sinuous_curve & insunshine
jon walker/brendon urie (brendon/alex marshall. background travis mccoy/william beckett. jon/greta salpeter). travis mccoy. tom conrad. alex marshall.
In which Jon is a frat boy.
It's the first day of the semester and they're in the same Anthro 101 class that everyone says is fucking killer, but is totally worth it if you can manage to pass. Both of Jon's brothers went to school here, so he knows what it's like, he's been to a couple of parties, plus there's Tom, and Tom didn't take a year off after 504plan broke up, so Jon is really, really used to this shit. He wanders into class in sweatpants and a tee shirt and his flip flops with his bag across his chest and he sits up near the front, because that's just how he rolls. Ten minutes later, this teeny little kid with dark hair sticking up in spikes and bright red glasses sits down next to him, completely grooving along to whatever's playing on his iPod.
The kid's pulls his earbuds out grins. "Hi!" Jon smirks a little, and says hi back. He's got red rimmed glasses, and they're sitting directly under the fluorescent light, so every time he moves, which is a lot, Jon can see the light reflected in them. "I'm Brendon." He holds out his hand and Jon takes it, more than a little amused by the old fashioned politeness of the gesture. Brendon's got calluses etched to the tips of his fingers and that, combined with the music note hoodie he's wearing, has Jon pegging him as a music major. "Jon," he says, with a half smile and the kid, Brendon, grins.
Anthro meets three times a week, and Brendon comes in late every day, sliding in the seat next to Jon and grinning, sharing whatever food he happens to have with him, sometimes even his coffee too, when Jon hasn't managed to grab a cup of his own. By November, Jon's actually saving Brendon the seat, leaving his bag on the chair, and shrugging when people make eyes at him.
He doesn't think about what it means.
Somehow, it's much easier to pay attention with his knuckles bumping against Brendon's as they reach into the packets of Skittles at the same time. And, God, maybe it's middle school of them, but whenever things get too boring and the professor's been on the same slide for a hundred years, Brendon will reach over and draw little stick figures in the margin of Jon's notes and Jon will draw hangmen by Brendon's.
They're in the middle of a particularly gruesome game of lyrics hangman when Brendon leans over, breath hot against Jon's neck and says, "So how long is it going to take for you to ask me?" Jon blinks at him, because he hasn't asked Brendon a lot of things, but none of them are really appropriate in a class where note-taking is relatively important. "Asked you what?" He asks, and Brendon's answering smile is huge.
"You're fucking funny, Jon Walker," he laughs, hiking his bag up on his shoulder. "This could be really awkward, but you never noticed the rainbow?" Jon looks down and, well, of course he noticed the rainbow ribbon pinned to Brendon's book bag, he'd just never really thought about it. Oh. Oh. Right. "Uh. I don't really see color." Brendon snorts, and clamps down on Jon's shoulder, grinning even brighter. "That is a good fucking answer," Jon rolls his eyes, but he can't really stop from smiling. "I'm a good fucking guy, Urie." Brendon ducks his head, and Jon can almost hear the words before Brendon asks them.
"So, then you totally wouldn't mind getting together to study, right?" Jon opens his mouth to say, no thanks, I'm flattered, but I don't swing that way; it takes a moment for his mental gears to shift away to answer the question. "Right now? I can't." Jon shakes his head. "I have a date."
Brendon nods, and smiles -- or maybe he's just kept smiling, Jon can't tell, but he drops an arm on Jon's shoulder. Jon's breathing a little heavy and he can't figure out why, because it's not like Brendon's saying anything really, just sitting there, fingers curled over Jon's arm. It's unsettling.
"Hey, it's not a big deal." Brendon smiles wide and easy, shifting his bag as they walk toward the door, streaming out with the rest of the students. The lecture hall is right near the doorway; it's a pretty day, Jon thinks, blinking as they emerge into the sunlight. Warm enough for him to shuck off his hoodie and tie it around his waist.
Brendon's talking with his hands, something about a new band he saw last week, something about living in a single and not having anyone to go to shows with, and this is sort of what Jon was expecting earlier, but he doesn't want to say no. Dudes going to shows together are just dudes going to shows together. It doesn't actually mean anything. He and Tom go to shows all the damn time and no one makes any comments.
Really, who would ever want to go see a band alone; there's nothing worse than having no one riding a music high with you after the crowd's gone and you're on your own. Jon's so absorbed in what Brendon's saying, he doesn't see Greta until she throws his arms around his neck and kisses his cheek. "Hey, baby!"
"Hey, G," he wraps an arm around her waist, because she's already leaning into him, and that's always how they do it. He turns around, looking for Brendon to introduce the two of them, but he's gone. Jon tells himself that the sinking in his stomach doesn't mean a damn thing. He'll see Brendon in class the day after tomorrow anyway.
That night, after Jon's dropped Greta off at her dorm with a kiss to the cheek and a promise he'll call, he can't sleep. He paces across the room he shares with Tom in the house, drumming his fingers against his thigh. His skin itches and he doesn't know why; it's like when he's gone too long with playing lacrosse or too long without picking up his bass.
Brendon's not in class on Friday, and Jon's not like, worried. He's not. It's just a little weird, because Brendon is more than a little ridiculous about going to class, and Jon definitely doesn't start a text to him once or twice or eight times. He definitely doesn't. He does take the long way back to the house after class, though, and just looks up at the Langley dorm, trying not to picture which window is Brendon's.
In the end, he just walks by.
When he gets back to his dorm, there's an e-mail from Brendon waiting in his inbox. Have death plague. May not recover. Know that you were a good friend and I'll put a word in with the Big Lesbian in the Sky Who May Or May Not See All. Also, in case death isn't coming, can you send me the notes? Jon laughs aloud, earning a look from Tom that he waves off. He doesn't think about the relief pooling in his stomach.
On Monday, Brendon's there. He's a little more bundled up than usual, and his nose is a raw and pink, but he's there, and he's grinning and Jon just. Jon's really glad. The fifty minutes were really, really boring without him. Really, really boring. It's better now, with him here, but they're still in the middle of the Most Boring Lecture In Existence and when a note falls into Jon's lap completely gracelessly, he can't help his grin. It's in Brendon's scrawly handwriting and there's only one sentence in the intricately folded square, and Jon's not sure how Brendon managed to pull it off without him noticing.
Show on Friday? Check Y/N Jon's snorts out a laugh and earns a stern look from the professor, a dried out husk of a man probably old enough to remember when the Titanic sank. Jon takes a moment to look properly chastised, then circles Y in pink sharpie, refolds the note into a football and kicks into Brendon's empty coffee cup
Brendon grins at him, and it's a little. It just takes Jon by surprise a little. Whatever. "Oh man," Brendon says once they're out of the lecture hall. He's leaning his head against Jon's arm, even as they walk, and Jon wraps his free one around Brendon's shoulders, just a friendly squeeze. It doesn't mean anything. "So tonight, at like, seven?" Brendon asks once they're in front of Langley, and Jon's not sure how they got there so quickly. Time moves a lot faster when Brendon's around.
"Yeah sure," Jon says, not thinking about how Brendon smells like whatever bodywash he uses, something vaguely sweet that tickles at the fringes of Jon's memory. "Who are we going to see?" Brendon breaks into a wide, excited smile. "This awesome queercore band called 'Eat the Meat.'" Jon doesn't mean to react, but he must, because Brendon dissolves into giggles. "Kidding, Jon Walker. My friend Mikey's older brother has this hardcore band called the New London Fire. They're awesome."
They walk to the club together, since it's only six blocks away from campus. It's easier than Jon would have expected; Brendon out of class is just like Brendon in class, just without the propensity to try and relate everything brought up to Disney movies so he'll be able to remember it for the test.
"You're gonna love the Fire," Brendon says with a smile. "The lead singer might feel the need to go and make out with his boyfriend on stage a little, but probably not much. Bob plays the drums and Gee's not really coordinated enough to stand on them without falling and breaking his face open."
The club's small, maybe sixty kids, but they're all glad to be there and Brendon drags Jon right up to the front of the stage. New London Fire comes on first and Jon has to admit, Brendon's right, he loves them. They're not perfect, but they have an element of rawness that makes Jon want to put their songs on repeat until he understands why they sound so desperate.
"Want to meet them?" Brendon asks, bouncing on the balls of his feet and Jon nods his assent.
They're sitting at the bar, the singer and tiny guitarist both smoking while the drummer stands and listens, one hand on the dip of the singer's back. The bigger guitarist spins around on a barstool, taking drinks out of a bottle of water.
"This is Gee and Bob, Frank, Ray, and you know Mikey, right?"
Jon smiles, a little shy, and goddamn, it's good. It better than he would have thought.
"Thank you for coming with me, JonWalker," Brendon says as they walk back, one arm slung around Jon's shoulders. He's a little punch drunk, high on concert adrenaline and two beers covertly bought by Ray with an indulgent smile and passed down the bar.
"You're drunk, Brendon," Jon chuckles, "And you're welcome, I had a good time."
Brendon drops his head onto Jon's shoulders and exhales hard, mouth curved up in a loose, happy smile. "Did any of the boys make a pass? I told them not to."
"No," Jon says and something in his stomach tightens. "Hey, you know, it's Saturday night, the house should be pretty empty. Do you want to come over and have some coffee before I send you stumbling back to your dorm?"
"Yes, JonWalker," Brendon laughs. "I want that."
It's an accident, Jon tries to think, as Brendon gets on his hands and knees, mouth open and spit slicked. He's a little drunk, he tells himself as he spits onto his hand and pushes in, Brendon moaning and keening in the back of his throat.
He comes hard across Brendon spine in spattered ropes. hands tight enough around Brendon's knife sharp hips to leave the faint imprint of blue bruises.
Except, well, laying there, with Brendon stretched out beside him and sleeping, it's not an accident and he's not drunk and fuck if Jon knows what that means.
The thing is, Jon isn't gay. Jon is on the Lacrosse team. He pledged freshman year. He's had a series of hot girlfriends and one night stands, many of which have attested to the fact that he is a damn fine lover. He is straight. Emphatically so. It's just, Brendon and it's just this thing that happens maybe once or twice a week. The guys in the house tend to take the same classes so they can stick together and because many of them share the same major, so Jon knows that every Tuesday from noon to 2:30 the house will be empty and he and Brendon can sneak in and fuck themselves silly.
The bitch of it is, he can't even figure out why Brendon of all the people in the world. Brendon's not a supermodel in any stretch of the imagination. He's small and skinny with black hair that sticks up in the back and dorky red glasses that always slide down on the slope of his nose, and he giggles.
He giggles and he likes to snuggle after they've come, which, okay, freaked Jon out the first couples times because he was so busy staring at his dick wondering how the hell it ended up in an ass to really wonder what Brendon was doing wrapping his arms around his waist. Now, well, Jon would never ever own up to it, but now he'd rather go two rounds so he can lay on his back with Brendon's head on his chest, than go three and have to rush to get their pants back on before someone comes home.
It's not a big deal, really it's not. Not at all. Especially when Brendon snuffles against his chest, and Jon can feel their hearts beating in tandem. And, well, sure sometimes he wonders why Brendon keeps coming with him when Jon has seen the way Mikey Way looks at him, and Joe Trohman, and all these other guys that Jon can objectively say are good looking. All Brendon would have to do is bat his eyelashes at any of them and -WHAM- boyfriend and not a Very Straight Guy boning him.
He doesn't ask Brendon because that would actually require talking, and they don't do that. Well. They sometimes read the paper together when Jon makes coffee. To be inconspicuous, not to keep Brendon there longer.
And sometimes, when they're done, and don't have enough time to go again, they'll like, watch TV and argue about politics, and sometimes movies, even though Brendon is a total Disney freak and he likes it when they sing Aladdin together. Whatever, it's nice. Jon doesn't even want to think about all that's wrong with the situation. Brendon's a cool kid with a great ass and Jon likes him, likes him a lot. And if he hasn't gotten it on with any of the three girls who count as kind of girlfriends or gotten laid at all in almost two months, other than Brendon, well, he's just taking a break from women. Totally. Girls don't make any sense.
They expect flowers and like, candy and Brendon, man, Brendon is totally cool with sitting on the floor of Jon's room, debating whether Dylan was better before or after the switch over to electric guitar. Brendon doesn't care if Jon calls, or he doesn't seem to, and he just smiles when Jon tries to make excuses about not being able to do shit. Brendon also schools his ass at Tekken AND Guitar Hero, even though Jon has been playing bass since he was twelve.
Once, Jon was even walking across the quad and caught sight of Brendon sitting with this skinny little twig of a dude with dark hair, scarves, and an ugly haircut playing acoustic and laughing at each other. Jon was nearly thirty minutes late to class because he just had to stand there and listen to Brendon play and sing old Springsteen songs. Brendon has a gorgeous voice. Jon can, objectively, say that.
If Tom ever gets his shit together, Jon's totally going to introduce the two of them and like, maybe make Tom's talks of starting a band come to life. Except. That would actually require that Tom and Brendon in the same room, and Jon thinks he'd pass out at the prospect. Brendon isn't really Tom's "people".
Besides, maybe it's weird, hell, it probably is weird, but Jon likes the fact that Brendon belongs to him and him alone. He likes not having to share Brendon with any of the other guys in the house. He likes that sometimes, when Brendon accidentally falls into a doze after they've fucked, being able to kiss the top of his spine and know that no one else has ever seen that.
It doesn't really matter though, because they're not like. They're not dating or anything. God, no. It's not. They just have fun! It's totally only fun. Only fun that they're having that doesn't have strings or commitments, which is totally why Jon locks himself in his room and like, has a full-blown angst-ridden thirty seconds when Brendon texts him and says he's going to a show with MikeyWay and that he'd seen Jon "whenever".
Fuck, and it's not like he'd been in such a shitty mood the whole night that Tom fucking told him to go the hell up to his room and stop pissing on the party. Everyone else just wanted to get nice and drunk and do something harmless and innocently stupid and Jon was just making that harder.
Jon's definitely fine. He's totally fine. He's definitely not thinking of just like, walking across campus to Brendon's dorm and like, throwing pebbles up at the window. a) because he's pretty sure that a pebble wouldn't make much noise and definitely wouldn't distract them if they were having sex, and b) because that would be dumb. That would be so dumb. He doesn't even like Brendon.
He really doesn't.
Well. Of course he likes Brendon. But he doesn't want to adopt Zambian babies, or like. Cats. Cats are pretty cool though. Jon has a cat back home. Jon definitely does not spend a lot of time thinking about what would happen if Dylan and Brendon were ever in one confined space.
He definitely doesn't think about it all the way over to the other side of campus, walking to the dorms. Really, it's not until he standing outside Langley, chucking pebbles up at the window that Jon is able to take a moment and objectively (well, as objectively as he can possibly be at two in the morning in sweat pants and a tee shirt and flip flops looking for rocks to throw up at the window of the boy he's been fucking, but isn't dating) that maybe he is not quite as Emphatically Straight as he thought.
In fact, it's possible that he is Emphatically Bisexual.
There was that whole thing in high school, jerking off to Justin Timberlake singing in his ear every night for nearly three months. But that was Justin Timberlake, okay? Justin Timberlake, who, any straight man can fully admit is mighty attractive. It's not that Brendon isn't attractive, because Brendon is. Brendon is really, remarkably attractive, and he doesn't even see it. Like, sometimes, he'll get dressed up, because he's in the fucking glee club and they dress up a lot, and he looks pretty good there -- he looks pretty good always, but the best times, the best times by far are when Jon gets to see him rumpled, hair flying every which way, glasses crooked on his nose. He's fucking gorgeous then, and the sight would've taken Jon's breath away a little if he'd been smart enough to let it when he'd had the chance.
He's pretty sure Brendon going out with MikeyWay is a clear indication that he no longer has the chance.
Against all the odds, Brendon does eventually yank open the window and poke his head out. God, he looks gorgeous. His eyes are sleepy, glasses are haphazardly shoved crookedly on his face, with his hair twisted and poking up in a hundred different directions. His tee shirt has a wash worn hole at the collar and a stain and the sleeve is literally about to come off, but still. It's a fucking Dylan tee shirt and Brendon was sleeping in it and there's no sign of Mikey Way.
"Jon?" Brendon says, voice gravel rough and dark. "What's wrong?"
Jon can't breathe. He can't actually say, "Hey, I know we're not dating? And I know I said I didn't want us to date? And I don't, but could you please not go out with other dudes? That would be great, and would also keep me from having an aneurysm. 'K. Thanks. Bye." He can't, so he just shrugs, and runs his palms up and down his arms, because he's definitely only wearing a tee shirt in the middle of the night and this is Chicago in the winter. He's kind of a moron, but he honestly couldn't think of anything but Brendon when he'd left the house.
"Jon, dude, seriously, are you okay?" Brendon sounds concerned, which Jon is stupidly excited about for a second before he remembers that he shouldn't be. Or isn't, really. He's not. It's just. Nice. That someone is concerned.
"Hold one, I'll come let you in," Brendon says and before Jon can protest that no, he's fine, he just needed to know that Brendon wasn't taking it up the ass from anyone but one Jonathan Jacob Walker so he could lay down and not try and sleep with visions of Brendon marrying some other dude and having three point five kids and a house with a white picket fence dancing in his head, Brendon vanishes.
Three minutes later, the door swings open and Christ, Brendon has fucking Sponge Bob pajama bottoms and genuine bunny slippers with floppy yellow years. "Come inside, you dork. it's freezing."
Jon is totally intending to say something like, "No, dude, hey, I heard there were wabbits 'round these parts and I wanted to protect your virtue," or something, something less ... gay and retarded. Not that being gay is retarded, just. Something less that and more dashing and daring. He totally intends to say something, but then Brendon's fingers are brushing the bare skin of his arm, and wow, when did they get so close? It must have been him, since Brendon's still standing in the doorway to the building.
What comes out is, "Um. Hey," in a tone that usually comes out as suave and casual, but ends up sounding half strangled.
Brendon, because Brendon defies all logic, doesn't throw something at Jon's head and tell him to stop being an idiot, circles his fingers around Jon's wrist and pulls him inside. "Come up and we can do ... whatever."
Jon doesn't manage a word on the stairs while Brendon leads him up to his room. It strikes him that he's never actually been inside of Brendon's dorm before, and when they push into his room, he's overwhelmed with the sheer amount of color that's splashed on the walls. Brendon has a single and Jon has no idea why they've wasted months sneaking around at the house when they could have had so much more time here.
Brendon stops abruptly, dropping Jon's wrist, and Jon is not, on principal a whimperer, so much, but he wants to, at the loss of contact. He wants to pull Brendon closer and grind their lips together, tasting every corner of his mouth and making it his own. Brendon beats him to it, angling closer and fitting his mouth over Jon's, featherlight.
Jon almost comes right there.
Jon knows it would be so easy, so very fucking easy to just melt into that, spend the night fucking, and then go back to this weird sleeping-together-but-not-really-knowing-e
Brendon's blinking at him with huge eyes and Jon realizes that he maybe, maybe said that last bit out loud. He couldn't really hear, over the roar in his ears. "I totally just said that last bit out loud, didn't I?" Brendon nods a little jerkily, and he. Well. He doesn't look too enthused, actually. Jon feels his throat muscles constricting, tighter and tighter until it feels like he can't breathe. "I'm sorry, Brendon, I didn't mean. I mean. You probably have plans tomorrow anyway."
Brendon's not even looking at him, cheeks stained a bright pink, and Jon wishes he could swallow, wishes he could breathe. "I don't, actually," Brendon says, softly, easily, and Jon's really lucky he's got good balance because he can even feel it in his knees, the relief that courses through his body. "You can stay though, Jon." Jon blinks at him, and hates that he can't read what's going on behind his eyes. Hates that he's trying. "My boyfriend's coming to visit tomorrow night," Brendon says, still not looking at him, fingers twisting roughly, bottom lip caught in his teeth. "I'm sorry."
Jon swallows down bile and folds his arms across his chest. Fuck fucking fuck fucker, he should have known this was the stupidest idea he'd had in a long, sad history of stupid ideas. "Hey." Brendon brushes back Jon's hair, fingers gentle and sure and Jon just, hell, he can't cope with that. "Look, we can still fuck if you want, that's fine. But Marshall's getting in at like eight tomorrow and I have to pick him up from the train station. We've, ah, we've been planning this weekend for a month."
"A month," Jon says, without really meaning to, he doesn't mean to let anything out, jesus. Brendon looks up at him, cheeks still pink, and god, god, fuck, even now, even knowing everything he knows (or, okay, everything he's just discovered in the past five minutes. Which, to be perfectly honest, have been the longest fucking five minutes of his life), he still wants Brendon. He just wants Brendon as his. Which he never was in the first place.
Jon is maybe not ready for a big gay epic, but a little courtesy might have been nice. He says as much and watches as Brendon winces. "How long have you -- ?" he's starting to say the words as Brendon busts out with an, "We've been dating since like. High school. Or like. He's still. He's a senior this year, and he's thinking of coming here in the fall, and I just. I didn't think you'd want to see me this weekend." It's Brendon, so there's no malice in the words, no anger, even though Jon totally deserves it. Jesus.
"Why did you say anything?" Jon asks, surprising himself by the bitter edge of hurt laced into the words. Brendon's brow creases; he folds his arms across his chest and takes a step back and, God, Jon feels like an ass.
"Jon you changed." Brendon rakes a hand through his hair and Jon feels shame slide down his spine. "You changed after the Fire show." Jon starts, but he has no idea what he'd even say. "It's okay, you know? It's okay, but you made it pretty clear that you just wanted sex, and hey, that's totally cool, I like sex a lot and it's fun and it's fine. But you have your girlfriends and I have my boyfriend and you can't get mad at me for that."
Jon can't. That's the killer of it. Jon can't get mad at him at all. "I should probably -- " Jon's gesturing towards the door because it's easier than looking at Brendon.
Brendon's standing there looking all Brendon like and he's making it really, really hard for Jon. He shrugs, and Jon can just make out his collarbone. "You don't have to."
Jon blinks. "What?"
Brendon shrugs again, head ducked. "You can stay. I mean. If you want, you can stay. I don't like. Mind." If Jon could think straight, he'd swear up and down that Brendon's inflection was a little hopeful. He can't think straight.
"What's he like?" Jon asks and Brendon's eyes go wide and little closed. He crosses the room, making a strange point to not brush against Jon, and picks up a framed picture off his desk.
"Here." he holds it out and Jon doesn't want to look, he really doesn't want to look, but he can't. Brendon's got his arm around a boy with bangs swooping across his forehead and a shy little smile on his face. "He's sweet," Brendon says. "Kind of quiet and kind of a goofball, but he's wonderful."
Jon would've been okay if he hadn't heard the last part. Jon would've been okay for the rest of his days if he'd never had to hear the way Brendon's voice had dipped on the "wonderful". If he could just go back in time and force himself to stay in his room, if he could go back, he would. "He looks." If Jon were anyone else -- if Jon could be anyone else, he'd be able to say something cutting, a backhanded insult that would make Brendon's eyes crinkle. He wants to, he wants to make it hurt, but he doesn't, and he can't. "He looks nice, Bren. Good for you."
Brendon winces as he sets the photo back down. "It's. It's hard out here, so far away from home. You make your friends where you can, you know? We didn't make promises." Jon's not sure which, out of the two of them, Brendon's talking about.
Despite it all, Jon wants to stay, but he can't. He just, hypocritical as it is, he can't be the one who has to crawl out of bed when all he wants to do is lay there curled with Brendon, he can't get dressed and walk away and not lose his shit when he sees Brendon walking hand in hand with a wonderful boy up from Las Vegas for a weekend of fun with his boyfriend in Chicago.
"I'm just gonna," he gestures back towards the door again. "I'm gonna go, but -- " Brendon slides close again, and Jon just. It's like all of Jon's muscles tighten, completely rooting him to the spot. Brendon brushes their mouths together again, touch feather light, and even though Jon's brain is telling his body not to, he still leans into the touch, hands finding their way to Brendon's hips. "See you Tuesday?" Brendon asks as he pulls away, and Jon nods, even though he knows he shouldn't.
Jon survives by not thinking about it, which works fucking fabulously, until Sunday afternoon when Travis drags him out of his for coffee and some "goddamn, motherfucking' sunshine. You're gonna turn into a damn vampire, Walker." They go to the Starbucks just down the road, which, in retrospect was really damn stupid since everyone and their grandmother goes to that Starbucks at one point or another during the day. Jon pushes through the door, scrubbing at his eyes, and of course, the first thing he sees is Brendon fucking Urie, laughing and mashing his face into the neck of a pretty boy with with bangs swooping across his eyes and a giggling smile.
To his credit, Brendon doesn't freeze when he sees him. He doesn't pretend they don't know each other, and when Jon gets closer -- because that's where his feet seem to take him, it's like he can't stop them, Brendon smiles at him. "Jonny Walker!" he says, giggling and bright, happy in a way Jon doesn't think he's ever seen before. "Marsh, this is that guy I was telling you about," Brendon starts, and Jon thinks, oh really? You told him I fucked in the backseat of your car? You told him I fucked you in the house pool, out in the open where anyone could have seen if they'd bothered to look? "From my Anthropology class last semester. He totally saved my ass during finals week."
"Hi, nice to meet you," Marshall says with a bright grin. "I feel like I owe you coffee or something. He kept calling me for help and I didn't know what to say." He kisses Brendon's temple and it's so goddamn sweet and natural and right and Jon feels like he's about ten seconds away from puking all over the floor of the Starbucks.
"No problem," he chokes out, feeling Travis eyes burning a hole into the skin between his shoulderblades.
"I worry about him," Marhsall says, blush spreading across his cheeks. "I mean, Chicago is a really long way away from home, y'know? I like knowing there's someone keeping an eye on him." Brendon chuckles and does the thing again, pressing his face into the crook of Marshall's neck like he's trying to merge them into one being.
"It was really nice meeting you," Jon manages to force out, completely ignoring Brendon's eyes, completely ignoring Brendon and nodding tightly at Marshall. "I hope the rest of your trip is good. You're the only thing Bren talks about." Marshall ducks his head a little and laughs, and when Jon starts to edge away, Marshall turns back to Brendon, eyes only for him. It's sweet -- it's freaking perfect, and Jon can't even find it in himself to hate the guy.
Jon gets completely and utterly trashed that night and he misses Monday classes curled up in bed trying not to die. He's not fucking moping, no matter what Tom and Travis say. The only upside is that Travis at least keeps his comments about the thing with Marshall and Brendon to raising his eyebrow and sending Jon significant looks.
When Tuesday comes, Jon doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know if Brendon will show, hell, he doesn't even know if he wants Brendon to show, but when the knock comes, he shoots off the couch like electricity's been bolted into his spine. Brendon doesn't look nervous. It's not one of those moments where can say, "Well, hey, at least you look as nervous as I feel." No, Brendon looks worse. They don't have any classes together this semester, besides Anthro Two, which is sometimes a blessing and sometimes a curse, but Jon hasn't seen him in two days and Brendon looks terrible. His skin is pale and his eyes are bruised and dark, not like he's been hit, but like he hasn't been sleeping, and Jon has to stop himself from thinking about the number of people who could have been keeping him up nights. "Hi," he says, and Jon blinks, because even his voice sounds fucked raw.
"Hey," Jon says and Brendon doesn't wait to be invited in, he just pushes past and starts up the stairs slumping into Jon's bedroom to flop on the bed with his face pressed into Jon's pillow. Jon hovers over him, looking down, hands pushed awkwardly into his pockets. This isn't how things usually go with them, not by any stretch of the imagination. This thing they have, it's playful and fun, a good fucking time for everyone involved, but Brendon looks like he's been fucked in every sense of the word and Jon doesn't know what to do.
"Do you mind if." Brendon's voice is muffled, but over the past six months, Jon's gotten really good at reading his noises. "We've got a couple of hours before Tommy gets back, right? Do you mind if we just." He flails an arm out behind him, and Jon wants him so badly he can barely see straight. "Just for a little while, just. Just. I haven't gotten any sleep, and I'm fucking wrecked. I didn't want to leave you hanging after the bombshell though, so I came. Can't be upsetting your whole world, can I JonWalker?" Jon snorts, and it's almost like they're back to normal, and when he climbs into the bed and Brendon nuzzles against his chest, Jon can close his eyes and pretend.
Brendon rubs the tip of his nose into the hollow of Jon's throat and drapes his leg across Jon's thigh. They fit well, insanely fucking well, and Jon can't help but feeling settled as Brendon exhales, like he's trying to sink into his bones. "Fuck," Brendon mumbles softly, tangling his fingers in the fabric of Jon's shirt. "Mmm?" Jon makes an inquiring noise in the back of his throat, half hoping Brendon won't answer so they can stay how they are, content and comfortable and right. "We don't fit anymore," Brendon sighs. "Marshall and I. We used to, we used to be like fucking puzzle pieces, but now it doesn't work."
Jon knows he should pull away and say something smart and adult and responsible about how that's how life works, and they must have grown apart, and that's what college does to people. He can't get himself to move though, just soothes his fingers through Brendon's hair, and breathes in the scent of him. "I'm sorry," he whispers, and he is, he is.
Brendon snorts softly and kisses the notch of Jon's collarbone. "I'm sure you are." Jon hates the feeling of guilt that shudders and slithers down his spine, the niggling fear that maybe he'd only been using Brendon and maybe he's still using Brendon, because, even now, he can't bring himself to use the G word on himself. "I am," Jon insist softly, tangling his fingers in Brendon's hair. "He made you happy, yeah?"
Brendon picks up his head a little, tilting it to the side and he nods a little, in assent. "For a while," he says, smiling, but just slightly. "For a while, yeah." Jon nods, pressing his free hand against Brendon's shoulder to settle him down, to push him closer. "Well, then I'm sorry. I hate anything that makes you unhappy, Bren." Brendon blinks, and Jon does too, they're like owls, communicating back and forth within the Morse code of their eyelids, and Jon hadn't meant to say that out loud, but he's not going to take it back, either.
"Would it be okay if we just, you know, stayed like this?" Brendon asks, voice going thick and lethargic. Jon smooths back his head and kisses the smooth skin between his eyebrows. "Yeah, sure, okay." Brendon's asleep in minutes, breathing going even and deep, body becoming heavy and boneless on top of Jon. Jon doesn't mean to fall asleep, he really doesn't, but he's warm and comfortable and before long he's fast asleep.
"Jon," Jon's never been a morning person, and even if it's five in the afternoon, he's pretty inclined to think that anything after a long period of sleep as morning. Tom's standing over him, hair falling into his eyes, and Jon blinks blearily up at him, unable to actually comprehend why the hell he's awake. "Fucking what?" he hisses, and then tries to move, because if he has to be awake then at least he'll have some coffee. There's a dead weight on his chest though and it groans when he shifts. Jon's eyes fly all the way open, and he reconciles the two, Brendon snuffling against his neck, sloppy and sleepy and gorgeous and Tom standing over them, barely able to contain his horror.
"What the hell?" Tom says, voice perfectly level and perfectly controlled and very perfectly horrified.
"Tom," Jon exhales, too aware of the fact that he's keeping his voice low to keep from waking Brendon up, Brendon who is snuffling sleepily into his neck, flexing his fingers into Jon's shirt and making mildly discontent noises as he begins to swim up from sleep.
"What is this?" Tom hisses and Jon wants to bang his goddamn head against the wall.
"It's nothing," Jon mumbles, "It's fucking nothing, Tom. Go away." Tom straightens, taking a hard step back, just as Travis comes wandering in. "Hey, Tommy, what's ... "
Travie doesn't even blink, and Jon could kiss him. He refrains from saying this out loud, but just barely. "Hey, Conrad, you forgot your shit at Andy's, and you know how he is about mess." Tom doesn't move, just stares down at Jon, features inscrutable. He doesn't move, until Travis grabs his arm, dragging him out of the room fairly forcibly. Jon can't say that he isn't glad.
Brendon sleeps for another twenty minutes before his eyes jerk open, glancing uncertainly around the room before coming to rest on Jon. "Hi," he mumbles, word broken and distorted by a deep yawn. "Hey," Jon says back, brushing his hair off his face. "You were out for six hours. You okay?" Brendon shifts and shimmies, exhaling out against Jon's neck. "Yeah. Wait, fuck. Aren't your frat brothers back?"
Jon is very sensibly trying not to freak out. He's trying and he's trying and he's trying, and the thing about him is that Jon as a rule is usually pretty laid back. Jon doesn't feel very laid back right now, he feels like he'll explode if he moves an inch off this bed, and he's almost positive that Tom'll be sleeping somewhere else tonight. "They're downstairs," Jon finally manages quietly, and Brendon's eyes go the size of saucers.
"Well fuck," Brendon says conversationally and Jon almost laughs, almost. The thing is, Jon keeps going back to that night in Brendon's dorm, wanting nothing more than take him out for coffee and all that shit. Jon still isn't really sure what the hell kind of sexual he is, other than Brendon-sexual, but he still fucking wants it. "You know what?" Jon says, "Fuck it. I just. I don't even care anymore."
Jon's pretty sure it's not possible for Brendon's eyes to go any wider, but they do, and he swallows convulsively. "Jon, don't." Jon rolls his eyes. "No," Brendon smacks his shoulder once he sees. "No, shut up. Jon I can't make you any promises. Don't throw away your whole -- " Jon kisses him. If he's going to come out of the closet he wasn't even in before knowing Brendon Urie, he might as well do it up right.
Jon grabs Brendon's hand as they walk out of the room and Brendon jumps a little, eyes wide, but he tightens his fingers back and smiles, a little jittery and a little broken, but it's still a smile and the bruises beneath his eyes are faded and he looks just a little less pale. "Are you going to get beaten in with a baseball bat?" Brendon asks under his breath and Jon snorts out an unintentional laugh as they tumble down the stairs and right into Travis. "Hey, Jonny Walker," Travis says, eying them both. "Hey, Jonny Walker's boy."
"Brendon," Brendon says, sticking out his free hand. Jon realizes he might be holding on a little tightly, but he can't make himself let go. This is just Travis and if he can't be comfortable around Travis, he sure as hell can't be comfortable around anybody else.
"You guys want some dinner? It's my night and I'm totally making my mama's blueberry pancakes."
It's a question, but he doesn't phrase it that way and for some reason, Jon is ridiculously grateful. The relief pooling in his stomach is palpable and he squeezes at Brendon's fingers again, but Brendon's eyes are drawn, bottom lip sucked below his teeth. "I don't." The panic seizing at Jon's stomach is all consuming, and it's almost like he knows what Brendon's going to say before he even does. "I'm not asking you to walk in any gay pride parades with me, Jon Walker," he whispers. "I don't want that."
Jon stares at Brendon and, thank God, Travis seems to get the message and goes wandering back toward the kitchen. "I don't really want to do that either," Jon says. God, he has no idea what in the hell he's doing, but he knows for damn sure assless leather chaps aren't anywhere in his future. He'd rather Travis and Bill just took him out into a field and shot him out of his misery if it ever came to that. "I mean, I just, I want to hold your hand?" Jon says, feeling like the biggest fucking girl in the universe. "Is that wrong?"
Brendon grins at him, and it's pretty, and huge and it's brilliant, and if tiny, cartoon rabbits were tumbling on the floor of the house kitchen, Jon would so not be surprised. "It's not wrong, Jon Walker," Brendon says, and he still looks a little shaky, but it's better. He's better.
"This might come as a surprise," Jon says, tightening his fingers, "But I really don't have any fucking idea what I'm doing." It's so goddamn weird, this thing that Brendon does to him. He still likes girls, that much he knows for absolute certain, but Brendon sends shivers and sparks up and down his nerves and okay, maybe if he thinks about it there have been one or two guys he's looked twice at.
But like. None of them, none of them have done to him what Brendon does to him. Which is ridiculous, because. Well. It's Brendon, but. But. "Hey, so, I need you to clear up something for me." Brendon blinks over at him, and god, he's fucking gorgeous. "If, say, I was going to hypothetically ask to take you out to dinner tomorrow night. Would you, you know, hypothetically say yes?"
Brendon cocks his head and grins. "I would hypothetically probably have to lead you along a little, but hypothetically, after a couple minutes of making you sweat, I would totally say yes, so long as you promised me that your frat brothers would not beat over the head with their very unhypothetical lacrosse sticks." Jon snorts. "Also," Brendon bats his eyelashes. "I don't put out on the first date."