Roxanne (2/3); Patrick/Brendon; R
Brendon seems a little surprised when they don't go to the bus depot the next morning either, and Patrick calls Gerard to push his visit up a day. Brendon's sitting on his mom's couch with a bowl of cereal in his lap, skin still shimmering from his shower, hair sticking up in damp shocks, and Patrick's eyes are fixed on his mouth as he slides the spoon from his lips. "'Trick?" Gerard says in his ear, like it's not the first time he's said it, and Patrick totally has to get the hell to New York as soon as possible, for his own good, and Brendon's.
"Yeah, hey. Can you guys use me Thursday?" he asks, and he can hear Gerard rustling through paperwork.
"We have room for you, but the departure date isn't until Saturday. Come on up, though, and you can crash with me and Frank! We haven't hung out in fucking ages, man." Patrick thinks this is a capital fucking plan - he'll have enough time to get Brendon into Manhattan and then back down for some well-deserved drinking and bitching with some old friends. And hell, if Frank still has that exhibitionist streak, maybe he'll even be able to work off a trace of this sexual frustration he's built up.
"See you in a few days," he says with a smile, and when he hangs up, Brendon is watching him.
"You're leaving?" he asks, voice small and unsure. Patrick drops on the couch next to him and tips his head back into the cushions.
"Yeah - gonna to check in with my boss before my next big run. Get the rig a once-over, do some paperwork, that sort of thing."
Brendon nods and turns his head back to the television. His fingers are tight around his bowl.
"It's out in north Jersey," Patrick says. "Thought I could just drop you there, if you want."
There's a quick, sharp inhale from Brendon before he whips his head around. "You don't. That's..."
"Unless you'd rather do Greyhound?" Patrick asks, and he can't help the grin tugging at the side of his mouth.
"No! But you don't have do this." Brendon is staring at him, eyes shining a little, like he can't believe Patrick is being this nice to him when all Patrick is really doing is letting the kid sit in an otherwise empty chair for fifteen hours. Patrick bumps their shoulders together.
"I know. Finish your breakfast, then we're going to the Pier."
*
The ride to Jersey is quick and painless, or mostly so. Brendon drops another postcard in the mail outside Pittsburgh, a few tiny lines of scrawl on the back of a card that advertises "Amish Country". He doesn't say who it's for, but Patrick sees the tight, pinched look on his face, and doesn't push.
As the mile markers tick by, Brendon gets quieter and more fidgety, and Patrick's fingers get tighter on the steering wheel. They're both thinking about Brendon's trip into the great unknown, and Patrick's stomach hurts with the kind of worry he hasn't felt since before Pete was mostly clean. But Brendon's smart, he reminds himself, and Brendon got this far on his own, and he'll do fine in the city - find a roommate on Craigslist and get a job at a coffee shop and maybe play a little on the side. Patrick thinks of the old Taylor that Brendon had played so well in his basement and kicks himself for not packing it up as a present. Patrick's certainly not getting any use out of it.
They pull into Belleville after dark and Patrick parks the truck in the expansive lot at WayRo. There's still a light on in the office, which means Gerard waited up for him. He didn't tell Gerard about Brendon - it's technically against the rules for Brendon to ride with him - but between Pete and Mikey, he's sure it's not a secret. "You want to come meet some folks? Figure we can crash out at Gerard and Frank's place," he says, because he's not going to just drop Brendon on a train in the city at this hour.
Brendon takes a deep breath and nods. "Big day tomorrow," he says, voice tight but with a forced smile - and man, Patrick is starting to hate those. Patrick doesn't want Brendon to have a big day tomorrow. He wants Brendon to climb back in his truck tomorrow and pepper him with questions about where they're going and why, and eat all his green Skittles, and fall asleep with his fingers curled around Patrick's hip.
"Yeah, big day," he replies, and climbs down to the asphalt before Brendon can says something that makes him feel worse, like "thank you".
*
Gerard and Frank are more than fine with Patrick and Brendon staying with them, and Patrick remembers a second too late that Frank is a gossip and Gerard is a matchmaker. (He still pats himself on the back over the whole situation with Ray and Bob, even though that was so not his doing.) They get to Frank and Gerard's creaky suburban house around ten o'clock and Frank offers to give Brendon the grand tour (which mostly means a peek at Gerard's attic studio, and a walk through the basement "Fear Garden", a mini-scarefest they put up one year for Frank's birthday and never took down. Patrick almost warns Brendon about the trip wire and the plastic spider, but Frank gives him a wide-eyed look of horror when he opens his mouth. Frank takes the Fear Garden very seriously.)
"So," Gerard starts as he and Patrick wander into the kitchen to call for a pizza delivery. "What's the story?"
"No story," Patrick says firmly, because there isn't. "He was heading to New York, I gave him a lift. Sorry about that," he adds as an afterthought, because Gerard is his boss. Gerard waves him off.
"No, who cares about that. Where did he come from, is there some sort of tragic story there?" Gerard loves tragic stories, preferably ones with ax murderers in them. While Patrick's pretty sure Brendon's story doesn't include any axes, it's probably not all that pretty. But that's all the more reason for Patrick to keep his nose out of it. He shrugs and reaches for a can of Sprite - Frank and Gerard don't keep alcohol in the house anymore, he remembers - and Gerard huffs in annoyance. "You just spent a week with this kid," Gerard says, and whoa, has it only been a week? Patrick feels like he's known Brendon way longer. "And you can't tell me anything about him?"
"He prefers Sarah Vaughn to Billie Holiday," Patrick says with a grin. "And he hates broccoli."
"Great, excellent," Gerard mutters. "Pete said--"
"Oh, whoa," Patrick interrupts. "Don't start listening to Pete now, because--" but they're both interrupted by a scream from downstairs. Gerard starts cackling, clapping his hands with glee, and Patrick tries not to laugh out of deference to Brendon, but he can't help but grin into his drink. When Brendon comes back up the stairs with Frank close behind, he's giggling nervously, his face bright red.
"Have you been down there?" he says to Patrick, eyes wide.
"Yup," Patrick says, and tugs on his hat to keep from smiling wider as Brendon huffs at him.
The pizza is good, for New York style, and Brendon has three huge slices before his eyes start to droop. "Bedtime!" Frank says with a little more glee than Patrick thinks is normal. Until, that is, Gerard shows them both to the guest room, where he's put their bags on either side of one double bed.
"Hope that's okay?" Gerard asks, and it would sound innocent if Patrick hadn't known this dude for almost three years. He glares in response and Brendon flushes pink, starts stammering about the couch. Patrick just exhales loudly.
"It's fine, don't worry about it. Goodnight, Gerard." He closes the door just gently enough that it can't be called a slam, and when he turns around Brendon is biting his lip, eyes darting around the room at everything but Patrick. "I get the left," is all Patrick says, and he digs around in his bag for his sleep pants, padding into the adjoining bathroom to change.
When he comes back out, Brendon is already under the covers, blanket tucked under his chin, eyes closed. Patrick's pretty sure he's not asleep already, but it's easier this way, to climb in and pretend this is fine. Because it is fine. It should be fine. Brendon is nothing more than a friend, a kid who Patrick picked up a week ago, a near-stranger with a pretty face and a history Patrick hasn't bothered to find out. His stomach aches a little at that thought, at the idea that maybe he's been a jerk for not asking Brendon about what he's running away from. But Brendon has no trouble talking about almost anything at all, and Patrick can't help but think that if Brendon wanted him to know, he'd have told him by now.
He wakes up when the early morning light shifts across the bed, stretching and yawning but taking care to not jostle Brendon. The house is quiet and still - Gerard and Frank are not morning people - and Patrick takes a little time to just savor the sound of rustling leaves against the window. He's used to the rumble of steel and rubber on asphalt, the 24-hour sounds of truck stops and gas stations outside his windows. A lawnmower starts up down the street and Patrick smiles. Even the suburbs can't escape from the whir of engines.
He turns his head to see Brendon's eyes opening just a fraction. "Hey," Brendon whispers, and Patrick thinks he's savoring this quiet too.
"Hey," Patrick whispers back, and Brendon smiles.
"What time's it?" Brendon murmurs, and Patrick turns to the bedside table. The clock says it's 7:10, and Patrick is suddenly slammed with the knowledge that this is his last day with Brendon, that sometime today he has to get Brendon into New York. It's like kicking a baby bird out of it's nest, he thinks. It's necessary for the bird to move on. But Patrick wonders if Brendon will find his wings fast enough, or if he'll end up splattered all over the sidewalk. He turns back to Brendon with a sinking feeling in his stomach, a fake smile on his face.
"Still too early," Patrick says. "Get some sleep."
Brendon sighs happily and shifts further under the blankets. His arm brushes Patrick's, bare skin sleep-warm, and Patrick doesn't pull away. He watches Brendon sleep for another hour before there's a clang from downstairs and the familiar smells of coffee and cigarettes wafts upstairs.
*
Somehow, they don't get Brendon on a train that morning. Gerard and Frank head to the office for the morning and Brendon and Patrick spend the morning lazing around on the couch watching the Cartoon Network, and order more pizza in for lunch. Then Gerard wants to give Brendon the dimestore tour of North Jersey, and Frank wants to drag Patrick to the vinyl shop. They all meet for dinner at Arthur's Pub, and Patrick has only a tiny pang of shame when Frank has to sweet talk an underage Brendon inside.
"You having fun, kid?" Frank asks, and Brendon grins at him.
"Absolutely. What else have you got?" He takes a bite of his meal - a side of fries this time - and pretends not to notice when Patrick cuts his massive burger in half and slides half of it on to his plate. His cheeks get pink though, and Frank exchanges a look with Gerard. Patrick kicks Frank under the table.
"Well, we have to get some stuff from Sam's Club for Adam and Butcher's thing tomorrow," Gerard says, adding a pregnant pause at the end. "You any good at making tiny sandwiches?"
"I'm... yeah, sure," Brendon says, a little confused, "Like, finger sandwiches? We had to make them all the time for Temple functions."
Patrick pauses with his burger halfway to his mouth, but Brendon doesn't notice, with the way Gerard is beaming at him. Brendon's Mormon, which could mean nothing at all, except for the queasy feeling in Patrick's stomach. Frank raises his eyebrows at Patrick across the table, and Patrick shrugs it off, embarrassed that he didn't know already, that he hadn't figured it out. "Excellent!" Gerard says happily, "I mean, it'll mean a few more days in Jersey, if you don't mind, but we could totally use the help." Gerard makes big, pleading eyes at Brendon and Frank's mouth twitches at the corners.
"O-okay, cool, sounds fun," Brendon replies, and half of Patrick wants to strangle Gerard for his meddling, but the other half notices the way Brendon's shoulders lose some of their tension, the way his appetite picks up. A few more days of Brendon being safe and sound with Patrick - and Gerard, and Frank - can't hurt, he thinks. A few more nights, too, in the tiny guest room, with Brendon warm and pliant next to him.
Fucking Gerard and his fucking good ideas.
Patrick gets ready for another night sleeping next to Brendon by trying to turn in early. He's already in his pajamas when Brendon slips in the room, eyes soft and tired around the edges. "Hey," Patrick says, and Brendon yawns in reply. Patrick laughs. "Better rest up; tomorrow we're going to have to endure hours of forced labor thanks to your sandwich making skills."
Brendon kicks off his jeans and tugs off his t-shirt and crawls into bed without any ceremony at all, his back to Patrick's side, and Patrick's heart skids a little in his chest. He's quiet, focusing on his breathing and not on Brendon's slight form, olive skin freckled across his shoulders. He's possibly too quiet, because he can see Brendon tense up. "I'm sorry, for being such a pain in the ass," Brendon says softly, and Patrick reaches out, brushes his fingers through the hair on Brendon's neck before he can stop himself. The kid is so tense.
"You're not a pain in the ass," he says, because Brendon isn't - he should be, he's a loud, ridiculous intrusion on a life Patrick has carefully crafted - but Patrick likes having Brendon around more than he's comfortable with. "You in a hurry to get to New York?" Patrick asks, because he's certainly not in a hurry to get Brendon there.
Brendon shrugs, ducks his head a little so Patrick's fingers can push against his skin, knead out the knots under the surface. "Not like I have anything going on there," he says plainly, and Patrick can finally hear the fear laced through his words. He wants to ask Brendon about home, about why he left. He wonders if Brendon is running away from his Church, his mission. Brendon seems like he'd be the perfect kid in a big Mormon family - smart but respectful, charming and kind - but he can't help but think of the way Brendon's eyes were glued to Andy and Mix back in Chicago, the way he flirted with Pete in Denver. The spark of something in his eyes in that diner in Avoca that made Patrick's whole body warm.
"You can hang with me for a while, if you want," Patrick hears himself say, and Brendon stills, shivers a little when Patrick's thumb grazes behind his ear. Patrick's heart is racing, and he knows this is coming out wrong; it feels more like a proposition, a seduction, than a friendly offer for help. Patrick isn't sure it's not. He pulls his hand away and flips off the light. "Think about it, no pressure," he says firmly before Brendon can answer. They lay there in the dark for a while, just listening to each other breathe.
*
Brendon is already in the kitchen with Gerard by the time Patrick stumbles in the next morning. "You want to be in charge of tuna or roasted veggies?" Brendon asks with a cheerful smile as he points to a spread of sandwich fixings on the table. "Gee already called the Italian subs, something about it being his birthright."
They spend the morning laughing over mini-sandwich disasters, Gerard and Patrick sharing stories of their crazy friends on the road, Brendon laughing through them. Patrick tells Gee about Brendon's musical background, and Gerard makes them sing as they assemble. Brendon howls his way through some Joan Jett, and Gerard gets a glint in his eye. "Don't let him talk you into joining his damn band," Patrick warns with a mock growl.
"What?" Gerard puts his hands up. "Just because you're too chicken shit to sing in front of people, Stumph, doesn't mean young Brendon should deny his natural talents."
"You have a band?" Brendon asks, his interest piqued, and Patrick rolls his eyes.
"He would have a decent band if half of them weren't on the road most of the year," Patrick explains, and Gerard sighs heavily.
"It's our lot in life," he says. "Destined to play our best shows over the CB radio."
Frank wanders up from the basement, his shirt speckled with red paint, and kisses Gerard on the cheek. "We'll play my birthday, and that's cool enough," he placates and Gerard feeds him half a sandwich with his fingers. Patrick pretends not to notice Brendon's flush, and the way he watches until Frank bites the end of Gerard's finger with a smirk.
The party is at Butcher and Adam's big loft in Hoboken. It's in a shitty neighborhood, but that means it's huge enough for Butcher's art to take up half of the loft, canvases as tall as Patrick lined up against the wall, huge paper mache sculptures hanging from the industrial beams in the ceiling. The party is half rave, half art show, and Patrick and Brendon stick close to each other as they go inside, slipping past tattooed boys and girls in fedoras. "Whoa," Brendon says under his breath as a girl walks past in platform shoes that make her well over six feet tall, a skintight purple dress accented with jewelry made from shards of mirrored glass.
"Patrick, hey!" Butcher appears at his elbow, shirtless and smiling wide. He pulls Patrick into a tight hug. "I'm so glad you're in town for this!" Patrick's known Butch since Chicago, and it was his idea for Butcher to move out to Jersey, meet some of Gerard's friends, give the New York art scene a try. "Did you see Sisky's light show?" Butcher points to a screen against the far wall where a dizzying array of lights slip and slide over and around Butcher's paper sculptures. It's a multimedia explosion of color.
"That's amazing," Brendon says, awed, and Butcher smiles at him. "Hey, I'm Brendon, from Vegas."
"Hi, Brendon-from-Vegas. I'm Andy Mrotek," he says, sticking out his hand for Brendon to shake. "Mostly I'm called The Butcher." He lingers a little in Brendon's grasp, and Patrick can see his thumb slide over Brendon's palm as he pulls away.
"Why?" Brendon asks, and flushes a little, embarrassed. Butcher just laughs.
"No fucking clue, man," he says, eyes dancing. Brendon licks his lips, his eyes skittering over Butcher's chestpiece, his slim hips, his unruly curls. "Come on, I'll show you the view from the balcony," Butcher says, and pulls Brendon up the stairs. Brendon casts a wide-eyed glance over his shoulder at Patrick. Patrick swallows around the bitter taste in his mouth and gives him a mock salute.
"Huh," Frank says, slipping in to view on his other side. "That's an interesting development."
Gerard nods, chewing thoughtfully on one of Brendon's tiny tuna fish sandwiches. "Yeah, didn't really see that coming."
Patrick turns on his heel and pushes into the crowd.
*
Saturday is rainy and grey and matches Patrick's mood perfectly.
They'd found Brendon hours later at the party, tipsy and pink with the blush of a blooming hickey behind his left ear. Brendon had been smiling and dazed, and Patrick had managed to keep his mouth shut the whole car ride back to Gerard and Frank's. It wasn't any of his business who Brendon hooked up with, and Butcher was a decent guy, if a little flighty for Patrick's taste, a little scrawny, a little wild. Brendon's mood turned quiet and withdrawn when they made it back to the guest room, but Patrick didn't say anything at all, just climbed into his side of the bed and turned the light off before Brendon was even finished changing his clothes.
The rain is pelting the windows when Patrick wakes up. Brendon pads out of the bathroom with his toothbrush still in his mouth, checking through his bag for something. It's another post card, this one proclaiming Jersey the "Garden State", and Patrick doesn't move an inch as Brendon takes a deep breath and drops a stamp on it. There's no writing on the card that Patrick can see, save for the address. All the postcards so far have been images of where Brendon was a the moment, of his journey across the country with Patrick, and he knows deep down that they're meant for someone back home, a trail like breadcrumbs, in case anyone cares to come looking for him.
Patrick can't imagine anyone not dropping everything to come after a kid like Brendon, and he wonders again if Brendon's face is on a milk carton somewhere, if the cops are giving daily updates to Brendon's distraught parents.
New York City is only a thirty minute drive from Gerard and Frank's small house; Patrick and Brendon both move through the morning slowly, packing their bags up in relative silence. Frank drives them down to the office where Patrick's rig is still parked. Patrick keeps stealing glances at the bruise on Brendon's throat, and Brendon keeps patting the side of his bag, making sure his half-depleted roll of cash is still there. Patrick makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. He can go drop Brendon off in the city today, but what the hell will he tell his mom, when she asks about what Brendon's up to? What the hell will he tell Brendon's mom, if she ever catches up to him? He looks up to see Brendon watching him, wary.
"I can take the train," he says, and Patrick tugs on his hat and crosses his arms.
"Yeah, I mean. If you want to," he says, and Frank's jaw tenses. "Or you could just ride with me down to Tallahassee and back," he adds, looking out the window and not at Frank. "Weather report says it's going to rain for a few days, and that's shitty weather for apartment hunting."
"That's not necessary, 'Trick. It's okay."
"You ever been to Florida in the fall?" Patrick asks. "Only decent time to go, man. We can drive through DC; I'll quiz you on the presidents." Patrick tries to keep his tone light, but his stomach is in knots. He's not even sure why he's asking - Brendon doesn't need to take a four thousand mile detour to avoid a little rain.
But Brendon says "Okay, why the fuck not," and smiles a little, clutching his backpack tight to his chest, and Patrick smiles for the first time all day. Frank lets out a long, slow breath and Patrick looks at him. If Frank was so worried about Brendon being on his own in the city, he could have offered to have Brendon stay with him and Gerard until he had a place, until he was on his feet. In fact, it's the kind of thing Frank and Gerard do all the time, taking in strays and fattening them up and keeping them out of trouble.
He wonders why Frank and Gerard didn't offer this time, but he doesn't have much time to dwell on it as he and Brendon go over the pickup and drop off schedule for the run, Gerard pointedly ignoring Brendon's presence with a grin on his face. They get on the road by noon with big hugs from Frank and Gerard, and Brendon kicks his wet shoes off in the cab and puts his feet up on the dash with a contented sigh.
"Get your feet off my console and make us a playlist," Patrick says, tossing Brendon his East Coast ipod. Brendon puts his feet down and gives Patrick a grin and a mock salute.
"Aye aye, Captain."
*
The hickey isn't all that big. Brendon naps on the drive, his head propped up on his arm and tilted toward the window. He still looks young, but the hickey stands out in stark relief on his pale neck, reminding Patrick that he's old enough to be a temptation. Patrick can't help his eyes drifting over to look at it, again and again. They're halfway through Virginia and Patrick tries to keep his mind on the drive, and not on the boy in the seat next to him. But he's only got Brendon for a few more days, he knows, and he kind of wants the kid to wake up and talk to him, keep him company. He frowns down at his dashboard. Patrick's never really wanted anyone to keep him company before, not even Pete, who knows how to make Patrick laugh better than anyone alive. Brendon is fucking with his whole driving routine, with his chatter and his singing and his feet on Patrick's clean dash, and now Patrick is worried he'll be fucking lonely when Brendon inevitably goes off to New York to find a new, exciting life. Brendon, who clearly has no problem making friends wherever he fucking goes, as evidenced by the massive, enormous hickey on his goddamned throat.
By the time Patrick pulls off at a rest stop to user the bathroom and grab some snacks, he's agitated and irritable. "Hey, where are we?" Brendon asks with a sleepy yawn, blinking his eyes open.
"Oh, well look who's awake," Patrick grumbles as he pulls off his seat belt and opens the door. Brendon's forehead creases into a frown.
"I... sorry?" Brendon says, biting at his lower lip, and Patrick huffs and climbs out of the cab. He doesn't bother asking what Brendon wants to eat and ends up coming back with a bag of candy and chips, a large bottle of YooHoo at the bottom of the bag for later. Brendon is fully awake now, his feet pulled up on the seat so Brendon can rest his chin on his knees. It makes him look like a twelve year old (with a huge-ass hickey) and Patrick blushes in shame because he still wants to touch him, to reach over and brush Brendon's hair out of his eyes, and clenches his jaw a few times before speaking.
"Feet off the seats," he says, and Brendon slides his feet to the floor, fingers folding tightly around his knees.
"I could make a new playlist," he says quietly, barely looking at Patrick out of the corner of his eye. He's nervous, like he was that first night in Patrick's cab, but for some reason Patrick doesn't want to reassure him. He likes Brendon being a little wary of him, likes that Brendon isn't being too familiar, that Patrick is in charge of his own fucking truck again.
"Sure," he says, and it comes out a little clipped. Brendon ducks his head and picks up the iPod. "No fucking country," he adds, and Brendon stills, then nods.
*
The tension in the truck is palpable, and Brendon has apparently decided to deal with it in a way that is distinctly Brendon: he's ignoring it entirely, and singing En Vogue at the top of his lungs. Patrick's fingers are white knuckled on the steering wheel, but he can't help but sing along when they come to the sweet harmony parts. Brendon grins over at him, happy and a little sly, like he knew Patrick wouldn't be able to resist. Patrick frowns harder.
"Hey, pass me the YooHoo," he says gruffly, and Brendon pauses.
"Oh, um," he says, confused. "I drank that?" Patrick turns to glare at him. "You were right there!" Brendon says, "Like, I pulled it out of the bag and you were right there, on the radio with Joe, and you didn't say anything!"
"Yeah, I was busy," Patrick grits out. It's not even that he really loves YooHoo, and more the principle of the thing. "I also didn't say 'Hey, Brendon, feel free to eat all my food'," he says. He slams his hand on the steering wheel hard enough that Brendon flinches next to him. "Just. Stop fucking with my shit, Brendon!" he says, a little louder than he'd intended.
Maybe it's not just the YooHoo. He's really fucking pissed, and he doesn't even know why, really, just that Brendon is looking at him with wide, confused eyes, and he's biting his damn lip again, and Patrick really fucking wants to kiss him, maybe, and that is just not okay.
"I'm sorry, I'll pay you back," Brendon replies, hands pushing through his hair. He sounds worried, and a little pissed too, and it sets Patrick's teeth on edge.
"How?" he bites out, and Brendon closes his mouth with a snap. "Yeah, you pay me back for the food and the gas and the lodging and then what? You're running low on twenties, Bren. You pay me back for everything, and how are you going to pay for your shithole apartment in New York?" He's not even sure where this is coming from - Brendon doesn't own him for anything, except maybe his damned YooHoo, but his blood is rushing fast past his own ears, and it feels good to say it, somehow. To let Brendon know that he knows Brendon's dirty little secret, that he knows Brendon has no idea what he's doing.
To remind himself that maybe Brendon is as off-kilter as he is, right now.
Brendon crosses his arms and hunches low in the chair, eyes fixed out the window. "I'll figure it out," he says, quiet and even, and somehow Patrick knows that this is Brendon's angry voice. Patrick snorts derisively. "Yeah, well, some people actually like me."
"Yeah, I noticed," Patrick says, his eyes cutting traitorously to the hickey on his neck, and Brendon reaches his hand up to cover it, his cheeks blushing hot pink.
"Wow, it's good to know what you think of me," he says, and Patrick thinks, yeah, maybe I do think you're a little fucking easy, but he can't make the thought stick. He thinks, you should really have friends who aren't douchebags like me, but all that comes out is, "Hey, I'm not the one who accepts candy and free rides from strangers."
Brendon slips even lower in his seat, folding in on himself like a ball. "I'll pay you back," he says again, his voice hard, but wavering just a little.
"Whatever," Patrick mutters, because he's so over his own ridiculous feelings about this kid, and his own big, stupid mouth, and Brendon can't pay him back because Brendon is a lost, sweet kid with no money and no idea what he's doing.
*
They pull into a struck stop just past the South Carolina border and Brendon jumps out as soon as the engine is off. Patrick figures he's gone to the bathroom and waits a little while in the cab, just resting his head back against the seat and breathing. He owes Brendon an apology, he knows that, but part of him wonders if it's better this way, with Brendon thinking he's a dick. That way he won't force Patrick to listen to Beyonce anymore, or let him rub Brendon's shoulders in a way that should be really platonic, but isn't. He thinks back to Frank and Gerard's, and the shiver down Brendon's spine when Patrick touched him, and he can already feel himself getting hard at the thought of "what if?"
Brendon doesn't need that kind of friend in his life, not right now, and it pisses Patrick off that he can't just be the kind of friend Brendon needs. Maybe he should call Pete for advice. But Pete's the one who planted these thoughts... okay, Patrick's not even going to pretend that's true. He's had these thoughts since he first saw Brendon, scared and alone at that diner. Since the night at his mom's when Brendon played guitar for him and Patrick woke up to Brendon's long fingers brushing his arm.
After a little while, Patrick looks up from his own brand of self-flagellation to see that nearly thirty minutes have passed, and there's still no sign of Brendon. He frowns at the clock and scans the area around the entrance, trying to spot Brendon in the darkness. There's no sign of him. Patrick's startled by the sound of a truck revving it's engine a few spaces down and he has this sudden, sick feeling in his stomach that Brendon is in that truck, or in one of the trucks pulling out of the rest stop onto I-95, heading god knows where. He checks around frantically, but Brendon's bag is gone, and Patrick starts cursing under his breath.
"Fucking motherfucker," he mutters, clambering down from his cab and heading toward the entrance to the stop. Someone was bound to have seen Brendon - he sticks out like a sore thumb at a place like this. Brendon's not in the McDonald's or the men's room, he's not buying coffee, or hiding out in the small arcade. Patrick's hands shake just a little as he opens the back door of the truck stop to check outside where the smokers congregate. He almost misses it, the movement tucked back into the shadow of trees that line the back of the rest area, unlit save for a dim bulb over a picnic table. But when he looks again, Brendon's there, his silhouette slipping in and out of the shadows as he talks to some guy with a pot belly and a lit cigarette. He lets the door close behind him, quiet enough that neither of them see him, and when his eyes adjust to the dark he can see that the guy is standing closer to Brendon than he should be, can see when the guy reaches out to curl his arm around Brendon's elbow. Brendon's spine goes stiff with apprehension.
"Hey!" Patrick yells into the darkness, and his feet are carrying him over before he can even register the movement. "Get the fuck away from him."
"Me and the kid are just having a little chat," the other guy drawls, and fuck if he's not at least twenty years older than Brendon, hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, wedding band visible on his fat, tobacco-stained finger. "None of your concern."
"Brendon," Patrick bites out, close enough that he can see the line of fear set in Brendon's jaw. "Go get in the truck. Right now."
"'Trick," Brendon says, eyes wide and pleading as the guy's fingers close even tighter around his elbow.
Patrick takes a deep breath, then another one, before staring the guy in the face, hands balled into tight fists at his sides. He's not a fighter, not really, but if this guy doesn't let go of Brendon in the next five seconds, Patrick is going to wipe the fucking parking lot with his face. "Let go," he growls, low and threatening; the guy's fingers uncurl and he takes a step back.
"Sorry, man, didn't know he was spoken for," he says with a sneer, and Patrick almost hits him in the face.
"Brendon," he says again, and Brendon is moving fast, ducking behind Patrick and tugging on the hem of his shirt, pulling them both around the side of the building toward the bustle of people getting in and out of their cars.
"Patrick," Brendon says, voice hoarse and strained, and Patrick just puts a hand on his lower back, steers him back to the safety of his truck without a word.
"Get in," he grits out, and only when Brendon is inside and Patrick's pulling himself up after him does he realize his hands are shaking. "In the back," he says to Brendon, because he doesn't want this guy seeing Brendon through the window, doesn't want ANYONE seeing him there. Brendon eyes the bed warily before climbing into the back and Patrick wonders if he can drive like this, with his hands shaking and his pulse racing a million miles an hour. He locks the doors and dims the light in the cabin and grips the steering wheel, counting to five, ten, twenty.
"Patrick --," Brendon says from the darkness behind him.
"Shut up," Patrick cuts in, and his voice cracks. "What the fuck were you thinking, Bren, Jesus?"
"I was gonna pay you back," he replies, his voice almost a whisper, and Patrick hits the steering wheel a few times, the sound loud and angry, bouncing off the walls. "I'm sorry," Brendon says, and fuck, he's crying.
Patrick swivels his chair around so he's facing his tiny cabin, Brendon curled up small and miserable in the middle of his bed. He wants to just crawl in there with him, pull him close and hold him and tell him everything is going to be fine, that Brendon is going to be just fine, but he doesn't trust his own hands right now. He just looks Brendon in the eyes for a long minute, fingers curled tightly in the armrest of his chair. "Don't ever fucking do that again, Brendon. Don't ever fucking think that's a good idea. Ever, okay?"
"Yeah, okay," Brendon whispers, and Patrick turns his chair around and closes his eyes for a long minute.
"Get some sleep," he says, finally, and turns the engine on, pulling the truck out of it's spot and back onto the highway. He's only got a handful of miles left on his log for the day, but he pushes past them, just a little, until he finds a rest stop far enough away from the guy with the ponytail that he feels comfortable pulling off the road. When he turns around again, Brendon is asleep, fingers curled under Patrick's pillow.
Patrick stays awake long into the night, his headphones on as he messes around in GarageBand, his eyes flicking over to Brendon every few minutes to make sure he's still there.
*
When Brendon wakes up, Patrick is already on the road. He slips into the passenger seat without a word, and Patrick doesn't scold him when he pulls his feet up onto the seat and curls his arms around his knees. "Morning," Brendon says, voice small and scratchy.
"Morning," Patrick replies, and tosses him a fruit roll-up and turns up the stereo before they can say anything else. Brendon eats his snack slowly, picking at the sticky candy with both hands. Patrick pretends not to notice the way he sucks the sweetness from his fingers when he's done. Brendon hums along with the music - "House of the Rising Sun", followed by "Lucky", then "Take A Walk on the Wildside". By the time the playlist flips to "Roxanne", Sting's voice sweeping over the reggae beat, Brendon's face is turned into his knees, his ears pink from embarrassment.
"I get it, Patrick, god," he groans, and Patrick raises an eyebrow at him.
"We haven't even gotten to "Lady Marmalade" yet," he says, straight-faced, and Brendon leans over to hit him lightly on the arm.
"I'm not going to become a high class call girl," Brendon says, and Patrick turns the volume down just a little.
"Okay, just so long as we're clear," he replies with a small smile. Brendon leans back in his chair and puts his feet down, fingers bouncing out the rhythm of the song on his thigh.
They ride for another hour or so, Brendon flipping through the CB stations and quizzing Patrick on the trucker terminology. Patrick's tense and tired, but every time he looks over at Brendon, smiling and happy and safe in the seat next to him, he feels his shoulders relax a little. He thinks about the end of this run, and how Brendon still has no friends, no place to live in New York, and more and more he just wants to keep Brendon here, in his cab, and make sure nothing bad ever happens to him.
He knows that's stupid and impractical. Brendon doesn't need a babysitter. He needs a plan. Patrick turns down the radio and taps his fingers on the steering wheel.
"So," he starts, and Brendon turns a little in his seat, one leg tucked under him.
"So," Brendon grins at him. Patrick catches his eyes and can't help but smile back. The kid has a really infectious grin.
"You need a plan, kid," Patrick says bluntly, and Brendon sighs.
"You know I'm not a kid, right?" he asks. "I have a diploma and I can vote and everything."
"Yeah, yeah, call me when your balls drop," Patrick says, rolling his eyes, and Brendon laughs.
"Heyyy, baby," he rumbles, his voice dropping an octave as he leans in toward Patrick, eyebrows wagging. Patrick's pulse jumps and he swats at Brendon with one hand, hoping to deflect from the blush creeping over his cheeks. Fine, he tells himself. Brendon's not a kid. Doesn't mean he's in the market for a skeevy older guy. He thinks about the truck stop the night before and shudders.
"Fine, Barry White, point taken," Patrick says. "You still need a plan. I'm not psyched about dropping you off in Times Square with two hundred bucks and a handshake."
Brendon leans back against the door with a small sigh. "Yeah, I know. I just don't really have any ideas. Like I said, I can do retail, or Starbucks or whatever until I figure it out."
"Why New York, then?" Patrick asks. "You can do retail or Starbucks in any city in the country, for a way lower cost of living."
Brendon shrugs. "New York's where people go to start over, right?" He picks lightly at the hem of his shirt and stares out the window of the cab. "City that never sleeps, city where you can figure your shit out, find fame and fortune."
"So you're looking for fame and fortune?"
"I don't know. Maybe?" Brendon shrugs again. "Isn't everyone looking for a little fame and fortune?"
Patrick thinks about the songs he writes and remixes and records on the road, locked away in his laptop where no one will ever hear them but Pete. It hurts a little, to make music that no one will ever hear, and he thinks there's a small part of him that yearns for a little recognition. "Yeah, maybe," he replies. "But I also think it's important to find something you really love to do, something that fits you, whether it means you get famous or not." Patrick thinks about his time on the road, the great open stretches of land in front of him, the cities he's seen, the friends he's made from coast to coast. It's a good life he's carved out for himself, even if his mom thinks it's a little lonely.
"I don't know what I'm good at," Brendon says plainly. "I mean, I'm good at music, but that's not really going to pay the bills."
"What about college?" Patrick ventures.
"What about it?" Brendon snaps back, arms crossing, and Patrick frowns. He seems to have hit a nerve.
"Hey, college is a good idea, Bren. You could take a bunch of stuff, figure out what you're into-,"
"I'm not going to college," Brendon says flatly, and Patrick somehow knows not to push it.
"Okay, then. What about a trade school?"
"Like trucking?" Brendon says, eyes widening a little.
"Or like something in medicine, or law. Air conditioning repair. Clown college." Patrick says.
"Or trucking," Brendon says again, a big smile stretching across his face. Patrick groans.
"Come on, Urie. You don't want to be a trucker."
"Why not?" Brendon asks. "I mean, I guess I could be a clown, but I bet it doesn't come with dental." He leans back in his seat with a satisfied hum.
Patrick takes a deep breath. Brendon needs a plan that utilizes all his talents, his personality, his warm smile and his natural sunniness. Not a career where he'd spend ninety percent of his time alone in his truck with no one but his radio for company. He steals a glance at Brendon, watching the road roll out in front of them with a small, satisfied smile on his face. It's going to take a while to talk Brendon out of this stupid trucking plan, but… he could work it to his advantage for now.
"Okay, you're basing this trucking career choice off of… what? A week and a half in a truck with me? What if you can't cut another week? It's a lot of motel rooms and diner food and shitty talk radio, Bren."
Brendon snorts. "I can totally swing another week. Hell, another month. This is fun." He turns his grin on Patrick, and Patrick can see that warmth in his eyes again, sweeping over Patrick's face, down to his hands on the steering wheel.
"Fine," Patrick says, chest tight. This suddenly seems like a terrible idea, another week or more with Brendon in his passenger seat, warm and sunny and sweet, and totally off-limits. But he thinks again about Brendon alone in New York, and decides a personal sacrifice needs to be made, even if it's his own sanity. "I'll talk to Gerard about taking you along on my next long-haul. Four thousand miles straight through, and we'll see if you aren't bored enough to claw your eyes out at the end."
"Deal," Brendon says, holding out his hand to shake. Patrick shakes his head, but he's smiling when he slips his hand into Brendon's. So what if he holds on for maybe a minute too long?
Part 3