the odd man out in a game of ‘which one of these things does not belong’.
He finally loosened his death-grip on Tom and turned to face the room. He exchanged greetings with the rest of the band, trying to look like he wasn’t silently freaking out. He fell back on years of stoner chill to help him appear perfectly at ease facing his former band member, whom he hadn’t seen in over five years.
After Sean answered a rather inane question Jon posed about the health of his dog, he was finally left with no other choice but to acknowledge Brendon’s presence.
Brendon was standing with his hip pressed against the arm of the ratty couch, hands in the pockets of his carefully distressed jeans, his lips quirked in a small smile. His hair was falling into his eyes, just a little too long. Like it got when Brendon had been too lazy to make it to the hairdresser, as opposed to the A.V. club-member-on-picture day look that he’d always managed when his hair was freshly cut. His eyes were crinkled at the edges and his body was loose, and he looked really fucking good.
“Hey, Jon Walker. Good to see you, man.”
He was pretty sure that with that Brendon won the unspoken ‘who can act like this is a totally ordinary and a not at all awkward social encounter’ challenge. He’d rattled off a Good to see you, man, like they were just casual acquaintances who ran into each other at a coffee shop. Jon was more than a little pissed off that Brendon actually managed to pull it off.
He tried for cool disinterest in his response, but only managed a strained smile and a stilted, “You, too. It’s, uh, been awhile.”
“Yeah, it’s been too long!” Brendon’s grin was bright, and it set Jon’s teeth on edge.
Tom came to his rescue, clapping his hands companionably on Jon’s shoulders and shoved him down into a folding chair cattycorner to the sofa, the seat farthest from Brendon in the room.
“For me too, Jon,” Tom said, slumping into the chair next to him, “I almost called your mom to make sure that you weren’t dead in your apartment. I think I’d like your cats a lot less if they’d, like, snacked on your dead body.”
“Jesus, Tom. Seriously, no more David Caruso for you. That was freaking morbid.” Sean kicked at Tom’s shin from his seat on the couch, earning a frown and retaliatory kick from Tom.
“Dude, you think that’s bad? I once found Conrad taking a picture of a dead bird in a Wal-Mart parking lot. He mumbled something about light and composition and just kept at it,” Brendon shook his head in amusement. “You’re so fucking creepy, Tom,” he said with a fond smile.
Jon cast surreptitious glances at Brendon as the other man fell into easy conversation with the band. He looked completely at home sitting there, talking to Jon’s best friend about what a jackass he could be. It was like Jon had stepped into a time warp and it was suddenly eight years ago, and Tommy had taken a break from licking his wounds to slot himself effortlessly into Jon’s band.
Just like that, Jon understood how Brendon came to be inexplicably invading Jon’s life and hijacking his best friend.
Jon remembered how unreal the Circus tour was, and he remembered what a mess Tom had been when he joined up after everything had gone down with Bill and Mike. He also remembered the sudden and bizarre thing that had sprung up between Brendon and Tom.
Brendon had developed a blindingly obvious and completely predictable crush on a tragically emo Tom Conrad. And once Tom had moved past the passing-out-drunk-in-his-own-vomit stage of the grieving process, he took notice of Brendon’s clumsy flirtation. Jon didn’t know who was more surprised when Tom took Brendon up on his tongue-in-cheek offer to get horizontal, Brendon or the rest of the band.
Tom and Brendon spent two weeks completely failing at being discreet as their epically awkward and improbable passion ran its course. After a really uncomfortable first few days, Jon spent the remainder of those two weeks making sure that he walked several paces behind Ryan and Spencer, ensuring that he would have ample warning before walking around a corner to see his best friend and the guy that he watched The Little Mermaid with dry humping against the wall of a concert hall.
It had ended almost as quickly as it started. Tom was too freshly damaged after the TAI thing, and Brendon was too young and newly famous for them to really make anything of it. In spite of being almost as socially hopeless as Tom, Brendon somehow managed to remain friends with him even after they stopped hooking up.
Which was how Brendon came to be here, in Jon’s city to see his best friend’s show. Jon had vaguely known that Brendon and Tom were still friends, just as Ryan and Tom were still friends, but he hadn’t thought that they were the kind of friends who went out of their way to invite each other to their band’s shows. Jon thought that would have been pretty fucking useful information to have.
Tom certainly hadn’t talked to Jon about Brendon, hadn’t thought to mention that Brendon Urie was going to show up out of nowhere and fuck with Jon’s status quo. Sitting in an unfamiliar dressing room with one entirely too familiar person, Jon couldn’t help but notice that aside from the unfortunate blatantly concerned looks that Tom kept shooting him, the flow of the conversation was easy.
Jon wasn’t really the jealous type, he’d always been the kind of guy that just sort of let things happen as they would, which was pretty much at odds with the possessiveness necessary for jealousy. But that was before Brendon showed up out of nowhere and began conversing effortlessly with Tom and the others.
He was suddenly blindingly jealous of Tom. Tom, who had apparently been in contact with Brendon for the last five years that Jon has missed. Tom, who had probably been the recipient of countless poorly punctuated and absurdly emoticoned text messages over the years.
A hand clapped down on his thigh, bringing him back to the conversation. “Hey, JWalk, we’re about to go on.” Tom briefly squeezed Jon’s knee and flashed him what Jon assumed was meant to be a reassuring smile. “You don’t want to miss this. AP called us electric.” He waggled his eyebrows meaningfully on the last.
Jon couldn’t help but smile back at him. Fucking Tom Conrad.
After a round of enthusiastic high-fives and back slapping, the band filed out of the room to make their way to the stage, leaving Brendon and Jon momentarily alone. Jon didn’t know how he let that happen.
Brendon broke the silence first, clapping his hands together decisively, the noise startling in the quiet that followed the band’s departure. “Well, we’d better get out there, Walker. I hear Alternative Press has called them electric.” His grin was conspiratory, like he and Jon were sharing some great joke.
He forced himself to smile back, but knew his wasn’t as convincing as Brendon’s.
“Yeah, let’s go watch the magic happen.”
They headed toward the door together, and aside from the awkward shuffle they engaged in when they each tried to let the other walk through the doorway first, they managed to make it side stage relatively unscathed. That was if Jon disregarded the complete mindfuck that was walking toward a crowd of screaming concertgoers with Brendon Urie at his side.
It promised to be a really long night.
-
When they got to the bar after the show, the first thing Tom did was pull Jon aside to apologize profusely for not telling him about Brendon. They huddled against the dark corner of the bar with Tom hovering right up in his personal space, head hanging low and foot scuffing the floor absently.
“I’m so sorry, Jonny. I didn’t even think about it. Brendon’s in town for a thing, and we were talking, and it just happened. It was totally spur of the moment.” He was the very picture of hang-dogged contrition, and Jon had never really been able to hold on to his anger, especially at Tom, who never really got that he was doing something he shouldn’t until he’d already done it.
The other guys were shooting them curious looks from the table that they’d snagged across the bar. Jon caught Brendon’s eye accidentally and had to force himself not to look away too quickly. He could swear that the look in Brendon’s eye was knowing.
Jon was pretty sure it was completely obvious to everyone at that table what they were talking about. He sighed and kneaded his fingertips into his temples. Jesus, it really was amazing that Tom and Brendon hadn’t managed to out themselves years ago. Tom alone was one of the least subtle people he’d ever met, trumped only by Brendon.
Jon patted at one of Tom’s nervously flailing arms. “It’s fine. We know a lot of the same people. It was bound to happen sooner or later.”
Tom’s face brightened, and he scratched thoughtfully at the dark blonde stubble on his cheek. “You’re right. This will probably be good for you. Give you a chance to talk some stuff out, get some closure.” He nodded knowingly, and Jon was pretty sure he was thinking about Bill.
But he and Brendon weren’t Tom and Bill. Things went down a lot differently with them, and Jon didn’t think that buying each other a beer and talking about old times was going to bring him anything remotely resembling closure.
He said as much to Tom, “Yeah, somehow I really don’t see that happening. And you’re still an asshole for not warning me that he’d be there tonight.” Jon punched him pointedly in the shoulder. He hoped it left a bruise.
Tom’s lips twitched, like he knew that he’d been forgiven and had already moved on. He declared that it was time to get thoroughly drunk, wrapped an arm around Jon’s shoulders and ushered him toward their table.
When they got to the crowded table Jon had to stamp down the urge to punch Tom again. Tom took the vacant seat next to Al, leaving only the seat next to Brendon open. Jon took his seat and leaned over to whisper graphic threats in Tom’s ear, but he had already turned to face Al and was engaged in what appeared to be an intense conversation about sheet thread count.
Jon was more than ready to embrace his anger at Tom now.
“Hey. So that was an awesome show.” And there was that grin again. Fuck.
“Yeah, they were pretty awesome,” Jon said, and he knew that he could at least sound sincere about that. Because whatever, Tom was a douchebag, but that didn’t mean that Jon wasn’t incredibly proud of what he’d accomplished.
A waitress arrived bearing beer and tumblers of whiskey that the others had apparently ordered while he and Tom were having their heart-to-heart. Jon barely refrained from downing the liquor.
Brendon shifted in the seat next to him, taking a sip of his Dos Exes. And some things really didn’t change. When he set the beer down, he precisely matched the bottom of his beer bottle to the ring of condensation on the table. And yeah, some things didn’t change, but others obviously did, because that kind of care didn’t really add up with the image of Brendon that Jon had been carrying around in his head for years.
“Yep, awesome show,” Brendon said, agreeing to Jon’s assessment from before. “I can’t wait to get back to it, man.”
Okay, so they were talking about that. Neat. All Jon could really manage to that was a weak, “Yeah.”
Brendon seemed to pick up on his discomfort, which was a miracle because he’d never really been one for context cues. Jon supposed that when you spent as much time with each other as they had you couldn’t help but learn how to read those kinds of things, even if you were years out of practice.
Brendon changed the subject, asking, “So, what are you doing these days? I haven’t talked to Ryan in a while, but…” He arched an eyebrow inquisitively and let his words trail off, leaving Jon to fill in the blank.
As much as he didn’t want to hear Brendon talk about touring and the joy of performing or whatever, he certainly didn’t want to talk about what he’d been up to in the intervening years.
Jon didn’t really see a graceful way out of the conversation, so he sketched out a brief picture of his life. There wasn’t much to tell. He’d put some of the money he had left from Panic into his brother’s construction company and had invested the rest.
He wasn’t really involved in the day-to-day running of the company, just stopped in every few weeks to make his brother feel like he was trying to be a part of things. He spent the rest of his time wandering the city with his camera, remembering why he’d wanted to study film in college.
He hung out with his family, babysat nieces and nephews, attended birthday parties and christenings, as he hadn’t been able to when he was touring all the time. He played music sometimes, but hadn’t written anything in years. There really wasn’t much of a point when he wasn’t going to do anything with it. He didn’t mention that part to Brendon.
“You’re still doing photography? That’s great,” Brendon said, sounding entirely too enthused about what Jon thought was a pretty boring account of his life. “I’d love to see some of your pictures.”
“Uh, sure. So what brings you to Chicago in the dead of winter?” Jon hadn’t really thought about it, hadn’t really let himself think about why Brendon was in Chicago. But after he’d gotten over the initial shock of Brendon being backstage, he’d realized it didn’t really make sense that Brendon was just there for Tom’s show.
As much as he really didn’t want to know about what Brendon was doing these days, asking about it was kind of the next inevitable step in the conversation. And as much as he really didn’t want to know, he actually really did.
“I’m here doing some press stuff. A few interviews to talk up the album. You know how it goes.” Brendon shrugged his shoulders in a kind of ‘what can you do?’ gesture.
Jon decided to let his last statement slide. Sure, Jon knew how it went, doing press. He just nodded his head in confirmation and took a pull of his beer, having long since finished the whiskey.
Brendon waved his hand dismissively, “It’s… whatever. Seriously though, I want to hear more about you. How’s Cassie? She’s not meeting us tonight?” He leaned forward in his chair, his elbows resting on the table in front of him, thumb idly running over the label of his beer. His indolent posture was what really gave him away; Brendon was loose in his seat. It seemed that when Jon wasn’t paying attention, too much of his attention focused on trying to appear as composed as possible, the waitress had come around with another round or two. Brendon was only a beer or two away from drunk. His tolerance always was for shit.
That was really the only reason that Jon didn’t immediately suspect that Brendon already knew the answer to his question from one of his clandestine conversations with Tom, which was one explanation as to how he could have known that Jon and Cassie had even gotten back together in the first place.
“Me and Cass, we actually called it quits a while ago. Just one of those things, I guess.” Jon really couldn’t believe that he had just boiled down the end of his marriage to just one of those things. He didn’t even say shit like that, he was pretty sure he remembered his mom saying that in the face of his tears over a broken lamp and a ill-fated baseball.
Jon was watching Brendon’s reaction with entirely too much care. He studied the faint grimace that flitted across Brendon’s face, and tried to determine whether it was simply a reaction bred from his unintentional faux pas and his Mormon manners or if it meant something else entirely. But he was out of practice, and as open as Brendon liked to pretend to be, he rarely showed all that he was feeling.
“Jesus, Jon. I’m sorry. I didn’t know or I would have- ” Jon cut him off, he really didn’t want to know what Brendon would or wouldn’t have done if he’d had that information.
“What about you and… Sarah? How’d that work out?” And Jon was seriously the biggest liar. As if he didn’t remember what Brendon’s old girlfriend’s name was. He was sometimes amazed at what he remembered from before the split, and the stuff about Brendon in particular wasn’t so easily forgotten.
“No, we actually broke up. Made a good run of it though. We were just really young.” And that startles Jon, because in his mind, even with Brendon sitting right in front of him, his shaggy hair obscuring eyes with faint smile lines etched around them, wearing a button down where there should be a t-shirt, Brendon was still really young. As far as Jon was concerned, Brendon was still in his early twenties, frozen in time. He was still the kind of obnoxious kid with too much energy and too big of a smile, even with the slightly older, more reserved version sitting right in front of Jon.
Jon felt really old all of a sudden. Old, and tired of the stupid fucking charade that Tom had forced on him. Because it wasn’t going to solve anything, he’d meant what he had told Tom earlier. One night playing nice and catching up wouldn’t erase five years of radio silence or the painful few months that preceded it.
He pushed away from the table, his movements too jerky to pass for casual. “I’ve just got to…” He gestured vaguely toward the bar beyond their table, having no real destination in mind. Some of the others called out in question as he left, and he had the passing thought that Tom must have said something for them to have left he and Brendon alone for so long. Jon was less than grateful for that at the moment.
-
Jon didn’t really know who had called it a divorce first. He thought it might have been Zack, but it could just as easily have been the fans. It hadn’t really mattered, Jon hadn’t thought of it as a divorce anyway. He had been in a band, and bands broke up, and that’s all there was to it.
He didn’t think of it as a divorce until he and Cassie went through an actual divorce. Then he realized that the similarities were kind of uncanny.
When he and Cassie argued over who got to keep the entertainment system, even though he knew for a fact that Cassie had no clue what a subwoofer even was, he was uncomfortably reminded of the clash between Brendon and Ryan over that fucking blue guitar.
By the time they went through the band’s storage unit Jon was pretty sure that neither of them had touched it in over six months, but at that point they weren’t really fighting over the guitar. Hell, they each had at least six guitars that were better than that one; it wasn’t about wanting the guitar. It was about winning.
Jon didn’t even know what he was doing there, but Ryan had told him in no uncertain terms that if he had to suffer through what was bound to be an extremely uncomfortable experience, then so did Jon.
The four of them were divided into two factions, strain tangible as if the storage unit was a ghost town in a western and they were involved in a Mexican standoff. Zack stood somewhere in the middle, an innocent and extremely put-upon bystander.
Ryan fired the first shot. “It’s my guitar. I used it all last tour.”
“It is not your guitar.” Brendon’s jaw was stubbornly set, Spencer Smith standing as a silent sentry at his side.
Brendon hadn’t even so much as looked at Jon since he’d gotten there. Jon couldn’t exactly blame him, he’d been dodging Brendon’s phone calls for weeks.
“Well it certainly isn’t yours,” Ryan said, sounding pretty sure of that fact. He crossed his skinny arms over the deep v-neck of his shirt.
Now Brendon looked smug, “I never said it was. It doesn’t belong to either of us. It belongs to the band.” He paused to let that sink in.
Jon really, really didn’t want to be there for this. He could tell by the subtle shift of Spencer’s stance that he felt the same.
“What?” Ryan’s tone would cow a lesser man, but Brendon had been eliciting Ryan’s anger since he was sixteen, and Jon knew he wasn’t about to back down.
“That guitar was purchased for the tour. By the label. For the band.” Brendon spoke slowly as if to a child.
Ryan actually sputtered in his rage. Jon thought that if the circumstances were different it would be kind of hilarious, as it was it just made him want to get through this as quickly as possible.
“As neither of you is actually still on the label, I don’t think that you have any claim on the guitar.” His tone was snide.
Jon felt vaguely ill. That was the first Brendon had acknowledged his presence, even indirectly.
“Fine. That’s true of pretty much everything in this place. So I guess we’re done here.” Jon knew Ryan always thought it was a shame that he couldn’t eviscerate people through his glare alone, but he was pretty sure that he would regret unintentionally killing Brendon. Eventually. “Come on, Jon.”
“Brendon,” Jon said, just trying to get him to look his way.
“Yeah, we’re done here.” Brendon was finally looking at him, but Jon wished that he wasn’t. Brendon didn’t look like he’d just beaten Ryan. He looked defeated.
Spencer shot him a helpless look as he followed Ryan out to his car.
Brendon took that round.
Brendon, really Brendon and Spencer, actually won a majority of their little skirmishes, but most were won simply by default. They got to keep the songs, and the tour with Ryan’s defunct idols. They got to keep Zack and Pete. It had seemed like they were going to share custody of Shane for a while, but that arrangement was short-lived, as Shane was first and foremost Brendon’s.
Jon supposed that’s what happened when you were the spouse who cheated; you didn’t really have a leg to stand on. Jon wouldn’t know, that was never the problem with him and Cass. But he imagined it felt pretty much like that.
In the end, Cassie got to keep the house, most of their more expensive electronics, and all of their married friends. In his more bitter moments, when he thought about the songs they wrote, and the people he couldn't pick up the phone to call anymore, when he thought about Spencer - and Brendon - he thought that he came out better when he and Cassie ended things.
-
The door hit the wall with a loud clang as Jon stumbled into the alleyway. He needed to put a little distance between himself and Brendon fucking Urie. Jon wished that he could get that kind of distance from his own thoughts.
He settled his back against the rough brick wall of the building and searched his pockets for his cigarettes and a lighter. He lit one and took a deep drag, closed his eyes and tried to quiet his mind.
Jon exhaled and tipped his head back to look up at the night sky between the looming rooftops of the buildings. He hadn’t really let himself think about what it would be like to see Brendon again. He had actively avoided news of him and Spencer, what the band had been up to. That was considerably harder to do when presented with Brendon in the flesh.
The door let out a rusty screech as Brendon pushed his way through it. Jon didn’t need to look down to know it was him. Brendon never could leave well enough alone.
Brendon didn’t speak for several minutes, just leaned against the wall next to him, his posture matching Jon’s. He couldn’t help but notice the careful distance that Brendon kept between them, and that’s new, unexpected of someone who always saw personal space as more of a challenge than a social restriction.
“Could I bum one of those?” Brendon’s voice cut through the tense silence, he gestured toward the cigarette in Jon’s hand.
Jon was still cringing internally from his loss of control back in the bar. He managed to keep his movements steady as he handed Brendon the pack. He thumbed the catch of the lighter, flame flickering as Brendon leaned forward to hold the tip to the light. He took a deep breath and let it out with an exaggerated whoosh of sound.
“Thanks. You know, I’ve been trying to quit forever. Inhaling poisonous smoke is supposed to be bad for the voice or something. Go figure.” Brendon forced out a wooden laugh.
Jon couldn’t pull his eyes away from Brendon as he lifted the cigarette to his lips to take another drag.
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“Huh?” Brendon turned to face him fully, his shoulders hunching forward in such a way that he still managed to keep his distance. Jon thought that his stance probably had more to do with his discomfort than the Chicago winter.
Jon knew that he shouldn’t have said anything, whatever self-preservation instincts he had were screaming warnings to not engage. But it was too late for that, and Jon was too tired to care.
“I wouldn’t know. About you trying to quit smoking, I wouldn’t know. We haven’t exactly been exchanging Christmas cards lately.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Brendon’s voice was incredulous. Jon remembered that he’d perfected that tone on Ryan in the last few months before they made the split official. “You were the one…” His words trailed off, the slow exhale of his breath misting in the cold, indistinguishable from cigarette smoke.
“Okay, fine,” he said after a beat. “If that’s how you want to do this, then… fine. Let’s do this.”
Brendon squared his shoulders, as if readying himself for battle. He still didn’t seem angry, just resigned.
Maybe Jon’s common sense was finally kicking in because he didn’t respond, just let his cigarette burn closer to the filter as the silence dragged on. And that was something that Brendon never could stand. He’d once confessed to Jon that it literally made his skin itch if he was surrounded by quiet for too long.
“Right. You seem to have things pretty well under control out here. I’ll just let you get back to it.” This time his laugh was mocking, but Jon couldn’t be sure which of them it was aimed at. Brendon dropped his half-smoked cigarette to the pavement and snubbed it out with the toe of his sneaker.
Brendon moved to touch him for the first time, his hand briefly clasping Jon’s shoulder. It was like a switch had been flipped, and he was all smiles again as he tossed out, “It was good to see you again, man.” He turned toward the door that would lead him back to the bar.
Jon knew he should feel relieved that Brendon was going, but all he felt was anger. It had taken them years to get here, and Brendon was just going to walk away as if it didn’t mean anything at all, as if this hadn’t affected him in the least. He was suddenly so furious that he could barely hear himself think, he was almost dizzy with it.
That was really the only excuse he had for what he did next.
“That’s it, Urie? You don’t have anything else you want to say to me? Well, I guess you never were one for confrontation. Always did just take whatever Ross dished out.” He thought fleetingly that he should be surprised that his voice could sound that cold.
What he said wasn’t even true, Brendon and Ryan’s shouting matches had been legendary. But if there was one thing that Jon knew about Brendon, it was that the truth was irrelevant in the face of his insecurities. It didn’t matter how many years had passed, Ryan Ross would always be the root of Brendon’s biggest insecurities.
Jon’s eyes were glued to Brendon’s back, tracking the way his shoulders tensed under his too thin leather jacket. He felt sick to stomach in a way that has nothing to do with the beers he’d had earlier.
He’d never quite gotten the hang of the deliberate cruelty that Ryan sometimes utilized. He’d always expressed his frustration with Brendon through casual, biting sarcasm. It had always seemed to have a much more lasting effect, leaving Brendon careful and quiet around him for days afterward.
But Jon wanted a reaction, he was spoiling for a fight, and if he had picked up anything from Ryan, he was going to get one.
Brendon whirled to face him, hands spread in front of him, imploring. “Jon, I really don’t want to do this. I was in town and I just wanted to come see Tommy’s show. I didn’t know you were going to be there. If I had…”
“Yeah, I just bet you wouldn’t have come if you’d known I was going to be there, would you, Bren?” He could feel his features contort, his mouth pulling into a sneer. “Hell, I’m surprised that you and Tom are still in touch. You’ve never been good at staying friends with your casual fucks.” Jon didn’t even know where this was coming from. It wasn’t at all what he was planning to say, wasn’t really even an issue between them.
Jon could see Brendon’s eyes narrow in the dim light of the alley, his face tightened. “Are you even listening to yourself? You’re such a fucking hypocrite,” Brendon spat out.
There it was. He was finally angry, and Jon felt vindicated.
Jon ignored his words, deciding to cut right to the chase. “How are things with the band, Brendon? Everything going well?” And Jon was just fishing now, but it was odd that Spencer wasn’t there with Brendon, wasn’t there for this. It probably would have gone a lot differently if he had been.
Brendon just shook his head, his hand moving to rub at the tension at the base of his neck. The gesture was so familiar that it made something in Jon’s chest clench. “We’re taking a break right now. Spence just got married, so I’m doing the solo thing for a bit.” His expression was blank, a rare thing for Brendon, but his eyes remained hostile. And Jon knew this too, knew this look. The look that asked what do you want from me?
Jon didn’t have an answer to that unspoken question, and he was feeling a little hysterical with it. He shuffled a few steps closer to Brendon, pushing into his space. He could no more stop himself from speaking than he could stop the blood rushing in his ears. “You really can’t seem to hang onto your band members, can you, B?” And Brendon was right, Jon was a huge hypocrite.
When Brendon spoke again his voice was composed, his tone polite. “I’m sorry that you’re angry, Jon. But that really isn’t my fault.”
Jon could count on one hand the number of times he had seen Brendon like this, seen him become so angry as to revert back to the cold war approach to confrontation he’d learned as a child.
Jon was standing so close that he could feel the warmth of Brendon’s breath over his face. It was more than a little distracting. “You’re sorry?” his words were practically a whisper.
He honestly didn’t know why that pushed Brendon over the edge, but he was suddenly stumbling backwards from the force of Brendon’s hands connecting with his chest. Brendon was in his face, his voice a low growl to keep from screaming the words at Jon, “I’m not the one who dropped off the face of the planet! I didn’t stop returning phone calls, and texts and emails. That’s all on you, Jon Walker. I’m not the one who decided to throw away five years of friendship, to throw away everything.” His voice broke on the last. Jon couldn’t take the look on Brendon’s face anymore, the abject misery there.
Jon muttered a heartfelt, “Fuck.” He surged forward, closing the last bit of distance between them. His mouth collided with Brendon’s, his body crowding Brendon’s smaller frame back into the rough brick behind him. There was entirely too much teeth for it to really be considered a kiss, but it was the most contact he’d had with Brendon in five years and he was drunk on it.
Everything he’d said was true, Brendon had tried. He’d bombarded Jon with phone calls and stupid texts about going to the grocery store and how the surf was. He’d cluttered up Jon’s inbox with lame forwards and gently probing emails. And Jon had hated him for it. He’d hated that Brendon wouldn’t just let it go, wouldn’t let Jon move the fuck on with his life after the split.
His fingers carded through the hair at the base of Brendon’s skull, directing Brendon’s mouth to right where he wanted it.
And Brendon wasn’t kissing him back, had in fact gone utterly still against him. Jon suddenly felt like a predator that had trapped a small animal, and that was just really not on.
He shifted his hand, his thumb finding the curve of Brendon’s lower lip, and he applied just enough pressure to get Brendon’s mouth to open under his. Brendon made a sound low in his throat.
Jon moved his mouth insistently over Brendon’s, his hips pressing forward to gain full body contact. Brendon was hard against him, and Jon was both relieved and pissed off at that fact.
Jon could feel Brendon attempt to keep himself frozen against him, but as Jon aligned their hips, erections sliding together, Brendon’s stuttered forward in response.
All Jon could think was yes and finally. But Brendon was nothing if not stubborn, and he began to push at Jon’s chest with the hands that were trapped between them, even as his body continued to move against Jon’s. Jon changed the angle of his lower body, his teeth nipping at Brendon’s lip, and God it was good.
When he came it was unexpected, his hips jerking against the hard length of Brendon. He was caught off guard by the rush, and the burst of heat and wet in the front of his jeans. His head tilted forward to rest on Brendon’s shoulder, body spent and slowly coming back to reality.
Brendon let out a sobbing breath into his neck, and a quiet whispered “Fuck” that echoed Jon from minutes earlier. Brendon was still hard against him, but somehow he knew that Brendon wouldn’t welcome it if he offered him a hand.
Jon pushed himself back from Brendon’s still form, his eyes trying to catch Brendon’s gaze. But he wasn’t having any of it, his attention focused somewhere over Jon’s shoulder.
He opened his mouth to speak, but the words got caught in his throat. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what he could say. He reached a hand toward Brendon, but something in the set of his shoulders kept him from making contact. Fuck, indeed.
Brendon abruptly shoved himself away from the wall, slipping sideways past Jon, before he even has time to register the move. There was a brief explosion of noise as the door opened and closed again, leaving Jon alone in the alley.
Jon tipped his head back, closed his eyes against the view of the night sky and took a deep breath until his lungs ached with the cold. He rolled his shoulders back, expelled the air in his lungs and turned toward the mouth of the alleyway.
He’d just call Tom tomorrow with some explanation as to why he had left early. He figured Tom would understand, it was no great secret how he felt about Brendon.
As his shoes hit the pavement of the city sidewalk, one thought that ran through his mind on a loop.
It wasn’t like that last time.
Part 2