new fic: Scenes from a marriage, 1/4 [Brendon/Shane]
Scenes from a marriage
Panic at the Disco, Brendon/Shane. 30,000 words. Explicit. Not true.
one | two | three | four
"Mormons really shouldn't get you hot," Brendon says. "Whatever, me obviously not included." They're hanging out in their living room watching Big Love on DVD because Brendon says it makes him remember his family could have been so much worse.
Shane's not sure that's a valid argument, but it doesn't matter, because they're both pretty drunk. And high. "He's got three wives," Shane points out. "It's supposed to be hot?"
It is strangely sexy, for a show about a cult. Bill is fucking as many of his wives as he can, and the son and his non-Mormon girlfriend are going at it like rabbits. Just when Shane sort of idly notices he's half-hard, Brendon throws his head back against the couch and moans.
"I'm so fucking horny," Brendon whines. He bitches for a while about how it's too bad he wasn't in this kind of family, maybe the whole religion thing would have stuck. But mostly, he's just fucking horny, and annoyed, and way too stoned to go out and do something about it. Or so he says.
"Your room's not that far away," Shane points out, because he doesn't feel like moving and if Brendon starts jerking off on the couch again he's gonna have to get up and leave. The couch is pretty disgusting already.
But once Brendon starts talking, he won't stop. "Okay, not just when you're high, but especially when you're high, sex is sooo much better when someone else is getting you off, and why is that, why isn't it better with yourself when you're like, the expert on your own orgasms?" He shakes his head and says, "But it's just not," and Shane is nodding agreeably. He’s pretty baked himself. He's wondering if maybe they should order something to eat or if there's anything he could just put in the microwave.
And then Brendon says, "C'mon, I'll do you if you do me."
Shane would think he'd heard wrong but Brendon has that look on his face -- not his I'm-about-to-get-laid-look, which is a comical mess, but the one where he's had some happy accidental discovery that thrills him, like he found an old swingset back behind a truck stop, or some dumb local food that sounds disgusting actually turns out to be so good you can't believe they've kept it a secret from the rest of the world. Brendon has that look on his face, and he's staring at Shane, and then he's scooting over the like six inches between them and unbuckling Shane's belt.
And somehow he manages to do that and get his own pants open at the same time, and the thing is -- Brendon has this way of making the craziest idea sound like it makes sense. Brendon's pulling Shane's cock out of his pants, and squeezing it a little, and acting like that's a perfectly reasonable thing to do at this point in the evening, and fuck, it -- it feels good. Of course it feels good, it always feels better when it's someone else.
So Shane does the same. It's not rocket science, it's just a hand job, he thinks, before that makes him freak out a little bit, so he mentally revises it to think, it's just helping each other out.
Of course Shane's seen Brendon's cock a million times. Brendon would be as happy living on a nudist colony as in some sex-crazed polygamist cult. Shane even bumped up against it once with his leg, coming blind around a corner at way-too-fucking-early in the morning. It was hot and heavy against the outside of his thigh, just a flash before Shane staggered back and Brendon laughed loud and braying and threw his arms around Shane's neck, hips safely back a half-step from Shane's boxers as he begged and pleaded for someone, anyone to make a pot of coffee.
Now it's in Shane's hand, still hot, not quite as heavy, almost weightless the way it drifts up, like it's asking to be held, to be stroked. Brendon presses his shoulders back into the couch as Shane jerks him off harder, whimpering a little, eyes closed, and Shane's never really seen Brendon like this. He's just enjoying it, just feeling it, and he's making these noises that are not -- okay, Shane's heard Brendon jerk off before, and he's even heard him fucking before, but not up close like this. Somehow this is entirely different. Shane wants to hear more. He wants to know what noises he can make come out of Brendon's throat.
He barely even cares that Brendon's hand has stopped moving on his cock, that there's really only one of them now doing this, and one being done to. Brendon's hips stutter off the couch, and he rolls his neck and turns to look at Shane. He smiles, broad and sunny, and grips Shane's other arm a little, remembering belatedly to jerk Shane off for a few strokes before he loses track again.
Brendon gasps and comes over Shane's hands, and his eyes flutter closed for a second and then there's just a wet, heavy silence in their living room, an echo of hard, humid breathing. Brendon's hand is loose around Shane's cock. Shane's not sure if he should pull his own hand away, or say something, or do something, so instead he just leans his cheek against the couch and tries to breathe deep and even.
After a while Brendon says, "Shit, sorry, I'm usually better at ---" and he waves a hand around, blinking slow and confused. Shane thinks, multitasking, and Brendon says, "doing more than one thing at a time, fuck."
Shane can't help it, he laughs, and while he's moving he takes his hand away, wiping it off on Brendon's shirt as he shifts to sit sideways. Brendon's hand falls away from Shane's cock and onto his thigh.
The problem is now Shane really is hard, and horny, and his breathing's steady but his heart is pounding, and he's not sure how to ask for Brendon to do this, to finish it. Shane's not even a guy who stays in the room when dudes are jerking off to porn. There's nothing wrong with it, it's just not his thing. But Brendon's palm is warm on his hip, half on his bare stomach, half on his jeans, and Shane just wants.
Brendon takes a deep breath and shakes out his neck and says, "Okay," like someone asked a question. "Let me --" he says, "like this," and slides to his knees, tugging Shane's legs around and settling between them on the floor.
Shane is about to say something stupid like “you don't have to,” but then Brendon does, and Shane's not that stupid.
Brendon is pretty good at giving a blowjob, which honestly isn’t something Shane has spent one second wondering before. Everybody jokes about it, sure, about Brendon and Ryan or how the whole band is a bunch of pretty boy fags. But Shane's seen Brendon with girls, seen him turn this exact kind of hard focus on them when he's looking to get laid. Sometimes, once or twice, it was with a guy, but Shane had never thought it actually went anywhere. He's not sure now why he was so sure Brendon didn't mean it.
Brendon's not a pornstar or anything, but he's loose limbed in that way Shane knows means he's kind of fucked up still. Shane closes his eyes for a while, fucked up himself, and tries to imagine it's Regan or that stacked chick who works at Starbucks who wears shiny, bright wet pink lipstick, because a mouth is a mouth, right?
Then there's a hard suck and a thumb pressed behind his balls and his eyes fly open. When the sharp red stars flooding his vision clear, there's Brendon on his knees, grinning up with his lips stretched around Shane's cock. His eyes are amused, then comically widen when he realizes Shane's watching. Then of course it's the Brendon show, the performance of a lifetime for best blowjob ever, hands and mouth a blur of motion and a moan that Shane thinks might not be entirely fake, and it's all too many things to think about, too much to drink, too much. Shane feels his hips buck up before he can stop them. He hears Brendon choke a little and then he's coming, hard, and Brendon is laughing a little as he swallows and licks up what he missed.
Shane just sits there for a minute, transfixed by a shiny smudge at the crease of Brendon's mouth he sort of wants to touch with his fingers or maybe his lips. Then Brendon pushes up to his feet and shoves himself the rest of the way into his jeans but doesn't button them. He stretches out his neck, cracks his jaw and says, "Man, I am going to crash so fucking hard now."
"Yeah," Shane says weakly, surprised by his own voice, because it's not the kind of thing you say "thank you" to but he’s still biting back the words. When Brendon's in the hallway to their bedrooms, Shane calls, "g'night," and Brendon tosses "you too" over his shoulder as he disappears.
++
Shane is wandering through the house, thinking about the location he checked out that day, recalculating angles of natural light. He's got a hand out to open the freezer when he registers that it's already ajar, that Brendon is staring blankly into the shelves.
“Shit, sorry,” Shane says, and Brendon spins around. The refrigerator is big, sleek and silver, with drawers and cubbyholes that all fold open and closed in the most logical possible fashion, like they're on a space station. Shane helped pick it out, or at least stood there and mocked Brendon for spending six thousand dollars on an appliance just because it could crush ice in twelve ways.
“We're out of ice cream,” Brendon whines, and Shane replies, “No, we're not,” out of habit, because he knows Brendon is only talking about the fancy triple espresso chocolate shit he buys at the gourmet grocery store, binges on, and then forgets to replace. There are three other flavors visible over Brendon's shoulder, and Shane tries to shove an arm past him to prove his point.
Brendon just backs up further into the freezer, blocking Shane like he's standing guard, one shoulder jutted against the lip of the fridge door, one arm draped up and tucked into the back of the icemaker. “What's the magic password?” he taunts, waggling his eyebrows.
Shane kisses him. It was exactly that planned out, and as Brendon's mouth opens under his, wet and so warm in contrast to the chilled air wafting around them -- it's a really good fridge, Shane thinks distantly -- he remembers, punch to the gut, what that mouth felt like around his cock.
In the three days since, Shane hasn't avoided thinking about it, not exactly, he's just had shit to do other than lounge around dwelling on how Brendon's lips are so full and soft and strong all at once. He's been busy, and maybe kind of stupid, because Brendon grips the front of Shane's t-shirt and presses their hips together and bites lightly at Shane's jaw before zeroing back in on his mouth. Shane may have started this kiss but he's fairly sure he has nothing to do with what it's become, their tongues tangling, shallow breaths that never seem to fill his lungs enough before the next assault, the smooth, hard pressure of what can only be Brendon's dick against Shane's thigh.
Brendon pulls away on a gasp, fingers unfurling from Shane's shirt and digging lightly into his chest. “We have to --“ Brendon starts, and Shane mumbles, “yeah,” because they should stop, this is insane.
“My ass is turning into an ice cube,” Brendon says, and nudges Shane back a few steps until he can get clear and swing the door shut. He grins lopsided at Shane and settles his shoulderblades back against the smooth stainless steel, thumbs tucked into the waist of his jeans.
His face is open and amused and expectant but his mouth looks used, lips flushed cherry red. Shane takes another step back. “I, uh,” Shane says, and spots his keys on the kitchen island. He reaches out and the metal digs sharply into his palm. “I have to go,” he says.
++
Shane sleeps until two the next day.
He drove around for a while the night before, dug a pack of Camels out of the glove box and chainsmoked while cruising the Strip with the radio blaring like some tourist douchebag. Then he went to Regan's, fucked her on the living room floor because her roommate was gone, and picked a fight afterwards until she got up and went to bed without him. It was just too hot at her place, an old building with lousy AC that meant even on a cool night her skin was warm to the touch.
When he got home the house was quiet, and in the early afternoon when he wakes it's even quieter. He opens his bedroom door and pauses for a second, holding his breath and listening to nothing, nothing at all. He takes a shower and smears his hand across the mirror and looks at himself, trying not to think of it like a scene from a movie. It's just his life, his same old life.
When he's finally dressed and definitely hungry he wanders out, but he ends up walking right past the fridge. He doesn't want to sit on the couch, either. This is probably why people say you shouldn't ever hook up with your roommate. He's only ever lived with guys, so it never occurred to him to care one way or the other. He stands and stares out at the backyard for a while, stomach rumbling, and finally pulls his phone out to text Brendon. After another ten minutes all he's got in the message window is hey. He hits send, turns around sharply, walks back to the kitchen, grabs a burrito out of the freezer, nukes it for two minutes and eats it in three big bites.
His phone buzzes, jumping across the butcher block island. makin' music, breakin' hearts, Brendon says, which means he's at Ryan's.
Shane's throat itches and he turns around to open the fridge. They have one beer, maybe half a glass of milk and a carton of fruit punch with a sticky pink river crusted on the side. Their food selection is similarly impressive. He grabs the Corona and types with one thumb as he elbows the door closed. dinner?
Thirty seconds later: pick you up at 8 we can get wings?
Shane doesn't know what to respond that's not a joke he would have found funnier last week, so he just says yeah and goes to find a bottle opener.
++
Brendon has a disproportional love for this sports bar a mile from their house. It's crowded when they get there, basketball on half the monitors and some celebrity golf tournament on the rest. They end up sitting at the bar, eating wings and splitting a pizza. They have three $2 beers each.
Brendon flirts lazily and in equal measure with their waitress, who is short, blonde and busty, and with the bartender, who is short and dark haired with a lip ring and tattoos on his knuckles that eventually Shane pieces together spell WORTH IT. Was it, Shane wants to ask, and what was it, exactly, that was so worth it? He doesn't, though. Brendon rambles about the song Ryan's been working on and a movie some DJ was talking about on the radio, which either stars Jessica Alba or maybe Summer from The OC. "Rachel Bilson," Shane offers, but otherwise doesn't talk much beyond uh-huhs and yeahs.
When the bill comes they argue over whose turn it is until both the waitress and the bartender are laughing at them. Brendon slaps his credit card into the guy's hand and Shane mumbles, "Fine, whatever, we have to get groceries on the way home anyway."
"'Kay," Brendon says, snapping a straw between his teeth, and when the bartender hands back the receipt he winks and says, "Have a good night, you two."
At Safeway Shane puts two cases of beer in the cart, Corona for Brendon and Stella for himself. Brendon doesn't offer to help, just trails along behind, humming and occasionally reading out the names of funny sounding products. Shane stops in the freezer aisle and Brendon steps on his heels, head craned to look at some cooler stacked high on a shelf.
"Ice cream," Shane says, and points. Brendon's face lights up and he actually claps his hands together like he's in glee club. He says, "Yay," and opens the freezer door, rifling through pints until he finds one he likes. He tosses it at Shane and roots around some more, bending over to reach something. His thin t-shirt rides up his back and his jeans slide lower, exposing three or four inches of pale, bare back. Shane feels his face flush.
Brendon turns his head around to ask if Shane wants something in particular and Shane shakes his head. "You know I don't really like ice cream," he says, and jams his hands in his pockets. "And it's fucking cold in here, hurry up." Shane walks away, goes down to the frozen fried things section and picks out three different kinds of eggrolls.
The clerk grins, indulgent, when Brendon playfully shoves Shane, then hooks his chin over Shane's shoulder as he inputs his PIN. "Now I know all your secrets," he whispers in Shane's ear, body pressed hot against Shane's back, and this is what Brendon's like when he's actually trying to flirt. Shane knows, he's seen the difference.
He wants to say something dramatic like, “You already do,” but his life’s still not a shitty script, so he just hits the green button twice and tells the kid they don’t need help out, thanks.
In the car they talk about how Ryan’s dog has been eating all his shoes, but only the plastic parts, the rubber soles or an occasional flip-flop. “Not into leather, apparently,” Brendon says, and then half-heartedly wonders aloud whether letting Dylan socialize with that kind of influence could turn her vegan, too. Shane laughs but doesn’t have a good answer for that, or for anything else.
As soon as they walk in the door, he tears into the box of beer. His plan for the evening is to get shit-faced, or at least drunk enough that he doesn’t spend any more time worrying a) whether this is the biggest mistake he's ever made and he and Brendon are going to continue to pretend it never happened, or b) just what it would take for things to happen again, maybe this time in a way that involves both kissing and getting off. There's probably a reason those usually go together.
Brendon calls out from the living room. "We getting high?"
"Yeah," Shane says, grabbing another bottle for him and two for Brendon. "You wanna watch that dog grooming show?"
When he comes around the corner he sees Brendon, sprawled on the couch, packing a bowl. He looks up with a sunny smile. "You know how to treat me right."
Shane doesn't know what to say to that, so he turns on the TV, finishes off a beer and takes the pipe when Brendon holds it out, scooting closer on the couch until they're sitting side by side. At the first commercial break Shane leans back some, puts his arm high up on the couch.
"This is what I'm talking about," Brendon says, though they haven't been talking about anything except a dumb running commentary on the dogs and the groomers. "This is why I hate going out."
"No you don't." He doesn't. Brendon likes it, the clubs, the parties, the photos, the girls who shamelessly rub their nearly naked bodies up against him.
"Yeah," Brendon agrees, "but sometimes it's nice just to stay home with all --" He gestures vaguely at the bag of weed on the coffee table, the nest of empties, their enormous flat screen. The movement turns his body closer to Shane as he finishes, "all this."
"Yeah," Shane says, and his voice sounds soft and distant. Brendon's only an inch or two away, somehow, and his eyes flutter down. He's staring at my mouth, Shane realizes, and that too is from afar, fuzzy and obvious at the same time.
He hears Brendon say, "This way we --" and then the rest gets lost in the kissing, Brendon's mouth pressed lightly to his, a whoosh of air as they both breathe out hard before going back in again.
Shane tries to lift his head up but as soon as he moves his elbow he's sliding back instead, pulling at the last minute on Brendon's shirt to bring him down too.
Brendon groans something like the word "aww," but it's not sweet and amused, it's excited. Motivated, Shane's brain sleepily provides. "Fuck yeah," Brendon mutters, tugging Shane's legs down so they're flat and Brendon can lie on top with his knees nudging Shane's apart. It's -- it's a lot, suddenly, a lot of touching, a lot of weight for such a skinny fucking kid Shane's picked up and carried over his shoulder more than once. It's not too much but only barely, and Shane still cranes his neck up to catch another kiss.
Brendon holds himself up a little, chests apart, until Shane slides his hand around Brendon's waist and his shirt pulls up. Then Brendon crashes down, their whole bodies colliding, and Shane gasps at the hard press of Brendon's cock against his own. Brendon pulls back from the kiss and stares down, mouth open and shocked, like maybe he had no idea it would feel like that either. Brendon's cock, Shane thinks again, and even in his head the word could be subtitled for all it makes sense. He's been avoiding it, maybe, avoiding the reality of Brendon and his cock.
"Fuck, you're really --" Brendon says, and blinks slowly, so Shane just says, "yeah," and shoves his hand down between them, yanking Brendon's pants open and trying to pull them down around his ass. Brendon laughs, low and pleased, and unbuttons Shane's jeans, wriggling around until they're almost bare from mid-chest to mid-thigh, shirts pushed up and denim hanging at their knees. Shane's chin touches his chest as he stares at Brendon's cock climbing out the top of his bright green underwear, and then he watches his own hand reach out and tug the elastic over Brendon's ass. Brendon's fingers tease at the waist of Shane's boxers until he lifts up an inch and Brendon can get them down.
This time Shane pulls Brendon down, slowly, gently watching as their skin touches in a thousand places. They both groan, grunting as their cocks slide dry and rough against each other, and Brendon licks his palm, giggling as he does. Shane laughs with him because this, this is so fucking ridiculous, what they're doing, what they're trying to do, skin and spit and stoned out of their minds.
It's fucking amazing. Brendon smiles back, wide and brilliant and beautiful, and rolls his hips against Shane's, licking at the corner of Shane's mouth. Shane's jaw is hanging open, breath lost at the sensation.
Breathless, Shane thinks, and lets Brendon set the pace, following along as they chase each other in circles, sharp points of give and take until all he can see are starbursts of color behind his eyes.
++
There's fabric pressed to his lips, and his ass is cold.
Eventually Shane wakes up enough to realize his face is smashed into the couch cushion and his pants are down around his ankles. He rolls over and gets his feet on the ground, head and back aching no matter how hard he blinks. The house sounds empty. He pulls his jeans up. Everything is fuzzy and distant, filtered hazily.
It's not like he can't remember what happened, it's just that it all feels so far away, Brendon groaning and -- and begging, maybe, and just that thought makes heat rise across his neck. Shane can dimly remember his own name panted out as Brendon's short nails scratched against his ribs and, yeah, there are shallow skid-marks across his chest. "Fuck," he says, and the word falls flat in the room.
He dodges his reflection after showering but with a t-shirt half-pulled over his head tries out, "It's kind of a funny story, actually," and, "I don't know, it just happened," and, "I'm sorry, Reg, I'm an asshole." There's a part of him that wants to talk to her about it as soon as possible, to call her right now so they can laugh about how ridiculous it is that he and Brendon got stoned and fucked around on their living room couch like a couple of kids. Then there's the other part of him, the part that doesn't live in a stupid rom-com where -- actually, he can't think of a movie where that was okay, not a single one. And Regan can be a pretty intense individual when it comes to sharing, and that's just about shit like food in the refrigerator her roommate ate, not her boyfriend sleeping around. He's not sure how to tell even himself it was an accident or that he didn't see it coming this time.
When she comes out of her work, smiling in surprise to find him at the curb, he tries to grin back but is pretty sure he fucks that up, too. It's not until he's pulling into her apartment complex parking lot, feeling her heavy stare as he continues to silently rehearse his stupid apology that he realizes just how much he can't tell her, not at all. He's an asshole, and he was stoned, and who the fuck knows what else, but Brendon -- Brendon is gay, Brendon is gay and he's the lead singer in a band with a million 14-year-old fans and his family is Mormon, for fuck's sake, and Shane can't make that situation even worse by running around and telling people they fucked around. Not even his girlfriend.
"What?" she says, and he shakes his head.
They eat dinner and watch TV for a while and she says twice how sweet it was that he just missed her so much he had to come get her like that. She says it like she doesn't believe it. He slouches into the cushions until it's just after nine o'clock and then says he's not feeling well, he's maybe coming down with some kind of stomach thing, he'll call her tomorrow.
When he pulls into their empty driveway, he finally lets himself check his phone.
forgot dumb interview today back later, Brendon had texted mid-morning.
Thirty minutes after that: my head feels like a hackeysack. yrs?
did u know that we are huge in belgium?
you are alive right?
going w ross to look at guitars, pedals, cords, hats ETC. send proof of life and/or superior genes that offer immunity to hangovers. use carrier pigeon or telegram if phone broken.
Then a long gap, all late afternoon and evening while Shane was wondering if every conversation with Regan would get worse and worse. It's never been awkward between them, not since the first day he saw her and tried to ask for the time or her number and she laughed in his face, but she was so pretty he asked again. Everything since that has been easy.
His phone beeps while he's still holding it, deliberating. on my way home soon, bringing the bacon. you want a double cheeseburger and fries with that?
Shane writes, plus mcflurry?
Brendon comes in with both arms full of grease-stained paper bags and they decide to eat in the backyard, lounge chairs side by side on the half-dead grass. Shane thinks maybe this is when they're going to talk about it, when Brendon is going to say, hey, sorry I wasn't there when you woke up naked this morning, or hey, wow, awkward, right? Or maybe, hey, want to try that again?
With a burp and a groan Brendon pushes to his feet, squinting down at Shane. "Beer?" Brendon suggests. "Weed? Both?" He knocks his knuckles against Shane's hair.
"I think I need to stop drinking so much," Shane says, and he means, maybe we should talk about what we do when we're drunk, but Brendon just smiles, concern in his eyes, and brushes his thumb against Shane's cheek.
"Okay," he says, "no more milkshakes after sundown for you!"
++
Two beers in, Shane switches to Mountain Dew. He takes one hit off Brendon's pipe and waves away the rest. He sits in the corner of the couch and watches Brendon watch cartoons, eyebrows jumping up and down in delight, knee bouncing as he picks at the fraying fabric of the cushions. The next night it's Will Smith movies on DVD and the one after that it's pizza and video games, but otherwise everything goes essentially the same. They touch each other a little, maybe for a little longer than before, but it doesn't go further than his arm laid across Brendon's shoulder for a minute or Brendon briefly twining his ankle around Shane's as he tries to wrestle the remote away.
He stays basically sober for three days, watching Brendon and waiting for something he can't name or define. He keeps telling Regan he'll see her tomorrow, tells his folks he'll be over on the weekend, lets his phone go to voicemail. They meet Ryan and Spencer for lunch one day, play minigolf with Brendon's nephew for two hours in the afternoon on another. He's not totally sure what he's doing. It feels like a break, a little one, while he gets his head together. It feels easy, and normal, the kind of thing he could get used to. He's already used to it.
Wednesday he climbs out of bed and into the shower and is still buttoning his jeans when he makes it to the kitchen in search of coffee. Brendon's on the phone, making loopy notes on the edge of a take-out menu. "Uh-huh," he says, "yeah, I'll ask." He caps the Sharpie and tosses it at Shane, leaning against the fridge. "Yeah, so email the itinerary and I'll let you know."
As soon as Brendon hangs up, Shane grinds the beans and starts the coffeemaker. Brendon says, "Eggs?" and Shane nods, and it's not until they're both sitting at the table that he remembers to ask about the call.
"So how about," Brendon says, instead of actually answering, "you come with us to this basketball thing?"
"Yeah, sure," Shane says, but then frowns. The Rebels are already out of March Madness. He finishes his cup of coffee and stares at Brendon, who's always so weirdly nonchalant about shit like this. Finally he asks, "What basketball thing?"
++
Walking across the tarmac at McCarran, it really hits him. He's got one camera bag slung across his chest, the other with his video stuff on his back. There's a clean t-shirt stuffed into a side pocket and a pack of Crest gum in another. "Sorry we're not actually going to be there long enough to see a game," Brendon had said, like a paid gig on a private jet to Atlanta to shoot a rock band at a huge outdoor concert wouldn't be reason enough for Shane to go.
They're not even off the ground before the drinking starts. Brendon and Ryan beg off after one cocktail each, Brendon rubbing his throat regretfully, but Jon and Spencer seem to be locked in a battle to the death of beards and booze and bullshit. Shane nurses a soda and alternates between shooting stills and video, getting adjusted to being on a job even if it is with Brendon and three other guys he knows pretty well. Everyone's excited, amped up, eager to play again.
The band hasn't gone a month without a gig since they made the record, let alone three, Ryan tells him quietly, leaning in to talk like they're telling secrets. Brendon's listening to something on his computer, toe tapping impatiently. Jon and Spencer are making Zack and Dan judge a drinking game only they seem to know the rules to. Ryan gives Shane an almost shy smile, like they've just met. It's different seeing them all like this, just them, this tiny circle of guys who trust each other with everything but almost in place of trusting anyone else at all.
Shane feels flattered to be let in, or even just let near, because he also doesn't kid himself he really belongs, that he's on any kind of equal footing. Being in the right place at the right time to catch an hour of rehearsal on tape doesn't make him a part of the band. He's never filmed them live or been on their tour bus. He brings up the camera again and snaps a shot of Brendon, watching through the viewfinder with his finger hovering above the button as Brendon makes Ryan put on the headphones to hear a song. Their foreheads brush as they hum along, smiling at the same lyric and then smiling more when they catch each other at it. Shane puts the camera down and stares out the window for a while.
Finally he switches to video and takes the drink Jon's been trying to press into his hand the last hour. He tries not to film Brendon more than the other guys. Once they hit the ground it's a blur of highway and Atlanta and then the venue, sound checks and signings and standing around and waiting for other people to their job so Panic can get ready to do theirs.
Shane films all of it, still not sure what they'll really want at the end. Zack talking to fans. Spencer spending a small eternity fiddling with his snare drum, tightening and loosening the same three screws. Brendon petting the polished piano and calling it "baby," riffing on Amy Grant and pledging his undying love. Ryan wandering around in his crazy yellow scarf, tilting his head sideways and rambling about banjo players from the Delta.
They've got one last check of lights and sound to go when Shane hears Zack's laugh, guffawing loud, and when he follows Zack's pointed finger with the camera he sees a boy standing with a group of fans, holding a sign that says BRENDON TURNED ME GAY. Brendon squeaks, bouncing a little and clapping his hands in delight, and Shane braces his elbow against his chest to get a steady shot. It's hard when his hands are shaking.
At dinner somebody brings it up again, Jon idly wondering aloud what kind of prize Brendon should get if they can find proof he turned at least ten of their fans gay.
"But what kind of proof?" Spencer argues, and they go on like that for a while. Shane watches Brendon eat all his own fries and start picking Shane's off his plate, smiling faintly but not meeting Shane's eyes. He doesn't seem freaked out by the conversation but at this point he's mostly letting Jon and Spencer run the table, constructing ever more elaborate tests so Brendon can win whatever it is they decide is a suitably gay award. Shane tries to finish his drink but his throat is so tight it's hard to swallow. He takes photos of the wreckage of their meal and ignores how Brendon's knee is jiggling under the table. He could put his hand down and stop the movement, but he won't.
In the dressing room, Brendon says, "Fuck, I look Mormon tonight," and Spencer laughs into Ryan's shoulder, wry and bemused. Brendon tugs at his tie, then pulls it tight again. He smooths his hand down the white shirt and shrugs at Shane in the mirror. "Sometimes the clothes do not make the man," he says seriously, and doesn't crack until after Jon snorts. Ryan flops down on his back on the couch, stretching his long legs down and around Spencer's shoulders. Shane adjusts his light meter. He's here for a reason, after all.
As the stage lights flicker, Shane turns around in the pit, shooting out into the audience. There's a row of teenage girls, fifteen years old, maybe sixteen, lined up all along the barricade, and the same skinny boy with the sign from the soundcheck squeezed in at the end. Shane spins back around just in time to catch the band walking on stage, and after that it's all he can do to keep things in focus and in frame.
He saw Panic play before, once, on the Vegas stop of their last tour. It was before they lived together, when they were just guys who emailed each other and hung out sometimes if Brendon had a day or two off. Shane had felt like a total fucking tool asking if Brendon might be able to get them in, but Regan had really wanted to go, had put the album in her car CD changer the first time Shane mentioned meeting Brendon and never taken it out. Brendon said he'd leave two tickets at will call but when they got there they had VIP passes and were seated with everybody's families. That was the first time he met Brendon's parents and he'd spent the night watching them flinch every time Brendon said the word fuck.
The show is so different up close, Brendon's feet at eye level as he skips across the stage, sweat flying off his forehead in a rainbow arc over Shane's head. It's amazing, overwhelming even, to be sandwiched between Brendon's manic performance and the screaming crowd. The kids scream the whole time, but louder at some things than others.
Brendon slides his hand down his tie and cups his crotch; they scream.
Brendon dances away from them, towards Spencer's drum kit, and shakes his ass the tiniest bit; they scream.
Ryan stalks Brendon until they're pressed nose to nose, sharing a microphone, and Brendon follows him back, tugging on his shirt and grinning wide; the fans scream and cry and clutch each other.
Brendon's lip quirks at the response and as he thrusts his hips into Ryan's guitar it almost looks like he's straining to hear it again, waiting for more. Between songs Brendon gulps a bottle of water in one long swallow, throat bobbing, and Shane remembers belatedly to shoot Jon, to capture Spencer's arms blurring through a bridge. He's not going to be able to show the footage of this night to anyone until he's had a chance to even it out in editing.
Midway through the set, he fumbles his way out of the pit and backstage, a guy in a headset taking one look at his camera and badge and waving him through. He takes stills the rest of the show from the side with Zack, who's standing with his arms crossed, waiting for something to go wrong.
They come off stage in a mess of instruments and roadies and sweaty towels, and Brendon grabs Shane by the sleeve, hugs him so tight Shane is sure the sweat is soaking through his own clothes, too. "Now you've seen the seedy underbelly of the rock and roll lifestyle," Brendon says, tipping his forehead to Shane's for a fleeting second. "I wanted you to," he says, words rushed and breathless, "to see what it's like inside." Then he laughs loud and maniacally. "Inside the beast," he cackles like the voiceover for a horror movie. He squeezes Shane's shoulders tightly and pushes off, jogging over to some assistant, making his stupid charade signs for more water.
Shane wanders out from under the overhang, following Spencer and Jon and Ryan as they go to watch the fireworks. The light is pretty amazing, red and orange explosions across the darkened sky. He's reaching around to swap cameras again when Brendon bounds up, stripped to the waist. "Take my picture, Shane," he pleads, spinning around and raising his hands up. "Make me a star!"
Shane shoots a few, Brendon staring right into the camera as he pouts and pulls faces, and tries to ignore the hysterical thumping in his veins. This is just how Brendon is around this many people, big and loud and demanding.
"Okay," Brendon says, "my turn," and to his credit he doesn't actually grab the camera from Shane's hands, just holds his out until Shane gives it to him. Shane videos the other guys engrossed in fireworks and hopes like hell whatever is wrong with him isn't showing on his face.
When the display is over he looks around and can tell the crowd's changed, fewer corporate sponsors, more fangirls. Brendon rises up on his toes a few times, almost hopping in slow motion, obviously tired. He grabs Zack by the sleeve. "Car?" he asks hopefully. "Airport? Home?"
Zack says, "Yep," sending Dan to go find the others at the bar. He walks them to the dressing room to grab their stuff and then out to the van, always a half-step ahead. Shane sticks to the back, at Brendon's elbow, until they're safely delivered into the parking lot. Brendon climbs into the back bench seat and Shane follows him. Zack looks around. It's quiet, only a couple other trucks and vans where they are, and finally he says, right to Shane, "Don't go anywhere." Shane nods and Zack closes the door with a gentle touch.
Brendon's got his head bent back over the seat, mouth open, almost snoring. When Shane does the same, Brendon rolls his neck to one side and smiles a little until it widens into a yawn. Shane yawns back. "Right?" Brendon says, almost a whisper, as if that makes sense.
It does, though, kind of, and he says "yeah, right" back, and then Brendon leans forward a few inches and they're kissing. It's not really like either time on the couch, or even standing at the freezer, because it's obviously not going anywhere. But they both know that much, at least, and Shane is surprised to find he's not nervous, not at all. Maybe a little relieved, actually, as Brendon's tongue touches his and darts away.
This whole day has been about Brendon and his band, Brendon in this other world where everything revolves around him and what he wants or needs or is supposed to do at any given moment and this -- this is different, the two of them in a quiet car at midnight. This feels real. Brendon plays with the edges of Shane's hair where it peeks out of his hat. He bites Brendon's lip and Brendon moans, loud when everything else has been so hushed.
They're waiting for other people, Shane remembers, and pulls back.
"I wonder where," he starts, and Brendon shrugs, says, "They're close, probably."
Shane gives him a little space, presses his shoulders back against the seat and tries to slow his breathing.
"We'll be home soon," Brendon says, and brushes his knuckles against Shane's jeans. When everyone else climbs into the van they all sit farther up, and Brendon's body is warm against Shane's all the way to the airport.
++
After that everything happens so fast, not just in actual time but in how much happens. He can't walk by Brendon without wanting to kiss him, and once he does, he can't figure out how to stop. From there it's always a blur, like they've just barely started making out and suddenly Brendon's hands are shoved inside Shane's jeans, his mouth pressed hot and damp into Shane's neck as he jerks him off. "You're so," Brendon says once, "this is so fucking good, I don't even --" and Shane doesn't know, either, doesn't get how Brendon feels that about him, how he feels it too.
Shane ends up on his knees one afternoon, the kitchen floor hard beneath him, and he's so fucking desperate to get his lips around Brendon's cock that it's not until he has that he remembers he's never done this before. He pulls back, breathing hard, and Brendon whines a little, unsteady on his feet. His cock isn't huge but it's right in Shane's face, red and wet from Shane's mouth, and there's a voice somewhere in his brain that's just repeating what the fuck, what the fuck but every nerve in his body is saying do it do it do it.
So he does, he wraps a hand around the base and brings Brendon back to his lips and goes down, Brendon's grateful moan more than enough noise to drown out any remaining questions. He listens to Brendon's noises, his pleased grunts and desperate gasps, and tries to shut up the rest of his brain, to follow the sounds like a map that will explain what the fuck he's doing, how this works. Just when his neck is starting to ache from the angle, Brendon is squeezing his shoulder and pulling back. Shane thumbs over the head of Brendon's cock and catches the come in his palm. That part's not new but it feels different at eye level, feels like more of an accomplishment.
Brendon folds to the floor, hands on Shane's cheek and greedy kisses buried against his collarbone. They fall backwards and Brendon sucks him off like he's starving for it, hands wandering the curve of Shane's ass and pulling him up, letting Shane fuck his face. That breaks through the haze a bit, the possibility of what else they could be doing on the kitchen floor, on the couch, in a bed. They could do anything, Shane thinks, and then he's coming deep down Brendon's throat.
Brendon slides up the linoleum, fitting himself under Shane's shoulder and sprawling half across his chest, and tilts his head back for a wet, salty kiss that makes Shane wish he'd swallowed, too. They stay like that a while, heartbeats slowing, until the dog in the house behind theirs starts barking like a banshee and Dylan trots out to investigate, snarling and breathing heavy against the glass doors until they fog up in a little circle a foot high.
"C'mere," Brendon says in his special Dylan voice, and rolls onto his his back, waggling his fingers until she brushes her head into them. She wanders over to her bowl and Brendon cranes his head back to follow her progress, then scrunches up his nose. "Fuck, when is the last time someone swept this floor?"
"You don't sweep," Shane says, licking his lips. He could really use a beer but the fridge, while technically only a few feet away, seems entirely out of reach.
"Do you sweep?"
Shane laughs. "You were the one who said we only needed a housekeeper once a month, dude." Brendon runs his fingers up the back of Shane's neck and into his hair. He tucks his nose into Shane's armpit and his low laugh whispers down Shane's side.
"I didn't know I'd be spending this kind of quality time down here," Brendon says.
"Well," Shane starts, because, well.
Brendon shrugs, his bony shoulder rising and falling on Shane's chest. "Maybe we should try every other week."
Maybe we should try the bed, Shane thinks, but, well. "Lunch?" he asks, and Brendon counters with, "Showers. Sandwiches?" Subs, they decide.
++
Brendon goes up to a cabin to write the new record and Shane spends three days completely confused about what to do with his time. Then he gets hired on to a commercial shoot, makes a promo video for the Wynn, agrees to DP his friend Jack's thesis film when the other guy drops out at the last minute. He works twelve, fourteen, sixteen-hour days and falls into bed sore and tired from carrying equipment around, from going out drinking with people he's known since high school or just met on the shoot.
A couple nights a week he wakes up to text messages from Brendon, the phone rattling across his nightstand at three or four in the morning. everything smells like pine trees up here very fresh & clean feeling, one says. last night did shrooms listened to peter & the wolf overandover. ross would smoke bark if he could figure out how to get high off it. And then: miss the dog miss the house miss having your camera in my face all the time. come document the mess/masterpiece for posterity?
Shane falls back asleep with the phone in his hand. Over coffee he makes two follow-up calls about potential jobs, neither of which starts till the next week. He eats the last of the cereal and watches half a baseball game. In the early afternoon he dials Brendon's number, pressing the send button before he can overthink it any more. Brendon picks up on the second ring and says, "Are you on your way?" Shane smiles at the empty house and goes to pack a bag.
continued here.
Panic at the Disco, Brendon/Shane. 30,000 words. Explicit. Not true.
one | two | three | four
"Mormons really shouldn't get you hot," Brendon says. "Whatever, me obviously not included." They're hanging out in their living room watching Big Love on DVD because Brendon says it makes him remember his family could have been so much worse.
Shane's not sure that's a valid argument, but it doesn't matter, because they're both pretty drunk. And high. "He's got three wives," Shane points out. "It's supposed to be hot?"
It is strangely sexy, for a show about a cult. Bill is fucking as many of his wives as he can, and the son and his non-Mormon girlfriend are going at it like rabbits. Just when Shane sort of idly notices he's half-hard, Brendon throws his head back against the couch and moans.
"I'm so fucking horny," Brendon whines. He bitches for a while about how it's too bad he wasn't in this kind of family, maybe the whole religion thing would have stuck. But mostly, he's just fucking horny, and annoyed, and way too stoned to go out and do something about it. Or so he says.
"Your room's not that far away," Shane points out, because he doesn't feel like moving and if Brendon starts jerking off on the couch again he's gonna have to get up and leave. The couch is pretty disgusting already.
But once Brendon starts talking, he won't stop. "Okay, not just when you're high, but especially when you're high, sex is sooo much better when someone else is getting you off, and why is that, why isn't it better with yourself when you're like, the expert on your own orgasms?" He shakes his head and says, "But it's just not," and Shane is nodding agreeably. He’s pretty baked himself. He's wondering if maybe they should order something to eat or if there's anything he could just put in the microwave.
And then Brendon says, "C'mon, I'll do you if you do me."
Shane would think he'd heard wrong but Brendon has that look on his face -- not his I'm-about-to-get-laid-look, which is a comical mess, but the one where he's had some happy accidental discovery that thrills him, like he found an old swingset back behind a truck stop, or some dumb local food that sounds disgusting actually turns out to be so good you can't believe they've kept it a secret from the rest of the world. Brendon has that look on his face, and he's staring at Shane, and then he's scooting over the like six inches between them and unbuckling Shane's belt.
And somehow he manages to do that and get his own pants open at the same time, and the thing is -- Brendon has this way of making the craziest idea sound like it makes sense. Brendon's pulling Shane's cock out of his pants, and squeezing it a little, and acting like that's a perfectly reasonable thing to do at this point in the evening, and fuck, it -- it feels good. Of course it feels good, it always feels better when it's someone else.
So Shane does the same. It's not rocket science, it's just a hand job, he thinks, before that makes him freak out a little bit, so he mentally revises it to think, it's just helping each other out.
Of course Shane's seen Brendon's cock a million times. Brendon would be as happy living on a nudist colony as in some sex-crazed polygamist cult. Shane even bumped up against it once with his leg, coming blind around a corner at way-too-fucking-early in the morning. It was hot and heavy against the outside of his thigh, just a flash before Shane staggered back and Brendon laughed loud and braying and threw his arms around Shane's neck, hips safely back a half-step from Shane's boxers as he begged and pleaded for someone, anyone to make a pot of coffee.
Now it's in Shane's hand, still hot, not quite as heavy, almost weightless the way it drifts up, like it's asking to be held, to be stroked. Brendon presses his shoulders back into the couch as Shane jerks him off harder, whimpering a little, eyes closed, and Shane's never really seen Brendon like this. He's just enjoying it, just feeling it, and he's making these noises that are not -- okay, Shane's heard Brendon jerk off before, and he's even heard him fucking before, but not up close like this. Somehow this is entirely different. Shane wants to hear more. He wants to know what noises he can make come out of Brendon's throat.
He barely even cares that Brendon's hand has stopped moving on his cock, that there's really only one of them now doing this, and one being done to. Brendon's hips stutter off the couch, and he rolls his neck and turns to look at Shane. He smiles, broad and sunny, and grips Shane's other arm a little, remembering belatedly to jerk Shane off for a few strokes before he loses track again.
Brendon gasps and comes over Shane's hands, and his eyes flutter closed for a second and then there's just a wet, heavy silence in their living room, an echo of hard, humid breathing. Brendon's hand is loose around Shane's cock. Shane's not sure if he should pull his own hand away, or say something, or do something, so instead he just leans his cheek against the couch and tries to breathe deep and even.
After a while Brendon says, "Shit, sorry, I'm usually better at ---" and he waves a hand around, blinking slow and confused. Shane thinks, multitasking, and Brendon says, "doing more than one thing at a time, fuck."
Shane can't help it, he laughs, and while he's moving he takes his hand away, wiping it off on Brendon's shirt as he shifts to sit sideways. Brendon's hand falls away from Shane's cock and onto his thigh.
The problem is now Shane really is hard, and horny, and his breathing's steady but his heart is pounding, and he's not sure how to ask for Brendon to do this, to finish it. Shane's not even a guy who stays in the room when dudes are jerking off to porn. There's nothing wrong with it, it's just not his thing. But Brendon's palm is warm on his hip, half on his bare stomach, half on his jeans, and Shane just wants.
Brendon takes a deep breath and shakes out his neck and says, "Okay," like someone asked a question. "Let me --" he says, "like this," and slides to his knees, tugging Shane's legs around and settling between them on the floor.
Shane is about to say something stupid like “you don't have to,” but then Brendon does, and Shane's not that stupid.
Brendon is pretty good at giving a blowjob, which honestly isn’t something Shane has spent one second wondering before. Everybody jokes about it, sure, about Brendon and Ryan or how the whole band is a bunch of pretty boy fags. But Shane's seen Brendon with girls, seen him turn this exact kind of hard focus on them when he's looking to get laid. Sometimes, once or twice, it was with a guy, but Shane had never thought it actually went anywhere. He's not sure now why he was so sure Brendon didn't mean it.
Brendon's not a pornstar or anything, but he's loose limbed in that way Shane knows means he's kind of fucked up still. Shane closes his eyes for a while, fucked up himself, and tries to imagine it's Regan or that stacked chick who works at Starbucks who wears shiny, bright wet pink lipstick, because a mouth is a mouth, right?
Then there's a hard suck and a thumb pressed behind his balls and his eyes fly open. When the sharp red stars flooding his vision clear, there's Brendon on his knees, grinning up with his lips stretched around Shane's cock. His eyes are amused, then comically widen when he realizes Shane's watching. Then of course it's the Brendon show, the performance of a lifetime for best blowjob ever, hands and mouth a blur of motion and a moan that Shane thinks might not be entirely fake, and it's all too many things to think about, too much to drink, too much. Shane feels his hips buck up before he can stop them. He hears Brendon choke a little and then he's coming, hard, and Brendon is laughing a little as he swallows and licks up what he missed.
Shane just sits there for a minute, transfixed by a shiny smudge at the crease of Brendon's mouth he sort of wants to touch with his fingers or maybe his lips. Then Brendon pushes up to his feet and shoves himself the rest of the way into his jeans but doesn't button them. He stretches out his neck, cracks his jaw and says, "Man, I am going to crash so fucking hard now."
"Yeah," Shane says weakly, surprised by his own voice, because it's not the kind of thing you say "thank you" to but he’s still biting back the words. When Brendon's in the hallway to their bedrooms, Shane calls, "g'night," and Brendon tosses "you too" over his shoulder as he disappears.
++
Shane is wandering through the house, thinking about the location he checked out that day, recalculating angles of natural light. He's got a hand out to open the freezer when he registers that it's already ajar, that Brendon is staring blankly into the shelves.
“Shit, sorry,” Shane says, and Brendon spins around. The refrigerator is big, sleek and silver, with drawers and cubbyholes that all fold open and closed in the most logical possible fashion, like they're on a space station. Shane helped pick it out, or at least stood there and mocked Brendon for spending six thousand dollars on an appliance just because it could crush ice in twelve ways.
“We're out of ice cream,” Brendon whines, and Shane replies, “No, we're not,” out of habit, because he knows Brendon is only talking about the fancy triple espresso chocolate shit he buys at the gourmet grocery store, binges on, and then forgets to replace. There are three other flavors visible over Brendon's shoulder, and Shane tries to shove an arm past him to prove his point.
Brendon just backs up further into the freezer, blocking Shane like he's standing guard, one shoulder jutted against the lip of the fridge door, one arm draped up and tucked into the back of the icemaker. “What's the magic password?” he taunts, waggling his eyebrows.
Shane kisses him. It was exactly that planned out, and as Brendon's mouth opens under his, wet and so warm in contrast to the chilled air wafting around them -- it's a really good fridge, Shane thinks distantly -- he remembers, punch to the gut, what that mouth felt like around his cock.
In the three days since, Shane hasn't avoided thinking about it, not exactly, he's just had shit to do other than lounge around dwelling on how Brendon's lips are so full and soft and strong all at once. He's been busy, and maybe kind of stupid, because Brendon grips the front of Shane's t-shirt and presses their hips together and bites lightly at Shane's jaw before zeroing back in on his mouth. Shane may have started this kiss but he's fairly sure he has nothing to do with what it's become, their tongues tangling, shallow breaths that never seem to fill his lungs enough before the next assault, the smooth, hard pressure of what can only be Brendon's dick against Shane's thigh.
Brendon pulls away on a gasp, fingers unfurling from Shane's shirt and digging lightly into his chest. “We have to --“ Brendon starts, and Shane mumbles, “yeah,” because they should stop, this is insane.
“My ass is turning into an ice cube,” Brendon says, and nudges Shane back a few steps until he can get clear and swing the door shut. He grins lopsided at Shane and settles his shoulderblades back against the smooth stainless steel, thumbs tucked into the waist of his jeans.
His face is open and amused and expectant but his mouth looks used, lips flushed cherry red. Shane takes another step back. “I, uh,” Shane says, and spots his keys on the kitchen island. He reaches out and the metal digs sharply into his palm. “I have to go,” he says.
++
Shane sleeps until two the next day.
He drove around for a while the night before, dug a pack of Camels out of the glove box and chainsmoked while cruising the Strip with the radio blaring like some tourist douchebag. Then he went to Regan's, fucked her on the living room floor because her roommate was gone, and picked a fight afterwards until she got up and went to bed without him. It was just too hot at her place, an old building with lousy AC that meant even on a cool night her skin was warm to the touch.
When he got home the house was quiet, and in the early afternoon when he wakes it's even quieter. He opens his bedroom door and pauses for a second, holding his breath and listening to nothing, nothing at all. He takes a shower and smears his hand across the mirror and looks at himself, trying not to think of it like a scene from a movie. It's just his life, his same old life.
When he's finally dressed and definitely hungry he wanders out, but he ends up walking right past the fridge. He doesn't want to sit on the couch, either. This is probably why people say you shouldn't ever hook up with your roommate. He's only ever lived with guys, so it never occurred to him to care one way or the other. He stands and stares out at the backyard for a while, stomach rumbling, and finally pulls his phone out to text Brendon. After another ten minutes all he's got in the message window is hey. He hits send, turns around sharply, walks back to the kitchen, grabs a burrito out of the freezer, nukes it for two minutes and eats it in three big bites.
His phone buzzes, jumping across the butcher block island. makin' music, breakin' hearts, Brendon says, which means he's at Ryan's.
Shane's throat itches and he turns around to open the fridge. They have one beer, maybe half a glass of milk and a carton of fruit punch with a sticky pink river crusted on the side. Their food selection is similarly impressive. He grabs the Corona and types with one thumb as he elbows the door closed. dinner?
Thirty seconds later: pick you up at 8 we can get wings?
Shane doesn't know what to respond that's not a joke he would have found funnier last week, so he just says yeah and goes to find a bottle opener.
++
Brendon has a disproportional love for this sports bar a mile from their house. It's crowded when they get there, basketball on half the monitors and some celebrity golf tournament on the rest. They end up sitting at the bar, eating wings and splitting a pizza. They have three $2 beers each.
Brendon flirts lazily and in equal measure with their waitress, who is short, blonde and busty, and with the bartender, who is short and dark haired with a lip ring and tattoos on his knuckles that eventually Shane pieces together spell WORTH IT. Was it, Shane wants to ask, and what was it, exactly, that was so worth it? He doesn't, though. Brendon rambles about the song Ryan's been working on and a movie some DJ was talking about on the radio, which either stars Jessica Alba or maybe Summer from The OC. "Rachel Bilson," Shane offers, but otherwise doesn't talk much beyond uh-huhs and yeahs.
When the bill comes they argue over whose turn it is until both the waitress and the bartender are laughing at them. Brendon slaps his credit card into the guy's hand and Shane mumbles, "Fine, whatever, we have to get groceries on the way home anyway."
"'Kay," Brendon says, snapping a straw between his teeth, and when the bartender hands back the receipt he winks and says, "Have a good night, you two."
At Safeway Shane puts two cases of beer in the cart, Corona for Brendon and Stella for himself. Brendon doesn't offer to help, just trails along behind, humming and occasionally reading out the names of funny sounding products. Shane stops in the freezer aisle and Brendon steps on his heels, head craned to look at some cooler stacked high on a shelf.
"Ice cream," Shane says, and points. Brendon's face lights up and he actually claps his hands together like he's in glee club. He says, "Yay," and opens the freezer door, rifling through pints until he finds one he likes. He tosses it at Shane and roots around some more, bending over to reach something. His thin t-shirt rides up his back and his jeans slide lower, exposing three or four inches of pale, bare back. Shane feels his face flush.
Brendon turns his head around to ask if Shane wants something in particular and Shane shakes his head. "You know I don't really like ice cream," he says, and jams his hands in his pockets. "And it's fucking cold in here, hurry up." Shane walks away, goes down to the frozen fried things section and picks out three different kinds of eggrolls.
The clerk grins, indulgent, when Brendon playfully shoves Shane, then hooks his chin over Shane's shoulder as he inputs his PIN. "Now I know all your secrets," he whispers in Shane's ear, body pressed hot against Shane's back, and this is what Brendon's like when he's actually trying to flirt. Shane knows, he's seen the difference.
He wants to say something dramatic like, “You already do,” but his life’s still not a shitty script, so he just hits the green button twice and tells the kid they don’t need help out, thanks.
In the car they talk about how Ryan’s dog has been eating all his shoes, but only the plastic parts, the rubber soles or an occasional flip-flop. “Not into leather, apparently,” Brendon says, and then half-heartedly wonders aloud whether letting Dylan socialize with that kind of influence could turn her vegan, too. Shane laughs but doesn’t have a good answer for that, or for anything else.
As soon as they walk in the door, he tears into the box of beer. His plan for the evening is to get shit-faced, or at least drunk enough that he doesn’t spend any more time worrying a) whether this is the biggest mistake he's ever made and he and Brendon are going to continue to pretend it never happened, or b) just what it would take for things to happen again, maybe this time in a way that involves both kissing and getting off. There's probably a reason those usually go together.
Brendon calls out from the living room. "We getting high?"
"Yeah," Shane says, grabbing another bottle for him and two for Brendon. "You wanna watch that dog grooming show?"
When he comes around the corner he sees Brendon, sprawled on the couch, packing a bowl. He looks up with a sunny smile. "You know how to treat me right."
Shane doesn't know what to say to that, so he turns on the TV, finishes off a beer and takes the pipe when Brendon holds it out, scooting closer on the couch until they're sitting side by side. At the first commercial break Shane leans back some, puts his arm high up on the couch.
"This is what I'm talking about," Brendon says, though they haven't been talking about anything except a dumb running commentary on the dogs and the groomers. "This is why I hate going out."
"No you don't." He doesn't. Brendon likes it, the clubs, the parties, the photos, the girls who shamelessly rub their nearly naked bodies up against him.
"Yeah," Brendon agrees, "but sometimes it's nice just to stay home with all --" He gestures vaguely at the bag of weed on the coffee table, the nest of empties, their enormous flat screen. The movement turns his body closer to Shane as he finishes, "all this."
"Yeah," Shane says, and his voice sounds soft and distant. Brendon's only an inch or two away, somehow, and his eyes flutter down. He's staring at my mouth, Shane realizes, and that too is from afar, fuzzy and obvious at the same time.
He hears Brendon say, "This way we --" and then the rest gets lost in the kissing, Brendon's mouth pressed lightly to his, a whoosh of air as they both breathe out hard before going back in again.
Shane tries to lift his head up but as soon as he moves his elbow he's sliding back instead, pulling at the last minute on Brendon's shirt to bring him down too.
Brendon groans something like the word "aww," but it's not sweet and amused, it's excited. Motivated, Shane's brain sleepily provides. "Fuck yeah," Brendon mutters, tugging Shane's legs down so they're flat and Brendon can lie on top with his knees nudging Shane's apart. It's -- it's a lot, suddenly, a lot of touching, a lot of weight for such a skinny fucking kid Shane's picked up and carried over his shoulder more than once. It's not too much but only barely, and Shane still cranes his neck up to catch another kiss.
Brendon holds himself up a little, chests apart, until Shane slides his hand around Brendon's waist and his shirt pulls up. Then Brendon crashes down, their whole bodies colliding, and Shane gasps at the hard press of Brendon's cock against his own. Brendon pulls back from the kiss and stares down, mouth open and shocked, like maybe he had no idea it would feel like that either. Brendon's cock, Shane thinks again, and even in his head the word could be subtitled for all it makes sense. He's been avoiding it, maybe, avoiding the reality of Brendon and his cock.
"Fuck, you're really --" Brendon says, and blinks slowly, so Shane just says, "yeah," and shoves his hand down between them, yanking Brendon's pants open and trying to pull them down around his ass. Brendon laughs, low and pleased, and unbuttons Shane's jeans, wriggling around until they're almost bare from mid-chest to mid-thigh, shirts pushed up and denim hanging at their knees. Shane's chin touches his chest as he stares at Brendon's cock climbing out the top of his bright green underwear, and then he watches his own hand reach out and tug the elastic over Brendon's ass. Brendon's fingers tease at the waist of Shane's boxers until he lifts up an inch and Brendon can get them down.
This time Shane pulls Brendon down, slowly, gently watching as their skin touches in a thousand places. They both groan, grunting as their cocks slide dry and rough against each other, and Brendon licks his palm, giggling as he does. Shane laughs with him because this, this is so fucking ridiculous, what they're doing, what they're trying to do, skin and spit and stoned out of their minds.
It's fucking amazing. Brendon smiles back, wide and brilliant and beautiful, and rolls his hips against Shane's, licking at the corner of Shane's mouth. Shane's jaw is hanging open, breath lost at the sensation.
Breathless, Shane thinks, and lets Brendon set the pace, following along as they chase each other in circles, sharp points of give and take until all he can see are starbursts of color behind his eyes.
++
There's fabric pressed to his lips, and his ass is cold.
Eventually Shane wakes up enough to realize his face is smashed into the couch cushion and his pants are down around his ankles. He rolls over and gets his feet on the ground, head and back aching no matter how hard he blinks. The house sounds empty. He pulls his jeans up. Everything is fuzzy and distant, filtered hazily.
It's not like he can't remember what happened, it's just that it all feels so far away, Brendon groaning and -- and begging, maybe, and just that thought makes heat rise across his neck. Shane can dimly remember his own name panted out as Brendon's short nails scratched against his ribs and, yeah, there are shallow skid-marks across his chest. "Fuck," he says, and the word falls flat in the room.
He dodges his reflection after showering but with a t-shirt half-pulled over his head tries out, "It's kind of a funny story, actually," and, "I don't know, it just happened," and, "I'm sorry, Reg, I'm an asshole." There's a part of him that wants to talk to her about it as soon as possible, to call her right now so they can laugh about how ridiculous it is that he and Brendon got stoned and fucked around on their living room couch like a couple of kids. Then there's the other part of him, the part that doesn't live in a stupid rom-com where -- actually, he can't think of a movie where that was okay, not a single one. And Regan can be a pretty intense individual when it comes to sharing, and that's just about shit like food in the refrigerator her roommate ate, not her boyfriend sleeping around. He's not sure how to tell even himself it was an accident or that he didn't see it coming this time.
When she comes out of her work, smiling in surprise to find him at the curb, he tries to grin back but is pretty sure he fucks that up, too. It's not until he's pulling into her apartment complex parking lot, feeling her heavy stare as he continues to silently rehearse his stupid apology that he realizes just how much he can't tell her, not at all. He's an asshole, and he was stoned, and who the fuck knows what else, but Brendon -- Brendon is gay, Brendon is gay and he's the lead singer in a band with a million 14-year-old fans and his family is Mormon, for fuck's sake, and Shane can't make that situation even worse by running around and telling people they fucked around. Not even his girlfriend.
"What?" she says, and he shakes his head.
They eat dinner and watch TV for a while and she says twice how sweet it was that he just missed her so much he had to come get her like that. She says it like she doesn't believe it. He slouches into the cushions until it's just after nine o'clock and then says he's not feeling well, he's maybe coming down with some kind of stomach thing, he'll call her tomorrow.
When he pulls into their empty driveway, he finally lets himself check his phone.
forgot dumb interview today back later, Brendon had texted mid-morning.
Thirty minutes after that: my head feels like a hackeysack. yrs?
did u know that we are huge in belgium?
you are alive right?
going w ross to look at guitars, pedals, cords, hats ETC. send proof of life and/or superior genes that offer immunity to hangovers. use carrier pigeon or telegram if phone broken.
Then a long gap, all late afternoon and evening while Shane was wondering if every conversation with Regan would get worse and worse. It's never been awkward between them, not since the first day he saw her and tried to ask for the time or her number and she laughed in his face, but she was so pretty he asked again. Everything since that has been easy.
His phone beeps while he's still holding it, deliberating. on my way home soon, bringing the bacon. you want a double cheeseburger and fries with that?
Shane writes, plus mcflurry?
Brendon comes in with both arms full of grease-stained paper bags and they decide to eat in the backyard, lounge chairs side by side on the half-dead grass. Shane thinks maybe this is when they're going to talk about it, when Brendon is going to say, hey, sorry I wasn't there when you woke up naked this morning, or hey, wow, awkward, right? Or maybe, hey, want to try that again?
With a burp and a groan Brendon pushes to his feet, squinting down at Shane. "Beer?" Brendon suggests. "Weed? Both?" He knocks his knuckles against Shane's hair.
"I think I need to stop drinking so much," Shane says, and he means, maybe we should talk about what we do when we're drunk, but Brendon just smiles, concern in his eyes, and brushes his thumb against Shane's cheek.
"Okay," he says, "no more milkshakes after sundown for you!"
++
Two beers in, Shane switches to Mountain Dew. He takes one hit off Brendon's pipe and waves away the rest. He sits in the corner of the couch and watches Brendon watch cartoons, eyebrows jumping up and down in delight, knee bouncing as he picks at the fraying fabric of the cushions. The next night it's Will Smith movies on DVD and the one after that it's pizza and video games, but otherwise everything goes essentially the same. They touch each other a little, maybe for a little longer than before, but it doesn't go further than his arm laid across Brendon's shoulder for a minute or Brendon briefly twining his ankle around Shane's as he tries to wrestle the remote away.
He stays basically sober for three days, watching Brendon and waiting for something he can't name or define. He keeps telling Regan he'll see her tomorrow, tells his folks he'll be over on the weekend, lets his phone go to voicemail. They meet Ryan and Spencer for lunch one day, play minigolf with Brendon's nephew for two hours in the afternoon on another. He's not totally sure what he's doing. It feels like a break, a little one, while he gets his head together. It feels easy, and normal, the kind of thing he could get used to. He's already used to it.
Wednesday he climbs out of bed and into the shower and is still buttoning his jeans when he makes it to the kitchen in search of coffee. Brendon's on the phone, making loopy notes on the edge of a take-out menu. "Uh-huh," he says, "yeah, I'll ask." He caps the Sharpie and tosses it at Shane, leaning against the fridge. "Yeah, so email the itinerary and I'll let you know."
As soon as Brendon hangs up, Shane grinds the beans and starts the coffeemaker. Brendon says, "Eggs?" and Shane nods, and it's not until they're both sitting at the table that he remembers to ask about the call.
"So how about," Brendon says, instead of actually answering, "you come with us to this basketball thing?"
"Yeah, sure," Shane says, but then frowns. The Rebels are already out of March Madness. He finishes his cup of coffee and stares at Brendon, who's always so weirdly nonchalant about shit like this. Finally he asks, "What basketball thing?"
++
Walking across the tarmac at McCarran, it really hits him. He's got one camera bag slung across his chest, the other with his video stuff on his back. There's a clean t-shirt stuffed into a side pocket and a pack of Crest gum in another. "Sorry we're not actually going to be there long enough to see a game," Brendon had said, like a paid gig on a private jet to Atlanta to shoot a rock band at a huge outdoor concert wouldn't be reason enough for Shane to go.
They're not even off the ground before the drinking starts. Brendon and Ryan beg off after one cocktail each, Brendon rubbing his throat regretfully, but Jon and Spencer seem to be locked in a battle to the death of beards and booze and bullshit. Shane nurses a soda and alternates between shooting stills and video, getting adjusted to being on a job even if it is with Brendon and three other guys he knows pretty well. Everyone's excited, amped up, eager to play again.
The band hasn't gone a month without a gig since they made the record, let alone three, Ryan tells him quietly, leaning in to talk like they're telling secrets. Brendon's listening to something on his computer, toe tapping impatiently. Jon and Spencer are making Zack and Dan judge a drinking game only they seem to know the rules to. Ryan gives Shane an almost shy smile, like they've just met. It's different seeing them all like this, just them, this tiny circle of guys who trust each other with everything but almost in place of trusting anyone else at all.
Shane feels flattered to be let in, or even just let near, because he also doesn't kid himself he really belongs, that he's on any kind of equal footing. Being in the right place at the right time to catch an hour of rehearsal on tape doesn't make him a part of the band. He's never filmed them live or been on their tour bus. He brings up the camera again and snaps a shot of Brendon, watching through the viewfinder with his finger hovering above the button as Brendon makes Ryan put on the headphones to hear a song. Their foreheads brush as they hum along, smiling at the same lyric and then smiling more when they catch each other at it. Shane puts the camera down and stares out the window for a while.
Finally he switches to video and takes the drink Jon's been trying to press into his hand the last hour. He tries not to film Brendon more than the other guys. Once they hit the ground it's a blur of highway and Atlanta and then the venue, sound checks and signings and standing around and waiting for other people to their job so Panic can get ready to do theirs.
Shane films all of it, still not sure what they'll really want at the end. Zack talking to fans. Spencer spending a small eternity fiddling with his snare drum, tightening and loosening the same three screws. Brendon petting the polished piano and calling it "baby," riffing on Amy Grant and pledging his undying love. Ryan wandering around in his crazy yellow scarf, tilting his head sideways and rambling about banjo players from the Delta.
They've got one last check of lights and sound to go when Shane hears Zack's laugh, guffawing loud, and when he follows Zack's pointed finger with the camera he sees a boy standing with a group of fans, holding a sign that says BRENDON TURNED ME GAY. Brendon squeaks, bouncing a little and clapping his hands in delight, and Shane braces his elbow against his chest to get a steady shot. It's hard when his hands are shaking.
At dinner somebody brings it up again, Jon idly wondering aloud what kind of prize Brendon should get if they can find proof he turned at least ten of their fans gay.
"But what kind of proof?" Spencer argues, and they go on like that for a while. Shane watches Brendon eat all his own fries and start picking Shane's off his plate, smiling faintly but not meeting Shane's eyes. He doesn't seem freaked out by the conversation but at this point he's mostly letting Jon and Spencer run the table, constructing ever more elaborate tests so Brendon can win whatever it is they decide is a suitably gay award. Shane tries to finish his drink but his throat is so tight it's hard to swallow. He takes photos of the wreckage of their meal and ignores how Brendon's knee is jiggling under the table. He could put his hand down and stop the movement, but he won't.
In the dressing room, Brendon says, "Fuck, I look Mormon tonight," and Spencer laughs into Ryan's shoulder, wry and bemused. Brendon tugs at his tie, then pulls it tight again. He smooths his hand down the white shirt and shrugs at Shane in the mirror. "Sometimes the clothes do not make the man," he says seriously, and doesn't crack until after Jon snorts. Ryan flops down on his back on the couch, stretching his long legs down and around Spencer's shoulders. Shane adjusts his light meter. He's here for a reason, after all.
As the stage lights flicker, Shane turns around in the pit, shooting out into the audience. There's a row of teenage girls, fifteen years old, maybe sixteen, lined up all along the barricade, and the same skinny boy with the sign from the soundcheck squeezed in at the end. Shane spins back around just in time to catch the band walking on stage, and after that it's all he can do to keep things in focus and in frame.
He saw Panic play before, once, on the Vegas stop of their last tour. It was before they lived together, when they were just guys who emailed each other and hung out sometimes if Brendon had a day or two off. Shane had felt like a total fucking tool asking if Brendon might be able to get them in, but Regan had really wanted to go, had put the album in her car CD changer the first time Shane mentioned meeting Brendon and never taken it out. Brendon said he'd leave two tickets at will call but when they got there they had VIP passes and were seated with everybody's families. That was the first time he met Brendon's parents and he'd spent the night watching them flinch every time Brendon said the word fuck.
The show is so different up close, Brendon's feet at eye level as he skips across the stage, sweat flying off his forehead in a rainbow arc over Shane's head. It's amazing, overwhelming even, to be sandwiched between Brendon's manic performance and the screaming crowd. The kids scream the whole time, but louder at some things than others.
Brendon slides his hand down his tie and cups his crotch; they scream.
Brendon dances away from them, towards Spencer's drum kit, and shakes his ass the tiniest bit; they scream.
Ryan stalks Brendon until they're pressed nose to nose, sharing a microphone, and Brendon follows him back, tugging on his shirt and grinning wide; the fans scream and cry and clutch each other.
Brendon's lip quirks at the response and as he thrusts his hips into Ryan's guitar it almost looks like he's straining to hear it again, waiting for more. Between songs Brendon gulps a bottle of water in one long swallow, throat bobbing, and Shane remembers belatedly to shoot Jon, to capture Spencer's arms blurring through a bridge. He's not going to be able to show the footage of this night to anyone until he's had a chance to even it out in editing.
Midway through the set, he fumbles his way out of the pit and backstage, a guy in a headset taking one look at his camera and badge and waving him through. He takes stills the rest of the show from the side with Zack, who's standing with his arms crossed, waiting for something to go wrong.
They come off stage in a mess of instruments and roadies and sweaty towels, and Brendon grabs Shane by the sleeve, hugs him so tight Shane is sure the sweat is soaking through his own clothes, too. "Now you've seen the seedy underbelly of the rock and roll lifestyle," Brendon says, tipping his forehead to Shane's for a fleeting second. "I wanted you to," he says, words rushed and breathless, "to see what it's like inside." Then he laughs loud and maniacally. "Inside the beast," he cackles like the voiceover for a horror movie. He squeezes Shane's shoulders tightly and pushes off, jogging over to some assistant, making his stupid charade signs for more water.
Shane wanders out from under the overhang, following Spencer and Jon and Ryan as they go to watch the fireworks. The light is pretty amazing, red and orange explosions across the darkened sky. He's reaching around to swap cameras again when Brendon bounds up, stripped to the waist. "Take my picture, Shane," he pleads, spinning around and raising his hands up. "Make me a star!"
Shane shoots a few, Brendon staring right into the camera as he pouts and pulls faces, and tries to ignore the hysterical thumping in his veins. This is just how Brendon is around this many people, big and loud and demanding.
"Okay," Brendon says, "my turn," and to his credit he doesn't actually grab the camera from Shane's hands, just holds his out until Shane gives it to him. Shane videos the other guys engrossed in fireworks and hopes like hell whatever is wrong with him isn't showing on his face.
When the display is over he looks around and can tell the crowd's changed, fewer corporate sponsors, more fangirls. Brendon rises up on his toes a few times, almost hopping in slow motion, obviously tired. He grabs Zack by the sleeve. "Car?" he asks hopefully. "Airport? Home?"
Zack says, "Yep," sending Dan to go find the others at the bar. He walks them to the dressing room to grab their stuff and then out to the van, always a half-step ahead. Shane sticks to the back, at Brendon's elbow, until they're safely delivered into the parking lot. Brendon climbs into the back bench seat and Shane follows him. Zack looks around. It's quiet, only a couple other trucks and vans where they are, and finally he says, right to Shane, "Don't go anywhere." Shane nods and Zack closes the door with a gentle touch.
Brendon's got his head bent back over the seat, mouth open, almost snoring. When Shane does the same, Brendon rolls his neck to one side and smiles a little until it widens into a yawn. Shane yawns back. "Right?" Brendon says, almost a whisper, as if that makes sense.
It does, though, kind of, and he says "yeah, right" back, and then Brendon leans forward a few inches and they're kissing. It's not really like either time on the couch, or even standing at the freezer, because it's obviously not going anywhere. But they both know that much, at least, and Shane is surprised to find he's not nervous, not at all. Maybe a little relieved, actually, as Brendon's tongue touches his and darts away.
This whole day has been about Brendon and his band, Brendon in this other world where everything revolves around him and what he wants or needs or is supposed to do at any given moment and this -- this is different, the two of them in a quiet car at midnight. This feels real. Brendon plays with the edges of Shane's hair where it peeks out of his hat. He bites Brendon's lip and Brendon moans, loud when everything else has been so hushed.
They're waiting for other people, Shane remembers, and pulls back.
"I wonder where," he starts, and Brendon shrugs, says, "They're close, probably."
Shane gives him a little space, presses his shoulders back against the seat and tries to slow his breathing.
"We'll be home soon," Brendon says, and brushes his knuckles against Shane's jeans. When everyone else climbs into the van they all sit farther up, and Brendon's body is warm against Shane's all the way to the airport.
++
After that everything happens so fast, not just in actual time but in how much happens. He can't walk by Brendon without wanting to kiss him, and once he does, he can't figure out how to stop. From there it's always a blur, like they've just barely started making out and suddenly Brendon's hands are shoved inside Shane's jeans, his mouth pressed hot and damp into Shane's neck as he jerks him off. "You're so," Brendon says once, "this is so fucking good, I don't even --" and Shane doesn't know, either, doesn't get how Brendon feels that about him, how he feels it too.
Shane ends up on his knees one afternoon, the kitchen floor hard beneath him, and he's so fucking desperate to get his lips around Brendon's cock that it's not until he has that he remembers he's never done this before. He pulls back, breathing hard, and Brendon whines a little, unsteady on his feet. His cock isn't huge but it's right in Shane's face, red and wet from Shane's mouth, and there's a voice somewhere in his brain that's just repeating what the fuck, what the fuck but every nerve in his body is saying do it do it do it.
So he does, he wraps a hand around the base and brings Brendon back to his lips and goes down, Brendon's grateful moan more than enough noise to drown out any remaining questions. He listens to Brendon's noises, his pleased grunts and desperate gasps, and tries to shut up the rest of his brain, to follow the sounds like a map that will explain what the fuck he's doing, how this works. Just when his neck is starting to ache from the angle, Brendon is squeezing his shoulder and pulling back. Shane thumbs over the head of Brendon's cock and catches the come in his palm. That part's not new but it feels different at eye level, feels like more of an accomplishment.
Brendon folds to the floor, hands on Shane's cheek and greedy kisses buried against his collarbone. They fall backwards and Brendon sucks him off like he's starving for it, hands wandering the curve of Shane's ass and pulling him up, letting Shane fuck his face. That breaks through the haze a bit, the possibility of what else they could be doing on the kitchen floor, on the couch, in a bed. They could do anything, Shane thinks, and then he's coming deep down Brendon's throat.
Brendon slides up the linoleum, fitting himself under Shane's shoulder and sprawling half across his chest, and tilts his head back for a wet, salty kiss that makes Shane wish he'd swallowed, too. They stay like that a while, heartbeats slowing, until the dog in the house behind theirs starts barking like a banshee and Dylan trots out to investigate, snarling and breathing heavy against the glass doors until they fog up in a little circle a foot high.
"C'mere," Brendon says in his special Dylan voice, and rolls onto his his back, waggling his fingers until she brushes her head into them. She wanders over to her bowl and Brendon cranes his head back to follow her progress, then scrunches up his nose. "Fuck, when is the last time someone swept this floor?"
"You don't sweep," Shane says, licking his lips. He could really use a beer but the fridge, while technically only a few feet away, seems entirely out of reach.
"Do you sweep?"
Shane laughs. "You were the one who said we only needed a housekeeper once a month, dude." Brendon runs his fingers up the back of Shane's neck and into his hair. He tucks his nose into Shane's armpit and his low laugh whispers down Shane's side.
"I didn't know I'd be spending this kind of quality time down here," Brendon says.
"Well," Shane starts, because, well.
Brendon shrugs, his bony shoulder rising and falling on Shane's chest. "Maybe we should try every other week."
Maybe we should try the bed, Shane thinks, but, well. "Lunch?" he asks, and Brendon counters with, "Showers. Sandwiches?" Subs, they decide.
++
Brendon goes up to a cabin to write the new record and Shane spends three days completely confused about what to do with his time. Then he gets hired on to a commercial shoot, makes a promo video for the Wynn, agrees to DP his friend Jack's thesis film when the other guy drops out at the last minute. He works twelve, fourteen, sixteen-hour days and falls into bed sore and tired from carrying equipment around, from going out drinking with people he's known since high school or just met on the shoot.
A couple nights a week he wakes up to text messages from Brendon, the phone rattling across his nightstand at three or four in the morning. everything smells like pine trees up here very fresh & clean feeling, one says. last night did shrooms listened to peter & the wolf overandover. ross would smoke bark if he could figure out how to get high off it. And then: miss the dog miss the house miss having your camera in my face all the time. come document the mess/masterpiece for posterity?
Shane falls back asleep with the phone in his hand. Over coffee he makes two follow-up calls about potential jobs, neither of which starts till the next week. He eats the last of the cereal and watches half a baseball game. In the early afternoon he dials Brendon's number, pressing the send button before he can overthink it any more. Brendon picks up on the second ring and says, "Are you on your way?" Shane smiles at the empty house and goes to pack a bag.
continued here.