Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5851411.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Bandom
  Relationship:
      Mike_Carden/Brendon_Urie, William_Beckett/Mike_Carden, Ryan_Ross/Brendon
      Urie
  Character:
      Spencer_Smith
  Additional Tags:
      the_underage_is_only_by_one_year_for_brendon!, aka_the_fic_where_everyone
      is_Gay_and_has_Feelings, trans_girl!spencer
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-01-30 Words: 7480
****** you're gonna miss it all ******
by sadrobotboy_(bruisesandcontusions)
Summary
     in which there are mistakes, phone calls, car rides, teen angst, and
     blowjobs (not necessarily in that order)
Notes
     this started as a late-night idea over kik, fueled by sisky's love
     for mike carden and my being a billryan stan, and now look how far it
     has come. i would like to thank high school parties, .txt files, and
     'notes' by modern baseball for bringing this to fruition.
     zack, i love you more than i can say. happy birthday, my very
     favourite mike stan <3 i hope this is worth it being late.
Ryan is staring at his phone again. His fingers are tapping wildly at the keys,
a meticulous precision to every press of the send button. He's been ignoring
the conversation for ten minutes now, giggling occasionally at whatever
messages he's receiving. Brendon pouts.
"Ryan."
No response. Brendon looks over at Spencer, who rolls her eyes in her typical
long-suffering manner.
"Ryan." Brendon kicks him under the table this time, and Ryan looks up at him,
frowning.
"What? I was listening."
Spencer snorts. "Yeah, right."
"Were you messaging William?" Brendon asks, interrupting Ryan's protests. Ryan
actually blushes. Brendon didn't even know Ryan's face could do that.
"He totally was," Spencer stage-whispers; Ryan glares at her and they commence
their vaguely freaky twin telepathy method of silent conversation. Spencer
raises an eyebrow and Ryan looks quickly down at his folded hands on the
tabletop.
"So are you guys dating or what?" Brendon asks, attempting to steer the
conversation back on course. Ryan shrugs. "Well, are you?" Brendon persists.
"Ryan doesn't date," Spencer tells him, twirling egg-fried noodles around her
fork. "He stakes out the competition."
Brendon looks back to Ryan for confirmation of this, but Ryan's head is buried
back in his phone, fingers practically a blur as he composes another message.
Brendon sighs.
*
Ryan and William have been not-dating for over a month now. What it mostly
seems to involve is a lot of going to shows for bands that Brendon's never
heard of, discussing books that Brendon doesn't understand, and talking shit
about their local scene. Oh, and making out. A lot of making out.
Brendon has been staring at the TV and decidedly not at the face sucking that's
happening right next to him on the sofa for at least half an hour now, and
quite frankly his neck is getting tired. He's contemplating vaguely murderous
thoughts of clobbing them both over the head with their copies of Catch-22 when
there's the crash of the door opening and suddenly the doorway is filled by a
guy with shoulder-length dark hair and a rather epic scowl.
"I swear to God, if Jason makes me cover his shift again I'm gonna tell him to
stick his fucking hockey tournaments up his ass," the guy tells William, going
to flop down on the sofa next to him before seemingly realising they have
company.
"Oh, hey, Ryan. And..." he frowns at Brendon, confused, and looks suddenly far
less terrifying for it.
"Brendon," Brendon supplies, shuffling up the sofa to make room for Mike to sit
down.
"Right," the guy nods, squishing into the small amount of sofa space. This is
cozy, Brendon thinks, and has to stop himself from laughing nervously.
"I'm Mike," Mike continues, looking over at William and seeming entirely
unsurprised that his tongue is currently in Ryan's mouth. "You must be a friend
of Ryan's."
"Yeah," Brendon nods. He's searching desperately for something more to say when
he recognises one of the patches on Mike's denim jacket. "Hey, you like
Weezer?"
Mike smiles, sudden and bright, and Brendon is taken aback by the intensity of
it, the easy way it stretches across his lips. Mike looks younger when he's
smiling, and Brendon feels the urge to make it happen as often as possible.
"They're my favourite band," he tells Brendon, relaxing back on the sofa, and
Brendon follows his lead. "Pinkerton is basically my life in album form."
"Same here!" Brendon nods enthusiastically, bouncing a little in his seat. "I
saw them last year at the Academy, they were amazing."
Mike agrees wholeheartedly, and the conversation quickly expands to gigs
they've been to and local bands they know of. Brendon realises where he's seen
Mike before - his old band used to play shows at the type of back-alley venues
that Ryan likes to drag Brendon to in order to "expand his musical horizons".
He glances over at Ryan at the memory, and realises Ryan is smirking at him.
William, on the other hand, doesn't seem to have noticed a thing, his face
currently buried in Ryan's neck, presumably writing poetry with his teeth or
something equally pretentious. William doesn't tend to notice anything else
when Ryan is around. It's kind of sweet, and also kind of makes Brendon want to
punch something.
Ryan arches his neck so the tendons protrude from under delicate skin, his eyes
locked on Brendon watching him. Deliberately slowly, his mouth falls open in a
silent moan.
Brendon looks away, turning pointedly back to Mike. "So, how do you feel about
Green Day?"
Mike grins again, practically radiant, and Brendon barely notices the scuff of
William's hand against Ryan's belt buckle or Ryan's quiet gasps behind him.
*
Ryan gives Brendon a lift home in his shitty silver car with the dent in the
back. It's still far better than taking the bus, so Brendon isn't complaining.
"So," he says over the sound of Ryan's vaguely tuneless humming. Ryan glances
over at him.
"So?"
"So, Mike seems nice." Brendon doesn't know why he's telling Ryan this. He
tells himself he's just trying to make conversation.
Ryan shrugs. "Yeah. You guys seem to have a lot in common."
Ryan has a purple bruise just below his hairline that Brendon doesn't remember
seeing William put there. He wonders briefly if Ryan is sleeping around, then
reminds himself that what Ryan does is none of his business (squashes the
petty, jealous voice in the back of his head asking why not me? why not me?).
"Bill and Mike are gonna be at Adam's party," Ryan continues, his eyes on the
road. "You still planning on coming?"
Brendon hates parties. He hates having to spend money getting his only nice
clothes dry-cleaned, he hates the awkward social niceties, he hates trying to
maintain conversations with boring drunk people. He hates the way he still
feels vaguely guilty whenever he drinks anything that isn't soda.
Brendon smiles. "Yeah, I'll be there."
*
The party is just as cliché as Brendon had imagined, with terrible music and a
bunch of college freshmen trying to act like they're too cool for what is in
essence a high school party. There's even actual spiked punch in the kitchen,
which Brendon gets himself a cup of for want of something to do. He'd left Ryan
and William examining the back of each other's mouths on one of the couches,
and he figures he needs the alcohol to wipe the sound of Ryan's whimpering from
the back of his mind. Fucking exhibitionist scene kids.
Brendon's examining the contents of his paper cup warily when a voice he
recognises makes his head shoot up. He spots Mike instantly, over by the snacks
table, and suddenly the party doesn't feel like such a bad idea.
"Hey! Mike!" Brendon makes his way over to him, stepping carefully around two
girls dancing wildly in the centre of the room. Mike looks around, confused,
before he notices Brendon waving dorkily at him.
"Oh, hey Brendon." Brendon ignores the thrill down his spine at the fact that
Mike remembers his name. "Have you seen William anywhere?"
Brendon nods. "I was just with him and Ryan." He makes a face. "They're, er,
making out again. I think some girls wanted to take photos of them and post
them on MySpace."
Mike rolls his eyes and Brendon laughs, his awkwardness quickly disappearing.
"Come on," he says, letting Mike follow him down the hallway until they find
their friends. They've moved on from kissing to just being disgustingly
adorable: William's holding both of Ryan's hands in one of his and Ryan is
staring into William's eyes sappily. Brendon considers knocking his head
against the wall repeatedly.
"You want a drink?" he asks Mike instead, picking an abandoned cup of something
brown up off the sideboard next to him and offering it to him.
"Cheers," Mike mutters, taking the proffered drink and knocking the cups
together with a wry smile that does something odd and fluttery to Brendon's
chest. He ignores it in order to take a first sip of the pink concoction in his
cup, and finds it's actually not too bad. Fruity, and vaguely like the fizzy
sweets Brendon wasn't allowed as a kid. He's happily downing another mouthful
when Mike knocks their shoulders together and he almost chokes.
"Yeah?" he splutters out, coughing, and Mike looks concerned.
"You okay dude?" he frowns, and Brendon's entire face feels like it's burning
up from the embarrassment.
"Yeah, fine," he manages to say normally, focusing on the way Mike's face
scrunches up like a puppy when he's confused. Mike doesn't look entirely
convinced, but he nods and says something that Brendon doesn't quite catch.
"What was that, sorry?" Brendon asks, almost having to yell over the din of the
party.
Mike looks a little exasperated as he turns back to Ryan and William on the
couch.
"Me and Brendon are gonna go smoke," he tells them, his voice loud enough to be
heard over the music. Brendon's eyes widen as he shakes his head.
"Oh, no - I don't smoke."
Mike gives him a Look. "Were gonna go smoke," he repeats. Ryan hums non-
commitally against William's cheek, and William flaps his hand in a way that
suggests they should get on with it then.
Brendon's about to protest further when Mike grabs his hand, pulling him
through the crowds of people into the kitchen and towards the backdoor. Brendon
gasps embarrassingly, thankful Mike can't pick up on it, and lets himself be
dragged outside, hoping his palm isn't sweaty against Mike's.
Mike drops his hand once they're out the door, and Brendon tries not to feel
too disappointed. He reaches into the pocket of his denim jacket and pulls out
a pack of Marlboro Lights, taking one for himself before offering the pack to
Brendon.
Brendon shakes his head so fast his head feels like it might spin off. "No, no,
no - I don't - no. Thanks." Drinking is one thing, but Ryan will kill him if he
wrecks his voice with cigarettes.
Mike shrugs, nonplussed, and lights up a smoke for himself, taking a long drag
into his lungs before letting the cloud of smoke escape. Brendon tries not to
stare too obviously.
It's cold outside, and Brendon's shoulders are shaking as he wraps his arms
around himself. Mike contemplates him for a moment before tucking his cigarette
between his teeth and shrugging off his jacket.
"Here you go, man. You look ready to freeze."
He hands the jacket to Brendon, who blinks, stupefied, before tugging it on.
It's very warm and smells like smoke and shampoo. Brendon loves it instantly.
"Thanks," he mutters, his face a little red. He's pretty sure Mike's casual
shrug is a façade, since he's now shivering in just his New Found Glory
sweatshirt.
He takes another drag, shaking his head and muttering to himself. “Fucking
William Beckett."
Brendon nods, because he pretty much shares the same sentiments right now.
William is a nuisance and a best friend stealer - even if Ryan wasn't exactly
Brendon's best friend to steal in the first place. Still, it's the principle of
the thing that counts.
Mike continues, his shoulders hunched as he leans up against the wall. "I don't
know if he's trying to make me jealous or what, but either way people are gonna
get hurt, and that's when he thinks he can come running back to my bed. Well
maybe this time I won't be so generous or understanding, huh?"
Brendon tries to pretend that he knows what the hell Mike is talking about
while taking shameless advantage of his distraction to huddle closer to him. He
slips his hands into the pockets of Mike's sweatshirt, widening his eyes
innocently when Mike glances down at him, confused. "It's cold!"
Mike pauses for a minute, contemplating, and Brendon finds himself watching his
eyes. They're very green, and they flash in the light of his cigarette butt as
Mike drops it to the floor. Their breath clouds in the air, mingling together
like yet more smoke.
Brendon kisses Mike. Their lips are cold and Brendon's are chapped, but Mike
tastes like beer and cheap cigarettes and it's perfect, it's so fucking perfect
out in this dark backyard with just the two of them and Brendon's hands turning
numb inside Mike's pockets. Somewhere above them, through the light pollution
haze, there are probably even stars.
When Brendon pulls away simply in order to breathe, Mike's eyes are closed;
when he opens them, his gaze is hazy. He blinks, slowly. Brendon has the sudden
thought that maybe he fucked up big time here. "Okay," Mike says, and his voice
is hoarser than before. "Okay. Right." There is a quiet, terrible pause where
Brendon's heartbeat stops, before Mike is grabbing at him, kissing him so hard
Brendon feels dizzy. Mike is a really good kisser.
"Okay, we're doing this," Mike mumbles, seemingly to himself, his words a
little slurred against Brendon's mouth. Brendon thinks it's possible that Mike
might have had more to drink than he'd realised. Either that, or he's
pretending to. He doesn't have time to consider the matter further before
Mike's knee slips between his thighs, pressing their bodies closer together,
and Brendon decides just to focus on the kissing.
Mike's tongue strokes across Brendon's lower lip and he whines embarrassingly.
He's already hard in his jeans, curses himself for his hair-trigger responses.
His breathing comes rapid and shallow in the thin winter air when their lips
slide apart again, and his fingers grip at Mike's shirt. "Do you want to? I
mean, can we?" He swallows, collecting together his rapidfire thoughts. "Can we
take this inside? Somewhere with a bed, maybe?"
Mike looks taken aback, his fingers digging into Brendon's shoulder briefly
before he nods. He grabs Brendon's hand again to lead him inside, and Brendon
melts a little.
They end up in a bedroom (unsurprising) which is unoccupied (genuinely
surprising). There's an awkward moment where they lean in to kiss each other
again, noses bumping and fumbled hands against clothing, but soon enough their
tongues are sliding together and Brendon is gasping whenever Mike's hands slide
up under his shirt.
"How old are you, again?" Mike asks when Brendon is fumbling with the button of
his jeans. Brendon flushes.
"Seventeen," he admits, not looking Mike in the eye. Mike groans, rolling his
head back until it hits against the wall, but he doesn't say anything more and
Brendon takes that as permission to stick a hand down the front of his pants.
Mike groans again, a breathy lilt to it this time. Encouraged, Brendon shoves
at Mike's jeans until they're around his thighs and grips his cock properly.
He's done this part before, once or twice - enough to know how to twist his
wrist and run his thumb over the head. Mike keeps moaning quietly, and it's a
nice ego boost, makes Brendon want to show off so Mike will want him even more.
"I want to suck you off," Brendon says, proud of himself for actually saying it
out loud without trailing off. Maybe he's not quite as repressed as he thought.
"Have you ever even done that before?" Mike asks, not unkindly. Brendon shrugs
and tries not to blush too darkly, but he knows the answer is obvious anyway.
"Okay, okay," Mike shakes his head, but he can't hide how deep is voice is, or
the way his cock jerks in Brendon's hand. "Just don't bite my dick off."
Brendon nods eagerly, practically dropping to his knees. Mike pushes his jeans
and boxers down to his knees and wow, okay, there's a dick in Brendon's face.
Mike's dick, which is longer that Brendon's own and curves slightly to the
left. Brendon swallows. He can totally do this. How card can it be?
"Wrap your hand around the base," Mike advises, watching Brendon from above.
"I've watched porn, thanks," Brendon replies a little snappily, but follows
Mike's suggestion anyway. He leans in to lick cautiously at the head, but it
just tastes of sweat and skin. Shrugging, he takes the head in his mouth, his
lips stretching wider than he'd expected when he'd thought about this in
theory, at home in bed with his hand around his cock.
He has to stop halfway down for fear of choking, but he figures that isn't too
bad for his first attempt. Remembering vaguely some comment of Ryan's about
blowjob technique, he tries jacking the lower half of Mike cock while sucking
on the head, attempting to match the rhythm of his bobbing head with the
movement of his wrist. He's a musician, he can totally do this.
The first time Mike moans out loud, Brendon grins around his cock. He is
totally awesome at giving head.
After about 10 minutes, his jaw is starting to ache and his eyes are watering
from where he accidentally slipped too far down and panicked momentarily,
convinced he was going to die while giving a blowjob in a dark bedroom to a guy
he barely knows. If there were anything that would guarantee him not getting
into the Celestial Kingdom, it would probably be that. What's worse, his
parents would probably have to find out.
He speeds up his hand, running his tongue along the vein of Mike's cock, and
Mike lets out a groan so high-pitched that it's practically a whine. "Brendon,
Brendon, gonna..."
Mike comes in his mouth before Brendon has the presence of mind to pull off.
It's not the worst thing Brendon's ever tasted, but it's not exactly up there
on his favourite flavours. He smiles gratefully when Mike passes him a tissue
from his pocket, spitting the salty, sticky substance into it.
"You're a gentleman," he tells Mike once he's done, and, okay, maybe Brendon's
a little tipsy too. He doesn't drink alcohol often (his parents' rules or
Ryan's disappointment too heavy a burden to bear) and the adrenaline rush from
having given his first blowjob is making him dizzy. He's also really fucking
hard.
"Mike," he mutters, unzipping his jeans and pushing his underwear down along
with them. "Please..."
Mike's thankfully quick to get with the program, pushing Brendon towards the
bed and kneeling over Brendon on the mattress, taking his cock in his steady
grip. Mike's hands are large and calloused from playing guitar, and it takes
all of Brendon's willpower not to come right then and there. He lasts,
thankfully, but only as long as it takes Mike to slide a finger down behind his
balls, pressing against his hole. Brendon gasps, feeling filthy and exposed,
and immediately begins to come.
"Mike - fuck!"
He spills over Mike's fist, hips jerking up from the mattress while his face
contorts into some horrifically embarrassing expression. Thankfully Mike
doesn't mention it as he leans in to kiss the pucker of Brendon's mouth,
stroking him through the aftershocks.
Brendon smiles up at Mike once he's back down to earth, admiring how pretty his
eyes are even in the half-dark. "Thanks."
Mike snorts. "No problem, dude." He rolls off of Brendon, standing to zip up
his fly properly. He still looks fairly well-fucked and Brendon smirks smugly,
then yawns. Mike rolls his eyes at him, but at least it seems affectionate.
"You should get a nap," he tells Brendon, pulling the covers on the bed up over
Brendon as though tucking him in.
Brendon tries to protest - he wants to enjoy the party with Mike, wants to see
if Mike will show him off the same way William does Ryan - but he always gets
tired after orgasming and right now the pull of his eyelids closing is just too
much to fight off. The last thing he sees is Mike watching him from the doorway
before the door swings shut and he's left alone in the darkness.
*
Brendon wakes up at 1am, startled and disorientated. There's dried come on his
stomach, which is all kinds of gross, but he pulls his jeans up anyway and
shuffles out of the bedroom, almost walking straight into two girls with dark
hair and lots of eyeliner.
"Are you the kid who was asleep?" one of them asks, her words almost too
slurred to comprehend. Her friend giggles. "You were so cute!"
Brendon frowns. He's not cute. He just had sex. In a bed, and with an older
guy, and everything.
He makes his way downstairs and by some miracle finds Bill and Ryan again.
"Have you guys seen Mike?" he asks, trying to sound casual. Ryan's eyes narrow
as he watches Brendon knowingly, but William just shakes his head.
"I'm pretty sure he went home already. Said something about the music giving
him a headache."
Brendon's mouth twists downwards at the corners, and for the first time ever
he's actually grateful when Ryan distracts William by giving him a hickey under
his ear. There's a creeping, desperate feeling twisting its way through
Brendon's guts and he's unsure what to name it. The memory of Mike's mouth
still feels stamped against his own.
He leaves alone and takes the bus, and as always there is no one to come home
to.
*
Ryan's dad is in the hospital again, which means that Spencer is spending all
her free time at Ryan's house, making sure he sleeps and eats while the same
Brand New album plays on repeat. Brendon should be there too. If he were a
better friend he would be there, giving Ryan hugs and making him cups of
camomile tea when the nightmares stop him from sleeping. But right now he knows
that William Beckett will be there, taking up space and clinging to Ryan like
he's the one drowning, and maybe Spencer can deal with that but Brendon just.
Can't.
He lies on the futon mattress in his one-room apartment, flicking through the
contacts in his phone and trying to decide who he should spend his last 5
minutes for the month on. His eyes flick quickly over the number labelled 'Mom
xx' and land on 'Mike'. Brendon pauses.
"Hey," he says when the line stops ringing. "It's me, Brendon."
"I know," Mike Carden says. "I have caller ID." He sounds surprised, and
Brendon supposes it's not often that drunken one-night stands call back at 3 in
the afternoon.
"Um," Brendon stalls, feeling suddenly very young. "Do you want to hang out?"
"Hang out," Mike says, like he's never heard the phrase before.
"Yeah," Brendon agrees, trying to sound enthusiastic. "We could go see a movie
or something?"
Mike pauses, and Brendon tries to imagine how he looks when he's thinking.
"Okay, Brendon. Let's go hang out."
*
They go see the latest Marvel film because that's a safe bet, and Mike seems to
enjoy it enough at least, laughing at the jokes and getting totally absorbed in
the action sequences. Brendon, meanwhile, probably couldn't name any of the
major characters or story arcs. He spends the whole movie sneaking glances at
Mike, observing the way his eats popcorn, the way he folds his legs together,
the way the corners of his mouth crinkle when he smiles. It's probably rather
creepy to be doing this in the secluded darkness of a movie theatre, but
Brendon can't help himself. He thinks about Mike's cock in his mouth and
blushes, has to look away and stare at his hands for five minutes until his
boner disappears.
They're on their way out of the mall, finishing off the last of the candy
Brendon bought, when Mike turns to him, pulling an awkward, uncomfortable face.
He dithers, twisting his fingers together, and Brendon feels a sudden
overwhelming urge to hold his hand again.
Mike coughs awkwardly. "Look, dude, I. I gotta ask. Was this a date?" Mike
looks flushed and embarrassed, and Brendon wants to die but he also wants to
kiss him again more than ever.
"No!" he assures Mike pointedly, then wonders if that was the right answer.
Mike looks relieved. "Okay. Okay, good. This was fun, man. We should do this
again."
Brendon nods, possibly over-enthusiastically. "Definitely! I had loads of fun."
Touch me, touch me, touch me, he thinks, then giggles slightly hysterically
when the Rocky Horror song pops into his head. Mike raises his eyebrows at him,
confused, and Brendon shakes his head. "Just, er, having fun."
Mike snorts. "You're a weird kid, Urie." He ruffles Brendon's hair and Brendon
presses into it, preening upwards and telling himself that the brush of contact
and the scratch of Mike's nails against his scalp is enough. To his credit,
Mike doesn't pull away until the touch has lingered for a good five seconds
past it being comfortable - not that Brendon is counting or anything.
He steals the strawberry laces off of Mike and shoves the whole wad into his
mouth, partly for attention and partly to stop himself from saying anything
he'll regret. When Mike shoves an elbow in his side, it feels like
satisfaction.
*
Having friends is good, Brendon tells himself. Having friends that aren't Ryan
Ross is frankly an excellent idea. He can totally just be friends with Mike
Carden, if that's all that can happen between the two of them.
Brendon's reflection in the mirror doesn't look convinced.
"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Brendon mutters, brushing his teeth with enough force
that his gums bleed. "I don't believe me either."
*
This time, Mike calls Brendon. His voice is husky as though he has a cold, and
Brendon's already grabbing his coat and scarf before they've shared a full
sentence between them.
They end up in Mike's car, which is, incredibly, even more beat up than Ryan's.
Mike drives in meticulous, calculated gestures at a steady 5 miles per hour
over the limit while Brendon watches the tension in his forearms. It's only
when they're parked up beside a nature trail Brendon remembers visiting with
his family as a kid, and Mike is halfway through his remaining cigarettes, that
he seems to relax. He leans out of the rolled-down window to blow smoke at the
wind, and Brendon appreciates his not hotboxing the car, cramped as it is with
CDs and portable amps and the lankiness of two teenage boys. Brendon pulls a
bag of Haribo gummy bears out of his coat pocket, picking out the red ones to
eat first. Mike glances over at him but says nothing.
"What's up?" Brendon asks, after having spent 10 minutes trying to build up the
nerve to say anything. Mike shrugs, movements languid, and Brendon can imagine
suddenly how he must look pushing through water, muscle and bone working
together to create beauty.
"Me and Bill had a fight," he explains, still staring out of the window. He
takes another slow drag of his cigarette. Brendon tries not to rustle the
Haribo packet. "You're lucky you don't share a house with your bandmates."
Brendon almost wants to point out that he'd rather share a house with anyone
other than his creaking pipes and empty cupboards, or how Ryan knows better
than anyone that home doesn't always mean family, but he keeps his mouth shut.
"I'm sorry," he tells Mike instead. Mike's face screws up in an expression
that's oddly Ryan-like and Brendon's heart aches a little.
"It's whatever." The cigarette falls from his fingers to the damp grass and
Mike rolls his shoulder, turning back to Brendon and letting the window wind
itself back up. "So. Your band. How's that going?"
Brendon shrugs. "Pretty good, I guess. We have three demos now, and Ryan says
we should start sending them to label executives." He personally thinks Ryan's
getting rather ahead of himself, but if cyberstalking Pete Wentz makes him
happy then Brendon's not about to take that away from him.
Mike nods, seemingly impressed, and the conversation turns to other things -
school, gigs, whether the Marvel movie they saw together was genuinely worth
the hype, whether Blink-182 will ever get around to releasing another album.
They don't mention the party. In a way it feels like a distant memory, or
something concocted from one of Brendon's more vivid wet dreams. He knows it
was real though; his knees still had the bruises to prove it the morning after.
Mike's halfway through making a point, using his hands expressively the way he
does when he gets passionate, when his elbow brushes Brendon's arm. The touch
is electric, the way it sparks through Brendon's body. He feels like he's on
fire, like he'll die if Mike touches him again but that only makes Brendon want
him more.
He finds himself leaning in, watches as his hand touches Mike's thigh, watches
the fact of his own desire. When he looks up, Mike's eyes are dark and his gaze
is focused on Brendon's mouth. Brendon's tongue slips over his lips, and Mike's
breath catches.
"I'm going to kiss you now," he murmurs. Brendon can only nod, tilting his head
up, waiting for it.
It's heated and messy from the off; tongues and teeth and fingers twisted in
clothing like they can't bear not to touch each other now they know that they
can. It's exactly what Brendon's been wanting and it's good, it's so good,
letting Mike take the lead while Brendon falls apart beneath his mouth and his
hands. Brendon likes the way he knows Mike's body now, the different ways to
make him gasp and moan. It makes him feel as though Mike is his.
Afterwards, when their pants are still hastily shoved down to their knees and
Brendon's skin is turning cold, he watches Mike's calloused fingers tracing
patterns over his pale thighs, making him shiver.
"I like your hands," he tells Mike, then feels lame and vaguely ridiculous.
Mike blushes, pulling his hand away and fumbling for the button of his jeans.
"Shut up."
Mike doesn't kiss him again, but he does drive Brendon home and watches until
he's past the door of his crappy apartment building, so there's that.
*
Adam's boyfriend buys Brendon alcohol with a cheery smile and makes him promise
not to get into trouble where the police can catch him. Brendon doesn't know
why he ever used to hang around with straight people - they were never this
much fun.
He lays on his apartment floor, the half-empty vodka bottle next to him and his
newly topped-up phone clutched to his ear. The dial tone beeps and drones, but
the phone rings on without ever being picked up. Not the first time, not the
second, and by the third attempt Brendon is in a far worse mood than he was
half an hour ago. Mike hasn't been returning his calls for a week, not since he
sucked Brendon off in his car after school, not since they rode down the
highway singing along to The Eagles at the top of their lungs and Brendon
watched the way the steadfast winter sun reflected off Mike's skin.
"Mike," Brendon slurs into the answering machine, and giggles. "Mike, Mike,
Mike. I like your name. I like you." He pauses, hiccupping. "I like giving you
blowjobs. I like your hair. I like it when you call me back." Brendon listens
to the sound of his own breath for a while, how it echoes mechanically down the
phone line. He sighs.
"Did I do something wrong?" he asks in a small voice, then feels childish and
naive, digging his bitten nails into the doughy flesh of his palms and trying
not to cry.
When the tape runs out, Brendon has three missed calls that he didn't even
notice. He calls Spencer back cautiously, trying to remember if he missed a 1am
band practice and Ryan is going to murder him. It would be nice of Spencer to
give him some prior warning of that.
"There you are!" Spencer whispers harshly down the line. "Who the hell have you
been on the phone to?"
"No one," Brendon finds himself whisper-yelling as well, picking up on
Spencer's tone. Spencer huffs out an exasperated sigh.
"Well, that's not important now. You need to come over here, Bren." Her voice
cracks a little, and Brendon perceives the strain in her words, almost as
though she's about to cry.
"Spence..." he breathes out, suddenly feeling far more sober. "Spencer, what's
going on?"
Spencer pauses, and Brendon can hear her swallow thickly on the other end of
the line. His head is racing with possibilities of what could have happened,
each one more alarming than the first. When Spencer replies, her voice is flat
and heavy, each word dropped like a stone into a pond and the ripples extending
outwards.
"William just broke up with Ryan."
Brendon feels the waves lapping up against his chest and lets himself slip
under.
*
The first time Ryan cried in front of Brendon, he was 17 and his father had
been rushed to the ICU in a blaze of blue lights. Spencer had been holding onto
Ryan all night, had left only to tiptoe downstairs and grab painkillers to
soothe Ryan's headaches, and Brendon watched as the tears slid silently down
Ryan's cheeks, for once rendered speechless.
"Don't tell Spencer," Ryan whispered, his voice foggy and hoarse. Brendon's
tongue was heavy in his mouth as he nodded, passing Ryan a tissue and wishing
he knew how to fix anyone at all.
Right now Ryan isn't crying. He's shaking, but Brendon can't tell if it's from
cold or anger, his arms wrapped around himself so tightly Brendon can see his
ribs through his t-shirt.
"I'm sorry," Brendon says for the third time, flinching when Ryan glares at
him, the hurt raw in his black-rimmed eyes.
"We already covered that part."
Brendon doesn't let it sting. He knows Ryan well enough to understand that this
is how he deals with rejection: lashing out at everyone he cares about just to
see who leaves first. In a way, perhaps he should feel honoured that Ryan
values him highly enough to snap at him. Spencer's hand reaches for Brendon's
on top of the bedspread, squeezing gently. Her other hand is rubbing Ryan's
back in slow, steady motions, and Brendon feels the all-too-familiar pang to be
allowed to do the same.
He's glad he remembered to brush his teeth before leaving the house, but he's
still scared Ryan can smell the alcohol on him. He certainly doesn't feel drunk
any more, but he's aware of the Jägermeister sloshing around in his stomach and
the way the room keeps spinning at the edges when he moves his head too fast.
So maybe it's the remaining intoxication that persuades him to reach out and
rest a hand on Ryan's thigh; not moving, just an attempt at steady comfort.
Ryan's skin is warm through the soft cotton of his pyjama pants.
Ryan looks down at Brendon's hand, and for a moment Brendon's terrified he'll
shrug him off, back to pushing him away again. But Ryan just blinks, slow and a
little dazed, and Brendon feels the taught muscle relax under his palm like an
uncurled fist.
"Thanks, Bren," Ryan mutters, and it feels like the biggest compliment
Brendon's ever received.
*
Ryan goes to get a shower, after having managed to convince Spencer that he
doesn't need a suicide watch outside the door, and Brendon pretends not to
notice as Spencer scrubs at her eyes, dabbing away tears from beneath her lash
line.
He's never seen Spencer cry before.
"You're staying over, right?" Spencer asks in a low, careful voice. Brendon
remembers that first time again, and how after Ryan staunched the flow of tears
he had smiled waveringly and asked Brendon to stay. How it had finally felt
like belonging, the same way it had done the day they told him he was part of
the band.
Brendon nods decisively. "Of course, dude. Ryan needs us." He wraps an arm
around Spencer's shoulder and she smiles at him, subdued but grateful.
"Thanks, Bren."
Brendon cuddles her close to his side, and determinedly doesn't think about
Mike for the rest of the night.
*
When Brendon arrives home the next day, his phone informs him he has three
missed calls and a text from Mike. He reads the text first, his eyes scanning
the text so fast he has to go back over it again, letting the words settle cold
and heavy in the pit of his stomach.
Brendon. We can't meet up any more. I'm sorry. You're a really nice guy, and I
hope you find someone far nicer than me to be with. Mike x
There are no voicemails.
Brendon does cry, hot waves of tears spilling over as he lets himself wallow in
self-pity for long enough to wonder what the hell he did wrong. It doesn't feel
like falling apart, more like he's been cracked open and left raw and aching
for everyone to see. He runs through lists in his head of everything about
himself that could have turned Mike away: too young, too short, too loud, too
anxious, too clingy. It hurts like a knife deep down in his chest, like razor
blades chewing through his intestines. He screams at one point, just to give
the pain a form, and there's no one there to stop him, or to comfort him. Just
the messy, crumpled emptiness of his apartment and the angry buzz of next
door's TV set. Brendon has never felt quite so alone before.
He considers finishing off the rest of the alcohol still left on the floor,
then decides on tipping in down the sink. Ryan would be proud of him, he
thinks, and for a minute or so that's enough to make him smile.
*
Brendon wakes up at 3am, types out a huge paragraph of text to Mike begging him
to call him, to tell him what went wrong, to take him back. He pauses with his
finger over the send button for ten minutes, his eyes still bleary from sleep,
and then deletes the whole thing.
Instead he calls Ryan, who he knows will still be awake fucking about on his
computer. Sure enough, he picks up after the third ring with a confused,
"Hello?"
Brendon smiles at the sound of Ryan's voice. "Hey. Do you wanna hang out?"
"At ass o'clock in the morning?" Ryan sounds disbelieving but at least partly
amused.
Brendon shrugs, even though Ryan can't see it down the phone line. "Why not?
I've got nothing better to do."
Ryan snorts. "Okay, then. I'll pick you up in 15 minutes, asshole." Brendon can
picture Ryan's smirk as he hangs up, then pushes back his bedcovers, braving
the cold in order to pull on a hoodie and a pair of mostly-clean jeans.
His apartment building is empty and dark as he takes the elevator down to the
ground floor, seats himself on the front doorstep, and waits for Ryan to
arrive.
*
Epilogue
Mike and William enter the Smoothie Hut hand in hand on a Friday afternoon an
hour into Brendon's shift.
Brendon supposes it was sort of inevitable - he's been snapping his head around
every time someone with long dark hair or laughing green eyes catches his eye
ever since he began working there. He knows it's ridiculous, still pining after
someone for longer than the relationship had ever even lasted, but he figures
he'll grow out of it soon enough. Right now, he's just pleased that seeing Mike
feels more like a dull ache than a sharp stabbing pain.
William looks surprised to see Brendon, but he smiles pleasantly enough. "Hey,
Brendon. I didn't know you worked here!" He doesn't know, Brendon thinks. He's
stood there holding Mike's hand and he has no idea. It hurts almost more than
simply seeing the two of them together.
"Yeah, for about a month now," he replies stiffly, gesturing quickly up to the
menu board. "Can I take your order?"
William spends too long dithering over the different fruit combinations and
Brendon tries to focus on his own aggravation, tries not to think about Mike,
or look at him, or acknowledge him in any way.
"That's $7.80," he tells them once William has finally made a decision, then
watches as Mike rests a hand on William's arm when he reaches for his pocket.
"It's okay, I've got it. Can you get us a table, babe?" Brendon considers
flinching, then decides that would be too melodramatic even for him.
William leaves and Brendon turns his back to Mike, filling the smoothie
machines as quickly as possible to get this whole encounter over with. His
heart is beating far too fast and he wonders vaguely if he might be about to
faint.
"Hey, Brendon." Mike's voice is like a magnet, and Brendon finds himself
turning to face the counter no matter how much his brain is screaming not to.
Mike smiles gently, pushing a strand of hair behind his ear. "How's it going?"
Brendon shrugs stiffly. "Not too bad. How about you?"
Mike looks awkward, and Brendon realises he probably doesn't want to enthuse
about having finally gotten together with William in front of him. Brendon can
appreciate that at least.
"Things are good," Mike tells him, and he still won't stop looking at Brendon,
his gaze leaving burn marks on Brendon's skin. "So," Mike asks, playing with
the paper wrapper of his straw. "Are you and Ryan together yet?"
Brendon wonders for the first time if either of them were ever kidding anyone
but themselves. Strangely enough, the thought doesn't hurt as much as he
expected it to.
"No," he tells Mike, then bites his lip, thinking about it. "No, not yet."
There's an awkward pause where Brendon thinks about how nice it would be to
sink into the floor right now, before Mike leans in closer, his gaze finally
meeting Brendon's eyes.
"I told Bill about you," he explains, voice low and conspiratorial. "I - I'm
not ashamed of you. And I swear we didn't get together until I broke up with
you. I'm not that kind of guy, Bren."
The nickname hurts more than anything else so far. Brendon tenses up, his
shoulders hunching, then swallows the venomous comment on the tip of his
tongue. He sighs. "I know you're not. What we had... I mean, it was never gonna
be a great romance, was it?"
Mike nods, a bittersweet half-smile on his lips, and slips Brendon the money
for the smoothies, tucking a five dollar bill into the tip jar. "Ryan's a good
guy," he notes. "I hope it works out for you two."
Brendon swallows thickly, but he's not going to cry. There's an ache in his
chest like a bruise he can't stop pressing, but the vessels below the skin are
patching themselves up, slowly but surely. "Thanks," he nods, allowing Mike a
small smile. "I hope so too."
The smoothie machine pings behind him and Brendon spins around, relived for a
chance to squeeze his eyes closed and take several deep breaths. He pours the
drinks steadily, composing himself before turning back. "Enjoy your cups of
fruity goodness," he tells Mike in his best 'happy-to-serve-you' intonation,
and it's worth it to see Mike smirk in amusement.
"I'll see you around, Brendon. Take care of yourself."
Brendon watches as Mike carries the drinks over to William, sees the way
William smiles and leans up to kiss Mike's cheek, then he turns away. There's
already another customer waiting, and he shoots her his trademark grin as he
takes her order. She blushes.
Brendon knows he should be mad at Mike. He is still mad at William for breaking
Ryan's heart, but he can't find it in himself to summon up that amount of
animosity towards someone as sweet and easy-going as Mike. So maybe they both
made mistakes. So maybe they were never anything more but an exercise in
transferred desire and mutual longing. That doesn't make Mike a bad person, nor
Brendon for having wanted him so badly.
He risks one more glance back at the table in the corner, and sees Mike
laughing, his mouth wide and open, eyes crinkling at the edges. He looks
beautiful, and what's more he looks happy. Brendon remembers smoothing the
creases of Mike's frowns, remembers his hunched shoulders and his chain-smoking
and the way his eyes would cloud grey if he thought too hard.
Now, Mike's face is honest and lit up as he listens to what William is saying,
practically radiating light. When Brendon looks away again, the ache isn't
gone, but there's a newfound lightness in his chest, like a stone lifted out
from the bottom of a pool, the water bobbing and swaying before it settles.
Brendon adds another scoop of ice cream to the customer's milkshake just
because he can, humming along to Britney Spears song playing over the cafe's
speakers, and resolves to call Ryan after work.
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