Chapter Text
You glare down at your arm in disgust, watching the tiny rivulets of blood run down it and onto the bathroom floor. You're aware that letting that happen means you'll have to spend longer cleaning up after yourself, but somehow, watching your blood run onto the bathroom tiles is almost comforting, therapeutic much like the pain the blood accompanies.
Worthless. You're worthless.
You feel the urge to add another line to the several fresh ones already there but you resist. You hate this, hurting yourself only to add scars to your arm, making yourself even more of a freak than you were. But you need it, too. It's like a drug; you hate it but you crave it at the same time. Every line distracts you for the barest instant, but at the same time gives you even more to hate yourself about. It's a vicious circle you've gotten yourself stuck in and you're not sure you can get out.
After a few minutes of the silent self-loathing that's become part of your ritual since basically the beginning of time, you breathe deeply and will yourself to snap out of it. Your parents are going to be home any minute, and although they might not be the best parents ever, you still doubt they'd like to see their child standing in a bathroom with blood on the floor, on her arm, on the metallic, silvery blade of the razor clutched loosely in her dominant hand.
So, with a sigh that echoes surprisingly in the tiled room, you grab a couple of paper towels from the roll you keep in there- much better than using an actual, regular towel and having to explain why the hell there are brown stains on it- and get to work on the floor, leaving your arm untended to for the moment. You know you deserve the extra pain- no matter how most of you might not like it- especially after the events of the past month.
Thankfully, you hadn't allowed the blood to dry on the floor- even with tiled floors, it would've been a pain in the ass to clean- and, within a minute or so, you've basically cleaned all of it up.
You quickly tear off a double sized paper towel and put the bloodied, used ones in the middle, carefully wrapping it as neatly as you can. When a bit of the blood leaks through the thin covering, you sigh and add another. You can't let anyone know- you hate yourself enough already for doing it. You can't imagine what someone else's reaction would be and honestly, you've been the outcast for long enough already. You really don't need to add anything to your reputation.
Once you're done cleaning up the floor, you move on to your arm, rather harshly cleaning and disinfecting it- you'd rather die than let anybody see what you've done to yourself. Although, seeing as you've been tempted to kill yourself several times without anyone even knowing about the cuts, that's not really saying a lot.
Pulling yourself abruptly out of your thoughts, you carefully put band-aids over the cuts- again, if anyone saw a dark stain in your sweatshirt there's a chance you'd be found out and you can't let that happen-, pull your sweatshirt sleeve back down, and give the bathroom a final once-over. When it meets your inspection, you open the door and flee to your room, where you promptly grab your phone and earbuds; they're your only source of solace these days, whether that be through YouTube or iTunes and you know that without them, you'd probably already have offed yourself. You find a playlist containing a list of your favorite bands and press play, swiftly putting the earbuds in your ears and plugging in the cord in order to miss as little as possible.
But the moment you hear what your phone had, by virtue of shuffle play, chosen, you press the next song button, almost faster than you can blink. It's a song you know far, far too well- Hurricane by Panic! At The Disco.
You've been in love with Panic! for years; they've always been one of the bands you could rely on, whether to help you vent your frustration by screaming out the tune with them or to provide comfort when you had a particularly bad day, but recently...
You sigh, biting your lip as the first words of My Chemical Romance's Fake Your Death begin playing. You can't really say what's given you this aversion to Panic!. You suppose, maybe, in a way, as your depression, as well as the bullying you receive, had gotten worse, that maybe, in some way, you began to not be able to bear them anymore because even they could no longer get through to you.
And, well, when Brendon fucking Urie himself can no longer get through to you, incredible voice and face be damned...
Well, that's when you realize you have something called a problem.
Well, it turns out you were definitely wrong about something. Your parents hadn't seem to care in the least when you'd shown up the next day after school with a black eye and ribs that hurt to even fucking breathe. They'd just seemed to think you'd started the fight and that you deserved what you'd gotten. And, well, maybe they were right. Not about the starting the fight part- unless you can start a fight by doing nothing but existing- but about deserving what you'd gotten.
So that's how you'd ended up in the only place you knew of that you wouldn't be bothered in- an abandoned old dance studio that's been your secret refuge since the first time you found it years ago.
For once, you unplug the earbuds, knowing there's no one around to hear and judge your taste in music, clicking shuffle in the same playlist as yesterday. As soon as the first note hits your ears, you curse.
Of fucking course it had to be that one.
Cross my heart and hope to die,
Burn my lungs and curse my eyes.
Of all Panic!'s songs, this one was the one you connected to the most. Although you'd never actually smoked, you couldn't help but think you had an addiction as painful as the drug- a relationship with pain as toxic as the one Brendon had with his lover.
I've lost control and I don't want it back,
I'm going numb, I've been hijacked,
It's a fucking drag.
You hesitate, finger over the next button. You know that you're probably going to burst into tears if you keep listening to it- you can see your vision already begin to blur- but, you suppose, you can let that happen, just this once. It's hard to be strong all the time, after all. And what's the point of being strong if there's no one around to keep the facade up around?
"I taste you on my lips and I can't get rid of you," you start quietly, biting your lip briefly in an attempt to quell the tears so you don't sound like a dying whale. But then again, there's no one around to hear you but yourself. "So I say 'damn your kiss and the awful things you do', yeah, you're worse than nicotine, nicotine," you take a deep breath to steady yourself, "Yeah, you're worse than nicotine, nicotine, yeah."
You attempt to check your sobs again in the short interlude between verses but fail, miserably. So by the time the second verse comes around and you start singing, "It's better to burn than to fade away, better to leave than to be replaced," you're full out sobbing.
"I'm losing to you, baby I'm no match, I'm going numb, I've been hijacked..." you trail off for a moment, sniffling and missing the end of the line. "I taste you on my lips and I can't get rid of you," you half-choke out, most likely sounding pathetic but you don't care. "So I say damn your kiss and the awful things you do. Yeah, you're worse than nicotine, nicotine, yeah, you're worse than nicotine, nicotine, yeah."
You look down at your covered arm, not daring to lift it up even in the cover of an abandoned dance studio- there's always the chance of someone watching, never a guarantee of safety- and start on the bridge. "Just one more hit and then we're through, cause you could never love me back." for a moment, you think you hear someone's footsteps, the soft squeak of leather on leather, but you've been known to have an overactive imagination, so you ignore it, although you do try to cut back a little on the sobs. "Cut every tie I had to you, cause your love's a fucking drag, but I need it so bad..." you choke out another sob and miss the beginning of the next phrase. "...but I need it so bad, yeah, you're worse than nicotine, nicotine..." vaguely, you're aware of another soft voice behind you, singing along with you. Once again, you ignore it.
"Yeah, you're worse than nicotine, nicotine, yeah." Behind you, you hear soft footsteps and you instantly freeze, pressing the pause button so quickly you're certain your fingers were a blur, yanking your earbuds out and spinning around.
And then you freeze again.
No fucking way.
There, in front of you, as unfairly attractive as you've ever seen him, stands Brendon Urie himself, a shy smile lifting up one corner of his lips.
"B-Brendon," you choke out and instantly regret it. "I-I'm sorry, I shouldn't have," you stammer quickly. "I don't even know you, I shouldn't be calling you by your fir-"
"Hey, no, it's fine," he interrupts. "I'm used to it, don't worry." he laughs slightly, one eyebrow raised as he realizes you didn't join in. "Hey, um, are you okay?"
The first instinct you have is to scream I'm not o-fucking-kay at him, Gerard Way style, but you're pretty sure he's already seen the tear tracks and black eye, as well as heard your supremely embarrassing, sob edition cover of his song, so you hold back from what you know would further alienate him, and simply turn away. "I'm fine," you say as steadily as possible.
"Bullshit," he responds instantly. You struggle to not recoil. You're used to physical pain by now, especially when you take into account your... extracurricular activities that take place in the bathroom every day, but insults have always been harder to take, no matter how small. You blame your depression.
"It's not," you answer, much too quiet for your liking. You want to just curl up in a ball and be swallowed into oblivion at the moment. Your idol, the man you've been obsessed with for years, is finally talking to you, only to be rapidly discovering just how much of a pathetic, worthless nut-job of a human being you are.
For a moment, stringing up the rope sitting in the corner of the darkly lit room and hanging yourself on it doesn't seem like too bad of an idea.
"Yes, it is," Brendon snaps; this time you can't stop yourself and flinch. You curse inwardly. You would have much preferred the getting angry response, but no, you had to respond like a fucking baby and flinch. And, of course, because the world hates you, Brendon notices. "I'm- I'm sorry," he stammers awkwardly, lowering his tone to something oddly soothing.
"It's fine," you reply, turning away from him. The less you see of him, the less you'll remember his face when he realizes how much of a pathetic girl you are.
"No, it's not," he says, still keeping his voice quiet despite the words. You hear footsteps on the wood, then the squeak of leather as he sits down next to you. "Come on," he whines after a few seconds of silence, and you bet that if you turned to look at him he'd be sporting that puppy dog look on his face that only Brendon can pull off that good. "I won't tell anyone else, I promise."
You resist the urge to huff. He's a celebrity- and not just any celebrity, your idol- and he just offered to listen to you. You're just waiting for the punchline of the joke, but it doesn't seem to come.
You feel a hand tentatively circle around your shoulders and flinch automatically from the unexpected, though not unwelcome, contact. You're just not used to touch, even when it's not skin-to-skin contact, but Brendon doesn't seem to realize that and draws back sharply.
"Sorry," he says quickly. You turn to look him full in the face for the first time and shake your head, quickly looking away in order to not be caught staring at him and looking even weirder.
"No, it was... fine," you reply quickly, not exactly sure how to respond to something like this. "I'm just..." you wrack your brain for something that doesn't sound pathetic and come up blank.
"You're just?" Brendon prompts. You feel his gaze on your shoulders and once more try not to flinch.
"I'm just not used to people touching me," you mutter out unwillingly, waiting for the taunt, the mocking laugh, anything you're accustomed to hearing- don't get you wrong, you think Brendon's amazing, but even he couldn't help but think you're anything other than a worthless, pathetic freak.
"I'm sorry," Brendon says again, making you want to scream because it's not his fault, it's yours. "I won't do it again."
You don't answer. You're not sure how to. There's no real way to tell a celebrity you actually enjoyed the contact without sounding like a creep, even though it was, for you, more about just the simple fact that you were being touched and it didn't hurt than the fact that it was Brendon fucking Urie doing it.
"So," Brendon continues after an awkward moment of silence where you were surprised he didn't just get up and leave, "Since you won't tell me what's bothering you, why don't you tell me something else about yourself?" he pauses, giving you just enough time to begin to freak out before continuing, "Or do you want me to just... babble?"
You shrug.
Brendon laughs lightly, bringing a slightly unwilling, automatic smile to your own face- you swear it's like an automated reflex whenever you hear or see him laugh. "I guess you get to get bored to death by me, then." he starts talking- about the weather, how he's been, his favorite foods- and you sit back and listen. Sure, you like talking, too, but it's comforting hearing Brendon's voice in your ear. As he talks, you find yourself subconsciously inching closer to him, only realizing you're doing it when you can literally feel your knees touch through the pair of jeans you're wearing. As soon as you do, you practically bolt away from him. Sure, sitting that close to your idol is something you've wanted to do basically all your life, but come on, he just literally met you as you were sobbing your way through a song with a black eye and a dislike of being touched.
Also, you just don't think you're ready for any kind of physical intimacy at all. Of course the idea of bedding Brendon is appealing, but you know that for one, there's absolutely no way he'd find you that attractive, and two, he's going to see your scars if he does so. The idea of being that vulnerable with anyone is unnerving, let alone with someone you've looked up to for years.
"Was it something I said?" Brendon asked lightly, breaking you from your thoughts with an amused expression on his face.
"N-no," you stammer out. "I just, I..." you trail off with literally no idea how to say what you're thinking. But, apparently, Brendon's a mind reader, because he just grins and motions with his hand. "Come here."
You follow his command, sliding back over towards him slightly uncertainly. Once you get within touching distance of him, he opens his arms, raising an eyebrow when you don't immediately respond and motioning with a finger. "Do I have to say it again?"
You eye his arms for a moment, not certain if you should do this. On the one hand, it would be the closest thing to a hug you've had for months; on the other, if you're not careful, your sweatshirt sleeve could pull up and expose your scars.
"Do you not love me after all?" he pouts sadly, sticking out his bottom lip.
Without hesitating, you grin and reply, "In your dreams," sliding a little closer to him automatically. He rolls his eyes and, apparently fed up with your stalling, leans forward and encloses you in his arms. You automatically relax into his touch, feeling safe for approximately one second before it fades and you struggle to sit back up.
"What, are my hugging skills not up to date?" Brendon asks, pouting in mock-hurt but loosening his hold on you a bit. You shake your head quickly, not able to let Brendon think that any of this is his fault.
"No, it's, they're fine," you reply quickly, wanting to relax back into his arms- if not for the fact that it's Brendon Urie, then just for the simple fact that it's the first time you've ever really been held like this.
"Lean back, then," Brendon retorts, pulling you gently back towards him. You don't resist, somehow realizing that, if you didn't want him to hold you, he'd let you go in an instant.
"Why are you doing this?" You can't help but ask after a moment. No one's ever really been nice to you; that Brendon's doing this... well, let's just say that it definitely gives you an even higher opinion of Brendon than before.
You feel Brendon's shoulders lift in a shrug. "You looked like you needed a hug, I guess."
"Well, aren't you selfless," you retort, intentionally putting a bit of sarcasm in your words in order to not alarm him.
"I do try," he shoots back, smirking. The two of you sit in silence before he continues. "By the way, what's your name? You already know mine, so it's a fair trade for me to get yours, too."
You smile slightly. "It's (Y/N)," you respond, slightly touched by the fact he actually asked.
"Awesome," he responds with a grin. "Great name, I like it." you struggle not to blush. You can't even remember the last time someone complimented you and now your fucking idol just did. What even is your life?
"Is it hard?" you blurt out suddenly and instantly want to clamp a hand over your mouth.
"Is what hard?"
"Just, the celebrity lifestyle," you mutter, wanting to disappear. "Having everyone know everything about you all the time. It must be exhausting." you know that if everyone knew about your lifestyle, you'd probably have already killed yourself. There's no way you would be able to survive all the hate you'd get if people knew about that.
"It has its up and downs," Brendon replies with a shrug, pulling you from your thoughts. "Met some amazing people, done some great things, but the fans can be a bit crazy sometimes." he offers you a grin. "Kinda hoping you won't be one of them, although I doubt anyone could top that one fan who was going on and on about pancakes, or something." he laughs a bit, before sobering up a bit, although he still has a glint of mischief in his eyes. "You aren't... are you?"
You can't tell him about your cuts, your suicidal ideations, the few bouts of anorexia you'd gotten. You can't let your one actually okay memory of your life be soured by him pulling away from you in disgust. "Unless you count getting a couple C's in math," you retort as lightly as you can, making Brendon grin.
"I hated upper level maths," he tells you, pulling a face. "The only thing that made school bearable was music."
"Tell me about it," you respond without thinking. He turns you in his arms so he can look a bit more squarely in your face.
"How is it? School, that is."
"Fine," you answer quickly. Too quickly. Brendon's eyes narrow and you quickly try to recover. "I mean, the teachers suck but overall it's okay, bearable really."
"You're looking away from me," Brendon says, tone dropping into something unreadable.
"I don't like looking at people." not exactly a lie; you find it hard to maintain eye contact a lot of the time. It's just, this time, you were lying to a celebrity you like, a lot. So, you know, that might be a little bit different.
"It's more than that," Brendon retorts, arm muscles tightening around you although he doesn't make an attempt to get you to look at him. "I bet you can't look me in the eye and tell me school's great."
Why does he even care? You wonder. He's a celebrity. He meets people like Jennifer Lawrence and Patrick Stump every day. He doesn't need to worry about how one unknown girl finds school.
"I never said school was great," you retort rather weakly. "I said it was bearable." Brendon huffs but doesn't challenge you; something you're grateful for. You kinda want to enjoy this time while you have it.
"So why did you come here?" you ask him, breaking the silence after awhile. "It's not exactly a five star hotel, you know."
"Really?" he retorts with a snort. "I hadn't noticed."
You give him a half-hearted glare and a roll of your eyes, which makes him grin. "We're doing a new music video soon. I was looking for a good site to film it."
You instantly brighten up, although you endeavor not to show it. "Really? What song is it for?"
Brendon laughs, giving you a mischievous smirk. "Well, let's keep that a surprise, what do you say?"
"I hate surprises," you complain, sticking out your lower lip and giving him a pleading look, but it only serves to make him laugh some more and ruffle your hair.
"Too bad," he answers, leaning in close for a brief instant that you recognize as most likely being an outlet for the extra energy that accompanies his ADHD. "You're stuck with it 'cause I ain't telling you." he switches to a southern accent partway through the sentence and ends up giggling, which makes you, surprisingly enough, giggle along with him.
You talk for a bit longer, really just sort of random topics that leave you with no idea of how they were even brought up, but, far, far too soon, Brendon loosens his grip on you and pushes himself to standing, offering his hand to help you get up as well.
"Well, it's been really nice to meet you, (Y/N), but I have to get going now," he says apologetically. You bit your lip for a second, willing yourself to not get emotional. This will probably be the best day of your life, and it's already ending too soon. You just need to keep it together for one more minute, okay? Just one more minute and then you can go back to being the loser girl that slices open her arm every day in the bathroom.
"Yeah, it's been great," you tell him, and you're not lying. It's been the best day of your life.
"See you around," he tells you, stepping backwards in preparation to turn away. Even though you know it's just empty words, they make you smile, just for a moment.
"Yeah," you reply, forcing yourself to keep the smile up. "Bye."
With a final wave, Brendon Urie turns and saunters out of the building, leaving you possibly just as bad as you were before he came- maybe even worse.
Fuck Brendon Urie, you think. Just fuck him.