Pete Wentz: The Drum Major From Hell [s/a]
Title: Pete Wentz: The Drum Major From Hell (Who Inadvertently Caused Ryan and Brendon To Fall Madly In Love With Each Other Because He Wouldn't Let The Band Kids Shower)
Author: selectivelyurie
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Ryan/Brendon
POV: Third
Summary: Brendon comes into English class every day sweaty and gross from band practice
Disclaimer: If Ryan and Brendon had gone to the same school, this would have totally happened. Alas, they didn't so this is fiction. (Except for Brendon's obvious sweating problem, that is fact.)
Author Notes: Thanks to my_obsession_xx for convincing me to write this and for giving me that obscenely long title (you know how horrible I am when it comes to them). Written for anon_lovefest.
It’s roughly ninety-five degrees outside and the snare drum hanging from Brendon’s shoulders feels like it weighs twelve tons rather than pounds. The sun is beating down, reflecting harshly from the metallic lining of his instrument and his sticks feel like anchors in his hands. He twirls them with weak fingers and wipes off the sweat collecting on his brow with the back of his wrist, preventing it from trailing down behind his glasses and into his eyes. His mouth is parched and his lips are dry, but his entire body is soaked with sweat.
The padding of his harness isn’t doing his shoulders any relief and it’s sticking to his shirt, pressed into the fabric and absorbing perspiration. He glances over at Pete, drum major and overall douchebag, and looks at him with pleading, exhausted eyes as he converses with the band director. They’ve been out here since five minutes after the period started, the entire band, dressed in uniform and stepping in time with Pete’s rhythm, perfecting their routine for the Homecoming halftime show in the next few weeks.
They suck, still. But hey, at least Brendon didn’t run into William again.
(Last time it happened - yesterday - Brendon had had to look down at his music sheet one too many times - because Pete is a dick and won’t let Brendon wear the glasses he needs to in order to, I don’t know, fucking see? - and ended up walking on William’s heels for half of practice. He hadn’t meant to, of course, but for a kid built like a twig, William Beckett handles the tuba exceptionally well, and Brendon was relieved that Beckett wasn’t too awfully annoyed with him and his inattentiveness.)
Beside him, a fellow freshman by the name of Spencer groans and rotates his wrists, stretching out the stiffness caused by beating sideways into his bass drum. He pops his neck and yawns.
“Fuck,” Pete curses after he and Mr. Henderson have a quick moment. “Um. Time to go.” A chorus of sighs, laughs of relief and “Finallys” ripple through the band and Pete continues, “The bell just rang and you have-” He pauses to look at his watch. “-three minutes to get to class. Now, go. Hurry, no tardy passes for anyone.” A slew of “Fuck you, Petes” and groans of distaste then erupt from the center of the musicians and it spreads to the outer ring of trumpet players who fanfare in anger. “Don’t toot your horns at me,” Pete snaps as most of the band stalks off to the band hall. “Especially you, McCoy. I’ve had enough of your shit today.”
“Blow me.” Travis sniggers and another junior, Gabe Saporta, bumps fists with him. You’d think that as juniors, the immature band jokes such as this would have lost their humor by now. However, they seem to crack one every day, either by innuendos or by, y’know, blatantly humping Patrick’s xylophone. The mutual dislike between Travis and Gabe and Pete is something the entire band has observed and accepted. Ninety-eight percent of them are convinced it’s because Pete hates anything that comes near Patrick with a dick. The other two percent - Pete and Patrick - are convinced it’s because Travis and Gabe are just assholes. Brendon thinks it’s a little of both (but mostly a lot of the latter).
“What was that, Travis?” Pete glares and Travis merely laughs and stalks off to the band hall with Gabe.
Next to Brendon, Spencer gives his drum three more pounds and says, “You comin’, Urie?”
Brendon squints up into the Vegas sun, outrageously hot and bright, reflecting off of his thick rimmed glasses and nods, following Spencer and the rest of the band back to the school. In the distance, Brendon hears the faint sound of the tardy bell ringing and he groans, sweat sliding down his back, gathering in the bend of his knees and dampening his armpits.
He and Spencer enter the band hall at the same time and when he pulls off his drum harness, sweat peels off his uniform jacket, too. He tosses the t-shirt beneath his uniform aside and rummages through his bag for a spare shirt, however wrinkled it may be, and dons it, dry fabric sticking to his damp skin. One sniff of his armpits and Brendon’s sure he’ll faint, so he rubs on extra deodorant.
He’s unbelievably sweaty and gross and. Fuck, he has English next.
----
When Brendon leans up to pass his paper to Greta, he can hear the material of his jeans make an obscene wet noise against the plastic chair of his desk and he slumps down into his seat, mortified.
Fuck Pete and his inability to ever remember that class ends at twelve fifty-five and that, in order to be hygienic, showers lasting at least fifteen minutes need to be allotted for. This is the third time this semester that Brendon has come into English late and dripping with some sort of liquid (the first time he had actually had a shower but was pressed for time to get to class and hadn’t gotten to dry his hair properly. The last time had been similar to this, only it had been mid August and it was scorching).
Greta passes all of their papers to the front and Brendon tries to ignore the fact that he feels extremely out of place in a senior English class. It’s not that Brendon is extraordinarily smart and was able to skip grades or anything, and it’s not like the seniors he’s surrounded by are borderline retarded, it’s that Principle Hall accidentally placed him in this class at the start of term and remarkably, Brendon was able to handle the work.
As a freshman, he’s damn proud of that. Again, it’s not that Brendon is gifted, or that he has a particular passion for English. No, it’s not that. His motivation to pass lies solely in the likes of a kid named Ryan Ross, a fragile looking boy with honey eyes who sits one row up and two aisles over from Brendon.
If Brendon keeps passing the class and completing the work, Mr. Hall agreed to let him stay. And Brendon will be damned if he fails and doesn’t get to stare at Ryan’s profile throughout most lectures (and discussions and worksheets and tests).
Mrs. Iberman collects all the homework sheets into one pile, stacks it neatly on her desk and says, “Everyone needs to find a partner and turn to page two forty seven; we’re reading Hamlet today.”
When the class collectively groans and begins shuffling around the room in search of partners, Brendon feels like he’s back out on the football field, surrounded by his complaining band members and baking under the hot sun. A bead of leftover sweat rolls down his cheek and he wipes it away quickly just as Jon Walker approaches him with his textbook.
“Yo,” Jon greets and plops down in the empty desk next to Brendon.
Brendon smiles at him, fighting off the wave of jealously that hits him when he sees Ryan pairing up with Keltie. As the head cheerleader, Keltie Colleen happens to be decently intelligent, and she’s pretty damn good at what she does. However, Brendon is really bothered with the way she always makes a bee line for Ryan during partner work. It’s not that Brendon would ever expect himself to grow balls big enough to ask Ryan to be his partner, or that Ryan would ever stoop low enough to ask Brendon, a freshman, for his hand in… partnership. It’s not like Ryan and Brendon would ever be partners. But. It’s just that feeling of having an opportunity always taken away from him that Brendon doesn’t like. He hates that he associates his feeling of jealously solely with Keltie, but it can’t be helped, especially when she giggles at something that Ryan says and touches his arm, like- Fuck, like that. Yeah, Brendon can’t watch anymore.
“Hey, Jon,” Brendon grimaces and flips open his book.
Jon scoots his desk closer to Brendon’s and crinkles his nose. “Whew! Urie, dude, you. You fucking reek, man.”
Brendon flushes and draws his arms into himself. “Sorry,” he mumbles, head down. “Pete called practice late and we didn’t have time to-”
“Dude, I’m just joking,” Jon laughs, punching Brendon in the arm playfully. “If you smelled that bad, I wouldn’t have said anything. I would have just like, keeled over dead or something.”
Brendon visibly deflates and laughs a little, still nervous and slightly embarrassed and says, “Oh.”
“But really, is that why you were late? Wentz kept you guys?” Jon asks.
“Yeah,” Brendon replies, picking at his pencil lead. “I would have showered but I didn’t want to be too late to class.”
Jon shrugs nonchalantly, “’S cool. You don’t smell. I mean, okay, you don’t distinctly smell. I’m sure if I stuck my face in your armpit I’d say otherwise, but you’re not like, permeating the room with your stench or anything.”
Brendon laughs and pushes his glasses up, “Thanks, Jon.”
“Yeah, no problem,” Jon smiles, cheesy and all golden.
Jon has been Brendon’s partner every day since the school year began. Brendon thinks Jon, however much older than Brendon he may be, is probably his best friend. Well, besides Spencer. (Brendon also thinks that, if it weren’t for his big, flaming crush on Ryan, he’d totally have the charm and ability to woo Jon into being his boyfriend. Jon would be a great boyfriend.)
Mrs. Iberman calls the class to attention again and instructs them to read pages two forty seven through two fifty-five together as partners and complete the worksheet she hands out as she speaks. She begins passing out papers on the right side of the room first, and when Ryan twists around in his seat to pass Adam a sheet, he catches Brendon’s eye.
Brendon glances away, blushing only slightly and spends the next half hour of class trying to focus on what Jon’s reading and not on the slight twitch of Ryan’s lips when he’d noticed Brendon staring.
----
Brendon is back to a relatively normal amount of perspiration by fifth period biology and he and Spencer take turns poking the experimental frog lying belly up on their tray.
Spencer gouges at its heart and says, “I really fucking hate Pete,” and Brendon says, “Yeah, no kidding.”
“Seriously,” Spencer continues, successfully puncturing one of it’s lungs. In hindsight, he’s sure they’re going to get points deducted, but eh, it squirted and that was pretty fucking gross, which, in Spencer’s language, means totally fucking worth it. “I mean, like. Who the fuck does he think he is, making us late every other day? I have classes to pass, y’know.”
“Yeah,” Brendon agrees. “And I’d actually like to not smell like a dirty sock when I go to English class. Ryan’s in there, man. It’s embarrassing.”
“Yeah, I know all about your little crush, you little gaymo. But dude, you totally don’t smell like a dirty sock,” Spencer assures, patting Brendon on the back, hand covered by a latex glove covered in… things Brendon would rather not think about. Thank God for lab coats.
“Thanks, man,” Brendon sighs, taking the scalpel from Spencer.
“You smell more like… my jock strap from eighth grade.”
When Brendon pierces the left lung, he aims the juices at Spencer’s face.
----
The following day, Brendon is late from band. Again.
Pete made some bogus excuse about “having to run the routine two more times, just two more; and Saporta, if I see you trying to deep throat your clarinet one more time, so help me God, I’ll cut off your dick” and it pushed everyone for time and once again, Brendon is entering English late and sweaty, only today, unmercifully, he’s twenty minutes late and wearing a gray shirt.
Seriously, can someone just- just kill him? Before he has to pace in front of Ryan’s desk with back sweat? Please?
He passes Jon with an expression that pleads as much and shuffles to the back to his seat, sliding in as silently as possible so as not to interrupt Mrs. Iberman’s lesson. It’s something about Hamlet still, something Brendon has no interest in because he’s busy dying of embarrassment, thank you, because he’s just stood in front of all of his peers - seniors, dude, seniors - with his shirt plastered wet and sticky to his tiny frame and his hair is sticking up at odd ends. He looks like a total tool.
Jon smiles awkwardly at him from across the room and points to Ryan, mouthing, “He didn’t see you come in,” and Brendon never in a million years thought he’d ever be overjoyed to hear those words. However, almost immediately, Ryan looks up from his notes to ask Tom to repeat what Mrs. Iberman just said and he notices Brendon’s seat has been mysteriously filled by the boy in question. Ryan’s eyes kind of lighten and Brendon sits up a little straighter in his chair, a smile tugging on his lips.
And then Ryan snorts, this humored, stifled laugh and looks away with a raised eyebrow, giggling into his fist. Brendon frowns and casts his eyes over to Jon who bites his lip in a concerned way that makes Brendon’s stomach drop.
Brendon looks down and notices that in his rush to get to class, he forgot to change shirts and the outline of his snare harness is visible through the damp cotton on his chest.
He pales and sinks back down into his seat.
----
For four days out of the following week, Brendon is tardy to class, and only one of those days is he tardy and actually showered. Mrs. Iberman is lenient but disapproving of his habitual lateness and suggests that he either ask permission to be excused from band practice earlier or to consider dropping the course so that he doesn’t keep disrupting class with his late arrivals.
Brendon knows Pete will never go for allowing him early release and the thought of dropping the only class he ever sees Ryan in is something that makes Brendon’s stomach uncomfortable. He decides to weigh his options and discuss possible alternatives with Jon on Friday, but thanks to his luck, Jon left for Chicago with Tom yesterday afternoon and won’t be back until Thursday.
To make matters even worse, Brendon is late (again) and without a shower (again) and since Jon isn’t there to be his partner, Brendon is left by himself for partner work. Other than Jon, he hardly speaks to anyone in the room, so he does as he did the first week of class and takes out his notebook to begin work quietly. He’s copying down question number one when someone stands in his light.
Ryan Ross looks down at him with a hand on the back of his neck and says, “Keltie isn’t here today, she’s sick. Mind if I join you?”
Brendon’s nerves press his pencil so far into his paper that the lead snaps and dirties his work. “Y-yeah,” he stutters out.
Ryan raises a careful eyebrow and says, “You do mind?”
Brendon swallows thickly thinks Don’t you dare start hyperventilating, you pansy and shakes his head. “No, I meant, no, I don’t mind.”
“Oh.”
Ryan slides into the desk Jon usually occupies during partner work and pushes the desk closer to Brendon. Brendon has abandoned his traitor pencil and is sitting on his hands, arms flat against his sides, knees bouncing. He bites his lip and Ryan clears his throat.
“So, um. About the other day, I- I shouldn’t have laughed at you like I did. That was. Rude. And really immature and I’m sorry,” Ryan says, awkwardly pushing out his apology.
Brendon shrugs like it’s no big deal, like he hadn’t felt like the biggest douche on the planet, like he hadn’t felt extremely self conscious the rest of the day, like he hadn’t ranted to Spencer all of fifth period over a goat eyeball. “’S okay,” he says.
“I know you’re always coming in late because of Pete, or whatever. And I think that’s really shitty,” Ryan tells him, scratching his elbow.
“What? That I come in late?” Brendon asks, sounding a bit alarmed, like Ryan’s just told him that Brendon coming in late so often has disrupted his educational experience and that Brendon is a huge asshole.
“No,” Ryan says. “Well, I mean, yeah. But it’s not that you’re coming in late, it’s why you’re coming in late. Pete holding you guys up and not giving you time to shower is fucking lame.”
Brendon doesn’t want to admit it, but the way Ryan’s mouth curls up when he says ‘fucking’ is extremely difficult for his dick to ignore. He shifts in his seat.
“Y-yeah, yeah, totally,” Brendon says, throat a little constricted. “I mean, every day he’s telling us that ‘we’re not good enough yet’ and that ‘we need to practice longer’ and that ‘Travis, fucking quit it! You are supposed to play your trumpet, not finger it!’ It’s pretty-” Brendon smiles a little, “-fucking lame.”
Ryan nods and allows Brendon smile to seep into his own. “So, is it like, really that hot outside? Cause it doesn’t feel that hot out to me.”
Brendon’s smile fades a little and really, how do you say ‘I sweat more than a McDonalds cup’ in a decent way?
“Well, the heat combined with our uniforms, plus my snare drum weighs like-” Twelve pounds, but damn that makes him sound really weak. So maybe he lies a little, “-twenty pounds and we’re constantly moving, so…”
“Oh,” Ryan says like he understands. “Cause you always look so… tired when you get to class. I didn’t know if-”
“So how about Hamlet, hmm?” Brendon interrupts, adjusting his glasses. Ryan Ross is his partner, for the first time in the history of forever, and he’s not about to waste these precious moments talking about his sweat glands. That is not acceptable memory material.
----
Turns out, Keltie has mono (Hmm, Brendon wonders why) and won’t be back at school for another week, which means Ryan comes to Brendon’s desk again on Monday, toting his bag this time, as if signifying his permanent transference to Brendon’s part of the classroom, at least until Jon returns on Thursday.
It also turns out, that Brendon is less productive when Ryan is within two feet of him because they end up talking about things not related to Hamlet, or even Shakespeare.
Brendon shares band stories and experiences on the buses to and from football games. Ryan laughs when he hears about how Travis, Gabe, and sophomore chick - Victoria - all managed to cover each individual key on Patrick’s xylophone with multi-colored flavored condoms along with a note perched on top that was signed, ‘Love, Pete’. Ryan just listens with wide eyes and interested feedback and Brendon continues talking, about fifth period biology with Spencer and how he hates Mr. Bradley - Ryan interjects with a story of his own loathing for the teacher and Brendon cringes when he hears how pig guts where involved - and then about how he and Jon are planning to start an epic food fight the last week of school.
Before he knows it, it’s time to leave on Wednesday afternoon. Jon will be back tomorrow.
----
It was raining when Brendon stepped out of the band hall and trudged out to the football field. The water was falling so hard and fast that the puddles it created were exploding up from the ground, soaking Brendon’s pants and ankles. Everyone in the band contemplated murdering Pete when he insisted that they still practice outside today, despite the torrential rain. He’d simply said, “Homecoming is tomorrow and we’re still not ready. Practice outside, no ifs, ands, or butts.”
Of course, it was muddy on the field and the slippery surface made it difficult to march, so by the time Pete called practice (late, as usual), Brendon was covered head to toe in mud and grass, having slipped up and fallen to his knees several times throughout the period. Most everyone showered, and those that opted just to change clothes were prompted to shower anyways so that they wouldn’t smell like dirt. Fortunately, for Brendon and the rest of the drumline who had been arranging their instruments, by the time everyone was finished showering, he was almost thirty minutes late to English, a new record. Spencer had followed the other half of the band into the P.E. locker rooms to shower, leaving only Brendon, Gabe and Travis remaining in the band locker rooms.
Brendon pulled out his spare clothes and left them piled up by his bag before he stepped in under the shower spray. Gabe and Travis were toweling off and already dressing by the time he was squirting shampoo into his palm and they left when Brendon’s eyes were closed to prevent the soap from burning his eyes. Brendon had the locker room to himself.
He showers a little slower than he normally does when presented with a shower after band practice. Instead of scrubbing off hastily, he stands beneath the stream of hot water long enough so that the chill from the rain outside vanishes and his bones were warm through and through. The door to his shower stall doesn’t reach the floor and he can see where the soapy residue trailing off of him flows into the drain in the center of the showers. He shuts the water off and grabs the towel he draped over his door, shaking water out of his hair and rubbing the clinging water off his body before grappling for his glasses that he left on the dry ledge on the far side of the stall.
When he opens the stall to retrieve his clothes, he almost busts his ass on the tile floor when he comes skidding to a halt in surprise. Sitting on the bench, next to his bag, is Ryan, his foot tapping lightly in time with the water dripping into the drain.
His eyes light up a little when Brendon stops trying to regain his balance and he stands up slowly. Tugging at his hair, Ryan says, “Hey.”
“Hi,” Brendon says quietly, water still beaded on his chest, his shoulders and his arms. “Um. How did you- what-”
“You were late to class. Again,” Ryan adds as an afterthought. “Mrs. Iberman told me to come and find you.”
“Oh, well. Thanks,” Brendon mumbles, tightening his grip on the towel around his waist.
Ryan takes a step forward, almost unnoticeably and continues, “Everyone was betting that Travis or Gabe had shoved you in a locker or something.”
Brendon’s ego: bruised.
“I mean, you’re pretty geeky, Urie. But not locker-stuffing geeky,” Ryan laughs lightly.
Brendon winces a little, “Thanks?”
“No, I meant-” Ryan begins, realizing that he’s said something wrong. “I- fuck, okay. I meant, you’re geeky in a good way. Like,” he bites his lip. “Like, you’re geeky in that ‘I-come-to-class-every-day-sweaty-and-looking-totally-debauched-but-still-wear-my-bifocals’ kind of way. It’s- kind of ridiculously endearing,” Ryan shrugs, taking another step forward.
Brendon can’t breathe. He’s half naked in the showers with Ryan Ross, getting complimented on his debauched-geekiness and he can’t. Fucking. Breathe.
Not to mention the fact that Ryan is practically two feet from him now and holy shit, he’s smiling. Brendon thinks if he says ‘fucking’, he might possibly die on the spot. Just collapse and die.
“Um, I’m not sure- uh,” Brendon stutters, backing away as Ryan draws closer and seriously, what the actual fuck? Don’t you dare walk away from Ryan Ross, legs! You traitorous bastards better stop moving right now!
“Brendon, what- what are you doing?” Ryan asks, still approaching.
“I- uh. You- I- This isn’t… really happening, is it? I’m dreaming. Yes, I’m dreaming and you are a figment of my imagination and you are not in here right now. You are sitting in English class, one row and two aisles over from me and you are not four- three- two feet in front of me about to ki-mph!”
Ryan barely grazes Brendon’s forearm with his finger as he presses his lips to Brendon’s fusing their mouths together and Brendon isn’t dreaming. When Ryan pulls away, Brendon chases after his mouth for a moment and Ryan laughs lightly before pressing another quick kiss to Brendon’s puckered lips.
“Y’know,” Ryan says, a hint of something exciting in his voice. “We’ve got this entire locker room to ourselves.” He curls his hand around the towel on Brendon’s waist. “And I could go for a shower myself.” Ryan loosens the towel from Brendon’s grip and lets it drop to the floor. Brendon squeaks, eyes wide and bleeding inexperience and Ryan chuckles, losing his seductive tone before kissing Brendon firmly on the mouth. “So fucking cute,” he says against Brendon’s lips.
Author: selectivelyurie
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Ryan/Brendon
POV: Third
Summary: Brendon comes into English class every day sweaty and gross from band practice
Disclaimer: If Ryan and Brendon had gone to the same school, this would have totally happened. Alas, they didn't so this is fiction. (Except for Brendon's obvious sweating problem, that is fact.)
Author Notes: Thanks to my_obsession_xx for convincing me to write this and for giving me that obscenely long title (you know how horrible I am when it comes to them). Written for anon_lovefest.
It’s roughly ninety-five degrees outside and the snare drum hanging from Brendon’s shoulders feels like it weighs twelve tons rather than pounds. The sun is beating down, reflecting harshly from the metallic lining of his instrument and his sticks feel like anchors in his hands. He twirls them with weak fingers and wipes off the sweat collecting on his brow with the back of his wrist, preventing it from trailing down behind his glasses and into his eyes. His mouth is parched and his lips are dry, but his entire body is soaked with sweat.
The padding of his harness isn’t doing his shoulders any relief and it’s sticking to his shirt, pressed into the fabric and absorbing perspiration. He glances over at Pete, drum major and overall douchebag, and looks at him with pleading, exhausted eyes as he converses with the band director. They’ve been out here since five minutes after the period started, the entire band, dressed in uniform and stepping in time with Pete’s rhythm, perfecting their routine for the Homecoming halftime show in the next few weeks.
They suck, still. But hey, at least Brendon didn’t run into William again.
(Last time it happened - yesterday - Brendon had had to look down at his music sheet one too many times - because Pete is a dick and won’t let Brendon wear the glasses he needs to in order to, I don’t know, fucking see? - and ended up walking on William’s heels for half of practice. He hadn’t meant to, of course, but for a kid built like a twig, William Beckett handles the tuba exceptionally well, and Brendon was relieved that Beckett wasn’t too awfully annoyed with him and his inattentiveness.)
Beside him, a fellow freshman by the name of Spencer groans and rotates his wrists, stretching out the stiffness caused by beating sideways into his bass drum. He pops his neck and yawns.
“Fuck,” Pete curses after he and Mr. Henderson have a quick moment. “Um. Time to go.” A chorus of sighs, laughs of relief and “Finallys” ripple through the band and Pete continues, “The bell just rang and you have-” He pauses to look at his watch. “-three minutes to get to class. Now, go. Hurry, no tardy passes for anyone.” A slew of “Fuck you, Petes” and groans of distaste then erupt from the center of the musicians and it spreads to the outer ring of trumpet players who fanfare in anger. “Don’t toot your horns at me,” Pete snaps as most of the band stalks off to the band hall. “Especially you, McCoy. I’ve had enough of your shit today.”
“Blow me.” Travis sniggers and another junior, Gabe Saporta, bumps fists with him. You’d think that as juniors, the immature band jokes such as this would have lost their humor by now. However, they seem to crack one every day, either by innuendos or by, y’know, blatantly humping Patrick’s xylophone. The mutual dislike between Travis and Gabe and Pete is something the entire band has observed and accepted. Ninety-eight percent of them are convinced it’s because Pete hates anything that comes near Patrick with a dick. The other two percent - Pete and Patrick - are convinced it’s because Travis and Gabe are just assholes. Brendon thinks it’s a little of both (but mostly a lot of the latter).
“What was that, Travis?” Pete glares and Travis merely laughs and stalks off to the band hall with Gabe.
Next to Brendon, Spencer gives his drum three more pounds and says, “You comin’, Urie?”
Brendon squints up into the Vegas sun, outrageously hot and bright, reflecting off of his thick rimmed glasses and nods, following Spencer and the rest of the band back to the school. In the distance, Brendon hears the faint sound of the tardy bell ringing and he groans, sweat sliding down his back, gathering in the bend of his knees and dampening his armpits.
He and Spencer enter the band hall at the same time and when he pulls off his drum harness, sweat peels off his uniform jacket, too. He tosses the t-shirt beneath his uniform aside and rummages through his bag for a spare shirt, however wrinkled it may be, and dons it, dry fabric sticking to his damp skin. One sniff of his armpits and Brendon’s sure he’ll faint, so he rubs on extra deodorant.
He’s unbelievably sweaty and gross and. Fuck, he has English next.
----
When Brendon leans up to pass his paper to Greta, he can hear the material of his jeans make an obscene wet noise against the plastic chair of his desk and he slumps down into his seat, mortified.
Fuck Pete and his inability to ever remember that class ends at twelve fifty-five and that, in order to be hygienic, showers lasting at least fifteen minutes need to be allotted for. This is the third time this semester that Brendon has come into English late and dripping with some sort of liquid (the first time he had actually had a shower but was pressed for time to get to class and hadn’t gotten to dry his hair properly. The last time had been similar to this, only it had been mid August and it was scorching).
Greta passes all of their papers to the front and Brendon tries to ignore the fact that he feels extremely out of place in a senior English class. It’s not that Brendon is extraordinarily smart and was able to skip grades or anything, and it’s not like the seniors he’s surrounded by are borderline retarded, it’s that Principle Hall accidentally placed him in this class at the start of term and remarkably, Brendon was able to handle the work.
As a freshman, he’s damn proud of that. Again, it’s not that Brendon is gifted, or that he has a particular passion for English. No, it’s not that. His motivation to pass lies solely in the likes of a kid named Ryan Ross, a fragile looking boy with honey eyes who sits one row up and two aisles over from Brendon.
If Brendon keeps passing the class and completing the work, Mr. Hall agreed to let him stay. And Brendon will be damned if he fails and doesn’t get to stare at Ryan’s profile throughout most lectures (and discussions and worksheets and tests).
Mrs. Iberman collects all the homework sheets into one pile, stacks it neatly on her desk and says, “Everyone needs to find a partner and turn to page two forty seven; we’re reading Hamlet today.”
When the class collectively groans and begins shuffling around the room in search of partners, Brendon feels like he’s back out on the football field, surrounded by his complaining band members and baking under the hot sun. A bead of leftover sweat rolls down his cheek and he wipes it away quickly just as Jon Walker approaches him with his textbook.
“Yo,” Jon greets and plops down in the empty desk next to Brendon.
Brendon smiles at him, fighting off the wave of jealously that hits him when he sees Ryan pairing up with Keltie. As the head cheerleader, Keltie Colleen happens to be decently intelligent, and she’s pretty damn good at what she does. However, Brendon is really bothered with the way she always makes a bee line for Ryan during partner work. It’s not that Brendon would ever expect himself to grow balls big enough to ask Ryan to be his partner, or that Ryan would ever stoop low enough to ask Brendon, a freshman, for his hand in… partnership. It’s not like Ryan and Brendon would ever be partners. But. It’s just that feeling of having an opportunity always taken away from him that Brendon doesn’t like. He hates that he associates his feeling of jealously solely with Keltie, but it can’t be helped, especially when she giggles at something that Ryan says and touches his arm, like- Fuck, like that. Yeah, Brendon can’t watch anymore.
“Hey, Jon,” Brendon grimaces and flips open his book.
Jon scoots his desk closer to Brendon’s and crinkles his nose. “Whew! Urie, dude, you. You fucking reek, man.”
Brendon flushes and draws his arms into himself. “Sorry,” he mumbles, head down. “Pete called practice late and we didn’t have time to-”
“Dude, I’m just joking,” Jon laughs, punching Brendon in the arm playfully. “If you smelled that bad, I wouldn’t have said anything. I would have just like, keeled over dead or something.”
Brendon visibly deflates and laughs a little, still nervous and slightly embarrassed and says, “Oh.”
“But really, is that why you were late? Wentz kept you guys?” Jon asks.
“Yeah,” Brendon replies, picking at his pencil lead. “I would have showered but I didn’t want to be too late to class.”
Jon shrugs nonchalantly, “’S cool. You don’t smell. I mean, okay, you don’t distinctly smell. I’m sure if I stuck my face in your armpit I’d say otherwise, but you’re not like, permeating the room with your stench or anything.”
Brendon laughs and pushes his glasses up, “Thanks, Jon.”
“Yeah, no problem,” Jon smiles, cheesy and all golden.
Jon has been Brendon’s partner every day since the school year began. Brendon thinks Jon, however much older than Brendon he may be, is probably his best friend. Well, besides Spencer. (Brendon also thinks that, if it weren’t for his big, flaming crush on Ryan, he’d totally have the charm and ability to woo Jon into being his boyfriend. Jon would be a great boyfriend.)
Mrs. Iberman calls the class to attention again and instructs them to read pages two forty seven through two fifty-five together as partners and complete the worksheet she hands out as she speaks. She begins passing out papers on the right side of the room first, and when Ryan twists around in his seat to pass Adam a sheet, he catches Brendon’s eye.
Brendon glances away, blushing only slightly and spends the next half hour of class trying to focus on what Jon’s reading and not on the slight twitch of Ryan’s lips when he’d noticed Brendon staring.
----
Brendon is back to a relatively normal amount of perspiration by fifth period biology and he and Spencer take turns poking the experimental frog lying belly up on their tray.
Spencer gouges at its heart and says, “I really fucking hate Pete,” and Brendon says, “Yeah, no kidding.”
“Seriously,” Spencer continues, successfully puncturing one of it’s lungs. In hindsight, he’s sure they’re going to get points deducted, but eh, it squirted and that was pretty fucking gross, which, in Spencer’s language, means totally fucking worth it. “I mean, like. Who the fuck does he think he is, making us late every other day? I have classes to pass, y’know.”
“Yeah,” Brendon agrees. “And I’d actually like to not smell like a dirty sock when I go to English class. Ryan’s in there, man. It’s embarrassing.”
“Yeah, I know all about your little crush, you little gaymo. But dude, you totally don’t smell like a dirty sock,” Spencer assures, patting Brendon on the back, hand covered by a latex glove covered in… things Brendon would rather not think about. Thank God for lab coats.
“Thanks, man,” Brendon sighs, taking the scalpel from Spencer.
“You smell more like… my jock strap from eighth grade.”
When Brendon pierces the left lung, he aims the juices at Spencer’s face.
----
The following day, Brendon is late from band. Again.
Pete made some bogus excuse about “having to run the routine two more times, just two more; and Saporta, if I see you trying to deep throat your clarinet one more time, so help me God, I’ll cut off your dick” and it pushed everyone for time and once again, Brendon is entering English late and sweaty, only today, unmercifully, he’s twenty minutes late and wearing a gray shirt.
Seriously, can someone just- just kill him? Before he has to pace in front of Ryan’s desk with back sweat? Please?
He passes Jon with an expression that pleads as much and shuffles to the back to his seat, sliding in as silently as possible so as not to interrupt Mrs. Iberman’s lesson. It’s something about Hamlet still, something Brendon has no interest in because he’s busy dying of embarrassment, thank you, because he’s just stood in front of all of his peers - seniors, dude, seniors - with his shirt plastered wet and sticky to his tiny frame and his hair is sticking up at odd ends. He looks like a total tool.
Jon smiles awkwardly at him from across the room and points to Ryan, mouthing, “He didn’t see you come in,” and Brendon never in a million years thought he’d ever be overjoyed to hear those words. However, almost immediately, Ryan looks up from his notes to ask Tom to repeat what Mrs. Iberman just said and he notices Brendon’s seat has been mysteriously filled by the boy in question. Ryan’s eyes kind of lighten and Brendon sits up a little straighter in his chair, a smile tugging on his lips.
And then Ryan snorts, this humored, stifled laugh and looks away with a raised eyebrow, giggling into his fist. Brendon frowns and casts his eyes over to Jon who bites his lip in a concerned way that makes Brendon’s stomach drop.
Brendon looks down and notices that in his rush to get to class, he forgot to change shirts and the outline of his snare harness is visible through the damp cotton on his chest.
He pales and sinks back down into his seat.
----
For four days out of the following week, Brendon is tardy to class, and only one of those days is he tardy and actually showered. Mrs. Iberman is lenient but disapproving of his habitual lateness and suggests that he either ask permission to be excused from band practice earlier or to consider dropping the course so that he doesn’t keep disrupting class with his late arrivals.
Brendon knows Pete will never go for allowing him early release and the thought of dropping the only class he ever sees Ryan in is something that makes Brendon’s stomach uncomfortable. He decides to weigh his options and discuss possible alternatives with Jon on Friday, but thanks to his luck, Jon left for Chicago with Tom yesterday afternoon and won’t be back until Thursday.
To make matters even worse, Brendon is late (again) and without a shower (again) and since Jon isn’t there to be his partner, Brendon is left by himself for partner work. Other than Jon, he hardly speaks to anyone in the room, so he does as he did the first week of class and takes out his notebook to begin work quietly. He’s copying down question number one when someone stands in his light.
Ryan Ross looks down at him with a hand on the back of his neck and says, “Keltie isn’t here today, she’s sick. Mind if I join you?”
Brendon’s nerves press his pencil so far into his paper that the lead snaps and dirties his work. “Y-yeah,” he stutters out.
Ryan raises a careful eyebrow and says, “You do mind?”
Brendon swallows thickly thinks Don’t you dare start hyperventilating, you pansy and shakes his head. “No, I meant, no, I don’t mind.”
“Oh.”
Ryan slides into the desk Jon usually occupies during partner work and pushes the desk closer to Brendon. Brendon has abandoned his traitor pencil and is sitting on his hands, arms flat against his sides, knees bouncing. He bites his lip and Ryan clears his throat.
“So, um. About the other day, I- I shouldn’t have laughed at you like I did. That was. Rude. And really immature and I’m sorry,” Ryan says, awkwardly pushing out his apology.
Brendon shrugs like it’s no big deal, like he hadn’t felt like the biggest douche on the planet, like he hadn’t felt extremely self conscious the rest of the day, like he hadn’t ranted to Spencer all of fifth period over a goat eyeball. “’S okay,” he says.
“I know you’re always coming in late because of Pete, or whatever. And I think that’s really shitty,” Ryan tells him, scratching his elbow.
“What? That I come in late?” Brendon asks, sounding a bit alarmed, like Ryan’s just told him that Brendon coming in late so often has disrupted his educational experience and that Brendon is a huge asshole.
“No,” Ryan says. “Well, I mean, yeah. But it’s not that you’re coming in late, it’s why you’re coming in late. Pete holding you guys up and not giving you time to shower is fucking lame.”
Brendon doesn’t want to admit it, but the way Ryan’s mouth curls up when he says ‘fucking’ is extremely difficult for his dick to ignore. He shifts in his seat.
“Y-yeah, yeah, totally,” Brendon says, throat a little constricted. “I mean, every day he’s telling us that ‘we’re not good enough yet’ and that ‘we need to practice longer’ and that ‘Travis, fucking quit it! You are supposed to play your trumpet, not finger it!’ It’s pretty-” Brendon smiles a little, “-fucking lame.”
Ryan nods and allows Brendon smile to seep into his own. “So, is it like, really that hot outside? Cause it doesn’t feel that hot out to me.”
Brendon’s smile fades a little and really, how do you say ‘I sweat more than a McDonalds cup’ in a decent way?
“Well, the heat combined with our uniforms, plus my snare drum weighs like-” Twelve pounds, but damn that makes him sound really weak. So maybe he lies a little, “-twenty pounds and we’re constantly moving, so…”
“Oh,” Ryan says like he understands. “Cause you always look so… tired when you get to class. I didn’t know if-”
“So how about Hamlet, hmm?” Brendon interrupts, adjusting his glasses. Ryan Ross is his partner, for the first time in the history of forever, and he’s not about to waste these precious moments talking about his sweat glands. That is not acceptable memory material.
----
Turns out, Keltie has mono (Hmm, Brendon wonders why) and won’t be back at school for another week, which means Ryan comes to Brendon’s desk again on Monday, toting his bag this time, as if signifying his permanent transference to Brendon’s part of the classroom, at least until Jon returns on Thursday.
It also turns out, that Brendon is less productive when Ryan is within two feet of him because they end up talking about things not related to Hamlet, or even Shakespeare.
Brendon shares band stories and experiences on the buses to and from football games. Ryan laughs when he hears about how Travis, Gabe, and sophomore chick - Victoria - all managed to cover each individual key on Patrick’s xylophone with multi-colored flavored condoms along with a note perched on top that was signed, ‘Love, Pete’. Ryan just listens with wide eyes and interested feedback and Brendon continues talking, about fifth period biology with Spencer and how he hates Mr. Bradley - Ryan interjects with a story of his own loathing for the teacher and Brendon cringes when he hears how pig guts where involved - and then about how he and Jon are planning to start an epic food fight the last week of school.
Before he knows it, it’s time to leave on Wednesday afternoon. Jon will be back tomorrow.
----
It was raining when Brendon stepped out of the band hall and trudged out to the football field. The water was falling so hard and fast that the puddles it created were exploding up from the ground, soaking Brendon’s pants and ankles. Everyone in the band contemplated murdering Pete when he insisted that they still practice outside today, despite the torrential rain. He’d simply said, “Homecoming is tomorrow and we’re still not ready. Practice outside, no ifs, ands, or butts.”
Of course, it was muddy on the field and the slippery surface made it difficult to march, so by the time Pete called practice (late, as usual), Brendon was covered head to toe in mud and grass, having slipped up and fallen to his knees several times throughout the period. Most everyone showered, and those that opted just to change clothes were prompted to shower anyways so that they wouldn’t smell like dirt. Fortunately, for Brendon and the rest of the drumline who had been arranging their instruments, by the time everyone was finished showering, he was almost thirty minutes late to English, a new record. Spencer had followed the other half of the band into the P.E. locker rooms to shower, leaving only Brendon, Gabe and Travis remaining in the band locker rooms.
Brendon pulled out his spare clothes and left them piled up by his bag before he stepped in under the shower spray. Gabe and Travis were toweling off and already dressing by the time he was squirting shampoo into his palm and they left when Brendon’s eyes were closed to prevent the soap from burning his eyes. Brendon had the locker room to himself.
He showers a little slower than he normally does when presented with a shower after band practice. Instead of scrubbing off hastily, he stands beneath the stream of hot water long enough so that the chill from the rain outside vanishes and his bones were warm through and through. The door to his shower stall doesn’t reach the floor and he can see where the soapy residue trailing off of him flows into the drain in the center of the showers. He shuts the water off and grabs the towel he draped over his door, shaking water out of his hair and rubbing the clinging water off his body before grappling for his glasses that he left on the dry ledge on the far side of the stall.
When he opens the stall to retrieve his clothes, he almost busts his ass on the tile floor when he comes skidding to a halt in surprise. Sitting on the bench, next to his bag, is Ryan, his foot tapping lightly in time with the water dripping into the drain.
His eyes light up a little when Brendon stops trying to regain his balance and he stands up slowly. Tugging at his hair, Ryan says, “Hey.”
“Hi,” Brendon says quietly, water still beaded on his chest, his shoulders and his arms. “Um. How did you- what-”
“You were late to class. Again,” Ryan adds as an afterthought. “Mrs. Iberman told me to come and find you.”
“Oh, well. Thanks,” Brendon mumbles, tightening his grip on the towel around his waist.
Ryan takes a step forward, almost unnoticeably and continues, “Everyone was betting that Travis or Gabe had shoved you in a locker or something.”
Brendon’s ego: bruised.
“I mean, you’re pretty geeky, Urie. But not locker-stuffing geeky,” Ryan laughs lightly.
Brendon winces a little, “Thanks?”
“No, I meant-” Ryan begins, realizing that he’s said something wrong. “I- fuck, okay. I meant, you’re geeky in a good way. Like,” he bites his lip. “Like, you’re geeky in that ‘I-come-to-class-every-day-sweaty-and-looking-totally-debauched-but-still-wear-my-bifocals’ kind of way. It’s- kind of ridiculously endearing,” Ryan shrugs, taking another step forward.
Brendon can’t breathe. He’s half naked in the showers with Ryan Ross, getting complimented on his debauched-geekiness and he can’t. Fucking. Breathe.
Not to mention the fact that Ryan is practically two feet from him now and holy shit, he’s smiling. Brendon thinks if he says ‘fucking’, he might possibly die on the spot. Just collapse and die.
“Um, I’m not sure- uh,” Brendon stutters, backing away as Ryan draws closer and seriously, what the actual fuck? Don’t you dare walk away from Ryan Ross, legs! You traitorous bastards better stop moving right now!
“Brendon, what- what are you doing?” Ryan asks, still approaching.
“I- uh. You- I- This isn’t… really happening, is it? I’m dreaming. Yes, I’m dreaming and you are a figment of my imagination and you are not in here right now. You are sitting in English class, one row and two aisles over from me and you are not four- three- two feet in front of me about to ki-mph!”
Ryan barely grazes Brendon’s forearm with his finger as he presses his lips to Brendon’s fusing their mouths together and Brendon isn’t dreaming. When Ryan pulls away, Brendon chases after his mouth for a moment and Ryan laughs lightly before pressing another quick kiss to Brendon’s puckered lips.
“Y’know,” Ryan says, a hint of something exciting in his voice. “We’ve got this entire locker room to ourselves.” He curls his hand around the towel on Brendon’s waist. “And I could go for a shower myself.” Ryan loosens the towel from Brendon’s grip and lets it drop to the floor. Brendon squeaks, eyes wide and bleeding inexperience and Ryan chuckles, losing his seductive tone before kissing Brendon firmly on the mouth. “So fucking cute,” he says against Brendon’s lips.