FIC: [P!ATD . Jon/Brendon . PG13]
title: you are the veil
fandom: Fall Out Boy/Panic! at the Disco
pairing: Jon/Brendon
rating: PG13
A/N: See, what had happened was this: I wrote a story for beingothrwrldly where Brendon is really sad because his boyfriend (Patrick Stump, in this particular case) was going to miss his birthday, and he's really sad and asks Jon Walker for wings for his birthday.
I sent it to quettaser for a beta, and mentioned that despite the document name, it wasn't actually, you know, wing!fic.
But then, she made this. And after I flailed all over myself because it's absofuckinglutely gorgeous, I wrote this.
So, basically, blame/thank quettaser, whichever you prefer.
It’s not something they talk about, really. Ever. He’s able to pull them in enough under his clothing that they’re not even noticeable and sometimes he’s able to forget they’re there.
Once, while they’re getting ready for the concert in San Jose, Ryan reaches towards them with this look in his eyes like he’s hypnotized. His fingers brush the very edge and Brendon grabs his wrist, twisting it enough to hurt. Ryan looks apologetic but victorious, and Brendon pays him back by kissing him on stage.
Ryan never tries to touch them again.
*
“Come on, Brendon. They’re fucking gorgeous. Please, just a few shots.” Jon is holding his camera so tightly that his knuckles are white and Brendon almost wants to punch him. He would, he thinks, if it were anyone but Jon Fucking Walker.
“No. Are you fucking kidding? What if someone saw them?”
“No one would believe it,” Jon says quietly, his eyes locked on Brendon’s back. He shakes his head a little, looking up at Brendon’s face. “If anyone ever saw them, which they would not, they’d think I photoshopped them or something.”
“Then why do you want to take them?” Brendon looks out over the horizon until the blues and pinks and purples all fade into one another.
“Because they’re beautiful, Brendon. You’re beautiful.” Jon reaches out and touches his shoulder, and when Brendon turns around to look at him there’s a bright white light where Jon’s face should be.
*
Eventually, Brendon agrees, on a few conditions. One, Jon has to swear on everything holy and Chicagoan that he will never, ever, ever show anyone. As long as they both shall live. Two, he has to take them when Brendon’s not looking, because just in case they do get out, there won’t be a face to put with the body, and also because if Brendon knows someone’s taking a picture he has a tendency to curl them into his back and make them as small as possible. Three, he has to promise not to touch them.
He’s considering rescinding rule number two, because now every time he’s shirtless he’s constantly scanning the room for Jon and that fucking camera. Also, he’s going to add a four, which is that this can only go on for, say, two weeks, because he’s not going to spend the rest of his life wondering if Jon Walker is taking a fucking picture of his back.
*
Eight days after the rules are laid down, Brendon squeezes into the booth next to Ryan and leans over.
“Dude, make Jon stop staring at me.”
Ryan doesn’t even look up from his Sidekick. “What?”
Brendon elbows him in the side, and that earns him a Look. “Jon has been staring at me for days. It’s totally creeping me out.”
Ryan rolls his eyes and flips his phone closed. “Dude, Jon always stares at you. Welcome to reality.”
Brendon frowns and looks over at Jon, who’s engrossed in a game of Guitar Hero with Spencer. “Seriously?”
“Seriously,” Ryan responds, reaching over and stealing Brendon’s Red Bull. “I cannot believe you’ve never noticed that.”
Brendon’s still watching Jon, laughing at something Spencer’s saying. “Why, do you think?”
Ryan gives him another look, are you seriously that much of a dumbass?, and it clicks suddenly.
“Oh, right, the, uh,” he says, motioning over his shoulder to his back. “You know.”
Ryan shakes his head and stands up, looking down at Brendon. “You’re an idiot,” he says, walking away with Brendon’s drink. When Brendon looks back over, Jon and Spencer are gone.
*
Ryan and Spencer are nowhere to be found after the show, and Brendon doesn’t even want to think about what they’re doing. Well, he kinda wants to think about, especially since the last time he saw them they were with Pete, but he doesn’t, because there are too many variables and he’s too tired.
Jon’s a little bit tipsy, just enough to slur his words and make his lisp even more noticeable. Brendon has a beer but he hasn’t taken a drink yet, instead turning it around and around in his hands. Jon sits on the couch and leans against him, putting his head on Brendon’s shoulder.
“Can you fly?”
Brendon sighs. He normally doesn’t want to ever have this conversation with anyone, ever, but Jon is warm next to him and he kinda wants to talk about it, for some reason.
“I don’t know. I’ve never tried. I’m sure I could, they’re really strong, but it would take practice, a ton of practice, and it’s not like I ever have time. Or the space.”
“Maybe,” Jon says quietly, “when we’re super rich and famous we can buy a huge complex with tons and tons of acreage and you can learn.”
“Maybe,” Brendon murmurs, but he doesn’t let himself think about it. “This whole photo project thing is freaking me out, by the way.”
Jon sits up and looks at him, and the green in his eyes is so bright it reminds Brendon of flying, looking out over vast expanses of land. “Seriously?” he says, and Brendon’s mind lingers on the s’s. “Why?”
“You’ve just been. Watching me, like, constantly since I gave you the okay.” He looks down at the bottle in his hands, suddenly feeling very brave. it’s just past eight, he sings to himself, and I’m feeling young and reckless.
“Ryan says,” he begins, just as Jon leans a fraction closer and says, “Spencer says.” They both stop and smile at each other. Jon nods at him. “You go.”
“Ryan says that maybe you’re not just staring because of them,” he whispers.
“Spencer says I should just tell you,” Jon whispers back. “And Ryan’s right. Just, you know, for the record.”
Brendon reaches over and splays his fingers across Jon’s stomach, winding them around his waist. “Maybe Spencer’s right, too,” he says, leaning in.
When Jon kisses him, it’s feather-light, and up until this moment Brendon has always fucking hated that analogy, for obvious reasons. But now, with Jon cupping his face and stroking his thumbs over Brendon’s cheekbones, and Jon’s tongue licking lightly at his teeth, Brendon can’t think about anything but soft and good and flight.
Jon climbs into his lap, straddling his thighs, and Brendon whimpers in the back of his throat. His shoulders ache from sitting back too long, and he moves up slightly. “Jon,” he strangles out as Jon kisses down the side of his neck, alternating licking and biting. “Jon,” he repeats with more force, and Jon leans back to look at him.
“This isn’t. I mean, this doesn’t have anything to do with. Right?”
Jon frowns, leaning into kiss him. “You can keep your shirt on, if you want. I just want you, Brendon.”
There’s something in his voice that shatters Brendon’s heart into a thousand fucking pieces, and he reaches up and pulls Jon’s mouth back down to his.
*
The next morning Brendon wakes up, sans shirt, and smiles into his pillow. He reaches across the bunk, but instead of finding Jon he finds a small, glossy piece of photo paper. He opens his eyes and picks it up, squinting to adjust to the light.
It’s him. His back, actually, and he recognizes it from a show last week, when Jon was supposed to be guarding the door to make sure no one saw Brendon getting dressed. The focus of the camera is on the shirt hanging on the doorknob, but Brendon is a slightly blurry figure strong in the background. The picture itself is fucking amazing, artistically speaking, and Brendon traces the edges of his silhouette as his wings unfurl and curve around his shoulders.
fandom: Fall Out Boy/Panic! at the Disco
pairing: Jon/Brendon
rating: PG13
A/N: See, what had happened was this: I wrote a story for beingothrwrldly where Brendon is really sad because his boyfriend (Patrick Stump, in this particular case) was going to miss his birthday, and he's really sad and asks Jon Walker for wings for his birthday.
I sent it to quettaser for a beta, and mentioned that despite the document name, it wasn't actually, you know, wing!fic.
But then, she made this. And after I flailed all over myself because it's absofuckinglutely gorgeous, I wrote this.
So, basically, blame/thank quettaser, whichever you prefer.
It’s not something they talk about, really. Ever. He’s able to pull them in enough under his clothing that they’re not even noticeable and sometimes he’s able to forget they’re there.
Once, while they’re getting ready for the concert in San Jose, Ryan reaches towards them with this look in his eyes like he’s hypnotized. His fingers brush the very edge and Brendon grabs his wrist, twisting it enough to hurt. Ryan looks apologetic but victorious, and Brendon pays him back by kissing him on stage.
Ryan never tries to touch them again.
*
“Come on, Brendon. They’re fucking gorgeous. Please, just a few shots.” Jon is holding his camera so tightly that his knuckles are white and Brendon almost wants to punch him. He would, he thinks, if it were anyone but Jon Fucking Walker.
“No. Are you fucking kidding? What if someone saw them?”
“No one would believe it,” Jon says quietly, his eyes locked on Brendon’s back. He shakes his head a little, looking up at Brendon’s face. “If anyone ever saw them, which they would not, they’d think I photoshopped them or something.”
“Then why do you want to take them?” Brendon looks out over the horizon until the blues and pinks and purples all fade into one another.
“Because they’re beautiful, Brendon. You’re beautiful.” Jon reaches out and touches his shoulder, and when Brendon turns around to look at him there’s a bright white light where Jon’s face should be.
*
Eventually, Brendon agrees, on a few conditions. One, Jon has to swear on everything holy and Chicagoan that he will never, ever, ever show anyone. As long as they both shall live. Two, he has to take them when Brendon’s not looking, because just in case they do get out, there won’t be a face to put with the body, and also because if Brendon knows someone’s taking a picture he has a tendency to curl them into his back and make them as small as possible. Three, he has to promise not to touch them.
He’s considering rescinding rule number two, because now every time he’s shirtless he’s constantly scanning the room for Jon and that fucking camera. Also, he’s going to add a four, which is that this can only go on for, say, two weeks, because he’s not going to spend the rest of his life wondering if Jon Walker is taking a fucking picture of his back.
*
Eight days after the rules are laid down, Brendon squeezes into the booth next to Ryan and leans over.
“Dude, make Jon stop staring at me.”
Ryan doesn’t even look up from his Sidekick. “What?”
Brendon elbows him in the side, and that earns him a Look. “Jon has been staring at me for days. It’s totally creeping me out.”
Ryan rolls his eyes and flips his phone closed. “Dude, Jon always stares at you. Welcome to reality.”
Brendon frowns and looks over at Jon, who’s engrossed in a game of Guitar Hero with Spencer. “Seriously?”
“Seriously,” Ryan responds, reaching over and stealing Brendon’s Red Bull. “I cannot believe you’ve never noticed that.”
Brendon’s still watching Jon, laughing at something Spencer’s saying. “Why, do you think?”
Ryan gives him another look, are you seriously that much of a dumbass?, and it clicks suddenly.
“Oh, right, the, uh,” he says, motioning over his shoulder to his back. “You know.”
Ryan shakes his head and stands up, looking down at Brendon. “You’re an idiot,” he says, walking away with Brendon’s drink. When Brendon looks back over, Jon and Spencer are gone.
*
Ryan and Spencer are nowhere to be found after the show, and Brendon doesn’t even want to think about what they’re doing. Well, he kinda wants to think about, especially since the last time he saw them they were with Pete, but he doesn’t, because there are too many variables and he’s too tired.
Jon’s a little bit tipsy, just enough to slur his words and make his lisp even more noticeable. Brendon has a beer but he hasn’t taken a drink yet, instead turning it around and around in his hands. Jon sits on the couch and leans against him, putting his head on Brendon’s shoulder.
“Can you fly?”
Brendon sighs. He normally doesn’t want to ever have this conversation with anyone, ever, but Jon is warm next to him and he kinda wants to talk about it, for some reason.
“I don’t know. I’ve never tried. I’m sure I could, they’re really strong, but it would take practice, a ton of practice, and it’s not like I ever have time. Or the space.”
“Maybe,” Jon says quietly, “when we’re super rich and famous we can buy a huge complex with tons and tons of acreage and you can learn.”
“Maybe,” Brendon murmurs, but he doesn’t let himself think about it. “This whole photo project thing is freaking me out, by the way.”
Jon sits up and looks at him, and the green in his eyes is so bright it reminds Brendon of flying, looking out over vast expanses of land. “Seriously?” he says, and Brendon’s mind lingers on the s’s. “Why?”
“You’ve just been. Watching me, like, constantly since I gave you the okay.” He looks down at the bottle in his hands, suddenly feeling very brave. it’s just past eight, he sings to himself, and I’m feeling young and reckless.
“Ryan says,” he begins, just as Jon leans a fraction closer and says, “Spencer says.” They both stop and smile at each other. Jon nods at him. “You go.”
“Ryan says that maybe you’re not just staring because of them,” he whispers.
“Spencer says I should just tell you,” Jon whispers back. “And Ryan’s right. Just, you know, for the record.”
Brendon reaches over and splays his fingers across Jon’s stomach, winding them around his waist. “Maybe Spencer’s right, too,” he says, leaning in.
When Jon kisses him, it’s feather-light, and up until this moment Brendon has always fucking hated that analogy, for obvious reasons. But now, with Jon cupping his face and stroking his thumbs over Brendon’s cheekbones, and Jon’s tongue licking lightly at his teeth, Brendon can’t think about anything but soft and good and flight.
Jon climbs into his lap, straddling his thighs, and Brendon whimpers in the back of his throat. His shoulders ache from sitting back too long, and he moves up slightly. “Jon,” he strangles out as Jon kisses down the side of his neck, alternating licking and biting. “Jon,” he repeats with more force, and Jon leans back to look at him.
“This isn’t. I mean, this doesn’t have anything to do with. Right?”
Jon frowns, leaning into kiss him. “You can keep your shirt on, if you want. I just want you, Brendon.”
There’s something in his voice that shatters Brendon’s heart into a thousand fucking pieces, and he reaches up and pulls Jon’s mouth back down to his.
*
The next morning Brendon wakes up, sans shirt, and smiles into his pillow. He reaches across the bunk, but instead of finding Jon he finds a small, glossy piece of photo paper. He opens his eyes and picks it up, squinting to adjust to the light.
It’s him. His back, actually, and he recognizes it from a show last week, when Jon was supposed to be guarding the door to make sure no one saw Brendon getting dressed. The focus of the camera is on the shirt hanging on the doorknob, but Brendon is a slightly blurry figure strong in the background. The picture itself is fucking amazing, artistically speaking, and Brendon traces the edges of his silhouette as his wings unfurl and curve around his shoulders.