new fic: Scenes from a marriage, 4/4 [Brendon/Shane]
Scenes from a marriage, 4/4
part three here.
Brendon is surly all the way to the bar, kicking his toes into the dashboard. He knocks back a shot as soon as they arrive, orders a double, and tells Shane he's not in the mood to sit down. Spencer, at Shane's elbow, says, "Come hang out in the booth with us," so he does, nursing a whiskey sour and half-listening as Spencer and Ryan talk about their girlfriends. Shane is definitely not in the mood.
He watches as Brendon and Jon buy a round for a couple of pretty chicks, and then another round, and then a third. Spencer and Ryan have gone out to the car to smoke up and come back, and as the girl with long brown hair slides her hand down to squeeze Brendon's ass, Shane can't quite remember why he didn't go with them. He's not really fucked up enough to either stop caring or make sense of it.
When he slops a little over the rim of his glass, Spencer nudges him with a shoulder and tilts his chin at Jon and Brendon and the giggling girls. He's talking and all Shane catches is the end, " -- fight or something?" Shane shrugs. Or something. Spencer says, more clearly and closer to Shane's ear, "I love Brendon, but just 'cause you guys have a deal or whatever doesn't mean he has to be a douchebag about it."
"A deal?" Shane says, and the skin on his palms tingles. The words leave little echoes behind them, like how a shitty speaker system will buzz when the sound is shot.
Spencer says, "Or whatever, whatever," and holds his hands up. "Just because he's fucking girls doesn't make it less shitty when he does it right in your face. If Haley --"
Shane tries and fails to catch his glass as it upends, rivers of amber liquid sliding off the wooden table. Ryan jumps up, staring hard at them both. "Sorry," Shane says, and does what he can with the square of cocktail napkin to clean it up. Ryan says Spencer's name, loudly, without looking away from Shane.
Spencer blinks slowly once, and then again, and then says, "Shit, no, I'm sorry."
"Yeah," Ryan says. "You are so fucking --"
"Fuck," Spencer says, and then puts his hand on Shane's sleeve. "I am so stoned, dude."
Shane nods, and they sit there a while. "It's a good thing I'm pretty drunk," he says finally, and slides out of the booth. It's not like he didn't know, like he can't see what happens right in front of him. Just because he didn't want to put all the pieces together doesn't mean he's blind.
Spencer stands outside with him as he waits for a cab and even though it's fucking with his sense of time, Shane's glad they're not talking. Spencer glowers and repeatedly shoves his hands into his tight jeans pockets and pulls them out again. When the taxi shows up, Spencer says, "You gonna be okay?"
"Or something," Shane says, because if nothing else he can enjoy the symmetry of the scene. He stops halfway into the car. "There's no deal," he clarifies. It's the first fucking thing he's ever said aloud to someone else that actually acknowledges whatever it is that he and Brendon are doing.
Spencer nods miserably, squeezing Shane's arm, and tells the guy the house address as Shane leans his head back against the seat. Once they're moving the driver repeats it back to Shane, says "Unicorn Way?" like it's a punchline.
Shane says, "Yeah, it's really gay, I know," and keeps his eyes closed the whole ride.
++
At five a.m., Shane wakes up to a thunk at the foot of the bed. He pushes up on his elbows and watches in the half-light as Brendon kicks off his other shoe and sheds his clothes, blowing air through pursed lips like he always does when he's half-wasted and can't move as fast as he'd like. He slides beneath the covers, reaching for Shane and tugging him close, as if Shane's been waiting up and now they're gonna roll around a while before they either get worked up and fuck or give up and pass out.
Shane's still half-wasted himself, and Brendon's wet mouth on his neck lights a slow fuse down his spine. He sniffs, the sound obvious in the still room, but Brendon doesn't flinch, and he doesn't smell like anything but cigarettes and tequila, maybe tequila and vodka. He doesn't smell like anyone but himself, sweaty and oblivious as he dips his fingers below the elastic of Shane's boxers. Shane drags his hands down Brendon's back, hard, pushing down with the pads of each finger into the muscles, and Brendon moans, rolling his shoulders out and arching up.
Usually it's Brendon offering a massage, kneading out the knots from where Shane's had a camera on his shoulder all day. The heaviest lifting Brendon's done all night is a couple of drinks, and Shane feels the growl in his throat before it's actually voiced, low and angry, making Brendon lift his face from Shane's neck in mild confusion.
It's so fucked up, this is so fucked up, that Shane still wants to fuck Brendon when he should at least be playing out some tired jealous act. But he does still want Brendon, wants to stay here in their bed in their house and act like nothing's changed, like this can go on forever as long as they never say out loud what's wrong.
"What's wrong," Brendon slurs, thumbs stroking down each side of Shane's face, and Shane is so fucking angry that he's figured his shit out, he's done his goddamned best to make sense of a confusing few months of his life, and not by running around and fucking anyone who will make him feel better about it. He just wants to feel better about it, to feel good, to get what no one gets from Brendon, to have all of him, home and family and music and sex, all of it. Shane pulls him down and bites at his lip, bites harder when Brendon grins into the pain, and shoves Brendon's shoulders hard, pushing him down Shane's chest until he gets it and tugs Shane's boxers down enough to get his mouth around Shane's cock.
Shane doesn't want to make it easy for him, doesn't want to make it nice. He jerks his hips hard when he should let them roll nice and easy and expected, tightens his hands in Brendon's hair when he should smooth it down, doesn't give any warning because if after all these months Brendon can't figure out when Shane's about to come he's only got himself to blame. He lets the undertow pull him down, after, instead of fighting back up to get Brendon off. Brendon is perfectly capable of getting himself off.
When Shane wakes up again there's a crust of dried come on Brendon's stomach and though Shane's not quiet or careful getting up, he doesn't stir. Shane showers, makes a frozen waffle and a pot of coffee and doesn't bother sitting down to consume them. It's noon but he's not up for waiting around until Brendon drags his ass out of bed, so he pours Brendon's share of the coffee into a travel mug and gets in the car. He drives halfway to his folks' house, then veers off to do donuts in his empty high school parking lot. He cruises around the golf course, thinking about townhouses versus high rises. The Metropolis seems like a decent place to live if he wants to get a condo. He can probably afford a down payment, especially if the behind the scenes deal goes through.
Assuming, he realizes, idling at a stop sign, that he still has a job after he tells Brendon he meant it, that he doesn't want to do this, not like this. He'll definitely be needing a new place to live. And some new friends, because he's not going to fool himself into thinking the band is gonna want to hang out and shoot the shit after everything goes down. A car honks from behind and he pulls forward a few feet and then to the side of the road, staring out at a tiny park where three kids are fighting over the two swings. He's really fucked up his life.
His phone buzzes. help can't pick couch bluegreenredpink?.
Brendon's been bitching about their couch for months now, swearing he was going to find something less ugly, proclaiming his independence of any and all overpriced decorators favored by his tasteless bandmates. Shane types, not pink but deletes it. What the fuck does he care if Brendon buys an even uglier couch for a house Shane shouldn't be living in?
please please come meet me can't do this without you too many choices too many pillows!!!
Shane puts the car back in gear. They'd gone to Robb & Stucky before Brendon went up to the cabin. If Brendon is there when Shane gets to the store, he'll pick out a fucking couch with him. And then they can go home and have an actual fucking conversation on it.
++
Brendon is holding court from an overstuffed chair at the head of a living room set-up, two blonde clerks giggling as he gestures expansively and describes the couch of his dreams. Shane stands a few feet behind him, watching, until a young guy with a pink tie and an overly gelled faux-hawk comes up. "You together?" he asks, polite and knowing all at once, and if Shane was the one in this unspoken relationship with the issues he'd deck the guy just for assuming that much. Brendon turns around, says Shane's name with bright enthusiasm, and then hauls him around the showroom to see his top three favorite choices, babbling some language of color options and fabrics that Shane doesn't pretend to process.
He's not deliberately shooting down all Brendon's picks, he's just hard pressed to appreciate anything Brendon suggests. "I thought you liked the brown leather," Brendon pouts, and Shane snaps, "Get whatever couch you want, it's your fucking house."
Brendon stares at his feet, bites a knuckle and darts a look around them. They're alone in a corner of the showroom. "You're there more than I am," Brendon says. "I just, we should get something we both like, right?"
"I don't --" Shane starts, but no, he's not going to fucking break up with Brendon in the middle of a goddamned store, he's not, whatever it is it deserves more, deserves worse maybe but definitely not like this. "I'll meet you at home," he says, trying to sound steady and calm though the last word comes out choked and wet.
++
Everything looks just like it did when he left that afternoon, except his plate is in the dishwasher and the bed has been made. He takes Dylan out around the block, walking slower and slower as they approach the house, letting her stay and sniff the grass and trees as long as she wants. Brendon's car is in the driveway and the porch light has been turned on. Finally he scoops Dylan up in his arms and walks up the steps, setting her down again once they're inside. It's quiet inside and he calls, "hey," as she scampers off to her bowl.
He finds Brendon sitting at the end of his bed, in his own bedroom. His hands are folded on his lap and he looks all of fifteen, fifteen and busted and contrite and still confused about what he should be apologizing for. He stares up, fidgety and unsure, at where Shane's stopped in the doorway. This is the part Shane would have worried about if he'd been thinking things through, if he'd ever made himself picture what the end could look like.
Shane sighs and crosses his arms. "Do you even get why I'm pissed?" he asks.
"Is it about the checks? Because I'll go cash them tomorrow, all of them at once, if that's what you want." Shane doesn't speak. "Is it -- why did you leave the club last night? Is that why?"
"Did you fuck one of those girls?" Shane asks, and immediately wishes he hadn't, because Brendon looks baffled.
"Last night?" he asks, and then says, "No." He tilts his head a bit and then adds, "I let her blow me in the bathroom, but I didn't --"
"Jesus, Brendon, listen to yourself." Shane kicks his heel back against the door and it makes a hollow, splintering noise.
"You never said --" Brendon stands up. "It's, I -- never with other guys, if that's what you think."
"Just with girls," Shane says, and rolls his eyes because that's still safer than throwing a punch. "Brendon, we fucking live together."
"Yeah, it's awesome," Brendon says, way too reasonably, and waves his hand in some loose sign language Shane doesn't want to translate. "But it's not like we're --"
Shane knocks his head back against the molding. "We're gay," he says, and opens his eyes again. Brendon's mouth is wide. Shane knows they don't talk about it, that probably the worst thing he can do is push Brendon on this in particular. But he can't stop now. "This, what we're doing," he says, "it's gay. We live together and we fuck each other and then we fall asleep in the same fucking bed and then we get up and do it all again and everyone -- everyone knows, Brendon, they all already know. Your band, Ian, my family, your family --"
"They don't know anything about this --"
"They know," Shane says again. "They know there's more going on than we're saying. But fine, whatever, I shouldn't care if you fuck around as long as it's not with other guys, and you're not gay because you still fuck girls, right?"
"I'm not gay," Brendon says, small and weak. Brendon is the worst liar Shane's ever met and right now he's not even trying.
"That's pretty fucked up," Shane says. "Regan dumped me and my dad gave me this whole fucking speech about how artists have to imagine their lives in ways they'd never expected and -- and Kara told me she's glad you're so happy now, Brendon. But you just do whatever the fuck feels good, okay, whatever works for you. I've never done any of this before either but it doesn't seem that fucking hard to figure out it could work if we wanted it to. If we both wanted it to."
Brendon's shoulders are shaking but he's not making any noise, not actually crying. "I don't even know what this is," he says in one tight exhalation.
"You know what it is," Shane says, and Brendon shakes his head again, a tiny little movement Shane wishes he hadn't seen. "You fucking know what it is, Brendon."
"No," Brendon says, and takes a deep breath. Shane waits. He waits for the rest but there isn't any more, apparently.
"Then you better figure out what you want it to be," he says.
++
In the movies, this is the scene where the wife takes a suitcase and the kids and goes to her mother's house, and if the husband has been a big enough dick maybe her dad will call and yell or even go over and rough him up a little. But Shane's not the wife, it's a good thing they don't have any actual kids, and like hell is he about to call his mom.
He takes a gym bag and the dog and goes to Spencer's.
Spencer's and Haley's, he remembers, when she opens the door. "Uh," he says, and then Spencer calls out, "Who is it, honey?"
"It's Shane," she says, and Spencer comes out of the kitchen with an apron around his waist and a smear of something red across one eyebrow.
He looks from Shane to the dog to the duffel. "Fuck," he says, "come in."
They sit at the kitchen table and Spencer puts down a beer without asking. Shane stares at the bottle.
"Something stronger?" Spencer offers.
Haley says, "I was just about to roll a joint." Shane blinks hard and looks at her again. "Really," she says. "Like I could live with this guy and not be a total pothead too."
"Not a total pothead," Spencer argues, running a hand through her hair. "Besides, she doesn't really drink at all."
Shane takes a long pull of the beer. He's thirsty even if he's in no mood to get drunk, and Spencer obviously told Haley everything. "I thought you hated me," he says.
Haley says, "No, no," right away, but then stares at the table for a while, fidgeting. Finally she looks up and says, "I thought you were using him."
"Oh," Shane says.
Spencer's phone bursts into an awful, annoying ring, like an alarm clock. Shane can see Brendon's name lit up on the display and when Spencer raises his eyebrow, Shane shrugs. "It's fine."
Brendon's squawking is loud, and when it pauses, Spencer says, "Yeah, he's here."
Haley puts her hand on Shane's arm, rubbing her thumb over the sleeve where it folds in to button at the wrist.
"He is not stealing your band, Brendon," Spencer says, and rolls his eyes. "Or your dog."
Shane can make out stray words in Brendon's tirade, Dylan's name and "my fucking friends" and then Spencer shoves back his chair and stands up.
"I don't know," he yells, "why in the world could your boyfriend possibly be at my house looking like he wants to die?"
Squawk. Scream. Dylan and Spencer's dogs yap at each other and run around the couch.
Shane would go shut himself in the bathroom or something equally dramatic but he's not sure what the point is anyway. Spencer truly angry is something Shane had thought he'd witnessed up in the mountains but that frustration has nothing on how legitimately furious he seems now.
"No," Spencer says, icy and mean. "You listen to me. You two are totally together and you're trying to act like you're not and it's completely ridiculous. And if you can't get your shit together and end up getting, fuck, like gay divorced, you're only going to see that dog every other week and -- no, fuck you, Brendon, that might be about as often as I want to see you too."
Shane looks down and he and Haley are holding hands. He drinks the rest of his beer. This has been, hands down, the most unbelievable day of his life.
"Yeah, go talk to Ryan, I'm sure that'll --" Spencer sighs and drops the phone on the table.
"Wow," Shane says eventually, because, wow. "I don't think he's ever hung up on me."
"He's never --" Spencer sits back down with a sigh. "You know he's never really had a serious -- a relationship, really, not at all."
"You guys have a serious relationship," Shane says. "All of you guys."
"He's hung up on me a lot," Spencer says. "And you know it's different."
"It's not that different," Haley says. "He left home, right? He thought he had to give up on his family to have the band. And they let him."
Spencer reaches over and takes her other hand. Shane doesn't know anything about them, not really, about how Haley left home and who let her go.
"They let him leave," she says, "and even though they let him come back or whatever, he knows, he must know they'd let him leave again before they, like, dealt with actual reality."
"Oh," Shane says.
Haley leans in and kisses his cheek. "The sheets on the spare bed are clean, right?" she asks Spencer and he nods.
Shane stands up. "Maybe I should --" but Spencer shakes his head.
"Ryan's just going to smoke Brendon out with his extra-special-occasion weed and give him the all you need is love speech."
"The -- really?"
"It has a perfect success rate," Haley says, and Spencer laughs, loose and light.
"Stay," Spencer says. "I'll finish making dinner and Haley can tell you the whole story. You can go home tomorrow."
++
Ryan calls mid-afternoon. "He just left," Spencer says. Shane cracks the window in the car so Dylan can poke her nose out on the drive home. He parks next to Brendon and drops his bag on the couch.
Brendon is lying on their bed. He's curled up on his side, eyes open, and he blinks slowly when Shane comes in, like maybe he doesn't believe it.
"Hey," Shane says, and swallows past the tightness in his throat. He perches on the edge of the bed, resting his weight on one arm. Brendon reaches out and puts his hand over Shane's briefly before slowly rolling onto his back and sitting up.
"I didn't really think you'd come back," Brendon says, and he sounds so openly relieved Shane swears he can feel his heart thud in his chest.
"I hear all you need is love." He smiles because it's easy to say, easier than he'd thought, and because it makes Brendon laugh, melodic.
"My band likes you better."
"No," Shane says. "They know you better." And they let Shane in anyway, gave him a map and the keys and their blessing. He's still not sure what he did to deserve that.
"It's not about them," Brendon says.
Shane says, "I know," though he's not sure what it is about, exactly, now that they're actually talking about it.
"I didn't want to prove them all right," Brendon says, and it's suddenly angrier, more determined. "All the rest of them. You know -- you know what everyone thinks already. What they all say about me, about all of us. And it's not -- it's not that easy, or whatever. It's not that simple. But they'll think they're right anyway. They'll think they've been right all along, that I've been hiding something, or sitting around hating myself." He looks up at Shane, and his voice is wounded when he continues. "I don't, you know."
"I don't think you hate yourself," Shane says.
That's not it at all. Brendon's never guarded in that way, never takes anything back or punishes himself or anyone around him for what he's wanted and gotten.
"I think maybe you want too much for everyone to like you, though," Shane says.
Brendon scrunches his face up. "Who doesn't?"
"Who gives a fuck if they do?"
"I do, apparently. According to you."
Shane hates arguing, especially like this, around and around about shit that's never going to change, that's just who they are to start off with. He pulls his legs up on the bed, crossing them and leaning back against the headboard. "I like you," he says.
After a long while, Brendon says, "Yeah?" His voice is so soft Shane has to lean in to hear it. "Still?" he asks.
"Yeah, still," Shane says. "And, like, way too fucking much to act like I don't. I don't even know how to do that."
Brendon whispers, "You like me," and Shane has to kiss him.
"Yeah," Shane says when they pull back, and he puts an arm around Brendon, pulling him closer. They sit like that for a while. The house is only noisy in its normal ways, Dylan running around, a weed whacker next door, the kids down the street shrieking and laughing.
"So everyone knows," Brendon breathes out, and seems to lose an inch, shoulders hunched down. He pulls his knees up to his chin.
"I think they've figured it out, yeah."
"And I'm supposed to believe nobody cares."
"I didn't say that." Shane walks his fingers along Brendon's arm. "But I don't think anyone's upset, no."
"So what difference does it make, anyway, if everyone knows."
"Because," Shane says. "When you act like you don't, it makes me look like an idiot."
"You're not an idiot."
"And neither are you. But we both feel pretty fucking stupid right now, don't we?"
Brendon huffs out something that sounds reluctant agreement.
"You don't have to tell people, not for me," Shane clarifies, and Brendon looks up in surprise. "Really, I don't even give a shit if you tell your parents. You don't owe them or anyone else an explanation. I don't really want to tell my parents, and you know they probably wouldn't even blink. And look, if you want to -- if you want to bring home girls, or --"
"I don't, that's --"
"It's okay if you do," Shane says. "I mean, I don't know, it sounds okay."
"Just okay," Brendon smirks, and Shane elbows him in the ribs.
"I don't know what we're doing either, okay."
"I know," Brendon says.
"But I don't care about all that, about other -- if you'll just admit it's, that we're --"
"We're together," Brendon says.
Shane exhales. His stomach bottoms out. "Yeah," he says. He feels exhausted and exhilarated and terrified and happy. Just like Brendon looks.
Brendon rearranges them so they're lying down, his cheek on Shane's chest. "Let's stay home tonight," he says, and Shane says okay.
END.
CREDITS: Hey, you know what sounds like a great idea? A fic with an epic amount of Brendon having sex with someone who's not in his band. Oh, in ShanePOV! People will love that. This was half an idea for one scene until R got hold of it and badgered me every day for what came next. Thanks to JB, J, N, Jae, rossetti and sloganeer for helping make that mess into a story. And to disarm_d, who finished first and always makes me look at Brendon from a different angle.
ETA: And some additional self-indulgent notes about creation myth "canon" and this story can be found here.
ETA2: And another story with this same Brendon and Spencer (and Shane, a little), set far in the future, can be found here.
part three here.
Brendon is surly all the way to the bar, kicking his toes into the dashboard. He knocks back a shot as soon as they arrive, orders a double, and tells Shane he's not in the mood to sit down. Spencer, at Shane's elbow, says, "Come hang out in the booth with us," so he does, nursing a whiskey sour and half-listening as Spencer and Ryan talk about their girlfriends. Shane is definitely not in the mood.
He watches as Brendon and Jon buy a round for a couple of pretty chicks, and then another round, and then a third. Spencer and Ryan have gone out to the car to smoke up and come back, and as the girl with long brown hair slides her hand down to squeeze Brendon's ass, Shane can't quite remember why he didn't go with them. He's not really fucked up enough to either stop caring or make sense of it.
When he slops a little over the rim of his glass, Spencer nudges him with a shoulder and tilts his chin at Jon and Brendon and the giggling girls. He's talking and all Shane catches is the end, " -- fight or something?" Shane shrugs. Or something. Spencer says, more clearly and closer to Shane's ear, "I love Brendon, but just 'cause you guys have a deal or whatever doesn't mean he has to be a douchebag about it."
"A deal?" Shane says, and the skin on his palms tingles. The words leave little echoes behind them, like how a shitty speaker system will buzz when the sound is shot.
Spencer says, "Or whatever, whatever," and holds his hands up. "Just because he's fucking girls doesn't make it less shitty when he does it right in your face. If Haley --"
Shane tries and fails to catch his glass as it upends, rivers of amber liquid sliding off the wooden table. Ryan jumps up, staring hard at them both. "Sorry," Shane says, and does what he can with the square of cocktail napkin to clean it up. Ryan says Spencer's name, loudly, without looking away from Shane.
Spencer blinks slowly once, and then again, and then says, "Shit, no, I'm sorry."
"Yeah," Ryan says. "You are so fucking --"
"Fuck," Spencer says, and then puts his hand on Shane's sleeve. "I am so stoned, dude."
Shane nods, and they sit there a while. "It's a good thing I'm pretty drunk," he says finally, and slides out of the booth. It's not like he didn't know, like he can't see what happens right in front of him. Just because he didn't want to put all the pieces together doesn't mean he's blind.
Spencer stands outside with him as he waits for a cab and even though it's fucking with his sense of time, Shane's glad they're not talking. Spencer glowers and repeatedly shoves his hands into his tight jeans pockets and pulls them out again. When the taxi shows up, Spencer says, "You gonna be okay?"
"Or something," Shane says, because if nothing else he can enjoy the symmetry of the scene. He stops halfway into the car. "There's no deal," he clarifies. It's the first fucking thing he's ever said aloud to someone else that actually acknowledges whatever it is that he and Brendon are doing.
Spencer nods miserably, squeezing Shane's arm, and tells the guy the house address as Shane leans his head back against the seat. Once they're moving the driver repeats it back to Shane, says "Unicorn Way?" like it's a punchline.
Shane says, "Yeah, it's really gay, I know," and keeps his eyes closed the whole ride.
++
At five a.m., Shane wakes up to a thunk at the foot of the bed. He pushes up on his elbows and watches in the half-light as Brendon kicks off his other shoe and sheds his clothes, blowing air through pursed lips like he always does when he's half-wasted and can't move as fast as he'd like. He slides beneath the covers, reaching for Shane and tugging him close, as if Shane's been waiting up and now they're gonna roll around a while before they either get worked up and fuck or give up and pass out.
Shane's still half-wasted himself, and Brendon's wet mouth on his neck lights a slow fuse down his spine. He sniffs, the sound obvious in the still room, but Brendon doesn't flinch, and he doesn't smell like anything but cigarettes and tequila, maybe tequila and vodka. He doesn't smell like anyone but himself, sweaty and oblivious as he dips his fingers below the elastic of Shane's boxers. Shane drags his hands down Brendon's back, hard, pushing down with the pads of each finger into the muscles, and Brendon moans, rolling his shoulders out and arching up.
Usually it's Brendon offering a massage, kneading out the knots from where Shane's had a camera on his shoulder all day. The heaviest lifting Brendon's done all night is a couple of drinks, and Shane feels the growl in his throat before it's actually voiced, low and angry, making Brendon lift his face from Shane's neck in mild confusion.
It's so fucked up, this is so fucked up, that Shane still wants to fuck Brendon when he should at least be playing out some tired jealous act. But he does still want Brendon, wants to stay here in their bed in their house and act like nothing's changed, like this can go on forever as long as they never say out loud what's wrong.
"What's wrong," Brendon slurs, thumbs stroking down each side of Shane's face, and Shane is so fucking angry that he's figured his shit out, he's done his goddamned best to make sense of a confusing few months of his life, and not by running around and fucking anyone who will make him feel better about it. He just wants to feel better about it, to feel good, to get what no one gets from Brendon, to have all of him, home and family and music and sex, all of it. Shane pulls him down and bites at his lip, bites harder when Brendon grins into the pain, and shoves Brendon's shoulders hard, pushing him down Shane's chest until he gets it and tugs Shane's boxers down enough to get his mouth around Shane's cock.
Shane doesn't want to make it easy for him, doesn't want to make it nice. He jerks his hips hard when he should let them roll nice and easy and expected, tightens his hands in Brendon's hair when he should smooth it down, doesn't give any warning because if after all these months Brendon can't figure out when Shane's about to come he's only got himself to blame. He lets the undertow pull him down, after, instead of fighting back up to get Brendon off. Brendon is perfectly capable of getting himself off.
When Shane wakes up again there's a crust of dried come on Brendon's stomach and though Shane's not quiet or careful getting up, he doesn't stir. Shane showers, makes a frozen waffle and a pot of coffee and doesn't bother sitting down to consume them. It's noon but he's not up for waiting around until Brendon drags his ass out of bed, so he pours Brendon's share of the coffee into a travel mug and gets in the car. He drives halfway to his folks' house, then veers off to do donuts in his empty high school parking lot. He cruises around the golf course, thinking about townhouses versus high rises. The Metropolis seems like a decent place to live if he wants to get a condo. He can probably afford a down payment, especially if the behind the scenes deal goes through.
Assuming, he realizes, idling at a stop sign, that he still has a job after he tells Brendon he meant it, that he doesn't want to do this, not like this. He'll definitely be needing a new place to live. And some new friends, because he's not going to fool himself into thinking the band is gonna want to hang out and shoot the shit after everything goes down. A car honks from behind and he pulls forward a few feet and then to the side of the road, staring out at a tiny park where three kids are fighting over the two swings. He's really fucked up his life.
His phone buzzes. help can't pick couch bluegreenredpink?.
Brendon's been bitching about their couch for months now, swearing he was going to find something less ugly, proclaiming his independence of any and all overpriced decorators favored by his tasteless bandmates. Shane types, not pink but deletes it. What the fuck does he care if Brendon buys an even uglier couch for a house Shane shouldn't be living in?
please please come meet me can't do this without you too many choices too many pillows!!!
Shane puts the car back in gear. They'd gone to Robb & Stucky before Brendon went up to the cabin. If Brendon is there when Shane gets to the store, he'll pick out a fucking couch with him. And then they can go home and have an actual fucking conversation on it.
++
Brendon is holding court from an overstuffed chair at the head of a living room set-up, two blonde clerks giggling as he gestures expansively and describes the couch of his dreams. Shane stands a few feet behind him, watching, until a young guy with a pink tie and an overly gelled faux-hawk comes up. "You together?" he asks, polite and knowing all at once, and if Shane was the one in this unspoken relationship with the issues he'd deck the guy just for assuming that much. Brendon turns around, says Shane's name with bright enthusiasm, and then hauls him around the showroom to see his top three favorite choices, babbling some language of color options and fabrics that Shane doesn't pretend to process.
He's not deliberately shooting down all Brendon's picks, he's just hard pressed to appreciate anything Brendon suggests. "I thought you liked the brown leather," Brendon pouts, and Shane snaps, "Get whatever couch you want, it's your fucking house."
Brendon stares at his feet, bites a knuckle and darts a look around them. They're alone in a corner of the showroom. "You're there more than I am," Brendon says. "I just, we should get something we both like, right?"
"I don't --" Shane starts, but no, he's not going to fucking break up with Brendon in the middle of a goddamned store, he's not, whatever it is it deserves more, deserves worse maybe but definitely not like this. "I'll meet you at home," he says, trying to sound steady and calm though the last word comes out choked and wet.
++
Everything looks just like it did when he left that afternoon, except his plate is in the dishwasher and the bed has been made. He takes Dylan out around the block, walking slower and slower as they approach the house, letting her stay and sniff the grass and trees as long as she wants. Brendon's car is in the driveway and the porch light has been turned on. Finally he scoops Dylan up in his arms and walks up the steps, setting her down again once they're inside. It's quiet inside and he calls, "hey," as she scampers off to her bowl.
He finds Brendon sitting at the end of his bed, in his own bedroom. His hands are folded on his lap and he looks all of fifteen, fifteen and busted and contrite and still confused about what he should be apologizing for. He stares up, fidgety and unsure, at where Shane's stopped in the doorway. This is the part Shane would have worried about if he'd been thinking things through, if he'd ever made himself picture what the end could look like.
Shane sighs and crosses his arms. "Do you even get why I'm pissed?" he asks.
"Is it about the checks? Because I'll go cash them tomorrow, all of them at once, if that's what you want." Shane doesn't speak. "Is it -- why did you leave the club last night? Is that why?"
"Did you fuck one of those girls?" Shane asks, and immediately wishes he hadn't, because Brendon looks baffled.
"Last night?" he asks, and then says, "No." He tilts his head a bit and then adds, "I let her blow me in the bathroom, but I didn't --"
"Jesus, Brendon, listen to yourself." Shane kicks his heel back against the door and it makes a hollow, splintering noise.
"You never said --" Brendon stands up. "It's, I -- never with other guys, if that's what you think."
"Just with girls," Shane says, and rolls his eyes because that's still safer than throwing a punch. "Brendon, we fucking live together."
"Yeah, it's awesome," Brendon says, way too reasonably, and waves his hand in some loose sign language Shane doesn't want to translate. "But it's not like we're --"
Shane knocks his head back against the molding. "We're gay," he says, and opens his eyes again. Brendon's mouth is wide. Shane knows they don't talk about it, that probably the worst thing he can do is push Brendon on this in particular. But he can't stop now. "This, what we're doing," he says, "it's gay. We live together and we fuck each other and then we fall asleep in the same fucking bed and then we get up and do it all again and everyone -- everyone knows, Brendon, they all already know. Your band, Ian, my family, your family --"
"They don't know anything about this --"
"They know," Shane says again. "They know there's more going on than we're saying. But fine, whatever, I shouldn't care if you fuck around as long as it's not with other guys, and you're not gay because you still fuck girls, right?"
"I'm not gay," Brendon says, small and weak. Brendon is the worst liar Shane's ever met and right now he's not even trying.
"That's pretty fucked up," Shane says. "Regan dumped me and my dad gave me this whole fucking speech about how artists have to imagine their lives in ways they'd never expected and -- and Kara told me she's glad you're so happy now, Brendon. But you just do whatever the fuck feels good, okay, whatever works for you. I've never done any of this before either but it doesn't seem that fucking hard to figure out it could work if we wanted it to. If we both wanted it to."
Brendon's shoulders are shaking but he's not making any noise, not actually crying. "I don't even know what this is," he says in one tight exhalation.
"You know what it is," Shane says, and Brendon shakes his head again, a tiny little movement Shane wishes he hadn't seen. "You fucking know what it is, Brendon."
"No," Brendon says, and takes a deep breath. Shane waits. He waits for the rest but there isn't any more, apparently.
"Then you better figure out what you want it to be," he says.
++
In the movies, this is the scene where the wife takes a suitcase and the kids and goes to her mother's house, and if the husband has been a big enough dick maybe her dad will call and yell or even go over and rough him up a little. But Shane's not the wife, it's a good thing they don't have any actual kids, and like hell is he about to call his mom.
He takes a gym bag and the dog and goes to Spencer's.
Spencer's and Haley's, he remembers, when she opens the door. "Uh," he says, and then Spencer calls out, "Who is it, honey?"
"It's Shane," she says, and Spencer comes out of the kitchen with an apron around his waist and a smear of something red across one eyebrow.
He looks from Shane to the dog to the duffel. "Fuck," he says, "come in."
They sit at the kitchen table and Spencer puts down a beer without asking. Shane stares at the bottle.
"Something stronger?" Spencer offers.
Haley says, "I was just about to roll a joint." Shane blinks hard and looks at her again. "Really," she says. "Like I could live with this guy and not be a total pothead too."
"Not a total pothead," Spencer argues, running a hand through her hair. "Besides, she doesn't really drink at all."
Shane takes a long pull of the beer. He's thirsty even if he's in no mood to get drunk, and Spencer obviously told Haley everything. "I thought you hated me," he says.
Haley says, "No, no," right away, but then stares at the table for a while, fidgeting. Finally she looks up and says, "I thought you were using him."
"Oh," Shane says.
Spencer's phone bursts into an awful, annoying ring, like an alarm clock. Shane can see Brendon's name lit up on the display and when Spencer raises his eyebrow, Shane shrugs. "It's fine."
Brendon's squawking is loud, and when it pauses, Spencer says, "Yeah, he's here."
Haley puts her hand on Shane's arm, rubbing her thumb over the sleeve where it folds in to button at the wrist.
"He is not stealing your band, Brendon," Spencer says, and rolls his eyes. "Or your dog."
Shane can make out stray words in Brendon's tirade, Dylan's name and "my fucking friends" and then Spencer shoves back his chair and stands up.
"I don't know," he yells, "why in the world could your boyfriend possibly be at my house looking like he wants to die?"
Squawk. Scream. Dylan and Spencer's dogs yap at each other and run around the couch.
Shane would go shut himself in the bathroom or something equally dramatic but he's not sure what the point is anyway. Spencer truly angry is something Shane had thought he'd witnessed up in the mountains but that frustration has nothing on how legitimately furious he seems now.
"No," Spencer says, icy and mean. "You listen to me. You two are totally together and you're trying to act like you're not and it's completely ridiculous. And if you can't get your shit together and end up getting, fuck, like gay divorced, you're only going to see that dog every other week and -- no, fuck you, Brendon, that might be about as often as I want to see you too."
Shane looks down and he and Haley are holding hands. He drinks the rest of his beer. This has been, hands down, the most unbelievable day of his life.
"Yeah, go talk to Ryan, I'm sure that'll --" Spencer sighs and drops the phone on the table.
"Wow," Shane says eventually, because, wow. "I don't think he's ever hung up on me."
"He's never --" Spencer sits back down with a sigh. "You know he's never really had a serious -- a relationship, really, not at all."
"You guys have a serious relationship," Shane says. "All of you guys."
"He's hung up on me a lot," Spencer says. "And you know it's different."
"It's not that different," Haley says. "He left home, right? He thought he had to give up on his family to have the band. And they let him."
Spencer reaches over and takes her other hand. Shane doesn't know anything about them, not really, about how Haley left home and who let her go.
"They let him leave," she says, "and even though they let him come back or whatever, he knows, he must know they'd let him leave again before they, like, dealt with actual reality."
"Oh," Shane says.
Haley leans in and kisses his cheek. "The sheets on the spare bed are clean, right?" she asks Spencer and he nods.
Shane stands up. "Maybe I should --" but Spencer shakes his head.
"Ryan's just going to smoke Brendon out with his extra-special-occasion weed and give him the all you need is love speech."
"The -- really?"
"It has a perfect success rate," Haley says, and Spencer laughs, loose and light.
"Stay," Spencer says. "I'll finish making dinner and Haley can tell you the whole story. You can go home tomorrow."
++
Ryan calls mid-afternoon. "He just left," Spencer says. Shane cracks the window in the car so Dylan can poke her nose out on the drive home. He parks next to Brendon and drops his bag on the couch.
Brendon is lying on their bed. He's curled up on his side, eyes open, and he blinks slowly when Shane comes in, like maybe he doesn't believe it.
"Hey," Shane says, and swallows past the tightness in his throat. He perches on the edge of the bed, resting his weight on one arm. Brendon reaches out and puts his hand over Shane's briefly before slowly rolling onto his back and sitting up.
"I didn't really think you'd come back," Brendon says, and he sounds so openly relieved Shane swears he can feel his heart thud in his chest.
"I hear all you need is love." He smiles because it's easy to say, easier than he'd thought, and because it makes Brendon laugh, melodic.
"My band likes you better."
"No," Shane says. "They know you better." And they let Shane in anyway, gave him a map and the keys and their blessing. He's still not sure what he did to deserve that.
"It's not about them," Brendon says.
Shane says, "I know," though he's not sure what it is about, exactly, now that they're actually talking about it.
"I didn't want to prove them all right," Brendon says, and it's suddenly angrier, more determined. "All the rest of them. You know -- you know what everyone thinks already. What they all say about me, about all of us. And it's not -- it's not that easy, or whatever. It's not that simple. But they'll think they're right anyway. They'll think they've been right all along, that I've been hiding something, or sitting around hating myself." He looks up at Shane, and his voice is wounded when he continues. "I don't, you know."
"I don't think you hate yourself," Shane says.
That's not it at all. Brendon's never guarded in that way, never takes anything back or punishes himself or anyone around him for what he's wanted and gotten.
"I think maybe you want too much for everyone to like you, though," Shane says.
Brendon scrunches his face up. "Who doesn't?"
"Who gives a fuck if they do?"
"I do, apparently. According to you."
Shane hates arguing, especially like this, around and around about shit that's never going to change, that's just who they are to start off with. He pulls his legs up on the bed, crossing them and leaning back against the headboard. "I like you," he says.
After a long while, Brendon says, "Yeah?" His voice is so soft Shane has to lean in to hear it. "Still?" he asks.
"Yeah, still," Shane says. "And, like, way too fucking much to act like I don't. I don't even know how to do that."
Brendon whispers, "You like me," and Shane has to kiss him.
"Yeah," Shane says when they pull back, and he puts an arm around Brendon, pulling him closer. They sit like that for a while. The house is only noisy in its normal ways, Dylan running around, a weed whacker next door, the kids down the street shrieking and laughing.
"So everyone knows," Brendon breathes out, and seems to lose an inch, shoulders hunched down. He pulls his knees up to his chin.
"I think they've figured it out, yeah."
"And I'm supposed to believe nobody cares."
"I didn't say that." Shane walks his fingers along Brendon's arm. "But I don't think anyone's upset, no."
"So what difference does it make, anyway, if everyone knows."
"Because," Shane says. "When you act like you don't, it makes me look like an idiot."
"You're not an idiot."
"And neither are you. But we both feel pretty fucking stupid right now, don't we?"
Brendon huffs out something that sounds reluctant agreement.
"You don't have to tell people, not for me," Shane clarifies, and Brendon looks up in surprise. "Really, I don't even give a shit if you tell your parents. You don't owe them or anyone else an explanation. I don't really want to tell my parents, and you know they probably wouldn't even blink. And look, if you want to -- if you want to bring home girls, or --"
"I don't, that's --"
"It's okay if you do," Shane says. "I mean, I don't know, it sounds okay."
"Just okay," Brendon smirks, and Shane elbows him in the ribs.
"I don't know what we're doing either, okay."
"I know," Brendon says.
"But I don't care about all that, about other -- if you'll just admit it's, that we're --"
"We're together," Brendon says.
Shane exhales. His stomach bottoms out. "Yeah," he says. He feels exhausted and exhilarated and terrified and happy. Just like Brendon looks.
Brendon rearranges them so they're lying down, his cheek on Shane's chest. "Let's stay home tonight," he says, and Shane says okay.
END.
CREDITS: Hey, you know what sounds like a great idea? A fic with an epic amount of Brendon having sex with someone who's not in his band. Oh, in ShanePOV! People will love that. This was half an idea for one scene until R got hold of it and badgered me every day for what came next. Thanks to JB, J, N, Jae, rossetti and sloganeer for helping make that mess into a story. And to disarm_d, who finished first and always makes me look at Brendon from a different angle.
ETA: And some additional self-indulgent notes about creation myth "canon" and this story can be found here.
ETA2: And another story with this same Brendon and Spencer (and Shane, a little), set far in the future, can be found here.