plans mistaken for stars || brendon/shane || NC-17 || ~16,100
planes mistaken for stars
Brendon/Shane || NC-17 || 16,132 words || Erotic Nudity Prompt for sosodirty
It's easy to smile because being around Brendon makes it easy. He makes everything dissolve away like a sugar cube in water, and Shane wishes sometimes that he could stop letting it be that simple.
Notes: Title shamelessly borrowed from one of Shane's movies. Thanks to the following for the fantastic beta and wonderful help: softlyforgotten, hellodolly123 and carnilia. Also thanks to falling_words, slashxmistress, kyasuriin and zarah5v2 for being great help and reading various stages of this story. And ♥ to samedifference_ for helping me flesh this out and being overall amazing. Additional apologies for taking so long to get this up on the community.
And then the day came,
when the risk
to remain tight
in a bud
was more painful
than the risk
it took
to Blossom
Risk - Anais Nin
During the summers, the air in the desert never changes between night and day, stubbornly remaining dry and oppressive. Even though the air conditioner in Shane's car is up full blast, the heat inside takes much longer than normal to dissipate.
You can't change who you are, Brendon. You can't make them understand.
Traffic isn't terrible because it's the middle of the night on a weekday. The sky is clear, the moon full and bright, against the darkness as though it knows how much it is needed tonight. There's nothing on the radio, and for the sake of keeping his mind at ease, Shane rolls down the window and sticks his hand out, the air dusty and warm. He's already been on the road for a few hours, and he should be tired, but he's not.
A sign for Interstate 15 rolls by. Two thousand more miles until Boston.
I know I can't make them understand. But I have to try.
Shane drives faster.
*
The coffee shop isn't full, but there are enough people inside that the chatter of voices cuts into Shane's spinning thoughts.
"This is a stupid idea," he says into his cup of coffee. "Such a stupid fucking idea."
When he realizes how loud his voice carries, Shane takes a glance over and sees the girl who was quietly immersed in a book giving him a suspicious look. He resists the urge to roll his eyes and opens his mouth to say something about the fact that it's perfectly normal to talk to your cup of coffee, thanks, there have been songs about it and all, when he hears a snicker nearby and turns his head.
Brendon is standing not even five feet away, lip caught between his teeth. The first thing that comes to the forefront of Shane's mind is that he looks different from the last time they saw each other. It was only a couple of months before, at the opening of Ivan's gallery, but an indescribable difference radiates from Brendon that Shane can't place. Then Shane watches as Brendon tilts his head back and belts out a cackle, loud and obnoxious, and in usual Brendon Urie style, he doubles over and squeaks out a high pitched, "Oh, shit!". Shane blinks a couple of times and takes in a gulp of air to say something when--
He realizes his mouth is still hanging open.
Shane covers his mouth with his hand and clears his throat. "Are you laughing at me?"
Brendon instantly regains himself, and with a well-practiced poker face deadpans, "Not at all." He walks over and sits in front of Shane, a gentle glide into his chair, a grin smoothing on his face. "So," he begins.
"So," Shane echoes. He's not going to initiate polite conversation, even if he did agree to this...meeting, or whatever.
Brendon doesn't say anything for a moment and lets out a long sigh. His shoulders sag a little, like he's deflating, eyes focusing on something on the table. "Does it always have to be like this, Shane?"
"Like what?" Shane asks. It's a knee jerk reaction, almost like a defense, being oblivious. If he continues to be oblivious, it'll be like a year ago never happened. Shane's grown accustomed to forgetting the past.
Brendon's eyes flicker up and he raises an eyebrow. Shane holds his gaze for a long time, and he'll be damned if he's going to just back down. Brendon stands up abruptly, the chair screeching against the linoleum floor. "I'm getting something to drink."
Shane nods and watches Brendon turn around to stand in line. His foot taps against the floor, a rattatpausetat rhythm that Shane can't decipher. The line doesn't move for a while, the guy in front of Brendon staring at the menu, bored as though he has all of the time in the world. Brendon then starts to drum on his legs in accompaniment with the beat of his foot and Shane almost feels his lips curling up, thinking of the times when they were on tour together and they would--
Shane shakes his head and pushes the thought aside. "Stupid fucking idea," he whispers again, and takes a long drink of his coffee. He winces at the cold bitterness, forcing himself to swallow it down. He closes his eyes and presses his thumbs against the two pressure points at the middle of his forehead.
When he opens his eyes again, Brendon is sitting in front of him, body completely still. Odd.
"How long have you been waiting?" Shane asks.
"A lot longer than you think," Brendon replies before slurping loudly out of his cup.
*
When they get outside, it's snowing.
Blurs of white are threathing to break through looming gray clouds. Shane's fingers itch to capture it behind the focus of a lens, but it's fucking cold, and since they've been walking for a while, his extremities are starting to ache. Sadly, it's going to have to wait.
He flicks the cigarette sitting between his fingers, watching it exhaust against the slush. A small sizzle breaks into the calm air, the tires rolling against the pavement, tiny swishswish noises resonating in the air.
"Littering is a terrible habit, you know," Brendon says from Shane's side. He stops in his walk, grows fascinated with something in a shop's window, but Shane continues moving. He grins when he hears Brendon jogging to catch up.
"Yeah? Is this an intervention?" Shane asks, the smirk slipping on his face.
Brendon scoffs and shakes his head, pulling a soft pack out, and tapping it a couple of times. He wraps his lips around the butt of the cigarette and shrugs. "Maybe," he answers in a muffled voice, reaching in his back pocket for a lighter and cupping his hand for the flame to catch. After taking a long drag he adds through a haze of smoke, "But that'd require you to actually accept that you have an issue. Are you willing to do that Shane Valdez?"
Shane chews on the side of his cheek and shrugs. "I'll think about it."
"Pussy," Brendon teases. His cheeks are reddened by the biting wind, and small white speckles are covering his dark hair. His bangs are slightly wet from fingertips touching them, making the snowflakes melt against the strands.
Shane shrugs again, stopping at the corner and looking to see if the traffic is clear. "I'll accept the matter for what it is: I am, in fact, a pussy."
"The road to recovery for any problem is admitting that you do, in fact, have that problem," Brendon agrees solemnly.
Shane finds himself smiling. It's easy to smile because being around Brendon makes it easy. He makes everything dissolve away like a sugar cube in water, and Shane wishes sometimes that he could stop letting it be that simple.
They continue to stand at the corner, the other pedestrians walking around them. Everything stills for a moment when Shane looks at Brendon, the slow curve of a smile on his face. "I'll be back tomorrow," he says, lifting his hand to hail a cab.
"Wh--what?" Shane stutters.
"You still live in that apartment over on Jefferson?"
Shane blinks a couple of times, because he doesn't remember ever telling Brendon the exact location of his residence. In fact, he knows he hasn't because he'd remember something like that. Then, realization settles in and he lets his shoulders slump as he sighs, "Fucking Jon."
Brendon giggles again and shakes his head. "He cannot resist my charm."
"Your weed," Shane corrects.
"Well," Brendon says in response with a shrug. "That too. Six?"
The word, "Okay," slips out of Shane's mouth before he has the chance to think about a proper answer. He thinks he should retract, tell Brendon some white lie about having plans already; Ivan or Jerry would totally cover for him, but then a cab veers over and comes to a halt.
Brendon opens the door, leans in for a second to talk to the driver and pulls back from the door. "Six, Shane," he says in reminder. "Be ready."
Shane nods and watches Brendon get in the car and leave. The tires continue moving against the road quietly as Shane walks home.
*
Ivan is talking about his next show, the one that's going to actually make or break him, but Shane's not paying attention. He's trying to, staring at the enlarged photo of a little girl twirling around in the rain, until suddenly Ivan says, "Are you even listening to what I'm saying?"
Shane looks over at Ivan and sighs. "Kind of?"
Ivan chuckles. "You've been zoning out all morning. What the hell is going on with you?"
"Just..." Shane shrugs, and looks back at another picture. It's of the same girl, only she's looking at the camera this time, laughing happily. Shane tilts his head and observes the exposure. Ivan loves making the contrast more accentuated, stating that 'colors only are in their truest form when they are bold.'
"Who is this?" Shane asks, casually.
"My sister's daughter. She's a pistol," Ivan chuckles. "But don't think you can schmooze me, Valdez. Spill."
"Brendon's in town," Shane says after a beat.
“And?” Ivan says. He leans against the counter and crosses his arms carefully. “Is this the part where you actually tell me what happened instead of getting all quiet and thinky?”
Shane closes his eyes and sighs. “Sometimes, I wonder how you are my friend.”
“It's totally that love and devotion, thing. You know, the one where we sit around and eat ice cream and watch American Idol together.”
Shane opens one eye. “We never do that.”
“Oh, right. That's because you're a douche and refuse to watch quality television.”
“What? That show is fucking awful, I still can't believe--” Shane takes another deep breath. He continues to look at another picture. Now the girl is looking up at a balloon, a thin string wrapped around her wrist. “It was nice seeing him, you know? He looked good. Happy.”
Ivan lets out a long whistle and turns around to walk out of the room. When he comes back he's holding a bottle full of clear liquid and two glasses. "What the fuck are you doing?" Shane asks.
"What does it look like?" Ivan says, giving the glasses to Shane as he opens the bottle. "You look like you need this before you start to talk about your emotions and shit."
"Um," Shane looks over his shoulder to make sure they are alone, which, of course they are. No one sets foot in Ivan's gallery at this time of day. "It's like nine in the morning or something. Whatever happened to drinking in the afternoon?"
Ivan shrugs and smiles up at Shane. "Hey, it's noon somewhere in the world, right?"
*
Brendon calls to announce, tragically, that he will be late. Shane's not surprised at all because in the world according to Brendon Urie, time is of no importance.
There was a time when Brendon didn't even bother to call Shane, just showed up a half an hour or an hour later than intended. But those days are gone, split away and buried in a past that they no longer share.
He tries to entertain himself by watching something on TV. After three consecutive searches through over a hundred channels, Shane turns the television off. Surprisingly, Brendon ends up only being five minutes late, making Shane jump at the raptaptap beat of his knock.
When Shane opens the door, Brendon is leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes flicker up and a smiles spreads on his face, huge and fucking genuine, and it takes a couple of hard swallows for Shane to calm down the heat that flushes around his neck.
He is so fucked.
Brendon's eyes rove over Shane's outfit as he pushes himself out of the leaning position. He gives an approving nod. "Nice," he murmurs.
Shane gives Brendon a glance over too, noting the thick jacket and white button down exposed underneath. "Since when do you wear shirts like that?"
Brendon looks down as though he forgot what he was wearing. "I don't know," he replies with a shrug. "Long enough. Come on, I was late, and the night isn't getting younger."
Shane snorts. "Is that supposed to be your smooth line right there, Rico Suave?"
Brendon laughs and shakes his head. "No, actually. I'm too fucking hungry to even worry about hitting on you. Where are you taking me?"
"You mean to tell me that you say we should get dinner and I have to choose?" Shane clicks his tongue, "That's a little tacky."
"Hey, this is your city, right? You live here and all; so that means you know what's the best place to eat at," Brendon argues as they descend the stairs. When they get outside, a blast of cold air greets them, and Brendon lets out a soft curse.
Brendon continues to make claims of his imminent death unless he gains sustenance, like, right fucking now. Shane tells him that all good things come to those who wait, and continues to walk down the block. The sun has long since set, a downfall of winter in the north. The night sky, thankfully, is wide and open, stars speckling graciously. Even though it's fucking cold, nights like this are some of Shane's favorite.
After much arguing about where to go -- "Brendon, I am not going to downtown Boston in the middle of the fucking winter, forget it."-- Shane decides to take Brendon to The Middle East, a somewhat eccentric bar/restaurant that Shane has fallen in love with over the past few months.
Brendon stops in front of the mural next to the entrance. It's a little outrageous, with large faces and bright colors. To top it all off, a mystical ram sits in the corner, giving it a perfectly kitschy look. Shane glances at Brendon staring with big searching eyes. "Wow," he whispers.
"Yeah," Shane agrees with a nod. He doesn't say anything for a moment before shuddering at the breeze that continues to attack them. "Come on," he says, jerking his head in the direction of the restaurant. "It's fucking cold out here."
They get a booth somewhere in the back, the white glow of the of the small restaurant accentuated by the tiny bulbs in strings of Christmas lights. The warmth goes right to Shane's bones, and he lets out a happy sigh, closing his eyes for a moment.
"Didn't your mother tell you that it's rude to keep a hat on at the dinner table?" Brendon asks in a low, bored voice. He doesn't look up from the menu he's searching over, lip caught between his teeth.
"I like to have a warm head," Shane says. "And, I like to keep my health. So, the hat stays."
Brendon gives a disbelieving look. "Dude, you wore that exact hat in the middle of summer tours with me, don't give me that shit."
“That was before I moved to a city where in the winter it gets below zero including wind-chill.” Shane says, the tiny prickle expanding over his skin. He looks down at the menu casually, humming before saying, "They have a lot of vegetarian meals here--"
"I'm not vegetarian anymore," Brendon interrupts.
Shane's eyes go wide, and he blinks a couple of times. "Oh. Since when?"
Brendon shrugs stiffly, still studying the menu. His fingertips tap the tabletop, avoiding any kind of eye contact. “A few months.” His lips thin a little before admitting, "Since you left."
"Why didn't you tell me, I mean we could've gone somewhere--"
"Don't," Brendon says softly, his hands wrapping around the menu tightly. "Don't make accommodations for me. Just--Don't treat me like a guest, because I'm not, okay?"
Shane nods, biting his tongue from saying anything more than, "Okay."
*
Dinner, it turns out, isn't nearly as bad as Shane expected.
He listens to Brendon talk about going on tour; everyone trying to coax Jon into moving to LA with the rest of the band (“I mean, it'll kind of make everything complete, you know?”); the way that Keltie and Ryan should be getting married, (“Dude, you know it's a big deal if I'm saying they should, right?”); and the fleeting idea of doing a solo project, but in the end pussing out when the offer actually came to fruition.
"I just wasn't ready, you know?" he explains, carefully swirling the straw around in his cup. "It's not the same without the guys. But everyone was so busy, with Spencer and Haley getting engaged and Keltie moving to LA and I'm happy for them, really, I am. But I just kind of missed touring." He lifts his shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “I missed a lot of things,” he adds softly, before peering up through his bangs.
"So what're you doing in Boston?" Shane asks, carefully avoiding eye contact. Sometimes, he's found, it's easier to get to the fucking point. Otherwise Brendon will continue to run around in circles, trying hard to not really commit to serious conversation.
"We were in New York getting things settled for a new album," Brendon answers without skipping a beat. "After being on a hiatus for almost a year, Pete said it's about time we get into the studio." Brendon leans back against his chair, stretching his arms over his head and brushing his fingers through his hair. "So now you're in this new city and shit. And I've seen you at least three times and you never bothered to tell me what you do."
Shane looks up from the napkin he was folding. "Me? Nothing much. I've gotten a few jobs doing some videos and editing shit. Did some documentary stuff for a couple of bands." Shane grins and looks back down at the napkin, "My friend Ivan thinks that I should do a gallery showing or something with my photography, but I haven't really been behind a camera in a while."
"Ivan?" Brendon asks, confused.
"Guy I met through Jacob," Shane explains. "One of the contacts I had when I came out here."
Brendon nods and lets out a small "ah". He doesn't say anything for a moment and takes the chance to look out into the busy night. "Do you like it here?" he asks quietly.
"Sometimes I do," Shane says. "Sometimes I don't."
After a small argument over who should pay -- Brendon wins by pulling out the black American Express in one smooth move -- they leave to greet the bitter cold night. The temperature has dropped significantly in the past hour and a half or so, and Shane takes a deep inhale, the air biting inside of his chest.
"So are you going to take me back to this apartment of yours? Give me the grand tour?" Brendon asks after a moment of silence.
Shane stops walking for a moment and looks at Brendon, "Grand tour?"
"Yeah," Brendon says. "I've never seen it, and now's the chance. Besides, I'm fucking freezing."
A mixture of uncertainty and fear bubbles through Shane, a list of questions that he wants to ask. He wants to know about what Brendon's doing, why he's in Boston, why it was so easy to fall back into a routine. What Shane really wants to know is why, after a year of being on the other side of the fucking country, he can't get rid of the one thing that made him come here.
"Brendon," he says eventually. "Are you sure that--"
"Look, it's cold. No funny games, okay? So, calm down and let's go."
Shane doesn't argue because he knows that when Brendon's made a decision, it's done. His toes are in the sand, and he's not moving. They continue to walk, the sidewalks filled with other pedestrians coming and going. He can see Brendon in his periphery, his jaw rigid. A random person walks in between them, hitting Shane's shoulder, throwing his balance off.
"Fuck," Shane whispers, catching himself before losing his footing completely.
Brendon stops and walks closer to him. He doesn't remove his hands from the pockets of his jacket, but when Shane looks up he can see his eyes flicker with concern. "You alright?"
Shane nods and straightens up. "Yeah, fine." Brendon's expression is doubtful. "I'm fine. You want to go somewhere where it's warm or not?"
"Yeah," Brendon answers, "I just hope you don't get killed on the way."
"I won't," Shane promises. "Shit like that doesn't happen often."
Brendon snorts. "So you say."
"I'm the one who's been living here for almost a year now, I'd think I know," Shane says, his voice sounding more defensive than intended. Brendon doesn't say anything back, and they continue to walk in silence.
*
When Shane officially settled in Boston, it was two months shy of the initial move date. After failing miserably at a relationship with Regan (the last year being the worst), Vegas began to lose its appeal. He had done a lot of networking, finally landing a few promised contracts in Boston. Brendon insisted that he come and crash with him in Los Angeles to “get away from all the bullshit and just chill." When the hiatus turned out longer than expected, Brendon asked Shane to stay to stay with in him LA, and Shane did.
It's always easy to say yes to Brendon.
"So," Brendon says when they get to the front of a large house. He stares at it and grins, and turns to Shane. "Do you have heat?"
"It's about twenty degrees outside, of course I have heat," Shane says pulling his keys out and walking up the steps. One of the first mindfucks Shane had when moving to Boston was the housing. The city is so old that the large houses have been redone into apartments, renting out the various 'rooms' to it's citizens. His biggest complaint remains that it takes too many doors to get to his apartment.
"Did you pay the bill?" Shane stops turning the key and gives Brendon a hard stare. Brendon lifts a hand out of his jacket, fingers splayed. "Just making sure, man. You never know."
"Yeah, I pay my bills, thanks," Shane replies dryly. He opens the door, spreading his hand out in front of him for Brendon to walk inside the foyer. "After you."
Brendon walks by and smiles, leaning over and pressing his nose against Shane's cheek. "You're such a gentleman," he murmurs, pulling back a little and sauntering inside.
Shane closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He counts to ten, exhales and follows after Brendon. He points to the stairs and Brendon runs up skipping two steps at a time.
"Dude," Brendon says from the top of the stairs, "I know you're like over thirty and all, but could you please pick up the pace?"
"Oh I'm sorry that I don't have the energy level of a goddamn Jack Russel terrier," Shane grumbles, walking up the stairs. When he gets to the top, Brendon's smiling mischievously. "What?"
"Nothing," Brendon says, the sparkle still in his eyes. "It's just hilarious that the same buttons can be pressed is all."
Shane turns and opens the front door.
The apartment is just the right temperature, warm and perfect. When Shane went to meet up with Brendon that afternoon he made sure to turn up the heat so when he came home it wouldn't feel like living in an icebox. It was another lesson learned during his first winter in Boston. Shane flicks on the light in the living room, the soft glow illuminating the furniture and walls.
"Nice," Brendon says, peeling off his jacket and settling down on the couch with ease. Shane stands stupidly in the foyer before closing the door, removing his own jacket and placing it into the closet. "How long have you been living here?"
"Um, a few months now," Shane says, pushing up the sleeves of his sweater and walking into the living room. "I was living in the city, but I like Cambridge better."
"Hmm." Brendon nods. He crosses his ankle over his knee, foot shaking to a rhythm Shane doesn't know. Brendon looks out the window nearby, his eyes roving over the scenery outside. "Aren't you going to ask me how long I'm in Boston?"
"Do you want me to ask you?" Shane asks.
Brendon looks back at Shane. "Do you want to know?"
Shane does want to know. He wants to know why he allowed himself to say yes to seeing Brendon after almost a year of only committing to brief encounters. He wants to know why he's sitting in his living room, buzzing with the same energy like the day he met him almost five years before.
Shane tries for nonchalant. "Sure," he says with a shrug, settling down on the other side of the couch.
Brendon starts conveniently distracting himself with his cellphone. "The guys are going back tomorrow, but I figured I'd say a few more days."
Shane nods. "Okay."
"I'm staying at..." He pulls out a piece of paper from his pocket and repeats the name of a hotel that he mentioned earlier during the obligatory dinner conversation they engaged in. It's not like Shane doesn't remember, but Brendon is always the type to repeat himself, if only to hear the sound of his own voice.
There's a silence that fills the air after that. It's a strange feeling, not as tense as the last visit, with desperation in Brendon's eyes, but it isn't comfortable. The elephant sits quietly in the corner, waiting.
"I better get going," Brendon says at the same time Shane says, "When are you leaving?"
"What was that?" Brendon asks. He's almost halfway to the door, and Shane almost wants to tell him to stay, a few more minutes. Almost.
Shane clears his throat. "I asked when you were leaving."
Brendon opens his mouth to say something but nothing comes out. He closes it and shrugs his jacket on. "I leave Sunday."
"Okay," Shane says and gets up from his seat. He walks past Brendon and over to the door, turning the lock.
Brendon places his hand on the door, his eyes focused at his fingers spread over the wood. His voice is barely above a whisper when he asks, "Do you think we can meet up tomorrow?"
Shane thinks, No, I don't think we can. This isn't right at all, but instead says, "Sure, okay."
Brendon looks up, his eyes somewhat wide and hopeful. "Yeah?"
"Yeah, no problem," Shane says. The words tumble out of his mouth and he can't stop himself. "I was going to go take pictures at this park nearby--"
"What time?" Brendon interrupts, the hopeful sound turning into something more like excitement. Shane can feel the weight in his stomach pull him down further.
"How...How about I call you?" Shane offers. Brendon nods agreeably, peeling his palm off the door and opening it for Shane's phone. "I have another number," Brendon clarifies when Shane looks at his hand curiously.
When Shane can't retrieve it quick enough, Brendon starts tapping his foot impatiently. "Calm down, fuck. It's right here," he mutters before handing it over.
Brendon punches the number in easily and gives the phone back to Shane. He doesn't relinquish the phone right away and when Shane tugs again, Brendon comes closer, his hand gripping onto Shane's wrist.
"Thanks," he whispers, his voice low and heavy.
"Anytime," Shane whispers back.
Brendon smiles again, giving one last squeeze before leaving. Shane turns the lock and presses his forehead against the door before running a shaky hand through his hair.
*
It wasn't an excuse when Shane told Brendon about the photography. In fact, he really did have a possible commission from a friend of his, but it had been so long since Shane had held a camera -- aside from the few fleeting moments when he'd just fuck around to remember the feeling of the weight in his hand, watching everything focus into shape. He didn't want to fuck up the chance. He's messing with the filter, carefully adjusting it onto the lens. He has a few other cameras in his bag, a couple of vintage ones and a random Polaroid that he found in the back of his parent's closet around Christmas.
"Listen, my feet are fucking numb, okay?" Brendon says loudly into his cellphone. Shane doesn't know who he's talking to, but when Brendon tilts his head back and lets out a cackle, he figures it's one of the guys. Brendon rarely talks to anyone outside of his band members. "I swear to God, I think I'm in like eight feet of snow."
Shane rolls his eyes and shakes his head. Brendon's lying of course, being completely dramatic about the cold, which isn't surprising at all. Brendon continues to babble loudly, trying to convince the other person that the only way to successfully be awesome is to know how to do a perfect kickflip.
"Are you serious? A hospital flip, really? That's fucking weak man. Now if you did a fucking Impossible? Then you'd be a badass. But a hospital flip? You're still on the pansy list," he glances over at Shane as soon as Shane adjusts behind the viewfinder, smile tugging on his face. "Look, I gotta go. You continue your weak ass flips." Brendon chuckles, and shakes his head, "No, bro, I'll totally kick your ass. Yeah I'll put money on it, don't even. Okay, later, man."
Shane snaps a few shots, the snow glimmering against the sunlight. The air is fairly still, but his fingers are cold. Brendon's carefully walking around on the slick ground, his arms stretched like a tightrope walker, placing one foot carefully in front of the next. Shane continues to watch through the viewfinder. The filter accentuates the sunlight, makes the branches of the nearby tree seem more defined, the sky a teal blue, and Brendon is standing in the middle of it all, carefully measuring his steps to refrain from falling into oblivion.
Shane snaps three shots in a row, each a measured nanosecond. Brendon spins around, his arms turning in circles as he slips a little, before catching his footing. He laughs, bright and loud, the smile stretching over his face comfortably.
"Getting anything good?" he asks, squinting an eye as he cranes his head up. Shane zooms in closer as Brendon reaches up to a branch and shakes it, white flurries falling around him. It's almost in slow motion, the gesture delicate and slow. Brendon grins slyly, peering through snow covered bangs. He tilts his head to the side and Shane takes another picture.
"Are you going to get all quiet photographer? Because if you are--" Brendon stops and shakes his head.
Shane pulls the camera down. "Sorry," he says quietly, "It's been a while, is all."
Brendon nods. "I could make a snow angel if you'd like."
Shane blinks a couple of times, looks at the serious expression on Brendon's face. "You're kidding."
"No, dude, I could totally get down on this snow right here, and fucking make the best angel ever."
"You hate the cold," Shane says in a bored voice as he fiddles with the camera. "And I'm sure those precious pants of yours cost you at least two hundred. You wouldn't dare."
Brendon huffs, "They did not cost two hundred." Shane narrows his eyes, and Brendon relents and says, "Okay, two fifty."
Shane laughs. "Wow, only you would spend two hundred dollars on a pair of girl jeans ."
"Two fifty, get it right. And these aren't girl jeans, man, they're--" He looks down and shrugs, "I don't know what the fuck they're called, but they cost a lot." He straightens up and shivers visibly, "I'm fucking hungry, let's get something to eat. This one-on-one with nature shit is over."
"You should learn to appreciate mother nature more. Despite the fact that the winters fucking suck, it really is a beautiful city," Shane says. Brendon gives an unconvinced look. “It's just, growing up in a desert, you really get screwed out of real seasons, you know? The fall is fucking gorgeous. There isn't a leaf here that isn't a different color and it's pretty intoxicating."
He looks over to see Brendon grinning a him. He turns away and looks down at the ground, hands shoveled inside of his jacket, and his expression grows more solemn. "What?"
"Nothing, man. You just...you look happy, that's all."
Shane smiles and says, "I am."
*
They end up getting some pizza at a small hole in the wall near the park. When they walk back to Shane's apartment, Brendon insists on stopping to get coffee or anything warm, complaining about random body parts suddenly falling off due to the lack of circulation in his body.
"You do realize that drinking coffee is not going to change the situation, right?" Shane says. "You've been to the northeast a million times, I don't get how you can forget boots."
"Do I look like I fucking own a house in Aspen that I visit once a year and ski at?" Brendon counters, taking a long drag of the cigarette between his lips. "Seriously, though, I kind of need something."
"We're almost back to my place; I'll make something there."
Brendon hums an agreement, walking faster down the sidewalk, taking longer puffs of his cigarette. Shane catches a glimpse of his hollowed cheeks when he sucks in a long drag, the way lets a small hiss escape between clenched teeth when the mixture of smoke and freezing air fills his lungs. He feels something flip in his stomach, and immediately turns away before Brendon notices.
They get back to the apartment, Brendon happily singing a song about the cold weather and inviting warmth, a little ditty that just falls off his tongue. Shane immediately walks to his kitchen, hitting the answering machine button on the way. He sets down the cameras and tears off his jacket, the heat too much against the heavy layers.
"I can't believe--" Brendon starts but quickly stops when Regan's voice fills the room, light and sweet. Shane is in the middle of searching for the coffee he thought he had in the cupboard, but stops until she says goodbye. There aren't any other messages after hers. "You still have an answering machine," he observes in a dull voice.
Shane shrugs, turning his head back into the cupboard, reaching to move the sugar and a few spices. "I don't like giving out my cell phone to potential jobs." With a sigh, he pulls back and closes the door. "I don't have any coffee. I have a shitload of tea, though."
"'s fine. Whatever you got." Brendon's already taken off his winter coat and scarf, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his sweater. He sits down on the couch, folding the jacket carefully in his lap, leg bobbing.
Shane pours water into a teapot (it used to be Regan's, but he still uses it from time to time) and sets it on the stove. When he walks back into the living room, Brendon is staring out of the window. He's tapping his hands on his knees.
"Do you ever go out to the clubs or anything here?" Brendon asks.
"Not really," Shane confesses, sitting on the opposite side of the couch. Brendon gives a surprised look and he shrugs in response. "I just kind of grew out of that shit, man. Like, I'm over thirty years old, it's time to grow up. I can't be a rockstar forever."
Brendon's eyes move over to the window. "Can't be a rockstar forever," he echoes softly. Shane sees his eyebrows knitting together in concentration before he asks, "How long have you guys been talking?"
"What are you--" Shane begins, but realizes that Brendon is talking about Regan. He palms the back of his neck, the bottom of his hat scratching against the top of his hand. "I don't know. A while now. She comes out to visit sometimes."
Brendon's eyes go wide with surprise. "Oh?"
"Yeah, I mean," Shane shrugs. "I kind of always knew we'd be friends. It's not that big of a deal or anything."
Brendon nods, and looks back down at his jacket. "Kyla's pregnant."
"Wow, really?" Shane asks in surprise.
"Yeah, man, isn't that nuts?” Brendon's face grows animated again, the serious expression dissolving so quickly that it makes Shane blink. “I swear, my parents are just waiting for me to go find someone and procreate, but it's like, my siblings have done that job well enough." He laughs, but it sounds heavy and rueful. "Mom still asks about you, by the way."
Shane opens his mouth to say something, but a tiny whistle comes from the kitchen. "I better get that," he says instead. He fumbles a little in the kitchen, his hands shaking inexplicably. A mug slips from his grip, and as he stumbles to keep it from crashing, Brendon's hand are there helping Shane catch it.
"Got it?" Brendon asks, hand still on Shane's.
"Yeah," Shane assures, and gives a stiff nod.
Brendon pulls back and leans against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. He doesn't say anything for a while, the noise of the ice maker emptying muffled in the background. "Two spoons," Brendon reminds, when Shane pulls the teabag out.
"I know," he says, carefully taking two full spoons of sugar and putting them into the cup. He watches the murky color whirl for a few linger moments before saying, "I didn't know they still...you know."
"Give a shit?" Brendon supplies. Shane nods, but doesn't look at Brendon's reaction. "Well they do," he says matter-of-factly. "They never stopped caring, Shane."
"Could've fooled me," Shane mutters.
"What the fuck?" Brendon snaps, his voice defensive. "Look, they love you. It's not like my family's going to write you out of their life or some--" Brendon takes a deep breath before continuing in a strangely calm voice, "I know that you think that everything is all fucked up because it was you and that's not true. You know, it could've been anyone and the reaction would've been the same." He pauses for a second. "Shane, look at me."
Shane turns, his hand still stirring clockwise. The spoon hits the porcelain, small clinks against metal. Brendon looks down at the cup, and reaches out, stopping Shane's hand. "I'm sorry," he says quietly. His voice sounds foreign and sad. "I'm sorry that it didn't, you know."
"Whatever, man," Shane replies. He can feel his shoulders tense. "Shit happens, right?"
"I just--I feel like this is all fucked because of it and it could've, like. Sometimes I think that what if--" Brendon doesn't finish the sentence, but the words sit between them. Maybe alongside What if.
"Your tea is going to get cold," Shane says, jerking his head at the mug.
Brendon looks down, lifting the mug to his lips, slurping loudly. "How is it?" Shane asks.
Brendon hums happily and closes his eyes. He opens them again, and stares at Shane for a moment, reaching up and removing the hat from his head. His fingertips brush along the side of Shane's face as he murmurs, "Perfect."
*
Shane stands in the back of the show, watching Ivan carefully walk around and introduce himself to all of the guests. The evening is a pretty decent success, along with a couple of sales to high-end customers.
He looks out into the night, watching the snow fall without regard. The pedestrians still roam along the sidewalks, bundled in their jacket and boots. Shane looks at the front door.
"You have been very untalkative tonight," Ivan says in a quiet voice, like he's holding a deep secret. He leans against the back wall, hand gripping a flute glass carefully.
Shane looks at a couple staring at a landscape picture, framed in cherry oak wood. He nods to them and says, "Looks like a potential."
Ivan glances over lazily and shrugs. "We'll see. Can't pester them right away, you have to let everything fall into place." He moves his hand around in a circle in front of him, the grin on his face. "So, is he coming?"
Shane looks at the front door, watches several people walk past and shrugs. "I don't know," he answers honestly.
"You know, I'm not trying to push this out of you or anything, but you never really explained what happened." Shane looks over, and Ivan shrugs. "It's none of my business, but we've been friends for, shit, four years? I mean, I know that things were messy when you and Regan split--"
"It's got nothing to do with her," Shane says immediately. Which is somewhat of a lie. After the extended break continued for much longer than planned, and Regan declared the relationship over, Shane felt strangely relieved and scared. He was used to Regan, used to being who he was around her and not having to worry about walking on eggshells. And although being single was probably better, it didn't deny that after five years, he was alone again.
But there was Brendon. And Brendon being Brendon decided that the best way to mend a broken heart was through as much distraction as he could give Shane, including copious bottles of Jack Daniels and an array of drugs from all corners of the world. The first week wasn't nearly as bad as it could've been, and the week after was more of a blur than anything else. But Brendon was just there and the tumble turned into a fall. A big fall.
"Right," Ivan say easily. "But somewhere after that, something happened, right?"
Shane shrugs. "Yeah, I guess."
"You guess? That seems like a loaded answer right there. There must be more than that." Shane sighs, pushes his fingers through his hair and shakes his head.
"I thought you said you weren't pressing?" Shane grouses, and Ivan, surprisingly, chuckles.
"Well, you didn't tell me to shut the fuck up or threaten to kick me in places that would hinder future children of mine, so I figured what the hell." He pauses for a moment, the grin disappearing from his face, eyes never leaving Shane's.
Shane closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "What do you want to know?"
"I don't know, man, start from the middle and work your way around."
"Regan and I broke up, and it was kinda shitty." Shane opens his eyes and looks at Ivan's 'You're so full of shit' face. "Okay, it was really shitty," he amends, looking down into his glass.
"Okay. You guys dated for years. It would be shitty."
Shane takes a deep gulp from his glass. "Right," he whispers. "So, yeah, it was kind of like, well. Brendon was helping me or whatever, and we kind of..." Shane waves the glass in front of him.
Ivan stares at him blankly for a few seconds before his eyes grow wide, an indicator that he realizes what Shane is saying. "Okay. So, you guys...Yeah."
Shane laughs. "Dude, you look like I just asked you to marry me or something."
"Well, if you ever asked I'd say yes," Ivan quips, and Shane laughs. "So, what? Some big gay crisis or something?"
"Not really?" Shane brushes his fingers through his hair nervously. "His parents weren't that happy. Didn't expect their baby boy being into, you know."
Ivan listens carefully, eyes wandering over to the crowd. His eyebrows furrow together for a moment, and he glances back at Shane briefly. "Right. So they freaked out."
Shane chuckles darkly. Ivan lifts his eyebrows, and opens his mouth to say something, but Shane continues. "Yeah they freaked out. But, before everything went to hell? It was good." He stares down at his glass. "Really good, actually."
Before the conversation can continue, a sudden gush of cold air hits the back of Shane's legs. He turns around to see Brendon closing the door behind him, shaking the flakes out of his hair. He's wearing a long black leather jacket that Shane could've sworn was at one time Ryan's, but immediately dismisses the thought out of his head. Brendon peers over the crowd until finally settling on Shane and Ivan, a smirk on his face.
"Sorry I'm late," he says when he crosses the distance from the entrance to them. His eyes linger back and forth between Ivan and Shane for a moment before reaching his hand out. "I'm Brendon, by the way." He nods to Shane. "Asshole here is bad at introducing people it seems."
Ivan laughs and nods. "Ivan. I've heard plenty about you."
Brendon gives a mischievous smile over at Shane. "Is that so?" he asks, eyes never leaving Shane.
"Yup, plenty," Ivan says. Shane looks over at him and gives an incredulous look, but only receives a clap on the shoulder from his friend. "Well, I better get back to doing my job. Can't let the potentials walk away." Ivan turns around, walking backwards. "Feel free to look around," he offers.
"Will do," Brendon calls back. He peels off the jacket, revealing a black button down and intricately wrapped scarf around his neck. Shane looks over the outfit and feels his throat tighten when Brendon turns around to place the jacket on a coat rack nearby. He doesn't think about how he stares at the way the jeans cling to Brendon's ass, or the sound of his shoes against the tiled floor. Instead, he takes a long drink of his champagne, suddenly in need of another one.
"I really am sorry about being late," Brendon says. "I got a phone call from Ryan about--" he waves his hand in front of him and rolls his eyes. "It's not that big of a deal."
"Okay," Shane says. He doesn't look at Brendon, instead focusing on the crowd gathering around Ivan giving a speech about a particular photo he took while taking an extended trip to Alaska.
"So are you going to give me a tour?" Brendon asks, his voice tinged with enthusiasm. Suddenly Brendon is in front of Shane, eyes wide with mock-earnesty. "I promise I'll be a good boy, Mom. Please?" He drags out the last word for a long time.
Shane rolls his eyes and laughs. "Fine, fine, but you have to remember not to touch anything, okay?"
Brendon nods a few times and smiles. "Of course. But I do get complimentary alcohol, right?"
"Of course." Brendon smiles, bright and sincere, his hand wrapping around Shane's wrist as they make their way across the gallery.
*
"Fuck," Shane whispers with a chuckle, resting his head against the door of his apartment. His head is swimming and everything is suddenly falling sideways. "I can't get the fucking door open."
"Here," Brendon says, reaching over and grabbing the keys from Shane's grip. He fiddles with various ones, and Shane closes his eyes, scooting across to give space for Brendon to unlock the door. "Jesus. Which one is it?"
"Um," Shane says. He tries really hard to find the right words to describe the key but finds that it's impossible. "The one that's not like the others?"
"Oh that's helpful," Brendon says dryly. Shane keeps his eyes closed, his hand reaching out blindly and grips onto Brendon's shoulder. "You better not puke right outside your fucking door. Cause I swear to God I am not cleaning that shit up. You're totally on your own."
"I'm not going to throw up, okay? Everything is just spinning for a moment."
"The rule applies to your apartment too, just so you know." Shane hears him place a key in the lock and sighs. "And since when did you turn into such a fucking lightweight?"
"'m not a lightweight," Shane argues. Well, attempts to argue, but the words just blend into a slur. "You didn't drink as much as much as Ivan and I did. That's totally unfair."
Brendon scoffs, the keys still jingling. "No, I just have more practice and--" the sound of the door unlocking breaks into the air. "Success! Come on, lightweight, let's get you inside."
When Shane gets inside, he rips off his coat and sweater, tossing them haphazardly onto the floor before flopping onto the couch. "I think I need a glass of water or something."
Brendon chuckles, the clack of his shoes echoing against the wood floor. Shane hears the opening and closing of various cupboards, and with a sigh, smooshes his face into the fabric of the couch. "I can't believe Ivan sold every one of those photos."
"He's really talented," Brendon notes, the sounds of his footsteps drawing closer. He pauses for a moment before saying, "Hey, make some room."
"Urmph," Shane protests as Brendon moves his legs and settles onto the couch.
"Don't get pissy with me. You have to sit up anyway. Heaven knows you suck at drinking out of a cup while doing downward facing drunk."
Shane maneuvers until he's his head is resting against the cushion on the back of the couch. "Downward facing what?"
Brendon laughs softly. "Some kind of joke that Jon made up one night when Ryan got shit-faced. He was totally in the same position as you were. Here." Shane feels the cup in his palm and brings up to his lips taking a long drink. A small drop misses his mouth and trails down his chin.
When he finishes, he sighs happily. "Thanks."
Brendon takes the cup from Shane's hand, the glass clinking on the table. "Anytime," Brendon murmurs, his fingers brushing over the side of Shane's face and through his hair. Shane sniffles, the warmth of the apartment not overwhelming, but enough to contrast with the heat inside in his veins from the alcohol and the shiver on his skin from the cold outside.
Shane sighs contentedly when Brendon's fingers tangle through his hair and down to the nape of his neck. Shane wants to open his eyes desperately, and when he does, it takes a few bleary blinks to finally see how close Brendon is in front of him. He's taken off his jacket, and his hair is sticking damply to his forehead.
"Hi," Brendon whispers, the faintest hint of a smirk on his face.
"Hi," Shane whispers back, focusing his eyes on Brendon's lips as he reaches up and and curls his fingers around the back of Brendon's neck. Brendon's eyes fall halfway, and his lips part slightly. Shane notices Brendon's tongue move over his bottom lip and there's nothing that could stop him from sealing their mouths together.
Brendon moans against the pressure, his tongue immediately venturing into Shane's mouth. He's always an impatient kisser when he drinks, not wanting to tease or worry about the foreplay, just ready to push right into the mix of everything. Shane understands the urge to focus on the burning desire, patience long gone behind the foggy haze of lust. He moves his hand to Brendon's shoulder, squeezing hard, and descends backwards until Brendon is resting on top of him.
He breaks the kiss, breath hot and heavy against Shane's cheek. "You okay?" he whispers, voice ragged and husky.
"Yeah," Shane breathes back, his lips tracing over the side of Brendon's cheek. He feels the prickle of hair against his mouth, the small indication that Brendon hasn't shaved in a couple of days. Without warning, Shane bites onto Brendon's earlobe, earning a sharp, staggered gasp and a shift of hips. Shane groans at the sensation and then the realization that fuck, he hasn't done this in God only knows how long, which should be considered fucking illegal.
At the same moment, a revelation surfaces, bold and clear through the cloud of alcoholic pleasure that it's Brendon that's on top of him right now, not a stranger or a friend of a friend that he picked up at a party like the last one night stand. It's through that war between body and mind, Brendon carefully biting at the juncture of Shane's shoulder and their hips involuntarily moving together, that he croaks out, "Stop."
Brendon stills a moment, and it's then that Shane can feel the effects of their bodies pressing together, along with the restriction in his own jeans. Brendon doesn't move for what feels like centuries, and when he pulls back, his eyes are unreadable. Neither one of them speak for a while, the only sounds in Shane's ringing ears are of heavy breathing. It's then that the wall that Brendon built around him crumbles away and Shane sees more than he ever expects. He knows it's because they're both drunk, knows that it's easy for Brendon to give himself away like this, half hard in his jeans and tequila in his blood.
Shane sighs, the room spinning again. "This is not going to end well," he says softly. His voice sounds foreign and his chest is tight.
"Of course," Brendon replies, his voice equally tight. He removes himself carefully, and the lack of body warmth makes Shane feel naked and alone.
When he opens his eyes, Brendon is standing in front of the door, jacket wrapped over his arm. "It doesn't have to be like last time, you know."
Shane tries to say something, the syllables stumbling out, but Brendon is already leaving, the door slamming behind him.
Part Two
Brendon/Shane || NC-17 || 16,132 words || Erotic Nudity Prompt for sosodirty
It's easy to smile because being around Brendon makes it easy. He makes everything dissolve away like a sugar cube in water, and Shane wishes sometimes that he could stop letting it be that simple.
Notes: Title shamelessly borrowed from one of Shane's movies. Thanks to the following for the fantastic beta and wonderful help: softlyforgotten, hellodolly123 and carnilia. Also thanks to falling_words, slashxmistress, kyasuriin and zarah5v2 for being great help and reading various stages of this story. And ♥ to samedifference_ for helping me flesh this out and being overall amazing. Additional apologies for taking so long to get this up on the community.
And then the day came,
when the risk
to remain tight
in a bud
was more painful
than the risk
it took
to Blossom
Risk - Anais Nin
During the summers, the air in the desert never changes between night and day, stubbornly remaining dry and oppressive. Even though the air conditioner in Shane's car is up full blast, the heat inside takes much longer than normal to dissipate.
You can't change who you are, Brendon. You can't make them understand.
Traffic isn't terrible because it's the middle of the night on a weekday. The sky is clear, the moon full and bright, against the darkness as though it knows how much it is needed tonight. There's nothing on the radio, and for the sake of keeping his mind at ease, Shane rolls down the window and sticks his hand out, the air dusty and warm. He's already been on the road for a few hours, and he should be tired, but he's not.
A sign for Interstate 15 rolls by. Two thousand more miles until Boston.
I know I can't make them understand. But I have to try.
Shane drives faster.
*
The coffee shop isn't full, but there are enough people inside that the chatter of voices cuts into Shane's spinning thoughts.
"This is a stupid idea," he says into his cup of coffee. "Such a stupid fucking idea."
When he realizes how loud his voice carries, Shane takes a glance over and sees the girl who was quietly immersed in a book giving him a suspicious look. He resists the urge to roll his eyes and opens his mouth to say something about the fact that it's perfectly normal to talk to your cup of coffee, thanks, there have been songs about it and all, when he hears a snicker nearby and turns his head.
Brendon is standing not even five feet away, lip caught between his teeth. The first thing that comes to the forefront of Shane's mind is that he looks different from the last time they saw each other. It was only a couple of months before, at the opening of Ivan's gallery, but an indescribable difference radiates from Brendon that Shane can't place. Then Shane watches as Brendon tilts his head back and belts out a cackle, loud and obnoxious, and in usual Brendon Urie style, he doubles over and squeaks out a high pitched, "Oh, shit!". Shane blinks a couple of times and takes in a gulp of air to say something when--
He realizes his mouth is still hanging open.
Shane covers his mouth with his hand and clears his throat. "Are you laughing at me?"
Brendon instantly regains himself, and with a well-practiced poker face deadpans, "Not at all." He walks over and sits in front of Shane, a gentle glide into his chair, a grin smoothing on his face. "So," he begins.
"So," Shane echoes. He's not going to initiate polite conversation, even if he did agree to this...meeting, or whatever.
Brendon doesn't say anything for a moment and lets out a long sigh. His shoulders sag a little, like he's deflating, eyes focusing on something on the table. "Does it always have to be like this, Shane?"
"Like what?" Shane asks. It's a knee jerk reaction, almost like a defense, being oblivious. If he continues to be oblivious, it'll be like a year ago never happened. Shane's grown accustomed to forgetting the past.
Brendon's eyes flicker up and he raises an eyebrow. Shane holds his gaze for a long time, and he'll be damned if he's going to just back down. Brendon stands up abruptly, the chair screeching against the linoleum floor. "I'm getting something to drink."
Shane nods and watches Brendon turn around to stand in line. His foot taps against the floor, a rattatpausetat rhythm that Shane can't decipher. The line doesn't move for a while, the guy in front of Brendon staring at the menu, bored as though he has all of the time in the world. Brendon then starts to drum on his legs in accompaniment with the beat of his foot and Shane almost feels his lips curling up, thinking of the times when they were on tour together and they would--
Shane shakes his head and pushes the thought aside. "Stupid fucking idea," he whispers again, and takes a long drink of his coffee. He winces at the cold bitterness, forcing himself to swallow it down. He closes his eyes and presses his thumbs against the two pressure points at the middle of his forehead.
When he opens his eyes again, Brendon is sitting in front of him, body completely still. Odd.
"How long have you been waiting?" Shane asks.
"A lot longer than you think," Brendon replies before slurping loudly out of his cup.
*
When they get outside, it's snowing.
Blurs of white are threathing to break through looming gray clouds. Shane's fingers itch to capture it behind the focus of a lens, but it's fucking cold, and since they've been walking for a while, his extremities are starting to ache. Sadly, it's going to have to wait.
He flicks the cigarette sitting between his fingers, watching it exhaust against the slush. A small sizzle breaks into the calm air, the tires rolling against the pavement, tiny swishswish noises resonating in the air.
"Littering is a terrible habit, you know," Brendon says from Shane's side. He stops in his walk, grows fascinated with something in a shop's window, but Shane continues moving. He grins when he hears Brendon jogging to catch up.
"Yeah? Is this an intervention?" Shane asks, the smirk slipping on his face.
Brendon scoffs and shakes his head, pulling a soft pack out, and tapping it a couple of times. He wraps his lips around the butt of the cigarette and shrugs. "Maybe," he answers in a muffled voice, reaching in his back pocket for a lighter and cupping his hand for the flame to catch. After taking a long drag he adds through a haze of smoke, "But that'd require you to actually accept that you have an issue. Are you willing to do that Shane Valdez?"
Shane chews on the side of his cheek and shrugs. "I'll think about it."
"Pussy," Brendon teases. His cheeks are reddened by the biting wind, and small white speckles are covering his dark hair. His bangs are slightly wet from fingertips touching them, making the snowflakes melt against the strands.
Shane shrugs again, stopping at the corner and looking to see if the traffic is clear. "I'll accept the matter for what it is: I am, in fact, a pussy."
"The road to recovery for any problem is admitting that you do, in fact, have that problem," Brendon agrees solemnly.
Shane finds himself smiling. It's easy to smile because being around Brendon makes it easy. He makes everything dissolve away like a sugar cube in water, and Shane wishes sometimes that he could stop letting it be that simple.
They continue to stand at the corner, the other pedestrians walking around them. Everything stills for a moment when Shane looks at Brendon, the slow curve of a smile on his face. "I'll be back tomorrow," he says, lifting his hand to hail a cab.
"Wh--what?" Shane stutters.
"You still live in that apartment over on Jefferson?"
Shane blinks a couple of times, because he doesn't remember ever telling Brendon the exact location of his residence. In fact, he knows he hasn't because he'd remember something like that. Then, realization settles in and he lets his shoulders slump as he sighs, "Fucking Jon."
Brendon giggles again and shakes his head. "He cannot resist my charm."
"Your weed," Shane corrects.
"Well," Brendon says in response with a shrug. "That too. Six?"
The word, "Okay," slips out of Shane's mouth before he has the chance to think about a proper answer. He thinks he should retract, tell Brendon some white lie about having plans already; Ivan or Jerry would totally cover for him, but then a cab veers over and comes to a halt.
Brendon opens the door, leans in for a second to talk to the driver and pulls back from the door. "Six, Shane," he says in reminder. "Be ready."
Shane nods and watches Brendon get in the car and leave. The tires continue moving against the road quietly as Shane walks home.
*
Ivan is talking about his next show, the one that's going to actually make or break him, but Shane's not paying attention. He's trying to, staring at the enlarged photo of a little girl twirling around in the rain, until suddenly Ivan says, "Are you even listening to what I'm saying?"
Shane looks over at Ivan and sighs. "Kind of?"
Ivan chuckles. "You've been zoning out all morning. What the hell is going on with you?"
"Just..." Shane shrugs, and looks back at another picture. It's of the same girl, only she's looking at the camera this time, laughing happily. Shane tilts his head and observes the exposure. Ivan loves making the contrast more accentuated, stating that 'colors only are in their truest form when they are bold.'
"Who is this?" Shane asks, casually.
"My sister's daughter. She's a pistol," Ivan chuckles. "But don't think you can schmooze me, Valdez. Spill."
"Brendon's in town," Shane says after a beat.
“And?” Ivan says. He leans against the counter and crosses his arms carefully. “Is this the part where you actually tell me what happened instead of getting all quiet and thinky?”
Shane closes his eyes and sighs. “Sometimes, I wonder how you are my friend.”
“It's totally that love and devotion, thing. You know, the one where we sit around and eat ice cream and watch American Idol together.”
Shane opens one eye. “We never do that.”
“Oh, right. That's because you're a douche and refuse to watch quality television.”
“What? That show is fucking awful, I still can't believe--” Shane takes another deep breath. He continues to look at another picture. Now the girl is looking up at a balloon, a thin string wrapped around her wrist. “It was nice seeing him, you know? He looked good. Happy.”
Ivan lets out a long whistle and turns around to walk out of the room. When he comes back he's holding a bottle full of clear liquid and two glasses. "What the fuck are you doing?" Shane asks.
"What does it look like?" Ivan says, giving the glasses to Shane as he opens the bottle. "You look like you need this before you start to talk about your emotions and shit."
"Um," Shane looks over his shoulder to make sure they are alone, which, of course they are. No one sets foot in Ivan's gallery at this time of day. "It's like nine in the morning or something. Whatever happened to drinking in the afternoon?"
Ivan shrugs and smiles up at Shane. "Hey, it's noon somewhere in the world, right?"
*
Brendon calls to announce, tragically, that he will be late. Shane's not surprised at all because in the world according to Brendon Urie, time is of no importance.
There was a time when Brendon didn't even bother to call Shane, just showed up a half an hour or an hour later than intended. But those days are gone, split away and buried in a past that they no longer share.
He tries to entertain himself by watching something on TV. After three consecutive searches through over a hundred channels, Shane turns the television off. Surprisingly, Brendon ends up only being five minutes late, making Shane jump at the raptaptap beat of his knock.
When Shane opens the door, Brendon is leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes flicker up and a smiles spreads on his face, huge and fucking genuine, and it takes a couple of hard swallows for Shane to calm down the heat that flushes around his neck.
He is so fucked.
Brendon's eyes rove over Shane's outfit as he pushes himself out of the leaning position. He gives an approving nod. "Nice," he murmurs.
Shane gives Brendon a glance over too, noting the thick jacket and white button down exposed underneath. "Since when do you wear shirts like that?"
Brendon looks down as though he forgot what he was wearing. "I don't know," he replies with a shrug. "Long enough. Come on, I was late, and the night isn't getting younger."
Shane snorts. "Is that supposed to be your smooth line right there, Rico Suave?"
Brendon laughs and shakes his head. "No, actually. I'm too fucking hungry to even worry about hitting on you. Where are you taking me?"
"You mean to tell me that you say we should get dinner and I have to choose?" Shane clicks his tongue, "That's a little tacky."
"Hey, this is your city, right? You live here and all; so that means you know what's the best place to eat at," Brendon argues as they descend the stairs. When they get outside, a blast of cold air greets them, and Brendon lets out a soft curse.
Brendon continues to make claims of his imminent death unless he gains sustenance, like, right fucking now. Shane tells him that all good things come to those who wait, and continues to walk down the block. The sun has long since set, a downfall of winter in the north. The night sky, thankfully, is wide and open, stars speckling graciously. Even though it's fucking cold, nights like this are some of Shane's favorite.
After much arguing about where to go -- "Brendon, I am not going to downtown Boston in the middle of the fucking winter, forget it."-- Shane decides to take Brendon to The Middle East, a somewhat eccentric bar/restaurant that Shane has fallen in love with over the past few months.
Brendon stops in front of the mural next to the entrance. It's a little outrageous, with large faces and bright colors. To top it all off, a mystical ram sits in the corner, giving it a perfectly kitschy look. Shane glances at Brendon staring with big searching eyes. "Wow," he whispers.
"Yeah," Shane agrees with a nod. He doesn't say anything for a moment before shuddering at the breeze that continues to attack them. "Come on," he says, jerking his head in the direction of the restaurant. "It's fucking cold out here."
They get a booth somewhere in the back, the white glow of the of the small restaurant accentuated by the tiny bulbs in strings of Christmas lights. The warmth goes right to Shane's bones, and he lets out a happy sigh, closing his eyes for a moment.
"Didn't your mother tell you that it's rude to keep a hat on at the dinner table?" Brendon asks in a low, bored voice. He doesn't look up from the menu he's searching over, lip caught between his teeth.
"I like to have a warm head," Shane says. "And, I like to keep my health. So, the hat stays."
Brendon gives a disbelieving look. "Dude, you wore that exact hat in the middle of summer tours with me, don't give me that shit."
“That was before I moved to a city where in the winter it gets below zero including wind-chill.” Shane says, the tiny prickle expanding over his skin. He looks down at the menu casually, humming before saying, "They have a lot of vegetarian meals here--"
"I'm not vegetarian anymore," Brendon interrupts.
Shane's eyes go wide, and he blinks a couple of times. "Oh. Since when?"
Brendon shrugs stiffly, still studying the menu. His fingertips tap the tabletop, avoiding any kind of eye contact. “A few months.” His lips thin a little before admitting, "Since you left."
"Why didn't you tell me, I mean we could've gone somewhere--"
"Don't," Brendon says softly, his hands wrapping around the menu tightly. "Don't make accommodations for me. Just--Don't treat me like a guest, because I'm not, okay?"
Shane nods, biting his tongue from saying anything more than, "Okay."
*
Dinner, it turns out, isn't nearly as bad as Shane expected.
He listens to Brendon talk about going on tour; everyone trying to coax Jon into moving to LA with the rest of the band (“I mean, it'll kind of make everything complete, you know?”); the way that Keltie and Ryan should be getting married, (“Dude, you know it's a big deal if I'm saying they should, right?”); and the fleeting idea of doing a solo project, but in the end pussing out when the offer actually came to fruition.
"I just wasn't ready, you know?" he explains, carefully swirling the straw around in his cup. "It's not the same without the guys. But everyone was so busy, with Spencer and Haley getting engaged and Keltie moving to LA and I'm happy for them, really, I am. But I just kind of missed touring." He lifts his shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “I missed a lot of things,” he adds softly, before peering up through his bangs.
"So what're you doing in Boston?" Shane asks, carefully avoiding eye contact. Sometimes, he's found, it's easier to get to the fucking point. Otherwise Brendon will continue to run around in circles, trying hard to not really commit to serious conversation.
"We were in New York getting things settled for a new album," Brendon answers without skipping a beat. "After being on a hiatus for almost a year, Pete said it's about time we get into the studio." Brendon leans back against his chair, stretching his arms over his head and brushing his fingers through his hair. "So now you're in this new city and shit. And I've seen you at least three times and you never bothered to tell me what you do."
Shane looks up from the napkin he was folding. "Me? Nothing much. I've gotten a few jobs doing some videos and editing shit. Did some documentary stuff for a couple of bands." Shane grins and looks back down at the napkin, "My friend Ivan thinks that I should do a gallery showing or something with my photography, but I haven't really been behind a camera in a while."
"Ivan?" Brendon asks, confused.
"Guy I met through Jacob," Shane explains. "One of the contacts I had when I came out here."
Brendon nods and lets out a small "ah". He doesn't say anything for a moment and takes the chance to look out into the busy night. "Do you like it here?" he asks quietly.
"Sometimes I do," Shane says. "Sometimes I don't."
After a small argument over who should pay -- Brendon wins by pulling out the black American Express in one smooth move -- they leave to greet the bitter cold night. The temperature has dropped significantly in the past hour and a half or so, and Shane takes a deep inhale, the air biting inside of his chest.
"So are you going to take me back to this apartment of yours? Give me the grand tour?" Brendon asks after a moment of silence.
Shane stops walking for a moment and looks at Brendon, "Grand tour?"
"Yeah," Brendon says. "I've never seen it, and now's the chance. Besides, I'm fucking freezing."
A mixture of uncertainty and fear bubbles through Shane, a list of questions that he wants to ask. He wants to know about what Brendon's doing, why he's in Boston, why it was so easy to fall back into a routine. What Shane really wants to know is why, after a year of being on the other side of the fucking country, he can't get rid of the one thing that made him come here.
"Brendon," he says eventually. "Are you sure that--"
"Look, it's cold. No funny games, okay? So, calm down and let's go."
Shane doesn't argue because he knows that when Brendon's made a decision, it's done. His toes are in the sand, and he's not moving. They continue to walk, the sidewalks filled with other pedestrians coming and going. He can see Brendon in his periphery, his jaw rigid. A random person walks in between them, hitting Shane's shoulder, throwing his balance off.
"Fuck," Shane whispers, catching himself before losing his footing completely.
Brendon stops and walks closer to him. He doesn't remove his hands from the pockets of his jacket, but when Shane looks up he can see his eyes flicker with concern. "You alright?"
Shane nods and straightens up. "Yeah, fine." Brendon's expression is doubtful. "I'm fine. You want to go somewhere where it's warm or not?"
"Yeah," Brendon answers, "I just hope you don't get killed on the way."
"I won't," Shane promises. "Shit like that doesn't happen often."
Brendon snorts. "So you say."
"I'm the one who's been living here for almost a year now, I'd think I know," Shane says, his voice sounding more defensive than intended. Brendon doesn't say anything back, and they continue to walk in silence.
*
When Shane officially settled in Boston, it was two months shy of the initial move date. After failing miserably at a relationship with Regan (the last year being the worst), Vegas began to lose its appeal. He had done a lot of networking, finally landing a few promised contracts in Boston. Brendon insisted that he come and crash with him in Los Angeles to “get away from all the bullshit and just chill." When the hiatus turned out longer than expected, Brendon asked Shane to stay to stay with in him LA, and Shane did.
It's always easy to say yes to Brendon.
"So," Brendon says when they get to the front of a large house. He stares at it and grins, and turns to Shane. "Do you have heat?"
"It's about twenty degrees outside, of course I have heat," Shane says pulling his keys out and walking up the steps. One of the first mindfucks Shane had when moving to Boston was the housing. The city is so old that the large houses have been redone into apartments, renting out the various 'rooms' to it's citizens. His biggest complaint remains that it takes too many doors to get to his apartment.
"Did you pay the bill?" Shane stops turning the key and gives Brendon a hard stare. Brendon lifts a hand out of his jacket, fingers splayed. "Just making sure, man. You never know."
"Yeah, I pay my bills, thanks," Shane replies dryly. He opens the door, spreading his hand out in front of him for Brendon to walk inside the foyer. "After you."
Brendon walks by and smiles, leaning over and pressing his nose against Shane's cheek. "You're such a gentleman," he murmurs, pulling back a little and sauntering inside.
Shane closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He counts to ten, exhales and follows after Brendon. He points to the stairs and Brendon runs up skipping two steps at a time.
"Dude," Brendon says from the top of the stairs, "I know you're like over thirty and all, but could you please pick up the pace?"
"Oh I'm sorry that I don't have the energy level of a goddamn Jack Russel terrier," Shane grumbles, walking up the stairs. When he gets to the top, Brendon's smiling mischievously. "What?"
"Nothing," Brendon says, the sparkle still in his eyes. "It's just hilarious that the same buttons can be pressed is all."
Shane turns and opens the front door.
The apartment is just the right temperature, warm and perfect. When Shane went to meet up with Brendon that afternoon he made sure to turn up the heat so when he came home it wouldn't feel like living in an icebox. It was another lesson learned during his first winter in Boston. Shane flicks on the light in the living room, the soft glow illuminating the furniture and walls.
"Nice," Brendon says, peeling off his jacket and settling down on the couch with ease. Shane stands stupidly in the foyer before closing the door, removing his own jacket and placing it into the closet. "How long have you been living here?"
"Um, a few months now," Shane says, pushing up the sleeves of his sweater and walking into the living room. "I was living in the city, but I like Cambridge better."
"Hmm." Brendon nods. He crosses his ankle over his knee, foot shaking to a rhythm Shane doesn't know. Brendon looks out the window nearby, his eyes roving over the scenery outside. "Aren't you going to ask me how long I'm in Boston?"
"Do you want me to ask you?" Shane asks.
Brendon looks back at Shane. "Do you want to know?"
Shane does want to know. He wants to know why he allowed himself to say yes to seeing Brendon after almost a year of only committing to brief encounters. He wants to know why he's sitting in his living room, buzzing with the same energy like the day he met him almost five years before.
Shane tries for nonchalant. "Sure," he says with a shrug, settling down on the other side of the couch.
Brendon starts conveniently distracting himself with his cellphone. "The guys are going back tomorrow, but I figured I'd say a few more days."
Shane nods. "Okay."
"I'm staying at..." He pulls out a piece of paper from his pocket and repeats the name of a hotel that he mentioned earlier during the obligatory dinner conversation they engaged in. It's not like Shane doesn't remember, but Brendon is always the type to repeat himself, if only to hear the sound of his own voice.
There's a silence that fills the air after that. It's a strange feeling, not as tense as the last visit, with desperation in Brendon's eyes, but it isn't comfortable. The elephant sits quietly in the corner, waiting.
"I better get going," Brendon says at the same time Shane says, "When are you leaving?"
"What was that?" Brendon asks. He's almost halfway to the door, and Shane almost wants to tell him to stay, a few more minutes. Almost.
Shane clears his throat. "I asked when you were leaving."
Brendon opens his mouth to say something but nothing comes out. He closes it and shrugs his jacket on. "I leave Sunday."
"Okay," Shane says and gets up from his seat. He walks past Brendon and over to the door, turning the lock.
Brendon places his hand on the door, his eyes focused at his fingers spread over the wood. His voice is barely above a whisper when he asks, "Do you think we can meet up tomorrow?"
Shane thinks, No, I don't think we can. This isn't right at all, but instead says, "Sure, okay."
Brendon looks up, his eyes somewhat wide and hopeful. "Yeah?"
"Yeah, no problem," Shane says. The words tumble out of his mouth and he can't stop himself. "I was going to go take pictures at this park nearby--"
"What time?" Brendon interrupts, the hopeful sound turning into something more like excitement. Shane can feel the weight in his stomach pull him down further.
"How...How about I call you?" Shane offers. Brendon nods agreeably, peeling his palm off the door and opening it for Shane's phone. "I have another number," Brendon clarifies when Shane looks at his hand curiously.
When Shane can't retrieve it quick enough, Brendon starts tapping his foot impatiently. "Calm down, fuck. It's right here," he mutters before handing it over.
Brendon punches the number in easily and gives the phone back to Shane. He doesn't relinquish the phone right away and when Shane tugs again, Brendon comes closer, his hand gripping onto Shane's wrist.
"Thanks," he whispers, his voice low and heavy.
"Anytime," Shane whispers back.
Brendon smiles again, giving one last squeeze before leaving. Shane turns the lock and presses his forehead against the door before running a shaky hand through his hair.
*
It wasn't an excuse when Shane told Brendon about the photography. In fact, he really did have a possible commission from a friend of his, but it had been so long since Shane had held a camera -- aside from the few fleeting moments when he'd just fuck around to remember the feeling of the weight in his hand, watching everything focus into shape. He didn't want to fuck up the chance. He's messing with the filter, carefully adjusting it onto the lens. He has a few other cameras in his bag, a couple of vintage ones and a random Polaroid that he found in the back of his parent's closet around Christmas.
"Listen, my feet are fucking numb, okay?" Brendon says loudly into his cellphone. Shane doesn't know who he's talking to, but when Brendon tilts his head back and lets out a cackle, he figures it's one of the guys. Brendon rarely talks to anyone outside of his band members. "I swear to God, I think I'm in like eight feet of snow."
Shane rolls his eyes and shakes his head. Brendon's lying of course, being completely dramatic about the cold, which isn't surprising at all. Brendon continues to babble loudly, trying to convince the other person that the only way to successfully be awesome is to know how to do a perfect kickflip.
"Are you serious? A hospital flip, really? That's fucking weak man. Now if you did a fucking Impossible? Then you'd be a badass. But a hospital flip? You're still on the pansy list," he glances over at Shane as soon as Shane adjusts behind the viewfinder, smile tugging on his face. "Look, I gotta go. You continue your weak ass flips." Brendon chuckles, and shakes his head, "No, bro, I'll totally kick your ass. Yeah I'll put money on it, don't even. Okay, later, man."
Shane snaps a few shots, the snow glimmering against the sunlight. The air is fairly still, but his fingers are cold. Brendon's carefully walking around on the slick ground, his arms stretched like a tightrope walker, placing one foot carefully in front of the next. Shane continues to watch through the viewfinder. The filter accentuates the sunlight, makes the branches of the nearby tree seem more defined, the sky a teal blue, and Brendon is standing in the middle of it all, carefully measuring his steps to refrain from falling into oblivion.
Shane snaps three shots in a row, each a measured nanosecond. Brendon spins around, his arms turning in circles as he slips a little, before catching his footing. He laughs, bright and loud, the smile stretching over his face comfortably.
"Getting anything good?" he asks, squinting an eye as he cranes his head up. Shane zooms in closer as Brendon reaches up to a branch and shakes it, white flurries falling around him. It's almost in slow motion, the gesture delicate and slow. Brendon grins slyly, peering through snow covered bangs. He tilts his head to the side and Shane takes another picture.
"Are you going to get all quiet photographer? Because if you are--" Brendon stops and shakes his head.
Shane pulls the camera down. "Sorry," he says quietly, "It's been a while, is all."
Brendon nods. "I could make a snow angel if you'd like."
Shane blinks a couple of times, looks at the serious expression on Brendon's face. "You're kidding."
"No, dude, I could totally get down on this snow right here, and fucking make the best angel ever."
"You hate the cold," Shane says in a bored voice as he fiddles with the camera. "And I'm sure those precious pants of yours cost you at least two hundred. You wouldn't dare."
Brendon huffs, "They did not cost two hundred." Shane narrows his eyes, and Brendon relents and says, "Okay, two fifty."
Shane laughs. "Wow, only you would spend two hundred dollars on a pair of girl jeans ."
"Two fifty, get it right. And these aren't girl jeans, man, they're--" He looks down and shrugs, "I don't know what the fuck they're called, but they cost a lot." He straightens up and shivers visibly, "I'm fucking hungry, let's get something to eat. This one-on-one with nature shit is over."
"You should learn to appreciate mother nature more. Despite the fact that the winters fucking suck, it really is a beautiful city," Shane says. Brendon gives an unconvinced look. “It's just, growing up in a desert, you really get screwed out of real seasons, you know? The fall is fucking gorgeous. There isn't a leaf here that isn't a different color and it's pretty intoxicating."
He looks over to see Brendon grinning a him. He turns away and looks down at the ground, hands shoveled inside of his jacket, and his expression grows more solemn. "What?"
"Nothing, man. You just...you look happy, that's all."
Shane smiles and says, "I am."
*
They end up getting some pizza at a small hole in the wall near the park. When they walk back to Shane's apartment, Brendon insists on stopping to get coffee or anything warm, complaining about random body parts suddenly falling off due to the lack of circulation in his body.
"You do realize that drinking coffee is not going to change the situation, right?" Shane says. "You've been to the northeast a million times, I don't get how you can forget boots."
"Do I look like I fucking own a house in Aspen that I visit once a year and ski at?" Brendon counters, taking a long drag of the cigarette between his lips. "Seriously, though, I kind of need something."
"We're almost back to my place; I'll make something there."
Brendon hums an agreement, walking faster down the sidewalk, taking longer puffs of his cigarette. Shane catches a glimpse of his hollowed cheeks when he sucks in a long drag, the way lets a small hiss escape between clenched teeth when the mixture of smoke and freezing air fills his lungs. He feels something flip in his stomach, and immediately turns away before Brendon notices.
They get back to the apartment, Brendon happily singing a song about the cold weather and inviting warmth, a little ditty that just falls off his tongue. Shane immediately walks to his kitchen, hitting the answering machine button on the way. He sets down the cameras and tears off his jacket, the heat too much against the heavy layers.
"I can't believe--" Brendon starts but quickly stops when Regan's voice fills the room, light and sweet. Shane is in the middle of searching for the coffee he thought he had in the cupboard, but stops until she says goodbye. There aren't any other messages after hers. "You still have an answering machine," he observes in a dull voice.
Shane shrugs, turning his head back into the cupboard, reaching to move the sugar and a few spices. "I don't like giving out my cell phone to potential jobs." With a sigh, he pulls back and closes the door. "I don't have any coffee. I have a shitload of tea, though."
"'s fine. Whatever you got." Brendon's already taken off his winter coat and scarf, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his sweater. He sits down on the couch, folding the jacket carefully in his lap, leg bobbing.
Shane pours water into a teapot (it used to be Regan's, but he still uses it from time to time) and sets it on the stove. When he walks back into the living room, Brendon is staring out of the window. He's tapping his hands on his knees.
"Do you ever go out to the clubs or anything here?" Brendon asks.
"Not really," Shane confesses, sitting on the opposite side of the couch. Brendon gives a surprised look and he shrugs in response. "I just kind of grew out of that shit, man. Like, I'm over thirty years old, it's time to grow up. I can't be a rockstar forever."
Brendon's eyes move over to the window. "Can't be a rockstar forever," he echoes softly. Shane sees his eyebrows knitting together in concentration before he asks, "How long have you guys been talking?"
"What are you--" Shane begins, but realizes that Brendon is talking about Regan. He palms the back of his neck, the bottom of his hat scratching against the top of his hand. "I don't know. A while now. She comes out to visit sometimes."
Brendon's eyes go wide with surprise. "Oh?"
"Yeah, I mean," Shane shrugs. "I kind of always knew we'd be friends. It's not that big of a deal or anything."
Brendon nods, and looks back down at his jacket. "Kyla's pregnant."
"Wow, really?" Shane asks in surprise.
"Yeah, man, isn't that nuts?” Brendon's face grows animated again, the serious expression dissolving so quickly that it makes Shane blink. “I swear, my parents are just waiting for me to go find someone and procreate, but it's like, my siblings have done that job well enough." He laughs, but it sounds heavy and rueful. "Mom still asks about you, by the way."
Shane opens his mouth to say something, but a tiny whistle comes from the kitchen. "I better get that," he says instead. He fumbles a little in the kitchen, his hands shaking inexplicably. A mug slips from his grip, and as he stumbles to keep it from crashing, Brendon's hand are there helping Shane catch it.
"Got it?" Brendon asks, hand still on Shane's.
"Yeah," Shane assures, and gives a stiff nod.
Brendon pulls back and leans against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. He doesn't say anything for a while, the noise of the ice maker emptying muffled in the background. "Two spoons," Brendon reminds, when Shane pulls the teabag out.
"I know," he says, carefully taking two full spoons of sugar and putting them into the cup. He watches the murky color whirl for a few linger moments before saying, "I didn't know they still...you know."
"Give a shit?" Brendon supplies. Shane nods, but doesn't look at Brendon's reaction. "Well they do," he says matter-of-factly. "They never stopped caring, Shane."
"Could've fooled me," Shane mutters.
"What the fuck?" Brendon snaps, his voice defensive. "Look, they love you. It's not like my family's going to write you out of their life or some--" Brendon takes a deep breath before continuing in a strangely calm voice, "I know that you think that everything is all fucked up because it was you and that's not true. You know, it could've been anyone and the reaction would've been the same." He pauses for a second. "Shane, look at me."
Shane turns, his hand still stirring clockwise. The spoon hits the porcelain, small clinks against metal. Brendon looks down at the cup, and reaches out, stopping Shane's hand. "I'm sorry," he says quietly. His voice sounds foreign and sad. "I'm sorry that it didn't, you know."
"Whatever, man," Shane replies. He can feel his shoulders tense. "Shit happens, right?"
"I just--I feel like this is all fucked because of it and it could've, like. Sometimes I think that what if--" Brendon doesn't finish the sentence, but the words sit between them. Maybe alongside What if.
"Your tea is going to get cold," Shane says, jerking his head at the mug.
Brendon looks down, lifting the mug to his lips, slurping loudly. "How is it?" Shane asks.
Brendon hums happily and closes his eyes. He opens them again, and stares at Shane for a moment, reaching up and removing the hat from his head. His fingertips brush along the side of Shane's face as he murmurs, "Perfect."
*
Shane stands in the back of the show, watching Ivan carefully walk around and introduce himself to all of the guests. The evening is a pretty decent success, along with a couple of sales to high-end customers.
He looks out into the night, watching the snow fall without regard. The pedestrians still roam along the sidewalks, bundled in their jacket and boots. Shane looks at the front door.
"You have been very untalkative tonight," Ivan says in a quiet voice, like he's holding a deep secret. He leans against the back wall, hand gripping a flute glass carefully.
Shane looks at a couple staring at a landscape picture, framed in cherry oak wood. He nods to them and says, "Looks like a potential."
Ivan glances over lazily and shrugs. "We'll see. Can't pester them right away, you have to let everything fall into place." He moves his hand around in a circle in front of him, the grin on his face. "So, is he coming?"
Shane looks at the front door, watches several people walk past and shrugs. "I don't know," he answers honestly.
"You know, I'm not trying to push this out of you or anything, but you never really explained what happened." Shane looks over, and Ivan shrugs. "It's none of my business, but we've been friends for, shit, four years? I mean, I know that things were messy when you and Regan split--"
"It's got nothing to do with her," Shane says immediately. Which is somewhat of a lie. After the extended break continued for much longer than planned, and Regan declared the relationship over, Shane felt strangely relieved and scared. He was used to Regan, used to being who he was around her and not having to worry about walking on eggshells. And although being single was probably better, it didn't deny that after five years, he was alone again.
But there was Brendon. And Brendon being Brendon decided that the best way to mend a broken heart was through as much distraction as he could give Shane, including copious bottles of Jack Daniels and an array of drugs from all corners of the world. The first week wasn't nearly as bad as it could've been, and the week after was more of a blur than anything else. But Brendon was just there and the tumble turned into a fall. A big fall.
"Right," Ivan say easily. "But somewhere after that, something happened, right?"
Shane shrugs. "Yeah, I guess."
"You guess? That seems like a loaded answer right there. There must be more than that." Shane sighs, pushes his fingers through his hair and shakes his head.
"I thought you said you weren't pressing?" Shane grouses, and Ivan, surprisingly, chuckles.
"Well, you didn't tell me to shut the fuck up or threaten to kick me in places that would hinder future children of mine, so I figured what the hell." He pauses for a moment, the grin disappearing from his face, eyes never leaving Shane's.
Shane closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "What do you want to know?"
"I don't know, man, start from the middle and work your way around."
"Regan and I broke up, and it was kinda shitty." Shane opens his eyes and looks at Ivan's 'You're so full of shit' face. "Okay, it was really shitty," he amends, looking down into his glass.
"Okay. You guys dated for years. It would be shitty."
Shane takes a deep gulp from his glass. "Right," he whispers. "So, yeah, it was kind of like, well. Brendon was helping me or whatever, and we kind of..." Shane waves the glass in front of him.
Ivan stares at him blankly for a few seconds before his eyes grow wide, an indicator that he realizes what Shane is saying. "Okay. So, you guys...Yeah."
Shane laughs. "Dude, you look like I just asked you to marry me or something."
"Well, if you ever asked I'd say yes," Ivan quips, and Shane laughs. "So, what? Some big gay crisis or something?"
"Not really?" Shane brushes his fingers through his hair nervously. "His parents weren't that happy. Didn't expect their baby boy being into, you know."
Ivan listens carefully, eyes wandering over to the crowd. His eyebrows furrow together for a moment, and he glances back at Shane briefly. "Right. So they freaked out."
Shane chuckles darkly. Ivan lifts his eyebrows, and opens his mouth to say something, but Shane continues. "Yeah they freaked out. But, before everything went to hell? It was good." He stares down at his glass. "Really good, actually."
Before the conversation can continue, a sudden gush of cold air hits the back of Shane's legs. He turns around to see Brendon closing the door behind him, shaking the flakes out of his hair. He's wearing a long black leather jacket that Shane could've sworn was at one time Ryan's, but immediately dismisses the thought out of his head. Brendon peers over the crowd until finally settling on Shane and Ivan, a smirk on his face.
"Sorry I'm late," he says when he crosses the distance from the entrance to them. His eyes linger back and forth between Ivan and Shane for a moment before reaching his hand out. "I'm Brendon, by the way." He nods to Shane. "Asshole here is bad at introducing people it seems."
Ivan laughs and nods. "Ivan. I've heard plenty about you."
Brendon gives a mischievous smile over at Shane. "Is that so?" he asks, eyes never leaving Shane.
"Yup, plenty," Ivan says. Shane looks over at him and gives an incredulous look, but only receives a clap on the shoulder from his friend. "Well, I better get back to doing my job. Can't let the potentials walk away." Ivan turns around, walking backwards. "Feel free to look around," he offers.
"Will do," Brendon calls back. He peels off the jacket, revealing a black button down and intricately wrapped scarf around his neck. Shane looks over the outfit and feels his throat tighten when Brendon turns around to place the jacket on a coat rack nearby. He doesn't think about how he stares at the way the jeans cling to Brendon's ass, or the sound of his shoes against the tiled floor. Instead, he takes a long drink of his champagne, suddenly in need of another one.
"I really am sorry about being late," Brendon says. "I got a phone call from Ryan about--" he waves his hand in front of him and rolls his eyes. "It's not that big of a deal."
"Okay," Shane says. He doesn't look at Brendon, instead focusing on the crowd gathering around Ivan giving a speech about a particular photo he took while taking an extended trip to Alaska.
"So are you going to give me a tour?" Brendon asks, his voice tinged with enthusiasm. Suddenly Brendon is in front of Shane, eyes wide with mock-earnesty. "I promise I'll be a good boy, Mom. Please?" He drags out the last word for a long time.
Shane rolls his eyes and laughs. "Fine, fine, but you have to remember not to touch anything, okay?"
Brendon nods a few times and smiles. "Of course. But I do get complimentary alcohol, right?"
"Of course." Brendon smiles, bright and sincere, his hand wrapping around Shane's wrist as they make their way across the gallery.
*
"Fuck," Shane whispers with a chuckle, resting his head against the door of his apartment. His head is swimming and everything is suddenly falling sideways. "I can't get the fucking door open."
"Here," Brendon says, reaching over and grabbing the keys from Shane's grip. He fiddles with various ones, and Shane closes his eyes, scooting across to give space for Brendon to unlock the door. "Jesus. Which one is it?"
"Um," Shane says. He tries really hard to find the right words to describe the key but finds that it's impossible. "The one that's not like the others?"
"Oh that's helpful," Brendon says dryly. Shane keeps his eyes closed, his hand reaching out blindly and grips onto Brendon's shoulder. "You better not puke right outside your fucking door. Cause I swear to God I am not cleaning that shit up. You're totally on your own."
"I'm not going to throw up, okay? Everything is just spinning for a moment."
"The rule applies to your apartment too, just so you know." Shane hears him place a key in the lock and sighs. "And since when did you turn into such a fucking lightweight?"
"'m not a lightweight," Shane argues. Well, attempts to argue, but the words just blend into a slur. "You didn't drink as much as much as Ivan and I did. That's totally unfair."
Brendon scoffs, the keys still jingling. "No, I just have more practice and--" the sound of the door unlocking breaks into the air. "Success! Come on, lightweight, let's get you inside."
When Shane gets inside, he rips off his coat and sweater, tossing them haphazardly onto the floor before flopping onto the couch. "I think I need a glass of water or something."
Brendon chuckles, the clack of his shoes echoing against the wood floor. Shane hears the opening and closing of various cupboards, and with a sigh, smooshes his face into the fabric of the couch. "I can't believe Ivan sold every one of those photos."
"He's really talented," Brendon notes, the sounds of his footsteps drawing closer. He pauses for a moment before saying, "Hey, make some room."
"Urmph," Shane protests as Brendon moves his legs and settles onto the couch.
"Don't get pissy with me. You have to sit up anyway. Heaven knows you suck at drinking out of a cup while doing downward facing drunk."
Shane maneuvers until he's his head is resting against the cushion on the back of the couch. "Downward facing what?"
Brendon laughs softly. "Some kind of joke that Jon made up one night when Ryan got shit-faced. He was totally in the same position as you were. Here." Shane feels the cup in his palm and brings up to his lips taking a long drink. A small drop misses his mouth and trails down his chin.
When he finishes, he sighs happily. "Thanks."
Brendon takes the cup from Shane's hand, the glass clinking on the table. "Anytime," Brendon murmurs, his fingers brushing over the side of Shane's face and through his hair. Shane sniffles, the warmth of the apartment not overwhelming, but enough to contrast with the heat inside in his veins from the alcohol and the shiver on his skin from the cold outside.
Shane sighs contentedly when Brendon's fingers tangle through his hair and down to the nape of his neck. Shane wants to open his eyes desperately, and when he does, it takes a few bleary blinks to finally see how close Brendon is in front of him. He's taken off his jacket, and his hair is sticking damply to his forehead.
"Hi," Brendon whispers, the faintest hint of a smirk on his face.
"Hi," Shane whispers back, focusing his eyes on Brendon's lips as he reaches up and and curls his fingers around the back of Brendon's neck. Brendon's eyes fall halfway, and his lips part slightly. Shane notices Brendon's tongue move over his bottom lip and there's nothing that could stop him from sealing their mouths together.
Brendon moans against the pressure, his tongue immediately venturing into Shane's mouth. He's always an impatient kisser when he drinks, not wanting to tease or worry about the foreplay, just ready to push right into the mix of everything. Shane understands the urge to focus on the burning desire, patience long gone behind the foggy haze of lust. He moves his hand to Brendon's shoulder, squeezing hard, and descends backwards until Brendon is resting on top of him.
He breaks the kiss, breath hot and heavy against Shane's cheek. "You okay?" he whispers, voice ragged and husky.
"Yeah," Shane breathes back, his lips tracing over the side of Brendon's cheek. He feels the prickle of hair against his mouth, the small indication that Brendon hasn't shaved in a couple of days. Without warning, Shane bites onto Brendon's earlobe, earning a sharp, staggered gasp and a shift of hips. Shane groans at the sensation and then the realization that fuck, he hasn't done this in God only knows how long, which should be considered fucking illegal.
At the same moment, a revelation surfaces, bold and clear through the cloud of alcoholic pleasure that it's Brendon that's on top of him right now, not a stranger or a friend of a friend that he picked up at a party like the last one night stand. It's through that war between body and mind, Brendon carefully biting at the juncture of Shane's shoulder and their hips involuntarily moving together, that he croaks out, "Stop."
Brendon stills a moment, and it's then that Shane can feel the effects of their bodies pressing together, along with the restriction in his own jeans. Brendon doesn't move for what feels like centuries, and when he pulls back, his eyes are unreadable. Neither one of them speak for a while, the only sounds in Shane's ringing ears are of heavy breathing. It's then that the wall that Brendon built around him crumbles away and Shane sees more than he ever expects. He knows it's because they're both drunk, knows that it's easy for Brendon to give himself away like this, half hard in his jeans and tequila in his blood.
Shane sighs, the room spinning again. "This is not going to end well," he says softly. His voice sounds foreign and his chest is tight.
"Of course," Brendon replies, his voice equally tight. He removes himself carefully, and the lack of body warmth makes Shane feel naked and alone.
When he opens his eyes, Brendon is standing in front of the door, jacket wrapped over his arm. "It doesn't have to be like last time, you know."
Shane tries to say something, the syllables stumbling out, but Brendon is already leaving, the door slamming behind him.
Part Two