planes mistaken for stars || Brendon/Shane || NC-17 || ~16,100 words

[worldofthorns]

Part One

Shane wakes up with a stiff back and a headache that is approximately the size of the Grand Canyon. He groans at the bright light from the window, tugging the pillow from underneath his head and placing it over his face. It helps to block out the light, but the fabric of the pillow is suffocating. Shane pulls the pillow away and sighs, licking his lips, having visions of Brendon against them. Brendon, who still fits easily between his legs. Brendon whose body Shane has mapped out many times before, and would still let him if he wanted.

"Fuck," Shane whispers.  He's hung over, but not hung over enough to the point of kneeling over the toilet.  He turns his head to look at the half empty glass at the edge of the coffee table before reaching out and grabbing it.  He finishes the drink and sets the glass on his chest for a moment, fingertip brushing over the edge.

He reaches for his cellphone that fell onto the floor in the middle of the night.  He has no missed calls.

*

After a few more glasses of water, Shane decides that resuming sleep is the only way that the headache will actually go away. He draws the shades in his room, making sure that the sun doesn't continue to blind him when he lies down on the bed.

Shane doesn't know how long he has been asleep when his phone rings. He ignores it the first two times, but after five more, Shane picks up the phone and lets out a grumpy, “Ivan or Jerry, whoever this is, I swear to god someone better be in the fucking hospital.”

“Um,” the voice says, slightly uncertain. “I'm calling to find that out, actually.”

Shane's eyes snap open, and he looks at the screen. “Oh shit,” he breathes, before putting the phone back to his ear. “Spencer?”

“The one and only,” Spencer drawls. “By the way do you greet all your friends like that? Cause I gotta say, in the scaring the shit out of someone department? That's pretty effective.”

Shane laughs awkwardly. “I don't always talk on the phone like that, only when I'm hung-over and trying to sleep.” He hears Spencer let out a small 'hah', and he clears his throat. “So, um.”

“I'll get the point,” Spencer says seriously. “Have you talked to Brendon?”

“Not...since last night. Why?”

“His phone is off,” Spencer explains as though it's the most obvious reason for him to be talking to Shane. “He called at about two in the morning and when I tried to call him back, it went to voicemail.”

“Oh,” Shane says. Since Shane left LA, he hasn't kept in close contact with the rest of guys, except for the few conversations that he's had with Jon. There was always this force that Spencer and Ryan brought when it came to Brendon and, well. It wasn't as though they were making the effort either. But over the past year, in between uncomfortable meet ups with Brendon, Shane would always exchange polite conversation.

Spencer sighs, “Look I don't think it's anything, really, but you know Brendon. He just goes and does shit and doesn't think, which means he didn't bother to tell anyone where the fuck he was staying.” He pauses for a second before adding, “Ryan's thinking he's in a ditch somewhere in the middle of Boston. It's very motherly of him.”

Shane laughs in surprise, turning on his back, and staring at the ceiling. “That might be my fault,” he admits quietly. Shane doesn't bother going further and lets the statement hang in the air.

“This seems to be a common thing with you, you know,” Spencer says, but his voice doesn't sound accusing. He sounds tired, like he's been waiting for this to end ever since it's inception. Shane secretly sympathizes.

“Hey, you know he could've--”

“Yeah, I know he could've done things differently, Shane. Trust me, I know. But...You were the one who left.”

Shane feels heat flush over his cheeks in anger. Of course he fucking left, he was meant to leave anyway. What did they want from him? Open up his arms and allow Brendon in? “This isn't my fault, you know.”

“I didn't say it was,” Spencer says, continuing to speak in a calm voice.  Shane almost makes a comment about doing self-help seminars but decides not to. “But the only thing he sees is that you left him. And he's trying to make it better and I can almost bet that you're not letting that happen.”

“Okay,” Shane says. Spencer is Brendon's friend. It's not like he's going to sit there and agree with Shane, and Shane knows it. There's no use in arguing over it.

“Okay,” Spencer echoes. “Ry, he hasn't seen him since last night!” he yells, and Shane jerks the phone away to avoid any ear damage. “The fuck do I know?” Spencer continues. “Well, your dog pissed on my fucking carpet so we're even.” The phone jumbles a little before Spencer says, “Sorry, man. Ryan's getting dramatic because apparently my dog ripped Hobo's collar or some bullshit.”

“Uh, that's fine?” Shane says uncertainly. He doesn't know the last time that he spoke to Spencer, but the way he eases in and out of the conversation is slightly unsettling, considering.

“So, how's Boston?" Spencer asks after about ten seconds of silence on both ends. "Treating you okay?”

“Yeah, it's great.” Which is true. Shane has had a constant stream of work, and while the first couple of months in Boston were shitty, he's learned that everything here is something that he's always wanted and more. He's learned that Boston is home.

“Look, I'm terrible at being awkward about shit, that's Ryan's expertise. But...” Spencer trails off and there's another gust of air through the receiver. “He cares about you.”

“Right,” Shane responds. He doesn't say anything more than that, because what is there to say?

“I'm sure that sounds fucking retarded, but whatever. He does care, and you're an idiot if you couldn't figure it out.” Shane opens his mouth to respond, but Spencer beats him to it, “And by the way, when you get to the hotel, tell that fucker to turn his goddamn phone on so Mama Ross will stop worrying.”

There's a yell in the background, muffled and unclear. Spencer chuckles, and yells, “Yeah, and your Mom liked it too, what?” and saying, “I'll talk to you later man, alright?”

“Alright,” Shane says before closing the phone and looking at it for a long moment before whispering, “What the hell was that?”

*

“What do you mean, he's 'checked out'?” Shane asks. He closes his eyes and lifts a hand. “Actually, don't answer that. That was a dumb question.”

The receptionist smiles apologetically and asks if there's anything else she can help him with. Shane maintains being polite and declines. Brendon's left and that's all he needs to know.

*

He takes a longer route to his apartment because suddenly going home alone makes Shane's stomach twist. In fact, it makes him feel really fucking pathetic. He considers calling Ivan, but knows if he does, he runs the risk of being threat of not only one, but multiple body parts. Ivan was never good with hangovers.

By the time he makes it back to the apartment, the air is colder, the sky gloomy and gray. It'll probably snow later that night, and Shane has every intention of staying in. He doesn't bother closing the gate behind him, too occupied with trying to figure out which pocket he placed his keys in.

“I was wondering how long it would take for you to get back,” Brendon says calmly. Shane looks up to see him sitting on the top step, arms resting on his knees. “I've been sitting outside waiting for someone to take pity on me and let me in.”

Shane tries to hide his surprise. “It's a Friday afternoon, most people have nine to five jobs,” Shane says. He walks up the first step and stops. “I thought you were gone.”

Brendon shrugs. “I live most of my life in and out of hotel rooms. I was getting sick of that one. I do need a place to crash tonight, though.”

“How considerate of you to assume that I would say yes,” Shane says dryly. “By the way, call Spencer. They're worried about you.”

Brendon closes his eyes and whispers, “Shit.” He pulls himself up and reaches into his pocket and looks down at the phone. “My phone died. Mind if I charge it in your apartment? What?" he asks when Shane raises an eyebrow. "I'm from the desert and I'm freezing. Do you want me to beg?"

Shane rolls his eyes. “Come on,” he nods to the door. “You can charge your stupid phone.”

“Good, because my ass would've been in the process of making snocones or something equally scary if you didn't show up when you did.” He grabs the suitcase next to him, and walks inside as Shane opens the door.

Brendon continues to blow warmth into his hands after they get inside Shane's apartment. Shane takes off his jacket and throws it over the armchair as he walks into the kitchen. “You want something to drink?” he asks.

“No, I'm good,” Brendon calls, unzipping his suitcase and retrieving the phone charger. Shane grabs a bottle of water and watches as Brendon looks around the couch for an outlet, letting out a small victorious, “Yes!” when he finds one. He plugs it in and immediately turns his phone on, pulling the cord over the back of the couch and settling down.

Shane walks into the living room, and sits down in the armchair. Brendon's texting rapidly, his lip caught between his teeth. He grins after a few rapid taps and sets his phone down. “So,” he says.

“So,” Shane says.

Brendon looks down at his phone, his thumb brushing over the curved edge. "I'm sorry about last night. I was kind of drunk and--"

"It's fine," Shane says calmly. He lets out a laugh, and it sounds more nervous than intended.  "I mean, it takes two, right? So, no problem. Shit happens."

"Shit just doesn't happen," Brendon says, his voice clipped. He brushes his fingers through his hair, leaving it sticking up and messy. "Why do you keep acting like...This doesn't matter to you?"

"That what doesn't matter?" Shane asks, the anger surfacing. "You've been up my ass for the past few days, and you suddenly want me to be best friends with you again?"

“No!" Brendon argues. "It's just-You keep treating me like I'm some kind of stranger and I'm not."

"I'm not treating you like a stranger," Shane says. "You think I let strangers in my apartment to charge their stupid cell phones or something?"

"Stop being a douche. I've been trying to get you to talk to me for the past four days and all you do is just. Whatever, this is such bullshit," Brendon yells, and in a hasty moment of rage kicks at Shane's coffee table with such force that it actually jars it forward a couple of inches.

Shane immediately yells back, "What the hell, man? You don't start kicking people's furniture around because you're having a temper tantrum like a five year old. Get a hold of yourself for fuck's--"  He stops when he sees Brendon staring down at the floor. Shane furrows his eyebrows, waiting for Brendon to move, but he doesn't. "Bren?" he says softly.

Brendon continues to look at the floor, and shakes his head a little. "Why do you still have these?"

"What are you talking about?" Shane asks, walking over to the other side of the coffee table. The small drawer has kicked open, various contents fallen on the wooden floor. Shane looks at a pile of old remotes, and a couple of game controllers. Surrounding the objects, though, is what Brendon's looking at, making Shane mentally curse himself, his stomach flip-flopping so hard that he feels faint.

"Damnit," Shane whispers.

Brendon bends over to pick up one of the photo. It's black and white, the expansion of white skin split down the middle. The picture doesn't reveal any faces, but it does capture the torso of a male body, back arched and stomach taut.  A hand rests casually on the person's hip, another figure's face buried between the individual's leg.

Between Brendon's legs.

Shane closes his eyes. "Damnit," he whispers again. Lightening speed, Shane travels back to a year and half ago, standing in Brendon's bedroom in LA, toying with the camera on the tripod. He sees Brendon, sprawled across the bed, fingertips carefully moving up and down his chest, free hand holding the remote.

His mind is flooded with images of Brendon underneath him, mouth slack, eyes hooded as he pushes inside, fingertips curled around the remote.  He remembers knowing that every time he thrusted, Brendon took another picture, the small click a melody under Brendon's increasing moans and dirty mouth.

"You didn't answer my question," Brendon says, his voice tight. "Don't just stand there. Look at me, Shane."

Shane opens his eyes and through slightly blurred vision, he watches as Brendon looks at each photo, throwing them onto the ground without a second glance.  One by one, they fall like raindrops against a window. A shot of  Brendon riding Shane, head thrown back, his neck and chest glistened with sweat. Another one of Shane mapping Brendon's body with his index finger, memorizing each freckle, each scar, each imperfection. Another of them kissing fiercely, eyes closed tight and hands everywhere, the desperation clear.

Shane feels the bile rise in his throat and tries to find his voice but he can't. Brendon's looking at the last one, and Shane knows which one it is. It was taken the night before he left for Boston by Brendon, who claimed to bring back the awesomeness of Myspace poses again. They looked happy, drunk off of each other, and Shane still remembers Brendon's smile as though the picture was taken yesterday.

"Well?" Brendon demands, his voice rising. He shakes the picture at Shane, confusion swept across his face. "What is this? You lock yourself up in some city for a year, acting as though you never gave a shit, when the whole time you've been lying to yourself?"

"I haven't been lying to myself, Brendon," Shane says with a roll of his eyes. Which isn't completely untrue. "I forgot I even had those."

"Dude, are you serious?" Brendon snaps, walking close and tossing the photograph at Shane. It hits his chest ineffectually, fluttering down onto the floor. "You're a fucking liar."

"What the hell do you know?" Shane snipes back. "You think you have all the answers, and you don't. I was always going to leave, okay? I wasn't going to stay in LA with you forever."

"Correction: you ran away. My parents found out about us screwing each other, shit hit the fan, and you left. And you wanna know how much of a pussy you are? You didn't even tell me. I had to hear from you best friend." Brendon laughs sardonically, "That was weak, dude."

"Fuck you," Shane spits. He feels the boil of anger rise in his stomach, extending all the way to his chest. He points a finger at Brendon, mere inches from his face. "I'm weak? You were the one denying everything when your parents saw us."

Brendon gives a look that pretty much says 'and your point is,' and it makes Shane ball his free hand into a fist. "Yeah, I remember, and who was the one yelling about being secretive?"

"Whose idea was it to take pictures of us fucking each other, huh?" Shane counters.

"I'm not the one holding onto them after a fucking year!" Brendon argues, pointing down at the messy pile on the floor. He rakes both hands through his hair and shakes his head. "You know what? Fuck this, I'm so over this shit."

Brendon gives a hard stare at Shane before walking past him, their shoulders bumping hard. Shane whips around at the force, instantly reaching out to grab Brendon's arm.  Brendon jerks at the touch, but Shane doesn't relinquish the grip.

"Let go of me, asshole," Brendon growls, tugging his arm with more force. "I'm serious, let go."

Shane doesn't even know why he's grabbing onto Brendon. In the past year he has convinced himself that this is exactly what he's wanted - Brendon gone forever, nothing to do with him and the opportunity is sitting right in front of his face. But Shane knows he can't let go of Brendon, never has, and never will.

"No," Shane says firmly. "Brendon, listen to me, okay?"

"No. Fuck. You." Brendon hisses. "I'm telling you right now if you don't let me go, I will punch you in the face."

"Brendon, listen to me," Shane says, ignoring Brendon's threat. "I want you to--"

Everything goes hot and white as Brendon's fist collides with Shane's right cheek. He instantly lets go of Brendon's arm, stumbling backward, into the coffee table before falling onto the floor.

"Holy shit," Brendon whispers in slight awe. Shane doesn't open his eyes for a moment, the pain searing through the whole right side of his face.

Eventually he gets up, (albeit without much grace at all) and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He sees small bits of red dotted over his skin, and stares at it.

"Fuck, man, I didn't...I mean, well, I did, but I mean-Shit." Shane looks up as Brendon draws closer, the surprise and pain of the impact dissipating away, replaced with violent tremors expanding through his skin. He reaches out, grabs at the collar of Brendon's shirt and pushes hard. Brendon's eyes squeeze shut when his back collides with the wall, a small gasp escaping between his lips.

"You punched me," Shane says in a surprisingly even voice.  His lip feels like the size of a fucking grapefruit, and the side of his jaw is slightly numb, a few tingles of pain emerging when he speaks. "You really fucking punched me."

Brendon eyes grow wide and he gives a stiff nod. "Yeah, I did," Brendon says and lets out a slightly hysterical giggle. "You don't wanna punch me back, do you?"

Shane stares at Brendon for a moment in disbelief, watching as his breathing grows more rapid, the fear that was once inside of his eyes slowly dissolving into regret. Shane's grip grows tighter and he shakes his head sharply, eyes focusing on Brendon licking over his bottom lip, and suddenly in the least expected moment, everything is clear.  Everything that Shane wants is standing right in front of him.

"No, I'm not going to punch you," Shane murmurs.

"Good, because I don't know how everyone would feel if they saw me come back home with a black eye," Brendon babbles, another high-pitched chuckle spilling out. "You do realize that my job requires my face to be intact--"

Shane slams Brendon against the wall angrily, leaning forward until their faces are very close.  He can feel Brendon's warm breath on his lips and face, with the lingering scent of stale smoke. "Stop. Talking."

Brendon nods, his hands carefully moving to rest on Shane's hips. "Okay," he whispers. Brendon's fingers squeeze a little, a test to see how far he can go. "Okay," he repeats, voice equally soft. They stand in silence for a moment, and the tense anger inside Shane's shoulders ripples away.  He releases his tight grip on Brendon's shirt, moving one hand to cup around Brendon's neck.

"Okay," Shane whispers back before surging forward, connecting his mouth with Brendon's.  Brendon moans in surprise when Shane presses harder, almost bruising, his tongue searching hastily inside of Shane's mouth. The pain in Shane's jaw is still evident, a small reminder that, yes, he did get punched in the face mere seconds before, but right now he doesn't care.  All he cares about is the fact that Brendon is kissing him, his hips jutting forward, hands searching under Shane's sweater and brushing over his skin.

"God, I missed this," Brendon mutters fiercely before biting down on Shane's lip, hard - a weakness of Shane's, and he knows that Brendon is using all the strengths he has now, sneaky fucker, making Shane moan and sigh contentedly.  Brendon continues kissing messily down Shane's jaw and over his neck, his teeth nipping hungrily.

Shane breathes out a shaky sigh, his eyes rolling heavenward before fluttering shut. He steadies himself by placing both hands on the wall, craning his neck for Brendon's searching mouth. Everything feels heated but light, a mixture of desire and relief taking over.

Brendon murmurs something nonsensical, and Shane responds with a husky, "What was that?"

He hears a chuckle and Brendon pulls back, his eyes half-lidded. "I said, where's your room?" When Shane doesn't provide an answer, Brendon continues, smug smile glossing over. "I figured we'd get more comfortable. But if you're down with this--"

"Down the hall to the right," Shane answers quickly.  The room is spinning a little, his head swimming. He pulls back a little to give Brendon leverage, the tightness in his jeans getting almost unbearable. Brendon licks his lips carefully and walks past Shane toward the hall, pulling his shirt off on the way.

Brendon stops at the end, his hands reaching for his belt, and raises an eyebrow. "You coming?"

Shane follows Brendon to his bedroom, watches Brendon stumble out of his jeans, shoes flying in various directions with his clothing. Shane tries to focus on getting undressed, keeping his back to Brendon. When he finishes, he turns around to see Brendon lying down, raised by his elbows, his dick flushed and hard.

Shane walks over to his dresser, pulls out the condoms and lube and tosses them on bed. "Tell me," Brendon says, as Shane climbs on the bed and hovers over him, "when's the last time you go laid?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Shane counters, and before Brendon can make any smartass remarks, he leans down and kisses him again. Brendon lets out an encouraging groan, his leg wrapping around Shane's hip and drawing them closer until their skin touches.

Brendon turns his head to the side, cheek pressing against the mattress, his eyes fluttering shut as their hips synchronize a movement. The slide of their skin feels amazing, and Shane forgot what it was like to be like this, comfortable and real, with Brendon underneath him moaning loudly and whispering about how fucking hot Shane is on top of him.

Shane could keep doing this, circling his hips while their cocks brush up against each other, a soft but needy movement. He could get off just like this and never feel unsatisfied, but Brendon seems to have other ideas in mind, and he expresses that with a breathless, "Stop, stop, okay, okay."

When Shane pulls back, Brendon raises his arms over his head, clasping his hands together. "Come on," he whispers, removing his leg and placing his foot flat on the mattress. Shane hovers over Brendon for a brief moment, looks at the line of sweat along his forehead, and the flush over his chest. He leans over once more, brushing his lips against Brendon's collarbone teasingly, reaching for the lube next to him.

Brendon bites his lip to stifle the groan when Shane presses two fingers inside, free hand resting on Brendon's dick, stroking lightly.  He knows exactly what he likes, sees the same reactions he memorized before, and realizes that he'll never grow tired of the way Brendon looks underneath him, jaw slack and breathing labored. Shane feels the flutter inside of his chest rise at knowing that he can still turn Brendon a withering mess in a matter of seconds.

When Shane pulls out, Brendon lets out a whimper, and Shane pulls back to rest on his heels. "Turn over," he commands, reaching for the condom and putting it on as Brendon gets on his hands and knees.

If there was one thing that Shane missed the most about having sex with Brendon, it would be that first moment -- whether Shane was fucking him or he was fucking Shane -- that moment where he always lifted his head back and let out a shaky groan. The familiar flutter in his stomach gives a reminder of how much he longed for that sound, guttural and real.

Shane starts slow at first, holding onto Brendon's hips, pulling out almost all the way before slamming inside, the two of them moaning loudly. He continues to fuck him slowly until Shane's stamina is stretched too far and he continues with a more erratic rhythm, forceful and sharp.

Shane comes with a roar in his ears and a tremor in his muscles that runs through him all at once. When he pulls out, he immediately rips off the condom and throws it in the trashcan, tapping Brendon's hip to turn over. Brendon obliges, lying down on his back, eyes closed, breathing uneven. Shane teases with his fingers and mouth, placing small kisses down Brendon's chest and stomach.   He watches the way Brendon gasps, his muscles retracting at stimulation before grabbing the base of Brendon's dick and licking around the tip, wincing at the way pain surges up his jaw from the punch earlier.

Brendon's hands immediately grab for Shane's hair, and tug a little when Shane begins to suck him off. The moans are louder and more prominent, words flying out of Brendon's mouth in quick succession, "Fuck Shane, I don't know how you fucking do that but - God."

Shane takes his time still, licking the underside of Brendon's cock, before taking him back inside of his mouth and going down as far as he can go.  It's slightly messy, a trail of spit extending over his hand, but between the way Brendon moans and talks and the fact that Shane's jaw feels like it's on fire, it doesn't matter. He continues even though his jaw is aching, until Brendon tugs at Shane's hair hard. Shane pulls back, watching Brendon come with his back arched, arm flying over his eyes.

Brendon stares in blissed out disbelief as Shane carefully licks his tongue over Brendon's soft cock, lapping over his stomach, the salty bitter taste all too familiar for him, and it sticks to his tongue as he curls up next to Brendon. Shane brushes back Brendon's damp hair and says, "Well, that was a little unexpected."

"Hmm," Brendon hums in agreement, his eyes closed. "And now? Naptime."

*

Shane awakes the next morning to the smell of coffee, and the soft echo of someone singing in his kitchen. He can't help but smile as he stretches above his head and looks over at the clock to see it's almost noon.

“Shit,” Shane whispers, pulling the sheets back and getting out of bed, fishing for his boxers on the floor. There are a slew of empty condom wrappers scattered on the floor, and the room still smells like sex.

Shane ambles into the bathroom, pees, and starts to brush his teeth, flashing images of the night before invading his mind. The way Brendon hovered over him, sharp breaths pouring out of his mouth each time Shane lifted his hips, or the feel of Brendon easing inside, careful, so careful, mouthing at Shane's neck about how good it was to be there.

Shane spits the leftover toothpaste foam out of his mouth and rinses. When he looks up into the mirror properly, he sees a red mark on his collarbone. He grabs a shirt and puts it on to cover it before going into the kitchen.

Brendon's in a pair of bright yellow underwear, comfortably leaning against the counter, one leg hooked over the other. He blows over the rim of the mug, watching as Shane pours his own cup. It suddenly feels like Shane has time-warped to a year ago, walking around half naked during the summer in LA at Brendon's house, the afternoons nothing but a haze of weed and sex. Shane still feels the residual anger sitting in his stomach.  He knows things with Brendon are not better, in fact it's far from that, and there's the urge to remind Brendon of this, to let him know that just because they fucked for one night doesn't mean they're back to normal.

“You look like a caution tape at a drug scene or something,” Shane says instead, taking a long sip of coffee.

“Hmm,” Brendon agrees, before swallowing another mouthful. “They're called 'neon yellow', believe it or not.” He reaches up and brushes the side of Shane's face. “How does it feel?”

“It's fine,” Shane says, pulling away and eyeing the bright yellow fabric with a shake of his head. “I'm surprised you don't glow in the dark like a night light.”

Brendon chuckles in a low voice, setting the mug down and pulling Shane's arm until he close, their bodies flushed together. “We should test that out,” he says in a low voice. “Hold them up to the light and everything.”

Shane smirks. “Maybe later,” he says. “I have a job I gotta go do.”

“Okay,” Brendon says, brushing his knuckles down Shane's stomach. Brendon's skin is warm, and Shane shudders a little. “Can I come?”

Shane nods. “Sure. But we've gotta get going like, now.”

“Okay,” Brendon says, pulling back the elastic of Shane's boxers and letting go. “But we better shower first.”

*

There isn't any snow on the ground when they get outside, the sun bright, and the sky clear. Shane takes a deep breath and exhales, a white cloud forming in front of him. He pulls out a cigarette and lights it as Brendon walks out.

“So where are we going?” Brendon asks as they walk to the bus stop.

Shane takes a drag and smiles. “It's a surprise.”

“Dude, really?” Brendon says with a roll of his eyes.

Shane laughs and shakes his head. “No, I'm kidding. We're going to the cemetery. I picked up this job for someone who wants to do this historic website or some shit.”

“Cool,” Brendon says. He reaches over and carefully takes the cigarette from Shane's fingers and takes a long drag before handing it back.

*

The cemetery is empty when they get there. The trees are bare, but the sun is shining through the branches and leaving little shadows on the path. Shane is peering through the viewfinder snapping a few shots of an angel. Brendon walks over to it, and stares it in the eye. Or at least Shane thinks he's staring it in the eye but he can't tell with the pair of white diva sunglasses he has on. Shane pulls away from the camera for a moment when Brendon reaches up, fingertips mere inches from the angel's face.

Brendon turns and looks at Shane and smiles. “Let's go over here,” he says nodding his head in the opposite direction.

“Okay." Shane let's Brendon lead the way. They continue on the windy path, looking at the different tombstones and grave markers.  Shane has been to this cemetery before outside of work, and one of the things he loves most is the decadence: tall tombstones with small sets of stairs leading to them, statues of angels lined and mausoleums, ornate and beautiful.

Shane squats down and snaps a few more photos of a lake in the distance. When he gets up and turns around, he sees Brendon looking down at a grave marker. Brendon bends over and brushes his hand around the cement carefully, like he's paying respect to the fact that it's not his place to actually touch it.

Shane takes another picture.

He watches Brendon lay down next to it, his face surrounded in a circle of sunlight, hands resting on his stomach. He doesn't speak for a long time, and his hands move up and down as he breathes.

“You know how sometimes people are freaked out about going to cemeteries?” Brendon asks softly.

“Yeah,” Shane says, his voice sounding rough and scratchy. He clears his throat and repeats, “Yeah.”

“I never get scared by them. I think it's kind of comforting, you know? Like, to be able to coexist and not feel like someone is watching you or judging you. That's comforting, right?”

Shane nods his head, and walks over until he's standing over Brendon. “Yeah, it is.”

Brendon smiles softly, lifting his hips and reaching into his pocket. He pulls out a joint, and Shane rolls his eyes. Shane hears the flicker of the lighter and shakes his head.

“What?” Brendon asks in a muffled voice as he lights the joint.

“I can't believe you're getting high in a cemetery,” Shane says, but sounds completely unsurprised.

Brendon shrugs. “You don't have to have any.”

“Shut the fuck up and hand that over,” Shane says, sitting on the ground next to Brendon.

Brendon takes a couple of tokes and passes the joint to Shane, exhaling the cloud of smoke in front of him. Shane takes a couple more hits as Brendon situations himself on the ground, folding his arm under his head.

“Hey don't bogart my weed,” Brendon says, making a grabby motion with his free hand.

“I wasn't,” Shane says. “I was merely keeping it company, you see.” He can feel the effect of the weed getting him, the soft haze and relaxing feeling in his muscles.

“Whatever,” Brendon says in a tight voice. He holds his breath for much longer than Shane expects him to, turning his mouth into an “O” shape, small rings floating into the air.

Shane closes his eyes for a moment, and sighs. He feels comfortable and a little floaty, the sun warm but the breeze cool. “Hey Brendon?”

“Hmm, yeah?”

Shane opens his eyes and looks down at Brendon. “What are we doing?”

Brendon lets out a puff of air, and hands the joint back. “Smoking out?”

“No, really, man. What the fuck are we doing?” Shane points back and forth to Brendon. “I mean, like what's going on?”

Brendon's lips turn inward and he lets out a small, “Oh.” He sighs, puts the joint between his lips (it's nothing but a small snub now) and repositions himself into a sitting position. He snubs out the joint in the grass and says, “Yeah, so...I was thinking.”

Shane doesn't say anything, waiting for Brendon to speak. He feels slightly uncomfortable at the moment, because he thinks he knows what's going to happen, and his shoulders tense.

“This wouldn't work,” Brendon says, pulling the sunglasses off and rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand. He looks at Shane and shrugs. “But I think you already know that.”

Shane laughs. He doesn't mean to, but the past week has been nothing but an unreal chain of events. He never would've thought that Brendon would be sitting in front of him, telling him that what they had would never happen again. Shane has been spending the past year telling himself the same exact thing over and over again, convincing himself that this is exactly what he wants.

And yet he can't explain why he feels like he just got punched in the gut.

“Okay,” Shane says, looking down at the ground. The grass isn't as full as it is in the summer, barely alive, really. He brushes his hand over the few blades that have managed to make it through the snow and frost.

“It's just,” Brendon starts and sighs again. “Your life is here, Shane. Everything you've ever wanted is right in this city, and it belongs to you. It works well for you.”

“But...” Shane says after a moment of silence. He realizes that what Brendon is saying is true. He does love Boston, feels comfortable in its presence. It's home to him, and he doesn't want to live anywhere else.

“But,” Brendon continues, “It's not for me. I couldn't hack it here. I hate the snow,” he laughs, but it sounds empty. “And I love LA. You hated it in LA, and you were miserable there.”

“I wasn't miserable,” Shane grumbles. “I just didn't like it.”

“You hated it,” Brendon says. “And honestly, I'm not the domestic type anyway.” Shane gives Brendon a sharp look. “Not saying you are but you have your job here, and you're doing well and I'm always on the road and--”

“It's not going to work,” Shane finishes. There's a tug inside of his stomach, and he swallows hard, ignoring the lump in his throat. He knows it's true, everything that Brendon is saying is the truth, and while he had been telling himself for the past year that it wasn't really his fault, he's finally figured out that there was never fault to begin with.

“No,” Brendon whispers with a shake of his head. “No, it's not.”

"You know, for a long time I wanted to hate you," Shane confesses softly. "I really did. But I know that your family means a lot to you, and like, it wasn't that you were choosing. But it still felt like it."

"I'm sorry," Brendon says, and when he looks at Shane his eyes tell him that he means it. "I wish you would've told me that, I don't know, a year ago."

"I was pissed off and, well, hindsight's twenty-twenty," Shane says, with a shrug.

"Yeah, it is. Kind of sucks sometimes."

Shane looks around the cemetery, looks at the lake on the other side. “This place is so green during the summers.” He turns back to Brendon, reaches out and picks off a random blade of grass. “It's beautiful, actually. You should come back and check it out.”

“Yeah?” Brendon asks, a hopeful ring to his voice and Shane nods. “That'd be cool,” he agrees, a small smile on his face.

*

“Come on,” Shane calls, running to the crowd of people piling on the subway. Brendon is out of breath by the time he reaches Shane, reaching and grabbing on his shoulder.

“Dude,” he gasps for air. “That was totally unfair, I have fucking bags and shit to carry.”

“Not my fault you don't know how to pack light,” Shane says. “And you fucking tour.  You would think you've learned.”

Brendon punches Shane's arm, hard. “Fuck you.”

“Ow, motherfucker,” Shane snaps as they settle into the seats.

Brendon flops down next to him, and lets out a long sigh.  He gets his breath back and begins trying to figure out what to do with his three bags, stacking one on top of each other.  It's the most unstable tower ever, and it proves it's point when Brendon catches the top one from falling to its demise. Shane stares at the last one, his mind kicking into full gear. The night before, all he could do was stare at the ceiling in his bedroom, Brendon insisting on sleeping on the couch. Shane changed the sheets and bedding but no matter how hard he tried to ignore it he could still feel the heat of Brendon's body next to to him.

Shane sighs and rubs his hand over his face. He's tired of thinking about this, tired of feeling so run down whenever he's around Brendon. He hates that it has to be like this, always running and always twisting and turning and never ending. His chest starts to tighten and when he swallows his throat feels dry. Shane just wants it to be over.

He feels a small nudge in his side and Shane removes his hands. Brendon's lips are turned down and his eyebrows are furrowed. He looks worried. "You okay?"

Shane lets out a sharp laugh. The anchor in his chest sinks lower and makes him feel heavy, like he's being pulled into the ground to sleep forever. “You know, need to really quit this domestic abuse," he says in lieu of a real answer. "I totally could've called for help."

“It's self defense!” Brendon protests.

“How the hell was punching me in the arm self defense?” Shane asks. His arm isn't hurting that bad, but he continues to kneed it anyway. He pushes much harder than needed, small jabs of pain shooting to his shoulder, but the distraction is good.

“You were totally killing my ego, I had to defend it,” Brendon replies with a casual shrug.

Shane snorts. “Your ego? It's gonna take a shitload more hits than talking about your inability to pack correctly to kill it.”

Brendon chuckles, finally maneuvering the bags in between his legs. He pulls out his phone and looks at it for a long time before saying, “Right.”

The subway is noisy, conversation layering on conversation. Brendon eventually rests his head on Shane's shoulder and hums softly. Shane closes his eyes and sighs.  His throat feels tight, but he doesn't pull away.

*

The airport is just as busy as the subway. People are shuffling all around, parents with children, couples figuring out where they have to go. Shane watches Brendon at the counter, moving his bags over to be check-in.

“Everything ready?” Shane asks when Brendon meets up with him near a set of chairs.

“Yup,” Brendon says. He looks at the long line and sighs. “I better get in line.”

An announcement echoes throughout the airport about the importance of three ounce containers when traveling with liquids. “What time is your flight?”

“It's not for another couple of hours, but it looks like it's going to take me a while. TSA is a pain the ass.”

Shane nods and pulls himself up from the chair. Brendon is standing in front of him, arms crossed over his chest, sunglasses adorning his face. Shane reaches up and pushes the glasses until they rest on the top of Brendon's head, watching his hair feather around his face awkwardly.

Brendon lets out a shaky sigh when Shane grips his shoulder. Shane moves closer, brushing his lips against Brendon's mouth. The kiss is light and demure, but it's enough.

When they break away, Brendon's eyes are still closed for a moment, and he smiles. He flutters them open and the smile widens as he slides his sunglasses back on. He pulls out his phone, and looks at the screen and says, “I was thinking. You should come on tour with us again sometime. It'd be fun.”

Shane smiles. “That'd be cool.”

“Just like old times, you know?” Brendon is walking backwards to the line.

“Yeah,” Shane agrees. He watches Brendon get in line and turns to leave. When he gets outside his phone goes off and there's a text from Brendon that says, There's a kid rolling around on Heelys. Pls make me not kill him and Shane laughs.

I'm not bailing you out of jail, he texts back.

A moment later there's another text from Brendon. You know you would, don't deny it. Shane laughs and closes his phone, because it's true. He really would.

*

Totally self-indulgent soundtrack can be found here. I was very nervous posting this, so feedback is ♥