Beach Music 5B/12 Brendon/Gerard NC-17
Title: Beach Music 5B/12
Author: cloudlessclimes
Rated: NC-17
Pairing:Brendon Urie/Gerard Way
Disclaimer: This is purely a product of my diseased mind and has no bearing on reality what so ever, I own no one, I know no one.
Summary: Brendon Urie is and has always been a girl. She meets Gerard Way. Things happen.
Feedback: Is a wonderful thing.
Notes/Warnings/FYI type things: HET!!, what can be perceived as uninformed consent, underage drinking, drug use, romance, fluff, Tom Conrad, Jon Walker, Mikey Way, and Brian Schechter are not the nicest people ever, AU, liberal abuse of canon; this fic contains all of these things. If they're not your things, don't read.
Title comes from a song of the same name by long defunct semi-obscure Canadian band The Watchmen. The odd and somewhat nonsensical lyrics can be found here
Thanks to the awesome queen_geek, tweedle_, fallingfortruth and lordgroovius and spleenjournal for beta-ing, listening to me kvetch, holding my hand, and providing paperbags to breathe into, both virtual and actual.
1 2A 2B 3A 3B 4 5A 6A
Gerard has been at McCarran for almost two hours, consumed three venti coffees and--with frequent trips to just outside the door of Arrivals--smoked almost an entire pack of cigarettes. It’s 3:15 in the morning and he’s staring holes into the cheerful yellow letters announcing Brendon’s flight as On Time. The airport is all but deserted, and only a handful of bleary-eyed travelers have walked down the ramp. None of them are Brendon. Gerard glances at the sliding doors once more, alternating between willing her to appear and debating whether he has time for one more cigarette before she actually does appear.
Soft pack clutched in his fist, Gerard is just about to turn to the exit when the point of a familiar red hood catches his eye. “Brendon!” He calls, trotting over to where she’s doing her own sleepy shuffle towards the exit.
Head snapping up, and eyes going owlishly wide behind her glasses, Brendon comes to an almost comical stop mid-step as her brain connects the voice calling her name with the man standing in front of her. “Gerard? What…how?”
Gerard shrugs and shoves his hands deep into the front pockets of his jeans, “I talked to Ryan. He told me when you’d be here.”
“Oh,” her voice is low and scratchy, and she looks like the oversized hoodie she’s wearing is attempting to swallow her whole. Brendon’s shoulders are slumped in exhaustion as Gerard reaches over and plucks her carry on bag from her arm and slips it over his own.
“Jesus! Your little face!” Brendon jolts away from Gerard’s hand as it comes towards her. Stopping just short of touching the mottled, deep blue and purple around Brendon’s right eye, Gerard instead grips the jut of her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting her face up. Deep lines of concern wrinkle Gerard’s brow as he takes in the bruising and the cuts, still crusted with dried blood, at the rise of her cheek bone and through her eyebrow. Behind the lens of her glasses, the white of Brendon’s eye is speckled with bloodshot lines. He crushes her to him in a fierce hug and mumbles, “I freaked the fuck out when I heard what happened to you,” into the side of her head.
Resting against the rough denim of Gerard’s jacket, Brendon tries to laugh and says, “Good thing it was my head,” while raising a hand to rap her knuckles just above her temple, “and, not, you know, somewhere that would do any damage.” Brendon steps out of the hug and bites at her lip, “I, uh, I’m at the Park and Fly. It’s been…a spectacularly shitty week, and I just really wanna sleep.”
“Yeah, sure, yeah.” Gerard runs the pad of his thumb softly across the skin of Brendon’s uninjured cheek. “I’ll drive you, if you want. I mean, is that okay?” His voice is soft, and his movements are slow and gentle.
Shrugging, Brendon reaches into her bag and pulls out her car keys, handing them to Gerard. He smiles at her, and his hand finds its way to the small of her back, palm flat and protective as he steers them towards long term parking. “You’ll just have to tell me when to turn, and shit. D’you have any checked bags to get?”
“Uhn uh. I just wanna go home.”
They ride in a silence only occasionally punctuated by Brendon’s turn left here, or merge after the next stop light. Brendon’s sitting with her feet perched on the edge of the passenger seat, arms circling her folded legs, chin resting on the crest of her knees. Wanting very badly to touch her, but purposely keeping his hands at ten and two on the steering wheel, Gerard darts glances at her in the dim highway lighting and her blinks are getting slower and her breathing is getting softer. “Almost there?” He says, for lack of anything else.
“Uh-huh.”
Gerard recognizes Brendon's condo complex when they round a corner, and he flips down the visor, reassured to find the remote there, and clicks it to open the gate.
“My parking spot’s the second from the end,” Brendon supplies sleepily. From there Gerard follows her across the parking lot and into her place. She winces when the bright overhead light floods the entryway.
Setting her bag down, Gerard takes Brendon's hand, “C’mon you. Bed.” As they walk towards Brendon’s bedroom, Gerard notices some changes since the last time he was there. The living and dining rooms have been painted a sunny yellow, and the prints formerly leaning against the wall have been hung, but the cheap plastic blinds still crookedly cover the windows. “Do you need PJs or anything out of your bag?” Gerard hooks a thumb towards the hallway.
Brendon shakes her head. Kicking off her runners, she easily steps out of her yoga pants and unzips her sweatshirt. Leaving the discarded clothes in a messy pile on the rug, she sits down on the mattress. “Screw brushing my teeth and washing my face-that shit hurts like fuck anyway-m’goin’ to sleep.” She unhooks her bra from beneath her t-shirt and flings it aside, and then carefully takes her glasses off, setting them onto the night stand. Clad in a thin t-shirt and her briefs, Brendon untangles the duvet from the end of the bed and burrows under it.
Stepping forward to smooth the covers down and run his hand across the top of her head, Gerard whispers, “G’night, Bee,” and turns towards the door.
“Gerard?” He turns around to see Brendon sitting up, her arms held out to him.
He pauses in the doorway, hand over the light switch, to study her carefully. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” her voice is soft and a little wobbly.
“Yeah.” Flicking the lights off, Gerard nods his head and takes the few steps towards the mattress. He sits down, unlaces his boots, and shoves his jeans down his legs. Brendon is holding the duvet up for him, and he takes off his jacket and crawls underneath, his arms coming around her. Brendon snuggles into him, and, canting one leg across Gerard’s hip, falls asleep.
Gerard wakes in a room the color of raspberry sherbet and flooded with sunlight. Rubbing his hands across his face and through his hair, he shakes off the last dregs of a restless sleep and, finding Brendon gone from the bed, sets off to find her. Upon exiting the bedroom he walks into a plastic bucket. The sudsy water slops over the edge and onto his foot. He yelps a little in surprise, and Brendon sticks her head out from the kitchen.
“Sorry,” she frowns. “I just hate getting home and everything’s all dusty and yucky.” She takes the bucket from Gerard, who had bent to pick it up, preventing himself from walking into it.
“S’okay.” Gerard’s smile is sleepy and unsure. He looks at Brendon, head tilted to one side. She’s wearing a red bandana on her head, kerchief style, an old faded Cowboy Junkies t-shirt, and a long shapeless black skirt, her bare toes-nails painted a cheerful coral-peeking out from beneath. When Brendon turns to walk back into the kitchen, Gerard follows. “Guess now my lazy ass is up you can clean the bedroom too?”
Her smile soft, Brendon says, “Yeah, but after lunch.” She sets the bucket and a pair of yellow rubber gloves into the sink and turns towards the stove. “I haven’t really been to the supermarket for a while, so it’s just soup.” She points towards the saucepan on the range top. “And maybe some grilled cheese, if there’s bread in the freezer.” She turns slightly to check and pulls out a loaf of Wonderbread.
Padding over to stand beside Brendon, Gerard scratches his thigh just at the hem of his boxer shorts. “Bren,” he says softly, his hand coming up to play with the short stands of hair at the nape of her neck, tugging at the scarf’s knot, before softly cupping the base of her skull. “Brian crossed some kind of line with you, but …”
Shrugging away from the contact, and turning her attention to heating up a frying pan, Brendon closes her eyes briefly, and sighs before saying, “Can we just eat first? Please?”
“Sure. Sure.” Gerard raises his hands, palms out in acquiescence and retreats from the tiny kitchen into the condo’s living room. Sitting on the arm of an overstuffed chair, he watches Brendon in silence. Her eye is still deeply bruised and sore-looking, and she’s moving stiffly--carefully--like she can feel him watching her. She stirs the soup and assembles the sandwiches to put them in the frying pan. The silence stretches on and Gerard, baffled by Brendon’s resolutely stubborn behavior, turns to wander around the condo. He eyes the Wii, and Xbox, and Gamecube, but thinks it would be sort of rude to just fire them up without asking. He’s determined to dance on the outskirts of whatever it is that Brendon’s brooding about for the moment, letting her take the lead. So he just keeps wandering, taking in the new paint and the things hanging on the wall.
He stops in front of a series of five photos, hung in a row. They’re sepia toned shots of a woman’s body, arms, legs, curves, and there’s something sad about them: A collection of limbs and angles. Gerard jumps when Brendon says, “For all Thomas was a shitty boyfriend, he’s a fucking amazing photographer.”
“Tom Conrad took these? Of you?”
“Yeah,” Standing at Gerard’s side, looking at the photos and wondering what he sees with his artist’s eyes, Brendon continues, “It’s probably horribly egotistical to have artsy nudie shots of myself up on my wall, but I figure when I’m eighty I can look back and remember what a banging babe I was.” She snorts out a little laugh and touches his elbow, “C’mon, soup’s on!”
The meal is awkward, and the conversation stilted as they both avoid any hint of discussing what happened in L.A. Gerard fills the pauses with chatter about the tour and the bands on the bill, and Brendon nods and gives him plastic half smiles in between spoonfuls of tomato soup and tearing at the gooey mess of her cheese sandwich without actually eating any of it. His plate and bowl empty, Gerard sits back and stares at Brendon.
Pushing her glasses back up her nose, she asks, “All done, then?” as she leans over to pile his dishes with hers. Gerard actually sits on his hands to prevent himself from reaching out, touching Brendon as he so very badly needs to when it’s clear it’s the last thing she wants.
Gerard follows her to the sink and says, as carefully as his confusion will allow, “I don’t know exactly what he said to you, Brendon. I only know that I’m sorry I wasn’t there to hear it, to protect you. I have no fucking clue what’s going on, and I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know why the hell you left.”
Her spine stiffens as she sets the cleaning bucket aside and squeezes dish soap into the water filling the sink. “I don’t want to talk about this.” Her tone is petulant and she’s blinking quickly, avoiding Gerard’s gaze.
“Look-I get that. I really fucking get that. You haven’t told me what’s going on. No one will fucking tell me what’s going on! But we need to talk about it, Bee. Would you stop fucking running away and just talk to me?” Maybe more firmly than he means to, Gerard yanks on Brendon’s arm, turning her to face him.
Her lashes sweep low, hiding her expression and she chews on her bottom lip. “It doesn’t matter, okay?”
“Jesus, Brendon!” He shakes her a little, and her head snaps up to meet his baffled hazel eyes. “I have never treated you like a child. But you are acting like a fucking five year old, and I would appreciate it very fucking much if you would knock it the fuck off and talk to me!”
Anger and a wary sadness flash across Brendon’s face--incapable as she is of hiding anything she’s thinking or feeling. “I’m sorry you think I’m behaving like a child!” She says each word precisely, carefully. “I’m trying to be the adult here. I’m trying to back away…” Her voice slips and wobbles, but she continues. “I have made so many mistakes,” She presses herself to the counter top, desperate to put any space she can between herself and Gerard. “I mean, I tried. I tried to make Tom stop and I couldn’t. But you, you’re so fucking amazing, Gerard. And you don’t even know it. And I would never, ever do anything to make you…” She pauses for breath, her chest rising and falling in an unsteady rhythm beneath the thin layer of her t-shirt. Gerard doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move from his hold on her arms, just waits for her to continue. “Your friends, your family, they know you. Know you best. They know what’s best. And I sure fucking don’t.”
“Brendon?” Gerard shakes his head slowly, trying to parse meaning from the tumble of her words.
“When they tell me I’m endangering your recovery; I just, I need to accept that. I need to respect that. I would never do anything to hurt you. I don’t want to be,” Brendon’s voice breaks again and she bites her lip, “I don’t want to be an embarrassment.” She finishes, and her thick lashes are damp with the tears she’s managed to blink away.
Gerard's mouth drops open in shocked surprise before his hands cup her cheeks. “Shit, honey. He said that? Brian said that to you?”
Taking a shuddering breath, Brendon finally meets Gerard’s expression full on, her own eyes wide and sorrowful brown behind her glasses. “You didn’t tell Brian to talk to me? To say that?”
“Brendon, I didn’t know! I had no fucking idea he would ever think it’s okay to talk to you like that!”
Wincing, Brendon shoves her way free from between Gerard and the cabinets and, ducking her head, walks quickly out of the kitchen, rubbing at her arms.
Gerard easily catches up to her, and wrapping his arms around her waist, pulls her back against him. “Fuck, Bren. I know I talk a lot of shit, about a lot of things. But not about this. Never to you.”
“Lemme go!” her voice is small and reedy with the effort it takes not to cry. She struggles against him, her hands over Gerard’s trying to pry them away.
“No.” He husks the words into the sensitive shell of her ear, hauling her closer still. Their bodies are pressed together, knees to shoulders, back to front and Brendon’s struggling rubs friction across the thin cotton of Gerard’s boxer shorts. “I’m not going to let you run away again. I’m not. It was a mistake. I’m so sorry, Brendon. So fucking sorry.” Brendon’s frantic movement rucks up her t-shirt, and Gerard’s fingers come into contact with the warm, smooth skin of her belly.
Brendon clutches at his hands, and shaking so hard Gerard can feel it all the way up his arms, she mumbles, “Please. Please.” Her eyes squeezed tight shut, Brendon manages to make small, almost pained noises, her fingers gripping Gerard’s, white knuckle tight. She’s still struggling, but she’s not sure if she’s trying to get away or get closer. The feel of Gerard around Brendon is enough for desire to overcome her doubts, and unfurl inside her, searching. She swallows and groans again, one arm coming up to reach behind her, tangling her hand into the thicket of Gerard’s hair. Everything fades except the feeling of his hands, and his breath on her skin.
Gerard’s long fingers are splayed flat around the flare of her hips, slowly teasing their way low beneath the waistband of her skirt. His breath fans out, warm and humid along the skin of Brendon’s neck, and his lips brush against her temple. “No,” he repeats, his voice a buzz of sensation against fragile skin. “Not gonna let you go. I can’t.” His breath catches when his fingers find their way to even softer, smoother skin between Brendon’s legs. “Just wanna make you feel good, Bren.”
Gerard huffs, working his fingers into the slickness of her. When Brendon nods and pushes his hand harder between her thighs, Gerard knees her legs wider, trapped as they are in the confines of her skirt. “Feel good?” His other hand moves up across her torso to cup the weight of one breast, fingernail flicking over the nub of her nipple, and he bites at the tendon-raised and straining-along her bowed neck. All the while his hand continues stroking and pressing a determined rhythm.
“So good. Guh, gonna come,” Brendon stutters in a whisper as her fingers clutch at Gerard’s hand and her hips shift, dragging her ass across Gerard’s erection.
“Okay, it’s okay,” Gerard pinches harder at her nipple and his index finger continues its slow drag in and out of her, thumb wringing sensation from Brendon as it flicks at her clit. “God, Bren, you feel so fucking good.” He feels the wobble in her thighs, the tightening of her around his hand, and the shuddering oh oh oh of her orgasm before she sags her full weight back against him.
“Please let this be real,” Brendon turns her head and nuzzles into Gerard’s shoulder with her cheek, glasses askew.
Frowning, he turns Brendon in his arms until she's facing him. Gerard tilts her chin up, fingers tracing gentle patterns beneath the scratch on her cheek. “What?”
Brendon blinks, drowsy, and says “I just, I want this to be real. Not just, not just for now.” She bites her lip and slips her arms around Gerard’s neck, burrowing her face into his t-shirt.
Circling her small waist with one arm, Gerard leans into Brendon’s hug and runs the cupped palm of his free hand over the back of her head. “It is.”
Not moving to look at Gerard, Brendon sighs and says softly, almost wistfully, “It’s fine when it’s just us. When it’s just you and me, we work. But when everyone else is around it just gets…shitty. And that sucks and I just…”
“Hey, Queen Bee.” Stroking both hands across the apples of Brendon’s cheeks he forces her to look at him, “It’s always gonna be us, okay? I mean, I can’t fucking control what the rest of the world thinks or says, but I will always tell you what I think, or if there’s something I think needs to be said. If Brian or Mikey or Spencer or Jon don’t like that, fuck ‘em. It’s none of their business, anyway. And I remember someone telling me not to worry about shit that’s not my fault.” He smiles then, and kisses Brendon’s forehead.
Her huffed out breath traces across Gerard’s chin, and she puts her lips to his. “No more talking. Please.” Brendon kisses him, shaky but fierce--determined. She clutches at his hips, fingers twisting in his t-shirt and dragging him towards the couch. She pushes him down and then crawls into his lap, slanting her tongue to search greedily inside Gerard’s mouth. She hikes her skirt up around her waist and fumbles her hands inside Gerard’s boxers.
“Bren,” he says, hands tangling with hers, slowing their desperate movements.
“Shhhh,” Brendon’s hand comes up, underwater slow; trailing up Gerard’s shirt, his neck, her fingers resting lightly on his lips. “No more talking,” she murmurs, and there’s something soft and unreadable in the darkness of her eyes. Gerard swallows heavily, closing his eyes at the nearness of her, and mouths soft kisses at her fingertips. Not moving from Gerard’s lap, Brendon presses wet, open mouth kisses to his neck, pinching the skin between her teeth before she leans over to open an end table drawer. A fleeting, guilty smirk crosses her face as she fumbles with a box of condoms, taking one out and handing it to Gerard.
While Gerard is busy unwrapping the condom, Brendon continues to trail kisses across his throat. She can feel his erection against the inside of her thighs, knows he’s been hard since they started to argue in the kitchen, maybe even before that. Taking the latex sheath from Gerard, she cups him inside his underwear, fingers strong and sure against his rigid length. Gerard huffs out a grunt and cants his hips as Brendon slips the condom onto him and then shifts her weight to her knees, pivoting down.
She’s shaking a little, and she rests her forehead against the slope of Gerard’s shoulder before she begins to rock up and down from her knees, taking Gerard deeper inside of her. Gerard palms at the smoothness of her hip and ass, doing his best to not thrust, letting Brendon set the pace and take what she needs. His breath escapes in tiny grunts as Brendon kisses him and squeezes at his shoulders while she fucks herself harder and harder into Gerard’s lap, with a bouncing slap of her skin to his. After less than a dozen uneven strokes, Gerard groan and his head falls back to the sofa, mouth open as he comes.
They’re both panting and quiet, fingers and lips slowly tracing over any exposed skin to calm and soothe. Brendon sits back on Gerard’s knees and makes a low sound of displeasure as he awkwardly slips from her. Her fingers are gentle as she peels the condom off and shoves it into the wrapper on the table. Kissing him soft and lacking in any kind of challenge, Brendon straightens Gerard’s shorts and her own skirt, then cuddles closer, sighing contentedly.
Gerard runs his hand up and down Brendon’s back, beneath her t-shirt and along the dip and sway of her spine where she’s curled into his lap, her nose pressed into his neck. She’s so quiet, and her breathing is so slow and even, Gerard thinks she’s asleep, but then Brendon says, “So I guess now would be a good time to talk about the thousand pound purple gorilla."
Inhaling a steadying breath, Gerard blinks and says, “Huh? Barney?” into the warm cotton of the kerchief covering her hair.
“Barney’s a dinosaur, Gerard.” He feels her smile against his skin. “I mean my drinking.” Brendon doesn’t move, except to lean into Gerard’s slow petting. “Is it…is it a problem? For you?”
Sitting up a little straighter, Gerard extends a hand to push Brendon’s glasses back up the bridge of her nose, “Brendon, I don’t drink. I don’t ask anyone else to not drink.”
“That’s not what I asked.” He can see uncertainty flicker in her eyes when she raises her head.
“No. It’s not a problem, for me. And honestly? I don’t think you have a problem, despite what People fucking magazine or my overbearing manager might have to say on the subject. Was getting drunk the first thing you thought of this morning when you woke up?” His hands continue their unassuming, gentling motions over her skin, and his smile is a little bemused.
“No!” Brendon leans back from him, her brows meeting in a scowl over the frames of her glasses.
“Was it the last thing you thought of last night?”
“No! Jesus. Of course not.”
Gerard smacks a kiss to her cheek, “You don’t have a problem, Bee. And I’m sorry if I or anyone ever made you feel like you have to explain yourself, or justify your choices.”
“Okay,” Brendon looks at her lap, where she’s twisting her fingers together. “I just don’t want to make you feel bad or you know…”
Gerard’s swaying, rocking her and, leaning his forehead to hers, “Look, Brendon. If people around me drinking made me feel bad or tempted me, Ray or Frankie or Cortez, they’d all fucking give it up and be sober as judges. But they’re not. And fuckit I think temptation is part of the point. I have to live in the real world, not Happy Tea-totaller land, honey. Brian got sober the way he needed to. And he fucking thinks he found enlightenment in the desert or what the fuck ever, and feels responsible for everyone now.”
“Right. Okay,” Brendon chuckles under her breath. “Shit, this sucked.” She rubs at her eyes, forgetting about the bruising until she winces when her fingers make contact. Realizing what she’s said she jolts a little, “Oh not this!” She kisses the corner of Gerard’s mouth where he’s smiling indulgently at her. “But you know,” she flaps her hand around, “Relationshipy crap.”
“Yeah, I sorta suck at this relationshipy crap.” A small snort accompanies Gerard’s reply. “But it’s good, right? To talk about shit. We’re good, right?”
“Mmm, yeah. It’s all good.” Gerard rolls his eyes and bumps his forehead against Brendon’s temple when she replies. But her tone is light, a happy return to her usual demeanor. “I guess you have to, you know, go back, to the tour?” Her fingers trace feather light over Gerard’s bicep.
“Fuck, yeah. St. Louis. I gotta jet back for tonight.” He kisses Brendon, a simple touch of his lips to hers.
“Shitty.” She hugs him tight. “I missed you. A lot. And I’m sorry I went into bitchy five year old mode. I sort of suck at the whole communication thing, too.”
His grin widening at the sensation of her warm and relaxed in his arms, Gerard says, “You could come with me, you know.”
Brendon tilts her head to study his face. “On tour?”
“Yeah.”
Shaking her head slowly, and distractedly fidgeting with the bandanna on her head, Brendon says, “Um, I think that could be a really bad idea. I’m not really down with being all Oh hey! You guys hate me but I’m coming on tour with you!”
“No one hates you, Queen Bee. And listen, I’ll talk to Brian, he needs to know that shit is just not on. I can’t believe how fucking out of line he was. Seriously, nobody hates you.” He wants her to say yes. He wants her to say yes so very badly, he might beg. Lately, Brendon’s the last thing he thinks of at night and the first thing he thinks of in the morning.
She shrugs and stares at her fingers, pale against the black cotton of Gerard’s shirt. “Maybe not. But anyway, we have recording to do.”
Gerard bumps his head to hers, again, so they’re eye to eye. “You’re the one who told me the rest of your band was gonna go have girlfriend time when you got back from Europe.”
“Oh, yeah. But, I still have work to do. None of those slackers actually knows how to write music. And uh, well…” Her mouth twists into a crooked frown.
“And?” Gerard nudges Brendon, prompting her to continue.
Heaving an overly dramatic sigh Brendon concedes, “Okay, so like a tour? Is a long time to be stuck with me. What if you decide you don’t want to be around me?” She finishes in a small voice.
“I would be fucking ecstatic to be stuck with you. I want to know everything about you, Brendon. But I don’t want to pressure you. Hey! Next week end we’re doing some California shows, and then Vegas. What about that?”
Brendon smiles at the feeling of warmth that spreads through her blood at Gerard’s words. She sighs softly and says, “Maybe. Lemme think about it.” And, shifting in Gerard’s lap, she wrinkles her nose and says, “But now, I think I need a shower.” She gets to her feet and extends a hand down to Gerard, “Wanna join me?”
“Yeah. Yes. Sure.” Gerard breaks into his manic grin, and he takes her hand, content to be lead through the condo.
* * *
Shower fresh and humming under her breath, Brendon smacks a kiss to the top of Gerard’s head where he’s bent over to haul on his jeans. “So, when’s your flight? I can drive you.”
Gerard links his fingers with Brendon’s pulling her to him. He kisses her, hands trailing through the short strands of her damp hair, “Kinda sad I didn’t get to see more of those extension thingies. And, um, I don’t exactly have a flight booked.”
Giggling Brendon thwacks him good naturedly and says, “Well, see if you can find anything on the internet,” She gestures towards her laptop bag, “Or shit, we better go now to make sure we get you back safe and sound. Don’t want Brian to take me aside and give me a good talking to, now do we?”
“Brendon,” Gerard’s tone is fond and a little sad.
“I kid. I kid. Except for the airport shit. Seriously, we should go.”
“Yeah, okay. It’d be great if you could give me a lift.” Gerard finds his hoodie and his denim jacket and makes sure his keys and wallet didn’t fall out when he’d shucked his jeans the night before. He sits on the edge of the mattress, shoving on his shoes. Brendon is standing in front of her closet, clad in a towel, beads of water dripping from her hair, tracing the delicate curve of her neck. She worries at her lip a little before shrugging and picking up the t-shirt and skirt she’d thrown in a heap on the floor. She fishes a clean bra and underwear out of a laundry basket and shimmies into them, all the while completely aware of Gerard’s eyes on her.
Once the thin scraps of ice blue lace are in place, she looks up at him, and palms her breasts, winking. “I’d love to give you a lift.” She says it throaty and low, and the words are barely out of her mouth before a fit of snorts and giggles escapes.
“Dude, you are totally trying to kill me.” Gerard whines and comes over to her, replacing her hands with his own as his tongue traces the seam of her lips.
“Airport!” She smacks him on the arm and pushes away to don her clothes.
A quick scroll through the usual links and Gerard finds a flight, direct to St. Louis, figuring he can just buy the ticket at the counter. Brendon sits on the bed beside him and rests her chin on his shoulder as he closes the browser and runs a teasing hand along the leanly muscled length of her thigh, over top of her skirt.
Standing quickly, she gives him as stern a look as she can muster. “Airport!” Brendon says again, waggling her finger at him and heading towards the hallway.
“Right, right.” Gerard sighs, crossing the room to her. He holds open the door, waiting for Brendon to slip on a pair of rubber flip flops and grab her purse before he goes through the door behind her, slapping her ass and making her yelp and laugh.
Being mid-day, there is little traffic on the highway to the airport and once there Brendon easily finds a spot in Departures. The two of them walk hand in hand through the parking garage and into the terminal. Her arm is around his waist as Gerard books the tickets, and she smiles and shakes her head when the airline agent asks if she needs a ticket too.
There’s not much time before Gerard’s flight boards so Brendon walks him to security and kisses him. “I’ll talk to you soon,” she husks against his ear, reluctant to break the embrace.
“Yeah, I’ll call you tonight, after the gig. That okay?”
“That’s amazing,” she smiles and tilts her chin up. She watches as he heads towards the checkpoint and then, after biting her lip, calls out “Gerard?”
Pivoting, Gerard turns back to her, “Yeah Queen Bee?”
“Okay,” She exhales. “Okay, I’ll come. Next week end, I mean.” She shoves her index finger into her mouth, chewing on her cuticle.
A few loping steps bring Gerard back to her side, and he scoops Brendon up in an enthusiastic embrace. “Fuck. That’s so awesome. You’re so awesome.” And he kisses her with a head-swimming enthusiasm.
Brendon smiles and lifts one foot off the floor, laughing into the kiss when her flip flop falls to the ground. She pets his hair and kisses him back equally enthusiastically. And, because they’re in the middle of the Departures terminal and because she’s Brendon Urie and he’s Gerard Way, there are teenagers with cell phone cameras and the will to use them.
And that’s the photo that appears all over the internet less than 4 hours later; Gerard with his arms around Brendon’s waist, Brendon with her hands tangled in Gerard’s hair, the both of them kissing and grinning like fools.
Like in the movies.
Continue to 6A
Author: cloudlessclimes
Rated: NC-17
Pairing:Brendon Urie/Gerard Way
Disclaimer: This is purely a product of my diseased mind and has no bearing on reality what so ever, I own no one, I know no one.
Summary: Brendon Urie is and has always been a girl. She meets Gerard Way. Things happen.
Feedback: Is a wonderful thing.
Notes/Warnings/FYI type things: HET!!, what can be perceived as uninformed consent, underage drinking, drug use, romance, fluff, Tom Conrad, Jon Walker, Mikey Way, and Brian Schechter are not the nicest people ever, AU, liberal abuse of canon; this fic contains all of these things. If they're not your things, don't read.
Title comes from a song of the same name by long defunct semi-obscure Canadian band The Watchmen. The odd and somewhat nonsensical lyrics can be found here
Thanks to the awesome queen_geek, tweedle_, fallingfortruth and lordgroovius and spleenjournal for beta-ing, listening to me kvetch, holding my hand, and providing paperbags to breathe into, both virtual and actual.
1 2A 2B 3A 3B 4 5A 6A
Gerard has been at McCarran for almost two hours, consumed three venti coffees and--with frequent trips to just outside the door of Arrivals--smoked almost an entire pack of cigarettes. It’s 3:15 in the morning and he’s staring holes into the cheerful yellow letters announcing Brendon’s flight as On Time. The airport is all but deserted, and only a handful of bleary-eyed travelers have walked down the ramp. None of them are Brendon. Gerard glances at the sliding doors once more, alternating between willing her to appear and debating whether he has time for one more cigarette before she actually does appear.
Soft pack clutched in his fist, Gerard is just about to turn to the exit when the point of a familiar red hood catches his eye. “Brendon!” He calls, trotting over to where she’s doing her own sleepy shuffle towards the exit.
Head snapping up, and eyes going owlishly wide behind her glasses, Brendon comes to an almost comical stop mid-step as her brain connects the voice calling her name with the man standing in front of her. “Gerard? What…how?”
Gerard shrugs and shoves his hands deep into the front pockets of his jeans, “I talked to Ryan. He told me when you’d be here.”
“Oh,” her voice is low and scratchy, and she looks like the oversized hoodie she’s wearing is attempting to swallow her whole. Brendon’s shoulders are slumped in exhaustion as Gerard reaches over and plucks her carry on bag from her arm and slips it over his own.
“Jesus! Your little face!” Brendon jolts away from Gerard’s hand as it comes towards her. Stopping just short of touching the mottled, deep blue and purple around Brendon’s right eye, Gerard instead grips the jut of her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting her face up. Deep lines of concern wrinkle Gerard’s brow as he takes in the bruising and the cuts, still crusted with dried blood, at the rise of her cheek bone and through her eyebrow. Behind the lens of her glasses, the white of Brendon’s eye is speckled with bloodshot lines. He crushes her to him in a fierce hug and mumbles, “I freaked the fuck out when I heard what happened to you,” into the side of her head.
Resting against the rough denim of Gerard’s jacket, Brendon tries to laugh and says, “Good thing it was my head,” while raising a hand to rap her knuckles just above her temple, “and, not, you know, somewhere that would do any damage.” Brendon steps out of the hug and bites at her lip, “I, uh, I’m at the Park and Fly. It’s been…a spectacularly shitty week, and I just really wanna sleep.”
“Yeah, sure, yeah.” Gerard runs the pad of his thumb softly across the skin of Brendon’s uninjured cheek. “I’ll drive you, if you want. I mean, is that okay?” His voice is soft, and his movements are slow and gentle.
Shrugging, Brendon reaches into her bag and pulls out her car keys, handing them to Gerard. He smiles at her, and his hand finds its way to the small of her back, palm flat and protective as he steers them towards long term parking. “You’ll just have to tell me when to turn, and shit. D’you have any checked bags to get?”
“Uhn uh. I just wanna go home.”
They ride in a silence only occasionally punctuated by Brendon’s turn left here, or merge after the next stop light. Brendon’s sitting with her feet perched on the edge of the passenger seat, arms circling her folded legs, chin resting on the crest of her knees. Wanting very badly to touch her, but purposely keeping his hands at ten and two on the steering wheel, Gerard darts glances at her in the dim highway lighting and her blinks are getting slower and her breathing is getting softer. “Almost there?” He says, for lack of anything else.
“Uh-huh.”
Gerard recognizes Brendon's condo complex when they round a corner, and he flips down the visor, reassured to find the remote there, and clicks it to open the gate.
“My parking spot’s the second from the end,” Brendon supplies sleepily. From there Gerard follows her across the parking lot and into her place. She winces when the bright overhead light floods the entryway.
Setting her bag down, Gerard takes Brendon's hand, “C’mon you. Bed.” As they walk towards Brendon’s bedroom, Gerard notices some changes since the last time he was there. The living and dining rooms have been painted a sunny yellow, and the prints formerly leaning against the wall have been hung, but the cheap plastic blinds still crookedly cover the windows. “Do you need PJs or anything out of your bag?” Gerard hooks a thumb towards the hallway.
Brendon shakes her head. Kicking off her runners, she easily steps out of her yoga pants and unzips her sweatshirt. Leaving the discarded clothes in a messy pile on the rug, she sits down on the mattress. “Screw brushing my teeth and washing my face-that shit hurts like fuck anyway-m’goin’ to sleep.” She unhooks her bra from beneath her t-shirt and flings it aside, and then carefully takes her glasses off, setting them onto the night stand. Clad in a thin t-shirt and her briefs, Brendon untangles the duvet from the end of the bed and burrows under it.
Stepping forward to smooth the covers down and run his hand across the top of her head, Gerard whispers, “G’night, Bee,” and turns towards the door.
“Gerard?” He turns around to see Brendon sitting up, her arms held out to him.
He pauses in the doorway, hand over the light switch, to study her carefully. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” her voice is soft and a little wobbly.
“Yeah.” Flicking the lights off, Gerard nods his head and takes the few steps towards the mattress. He sits down, unlaces his boots, and shoves his jeans down his legs. Brendon is holding the duvet up for him, and he takes off his jacket and crawls underneath, his arms coming around her. Brendon snuggles into him, and, canting one leg across Gerard’s hip, falls asleep.
Gerard wakes in a room the color of raspberry sherbet and flooded with sunlight. Rubbing his hands across his face and through his hair, he shakes off the last dregs of a restless sleep and, finding Brendon gone from the bed, sets off to find her. Upon exiting the bedroom he walks into a plastic bucket. The sudsy water slops over the edge and onto his foot. He yelps a little in surprise, and Brendon sticks her head out from the kitchen.
“Sorry,” she frowns. “I just hate getting home and everything’s all dusty and yucky.” She takes the bucket from Gerard, who had bent to pick it up, preventing himself from walking into it.
“S’okay.” Gerard’s smile is sleepy and unsure. He looks at Brendon, head tilted to one side. She’s wearing a red bandana on her head, kerchief style, an old faded Cowboy Junkies t-shirt, and a long shapeless black skirt, her bare toes-nails painted a cheerful coral-peeking out from beneath. When Brendon turns to walk back into the kitchen, Gerard follows. “Guess now my lazy ass is up you can clean the bedroom too?”
Her smile soft, Brendon says, “Yeah, but after lunch.” She sets the bucket and a pair of yellow rubber gloves into the sink and turns towards the stove. “I haven’t really been to the supermarket for a while, so it’s just soup.” She points towards the saucepan on the range top. “And maybe some grilled cheese, if there’s bread in the freezer.” She turns slightly to check and pulls out a loaf of Wonderbread.
Padding over to stand beside Brendon, Gerard scratches his thigh just at the hem of his boxer shorts. “Bren,” he says softly, his hand coming up to play with the short stands of hair at the nape of her neck, tugging at the scarf’s knot, before softly cupping the base of her skull. “Brian crossed some kind of line with you, but …”
Shrugging away from the contact, and turning her attention to heating up a frying pan, Brendon closes her eyes briefly, and sighs before saying, “Can we just eat first? Please?”
“Sure. Sure.” Gerard raises his hands, palms out in acquiescence and retreats from the tiny kitchen into the condo’s living room. Sitting on the arm of an overstuffed chair, he watches Brendon in silence. Her eye is still deeply bruised and sore-looking, and she’s moving stiffly--carefully--like she can feel him watching her. She stirs the soup and assembles the sandwiches to put them in the frying pan. The silence stretches on and Gerard, baffled by Brendon’s resolutely stubborn behavior, turns to wander around the condo. He eyes the Wii, and Xbox, and Gamecube, but thinks it would be sort of rude to just fire them up without asking. He’s determined to dance on the outskirts of whatever it is that Brendon’s brooding about for the moment, letting her take the lead. So he just keeps wandering, taking in the new paint and the things hanging on the wall.
He stops in front of a series of five photos, hung in a row. They’re sepia toned shots of a woman’s body, arms, legs, curves, and there’s something sad about them: A collection of limbs and angles. Gerard jumps when Brendon says, “For all Thomas was a shitty boyfriend, he’s a fucking amazing photographer.”
“Tom Conrad took these? Of you?”
“Yeah,” Standing at Gerard’s side, looking at the photos and wondering what he sees with his artist’s eyes, Brendon continues, “It’s probably horribly egotistical to have artsy nudie shots of myself up on my wall, but I figure when I’m eighty I can look back and remember what a banging babe I was.” She snorts out a little laugh and touches his elbow, “C’mon, soup’s on!”
The meal is awkward, and the conversation stilted as they both avoid any hint of discussing what happened in L.A. Gerard fills the pauses with chatter about the tour and the bands on the bill, and Brendon nods and gives him plastic half smiles in between spoonfuls of tomato soup and tearing at the gooey mess of her cheese sandwich without actually eating any of it. His plate and bowl empty, Gerard sits back and stares at Brendon.
Pushing her glasses back up her nose, she asks, “All done, then?” as she leans over to pile his dishes with hers. Gerard actually sits on his hands to prevent himself from reaching out, touching Brendon as he so very badly needs to when it’s clear it’s the last thing she wants.
Gerard follows her to the sink and says, as carefully as his confusion will allow, “I don’t know exactly what he said to you, Brendon. I only know that I’m sorry I wasn’t there to hear it, to protect you. I have no fucking clue what’s going on, and I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know why the hell you left.”
Her spine stiffens as she sets the cleaning bucket aside and squeezes dish soap into the water filling the sink. “I don’t want to talk about this.” Her tone is petulant and she’s blinking quickly, avoiding Gerard’s gaze.
“Look-I get that. I really fucking get that. You haven’t told me what’s going on. No one will fucking tell me what’s going on! But we need to talk about it, Bee. Would you stop fucking running away and just talk to me?” Maybe more firmly than he means to, Gerard yanks on Brendon’s arm, turning her to face him.
Her lashes sweep low, hiding her expression and she chews on her bottom lip. “It doesn’t matter, okay?”
“Jesus, Brendon!” He shakes her a little, and her head snaps up to meet his baffled hazel eyes. “I have never treated you like a child. But you are acting like a fucking five year old, and I would appreciate it very fucking much if you would knock it the fuck off and talk to me!”
Anger and a wary sadness flash across Brendon’s face--incapable as she is of hiding anything she’s thinking or feeling. “I’m sorry you think I’m behaving like a child!” She says each word precisely, carefully. “I’m trying to be the adult here. I’m trying to back away…” Her voice slips and wobbles, but she continues. “I have made so many mistakes,” She presses herself to the counter top, desperate to put any space she can between herself and Gerard. “I mean, I tried. I tried to make Tom stop and I couldn’t. But you, you’re so fucking amazing, Gerard. And you don’t even know it. And I would never, ever do anything to make you…” She pauses for breath, her chest rising and falling in an unsteady rhythm beneath the thin layer of her t-shirt. Gerard doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move from his hold on her arms, just waits for her to continue. “Your friends, your family, they know you. Know you best. They know what’s best. And I sure fucking don’t.”
“Brendon?” Gerard shakes his head slowly, trying to parse meaning from the tumble of her words.
“When they tell me I’m endangering your recovery; I just, I need to accept that. I need to respect that. I would never do anything to hurt you. I don’t want to be,” Brendon’s voice breaks again and she bites her lip, “I don’t want to be an embarrassment.” She finishes, and her thick lashes are damp with the tears she’s managed to blink away.
Gerard's mouth drops open in shocked surprise before his hands cup her cheeks. “Shit, honey. He said that? Brian said that to you?”
Taking a shuddering breath, Brendon finally meets Gerard’s expression full on, her own eyes wide and sorrowful brown behind her glasses. “You didn’t tell Brian to talk to me? To say that?”
“Brendon, I didn’t know! I had no fucking idea he would ever think it’s okay to talk to you like that!”
Wincing, Brendon shoves her way free from between Gerard and the cabinets and, ducking her head, walks quickly out of the kitchen, rubbing at her arms.
Gerard easily catches up to her, and wrapping his arms around her waist, pulls her back against him. “Fuck, Bren. I know I talk a lot of shit, about a lot of things. But not about this. Never to you.”
“Lemme go!” her voice is small and reedy with the effort it takes not to cry. She struggles against him, her hands over Gerard’s trying to pry them away.
“No.” He husks the words into the sensitive shell of her ear, hauling her closer still. Their bodies are pressed together, knees to shoulders, back to front and Brendon’s struggling rubs friction across the thin cotton of Gerard’s boxer shorts. “I’m not going to let you run away again. I’m not. It was a mistake. I’m so sorry, Brendon. So fucking sorry.” Brendon’s frantic movement rucks up her t-shirt, and Gerard’s fingers come into contact with the warm, smooth skin of her belly.
Brendon clutches at his hands, and shaking so hard Gerard can feel it all the way up his arms, she mumbles, “Please. Please.” Her eyes squeezed tight shut, Brendon manages to make small, almost pained noises, her fingers gripping Gerard’s, white knuckle tight. She’s still struggling, but she’s not sure if she’s trying to get away or get closer. The feel of Gerard around Brendon is enough for desire to overcome her doubts, and unfurl inside her, searching. She swallows and groans again, one arm coming up to reach behind her, tangling her hand into the thicket of Gerard’s hair. Everything fades except the feeling of his hands, and his breath on her skin.
Gerard’s long fingers are splayed flat around the flare of her hips, slowly teasing their way low beneath the waistband of her skirt. His breath fans out, warm and humid along the skin of Brendon’s neck, and his lips brush against her temple. “No,” he repeats, his voice a buzz of sensation against fragile skin. “Not gonna let you go. I can’t.” His breath catches when his fingers find their way to even softer, smoother skin between Brendon’s legs. “Just wanna make you feel good, Bren.”
Gerard huffs, working his fingers into the slickness of her. When Brendon nods and pushes his hand harder between her thighs, Gerard knees her legs wider, trapped as they are in the confines of her skirt. “Feel good?” His other hand moves up across her torso to cup the weight of one breast, fingernail flicking over the nub of her nipple, and he bites at the tendon-raised and straining-along her bowed neck. All the while his hand continues stroking and pressing a determined rhythm.
“So good. Guh, gonna come,” Brendon stutters in a whisper as her fingers clutch at Gerard’s hand and her hips shift, dragging her ass across Gerard’s erection.
“Okay, it’s okay,” Gerard pinches harder at her nipple and his index finger continues its slow drag in and out of her, thumb wringing sensation from Brendon as it flicks at her clit. “God, Bren, you feel so fucking good.” He feels the wobble in her thighs, the tightening of her around his hand, and the shuddering oh oh oh of her orgasm before she sags her full weight back against him.
“Please let this be real,” Brendon turns her head and nuzzles into Gerard’s shoulder with her cheek, glasses askew.
Frowning, he turns Brendon in his arms until she's facing him. Gerard tilts her chin up, fingers tracing gentle patterns beneath the scratch on her cheek. “What?”
Brendon blinks, drowsy, and says “I just, I want this to be real. Not just, not just for now.” She bites her lip and slips her arms around Gerard’s neck, burrowing her face into his t-shirt.
Circling her small waist with one arm, Gerard leans into Brendon’s hug and runs the cupped palm of his free hand over the back of her head. “It is.”
Not moving to look at Gerard, Brendon sighs and says softly, almost wistfully, “It’s fine when it’s just us. When it’s just you and me, we work. But when everyone else is around it just gets…shitty. And that sucks and I just…”
“Hey, Queen Bee.” Stroking both hands across the apples of Brendon’s cheeks he forces her to look at him, “It’s always gonna be us, okay? I mean, I can’t fucking control what the rest of the world thinks or says, but I will always tell you what I think, or if there’s something I think needs to be said. If Brian or Mikey or Spencer or Jon don’t like that, fuck ‘em. It’s none of their business, anyway. And I remember someone telling me not to worry about shit that’s not my fault.” He smiles then, and kisses Brendon’s forehead.
Her huffed out breath traces across Gerard’s chin, and she puts her lips to his. “No more talking. Please.” Brendon kisses him, shaky but fierce--determined. She clutches at his hips, fingers twisting in his t-shirt and dragging him towards the couch. She pushes him down and then crawls into his lap, slanting her tongue to search greedily inside Gerard’s mouth. She hikes her skirt up around her waist and fumbles her hands inside Gerard’s boxers.
“Bren,” he says, hands tangling with hers, slowing their desperate movements.
“Shhhh,” Brendon’s hand comes up, underwater slow; trailing up Gerard’s shirt, his neck, her fingers resting lightly on his lips. “No more talking,” she murmurs, and there’s something soft and unreadable in the darkness of her eyes. Gerard swallows heavily, closing his eyes at the nearness of her, and mouths soft kisses at her fingertips. Not moving from Gerard’s lap, Brendon presses wet, open mouth kisses to his neck, pinching the skin between her teeth before she leans over to open an end table drawer. A fleeting, guilty smirk crosses her face as she fumbles with a box of condoms, taking one out and handing it to Gerard.
While Gerard is busy unwrapping the condom, Brendon continues to trail kisses across his throat. She can feel his erection against the inside of her thighs, knows he’s been hard since they started to argue in the kitchen, maybe even before that. Taking the latex sheath from Gerard, she cups him inside his underwear, fingers strong and sure against his rigid length. Gerard huffs out a grunt and cants his hips as Brendon slips the condom onto him and then shifts her weight to her knees, pivoting down.
She’s shaking a little, and she rests her forehead against the slope of Gerard’s shoulder before she begins to rock up and down from her knees, taking Gerard deeper inside of her. Gerard palms at the smoothness of her hip and ass, doing his best to not thrust, letting Brendon set the pace and take what she needs. His breath escapes in tiny grunts as Brendon kisses him and squeezes at his shoulders while she fucks herself harder and harder into Gerard’s lap, with a bouncing slap of her skin to his. After less than a dozen uneven strokes, Gerard groan and his head falls back to the sofa, mouth open as he comes.
They’re both panting and quiet, fingers and lips slowly tracing over any exposed skin to calm and soothe. Brendon sits back on Gerard’s knees and makes a low sound of displeasure as he awkwardly slips from her. Her fingers are gentle as she peels the condom off and shoves it into the wrapper on the table. Kissing him soft and lacking in any kind of challenge, Brendon straightens Gerard’s shorts and her own skirt, then cuddles closer, sighing contentedly.
Gerard runs his hand up and down Brendon’s back, beneath her t-shirt and along the dip and sway of her spine where she’s curled into his lap, her nose pressed into his neck. She’s so quiet, and her breathing is so slow and even, Gerard thinks she’s asleep, but then Brendon says, “So I guess now would be a good time to talk about the thousand pound purple gorilla."
Inhaling a steadying breath, Gerard blinks and says, “Huh? Barney?” into the warm cotton of the kerchief covering her hair.
“Barney’s a dinosaur, Gerard.” He feels her smile against his skin. “I mean my drinking.” Brendon doesn’t move, except to lean into Gerard’s slow petting. “Is it…is it a problem? For you?”
Sitting up a little straighter, Gerard extends a hand to push Brendon’s glasses back up the bridge of her nose, “Brendon, I don’t drink. I don’t ask anyone else to not drink.”
“That’s not what I asked.” He can see uncertainty flicker in her eyes when she raises her head.
“No. It’s not a problem, for me. And honestly? I don’t think you have a problem, despite what People fucking magazine or my overbearing manager might have to say on the subject. Was getting drunk the first thing you thought of this morning when you woke up?” His hands continue their unassuming, gentling motions over her skin, and his smile is a little bemused.
“No!” Brendon leans back from him, her brows meeting in a scowl over the frames of her glasses.
“Was it the last thing you thought of last night?”
“No! Jesus. Of course not.”
Gerard smacks a kiss to her cheek, “You don’t have a problem, Bee. And I’m sorry if I or anyone ever made you feel like you have to explain yourself, or justify your choices.”
“Okay,” Brendon looks at her lap, where she’s twisting her fingers together. “I just don’t want to make you feel bad or you know…”
Gerard’s swaying, rocking her and, leaning his forehead to hers, “Look, Brendon. If people around me drinking made me feel bad or tempted me, Ray or Frankie or Cortez, they’d all fucking give it up and be sober as judges. But they’re not. And fuckit I think temptation is part of the point. I have to live in the real world, not Happy Tea-totaller land, honey. Brian got sober the way he needed to. And he fucking thinks he found enlightenment in the desert or what the fuck ever, and feels responsible for everyone now.”
“Right. Okay,” Brendon chuckles under her breath. “Shit, this sucked.” She rubs at her eyes, forgetting about the bruising until she winces when her fingers make contact. Realizing what she’s said she jolts a little, “Oh not this!” She kisses the corner of Gerard’s mouth where he’s smiling indulgently at her. “But you know,” she flaps her hand around, “Relationshipy crap.”
“Yeah, I sorta suck at this relationshipy crap.” A small snort accompanies Gerard’s reply. “But it’s good, right? To talk about shit. We’re good, right?”
“Mmm, yeah. It’s all good.” Gerard rolls his eyes and bumps his forehead against Brendon’s temple when she replies. But her tone is light, a happy return to her usual demeanor. “I guess you have to, you know, go back, to the tour?” Her fingers trace feather light over Gerard’s bicep.
“Fuck, yeah. St. Louis. I gotta jet back for tonight.” He kisses Brendon, a simple touch of his lips to hers.
“Shitty.” She hugs him tight. “I missed you. A lot. And I’m sorry I went into bitchy five year old mode. I sort of suck at the whole communication thing, too.”
His grin widening at the sensation of her warm and relaxed in his arms, Gerard says, “You could come with me, you know.”
Brendon tilts her head to study his face. “On tour?”
“Yeah.”
Shaking her head slowly, and distractedly fidgeting with the bandanna on her head, Brendon says, “Um, I think that could be a really bad idea. I’m not really down with being all Oh hey! You guys hate me but I’m coming on tour with you!”
“No one hates you, Queen Bee. And listen, I’ll talk to Brian, he needs to know that shit is just not on. I can’t believe how fucking out of line he was. Seriously, nobody hates you.” He wants her to say yes. He wants her to say yes so very badly, he might beg. Lately, Brendon’s the last thing he thinks of at night and the first thing he thinks of in the morning.
She shrugs and stares at her fingers, pale against the black cotton of Gerard’s shirt. “Maybe not. But anyway, we have recording to do.”
Gerard bumps his head to hers, again, so they’re eye to eye. “You’re the one who told me the rest of your band was gonna go have girlfriend time when you got back from Europe.”
“Oh, yeah. But, I still have work to do. None of those slackers actually knows how to write music. And uh, well…” Her mouth twists into a crooked frown.
“And?” Gerard nudges Brendon, prompting her to continue.
Heaving an overly dramatic sigh Brendon concedes, “Okay, so like a tour? Is a long time to be stuck with me. What if you decide you don’t want to be around me?” She finishes in a small voice.
“I would be fucking ecstatic to be stuck with you. I want to know everything about you, Brendon. But I don’t want to pressure you. Hey! Next week end we’re doing some California shows, and then Vegas. What about that?”
Brendon smiles at the feeling of warmth that spreads through her blood at Gerard’s words. She sighs softly and says, “Maybe. Lemme think about it.” And, shifting in Gerard’s lap, she wrinkles her nose and says, “But now, I think I need a shower.” She gets to her feet and extends a hand down to Gerard, “Wanna join me?”
“Yeah. Yes. Sure.” Gerard breaks into his manic grin, and he takes her hand, content to be lead through the condo.
* * *
Shower fresh and humming under her breath, Brendon smacks a kiss to the top of Gerard’s head where he’s bent over to haul on his jeans. “So, when’s your flight? I can drive you.”
Gerard links his fingers with Brendon’s pulling her to him. He kisses her, hands trailing through the short strands of her damp hair, “Kinda sad I didn’t get to see more of those extension thingies. And, um, I don’t exactly have a flight booked.”
Giggling Brendon thwacks him good naturedly and says, “Well, see if you can find anything on the internet,” She gestures towards her laptop bag, “Or shit, we better go now to make sure we get you back safe and sound. Don’t want Brian to take me aside and give me a good talking to, now do we?”
“Brendon,” Gerard’s tone is fond and a little sad.
“I kid. I kid. Except for the airport shit. Seriously, we should go.”
“Yeah, okay. It’d be great if you could give me a lift.” Gerard finds his hoodie and his denim jacket and makes sure his keys and wallet didn’t fall out when he’d shucked his jeans the night before. He sits on the edge of the mattress, shoving on his shoes. Brendon is standing in front of her closet, clad in a towel, beads of water dripping from her hair, tracing the delicate curve of her neck. She worries at her lip a little before shrugging and picking up the t-shirt and skirt she’d thrown in a heap on the floor. She fishes a clean bra and underwear out of a laundry basket and shimmies into them, all the while completely aware of Gerard’s eyes on her.
Once the thin scraps of ice blue lace are in place, she looks up at him, and palms her breasts, winking. “I’d love to give you a lift.” She says it throaty and low, and the words are barely out of her mouth before a fit of snorts and giggles escapes.
“Dude, you are totally trying to kill me.” Gerard whines and comes over to her, replacing her hands with his own as his tongue traces the seam of her lips.
“Airport!” She smacks him on the arm and pushes away to don her clothes.
A quick scroll through the usual links and Gerard finds a flight, direct to St. Louis, figuring he can just buy the ticket at the counter. Brendon sits on the bed beside him and rests her chin on his shoulder as he closes the browser and runs a teasing hand along the leanly muscled length of her thigh, over top of her skirt.
Standing quickly, she gives him as stern a look as she can muster. “Airport!” Brendon says again, waggling her finger at him and heading towards the hallway.
“Right, right.” Gerard sighs, crossing the room to her. He holds open the door, waiting for Brendon to slip on a pair of rubber flip flops and grab her purse before he goes through the door behind her, slapping her ass and making her yelp and laugh.
Being mid-day, there is little traffic on the highway to the airport and once there Brendon easily finds a spot in Departures. The two of them walk hand in hand through the parking garage and into the terminal. Her arm is around his waist as Gerard books the tickets, and she smiles and shakes her head when the airline agent asks if she needs a ticket too.
There’s not much time before Gerard’s flight boards so Brendon walks him to security and kisses him. “I’ll talk to you soon,” she husks against his ear, reluctant to break the embrace.
“Yeah, I’ll call you tonight, after the gig. That okay?”
“That’s amazing,” she smiles and tilts her chin up. She watches as he heads towards the checkpoint and then, after biting her lip, calls out “Gerard?”
Pivoting, Gerard turns back to her, “Yeah Queen Bee?”
“Okay,” She exhales. “Okay, I’ll come. Next week end, I mean.” She shoves her index finger into her mouth, chewing on her cuticle.
A few loping steps bring Gerard back to her side, and he scoops Brendon up in an enthusiastic embrace. “Fuck. That’s so awesome. You’re so awesome.” And he kisses her with a head-swimming enthusiasm.
Brendon smiles and lifts one foot off the floor, laughing into the kiss when her flip flop falls to the ground. She pets his hair and kisses him back equally enthusiastically. And, because they’re in the middle of the Departures terminal and because she’s Brendon Urie and he’s Gerard Way, there are teenagers with cell phone cameras and the will to use them.
And that’s the photo that appears all over the internet less than 4 hours later; Gerard with his arms around Brendon’s waist, Brendon with her hands tangled in Gerard’s hair, the both of them kissing and grinning like fools.
Like in the movies.
Continue to 6A