Archive of Our Own

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-each-other-anymore thing that they do. But, okay, and maybe it's just a random stab of jealousy and maybe it's just the late hour and a hundred different things running together to make Jon certifiably insane, but he doesn't really want that anymore. He wants to sleep in Brendon's bed and then go out for coffee in the morning and spend the day in the city.

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."

--

He lets Brendon pick the restaurant, and it's. Well. It's not what he expected, but then, Brendon isn't really what he expected. There's this diner a couple blocks off campus with a neon sign that flashes DOLLY'S, OPEN TWENTY-FOUR HOURS. FREE COFFEE REFILLS, and Brendon leads them there. The booths are cracked red leather and the floor is faded linoleum, but it feels homey, and the waitstaff seems to know Brendon by sight.

"Whoa damn, Bren, he's cute." Their waitress is a girl their age with dark hair pulled back in a pony tail with tendrils falling around her face. She has pens stuck through the rubber band and pink bubblegum and Jon can't help but burn bright red as she flicks an appreciative gaze over Jon's jeans and polo.

"Um...thank you?" Brendon laughs and, tucks his chin onto Jon's shoulder. "Thanks, Vick."

"What'll you have, boys?" She doesn't comment on the fact that their fingers are intertwined on the table and Jon can't figure out if that's because this is typical Brendon behavior or because she just doesn't care. He's always thought of himself as easy and open minded, but there are apparently a lot of things that he thought wrong on. Brendon is changing that, and the thought sends something warm and sweet to the center of his chest.

Jon orders a burger and Brendon gets a salad. "I'm a vegetarian."

"Heathen, god, how can you resist the delicious lure of burgers?" Vicky brings their food fast, carrying the tray on her hip with practiced ease and tranferring the plates to the table. "Let me know if you need anything else." Then she's gone and suddenly it hits Jon low in the stomach that he's on a DATE with BRENDON URIE. His hands start shaking just a little bit as he pours ketchup across his fries.

Brendon picks up on it, of course he does, and he tilts his head to the side when Jon knocks an entire container of creamer on the floor. "You okay?" His voice doesn't sound exactly gentle, but it is a little soothing. Jon flashes him a grin, or tries to, not quite sure he succeeds when Brendon frowns and pulls back a little.

"You're freaking out, aren't you?" Brendon says and it kills Jon how quietly resigned he sounds and no, fuck that noise, Jon isn't going to be the one who fucks Brendon up more. No way. "Hey, no, I'm okay." Jon reaches back across the table and laces their hands, squeezing tight. "This is just weird for me, a little. I want to be here."

Brendon smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes, and Jon wishes, he wishes they could just go back, wishes that he hadn't wanted more, because nothing would have changed. What hits him though, is how much he did want -- how much he does want Brendon, and that might not be enough, it might not be what Brendon deserves, but it's something.

"Okay," Brendon exhales. "First things first, Jon Walker, a date with a boy is just like a date with a girl, though you can skip the flowers if you want, they make me sneeze."

Jon laughs and picks up a fry, swiping it through ketchup. "Okay, no flowers, check. Anything else?" Brendon cocks his head and smiles a little bit easier, looser around the edges.

Jon has a minute of thinking, fuck, I'm a little bit -- before he cuts off that line of thought completely. Freaking out on the guy who already thinks you aren't a sure bet and telling him you might a little in love with him is so, so not the way to go. Jon's not even sure if he is, or if it's just this, the night, the diner, the movement and the way he already knows how Brendon feels under his fingertips. "Should I have brought candy?"

Brendon laughs out loud at that, eyes crinkling at the corners. "I would love candy, but everyone else would probably hate you because rumor has it that I tend to get a little hyper under the influence of sugar." Jon raises an eyebrow; he has no trouble believing that. "Okay, so, normally on first dates I do all the getting to know you jazz. So, I don't know, what don't you know about me?"

Jon tries to think about everything he knows about Brendon, tries to piece together all of the bits of the puzzle. Brendon looks open, smile loose, and Jon just. He can't regret being here, not even for a second, not when Brendon looks like that. "Why did you come to school out here?"

"My parents didn't want me to go out of state and my best friend Tom wanted to come for the Fine Arts program." Jon flinches a little at the thought of Tom, Tom leaning over the bed with abject horror gleaming in his eyes, but he shoves it away. "Why did you? You're from out west, right? Las Vegas?"

Brendon ducks his head and blushes, but it doesn't look to be the pleasant kind. "Way to kick out the hardhitting questions first, huh, Walker? My parents are kind of religious, they wanted me to. Well. They didn't want me to go and wouldn't pay for it, and I got the best financial package here."

Jon tightens his fingers without thinking and, for a split second, almost leans over to brush a kiss on the tip of Brendon's nose. "I'm sorry." Brendon shrugs and offers up a wry little smile. "It's fine, you know. I'm okay. So, right, okay, why do you play lacrosse? Is the chance beat other boys with your stick?"

Jon laughs without meaning to, and Brendon grins at him. The quiet moment is gone, but it's okay, it's fine, because Brendon is smiling at him for real, and not just behind his glasses. "I like keeping in shape. It helps keep the beer gut away." Brendon laughs again, harder and indelicately, and Jon just. Okay, so maybe Jon is a little bit in love with him. But only a little. And he'll never mention it. It'll go away and they can date and be friends and fuck. That'll be good. Low key. No moving to Canada or Massachusetts or adopting Zambian babies.

He can do this.

"You want to know something funny?" Brendon asks and Jon nods, leaning back in the booth and, God, strange emotional fuck ups aside, it's easier and nicer than he would have expected. "I like your belly," Brendon says a stage whisper, lifting up a fot to poke a Jon's stomach with the toe of his sneaker. Jon laughs and rolls his eyes, tries not to blush. "Why are you a music major?"

Brendon grins, big and bright, and rolls up his shirt sleeve, revealing the demented armadillo he still swears is piano keys. "It's my life, man." He says the words simply, and Jon just. He can't breathe, because Brendon is so gorgeous in this light. "I had a band, we. We were going to do this and be people and go places, and it didn't work out, but it could have. I wanted to prove that it can." He shrugs, smile careless and easy. "That it will."

They walk back to campus; at the main gate, Brendon turns to head for his dorm and Jon almost lets him. The night's been good, so very fucking good, why risk ruining it on the reaction of others? But, no, he can't do that, no matter how much his chest is twisting and writhing in something that feels very close to panic. "Come back to the house?" Jon asks and Brendon goes still, then bows his head and follows, fingers vice tight around Jon's hand.

Carden and Sisky are sitting on the couch watching Letterman when they come in, and they don't even blink, Sisky half asleep on Mike's shoulder, the glow from the TV making him look younger than he already is. "Hey," Jon says, waiting for something, maybe, voice a little sharp. Mike barely glances away from the screen from where Jon can just make out the guest, and Sisky raises his hand in a weak greeting. "There's coffee in the kitchen," Mike says slowly, not even bothering to look at them. "It's might be cold, but it's still on the burner."

Jon feels something inside him deflate, an iron band around his chest loosen just a notch or two. Brendon hooks their arms, sighing softly in what Jon desperately hopes is relief. "Want coffee?" Jon asks and Brendon nods. "Yeah, sure." Jon can hear the muted sounds of conversation coming from the kitchen; Travis' low rumble and Bill, maybe Tom and Butcher. "Come on."

He's pretty sure he hears Brendon mutter something like, "Oooh, yay," but he can't be sure. The kitchen's more crowded than he thought it would be, but it's not any outsiders, just the guys. Travie's on the phone, and Disashi's nursing a beer, Bill half passed out on the table while Butcher draws something funky on the back of his neck. Michael's there too, and Jon's surprised, because aside from him, none of them are really looking at him. Michael is openly staring. It makes Jon's skin itch. "Hey guys, this is Brendon."

Travis puts a hand over the phone and smiles, easy and wide, and damn, he is so high Jon can smell the weed from the doorway. "Hey, Jonny Walker's boy." Brendon's half behind Jon and, when they get up to his room Jon's totally going to call him on hiding, but at the moment, he just kind of wishes he could do the same. "Hi Travis," Brendon says, cocking his hand in a wave.

Tom takes another swig of his beer and looks down at his hands. Jon wants to shake him for being a jackass, and for being a jackass in front of Brendon, but Tom isn't responding to Jon's mental ass kicking, so he figures they'll have to duke that one out for real. Awesome.

"Hey," Brendon mumbles in Jon's ear, "Y'know, I so really actually don't need coffee. Let's just go upstairs." Part of Jon feels like it's giving up, but what the hell, he's not going to win a war in a day. "Yeah, okay." They turn in tandem and head up the stairs. Brendon gets their first, flinging open the door and jumping onto the bed with half hysterical little laugh as Jon closes the door.

"I thought you didn't put out on the first date," Jon says, and Brendon rolls his eyes, but keeps grinning, stretching his arms and legs out like a star. "That was one date, man? That felt like a fucking century." Jon snickers and falls down next to him. "Sorry I'm so boring. I'm sure you could do much better." Brendon kisses his temple and smushes his face into Jon's neck. "Nah, I'm good, man."

The funny part is that Jon's not joking. Brendon could do so much better. Brendon has done so much better, and Jon's not sure why he keeps coming around, doesn't know what he could possibly see in him, but he's not going to do anything that'll send him away. "Hey, so," Brendon sounds uneasy and Jon's chest clenches. "Hey so, would you mind if we just." Brendon waves his hand around awkwardly, the tops of his cheeks flushing. "Slept? I mean, obviously, I'd like to do more than that, but uh. Just. I like sleeping with you? I got really bad insomnia when I got to college, I think it's because I was used to so many people on top of each other back home, and I have a single, so. I just. We don't have to. I could go back, but." He grins weakly and Jon can feel himself falling headfirst into it. Shit.

"Yeah, no, of course." Brendon grins, bright and wide and real, shoving his sneakers off and kicking them down on the floor. He pops the button on his jeans and shimmies out of them, yanks off his shirt and tosses it aside. Jon stands and changes, pulling on a pair of flannel pajama pants and crawling back into bed. Brendon eases up along his side, warm and solid, head on Jon's shoulder with his fingers splayed across Jon's chest. He smells good, like Old Spice and vanilla, and Jon has to press his nose to the top of Brendon's hair and inhale.

Jon's struck with how right this feels, how settled he is in his skin, with Brendon pressed against him, snuffling against his collarbone, already half asleep. He very definitely doesn't think about how it would feel with Brendon inside of him, very definitely doesn't think about that while he's randomly brushing up on his math skills by doing all of the two, three and five times tables in his head, very definitely doesn't think about it as he counts sheep and Brendon's breathing gets deeper and deeper.

Jon wakes to the soft sounds of a keyboard clicking. Tom is an asshole he thinks fuzzily, rolling over. Well, rather, he tries to roll over, but the dead weight draped across half his body makes that rather difficult. Blearily, he cracks open his eyes and registers dark hair and a bare shoulder, the line of a spine and a blue Superman boxers. "Mmmnm." He makes a noise low in the back of his throat and rolls his head to the side. Tom's sitting on his bed, laptop balanced across his knees. "Hey, Jonny."

"Mmm," Jon says, trying to swallow the taste out of his mouth, and squinting his eyes. "Morning," Tom shrugs, and he doesn't look uncomfortable exactly, more resigned, and the weak light filtering in through the window doesn't exactly do the greatest job of informing him of the time. "'What time is it?" Jon asks, and Tom blinks over at him, like maybe he'd forgotten that Jon existed. "Oh. It's uh. It's really early. You could probably catch another few hours before you need to head off."

Brendon snuffles in his sleep, mumbling out a tangled string of syllables as he burrows closer to Jon. He says something that sounds vaguely like, 'more sleep' and Jon smiles to himself. "You okay?" Jon asks quietly and Tom goes still, fingers pausing over the keys. "I'm fine," Tom says tightly and Jon feels his stomach twist and knot.

It's like a Choose Your Adventure book. Jon can see how it would go with Tom, awkward words and stilted conversation until they both got over what had been bothering them, and he maybe doesn't have as clear a picture with Brendon, but he's going to take it. Brendon's weight is warm against his chest, and just looking at him sets Jon's nerves at ease.

"Is this going to be a problem?" Jon asks, settling his chin on top of Brendon's head. Brendon smells so goddamn good and feels so goddamn right pressed up against his side, fingers twitching against the flesh of Jon's chest. Tom huffs out laugh, just a bit broken and decidedly unhappy. "There's no fucking problem, Jon." It's the Jon that slaps against his skin, clawing into his mind. Tom never calls him Jon, it's always Jonny or Jay. "Fuck you," Jon mumbles.

Tom flinches, but he turns off his laptop and stands, just staring at Jon at like Jon's the one that's wrong. Like there's something wrong with Jon because he's happy and maybe Jon is. Maybe he is and maybe Brendon does make him happy.

--

Brendon says, "We should go study outside," so they do.

A part of Jon is almost expecting that people will see, like they'll take one look at Brendon and Jon and know they spent the night curled together with their hearts beating together through the bone cages of their chests. They sit crossed legged on one of the concrete benches surrounding the quad, knees almost touching, with notebooks spread open across their laps.

"So, it's totally possible I took a little nap the last twenty or thirty minutes of class," Brendon says with a winning smile. "So I really hope you were paying attention and took notes, or else we're just a little tiny bit screwed."

A trio of girls in sorority sweatshirts walk past, laughing, with the wind tossing their hair. Jon vaguely recognizes one, a tiny, pretty thing with golden tipped curls and warm eyes. She winks at Jon as they walk past, very nearly flirtatious without crossing the line, and Jon raises a hand.

"She's cute," Brendon says, lips quirked up in a half smile Jon can't read. "You can um." He brushes his bangs out of his eyes and looks at Jon with his bottom lip tucked under his teeth, and Jon just blinks at him. "I can what, Bren?" The tops of Brendon's cheeks color, and he mumbles something like, "Go after her. I mean. If you wanted. I mean. She's cute, right?" He laughs a little, but it sounds strained, awkward and it makes Jon's stomach clench. "So you should. I mean, if you want to. Like. Go after her. I can go." Jon blinks at him.

"No, hey, Brendon, no." Brendon doesn't look convinced, and he doesn't smile, but Jon feels a little better when Brendon settles back down.

--

They're not dating, not really, they just go out to dinner sometimes. A lot of the time. Okay, fine, almost every night except for Thursdays because Brendon's got Orchestra and Saturdays, because weekends are Jon's days at Starbucks. He pretends that he's annoyed when Brendon comes in -- or at least he pretends to pretend he pretends, but really, it makes his chest feel light, seeing Brendon's head ducked over his books, sometimes looking up and grinning at Jon whenever he catches him looking.

It's ten to close, which is fantastic, because Jon's been on his feet for eight hours and forty minutes (the twenty minutes he got for break were spent horizontal and breathing the air around Brendon's mouth in the backseat of his car, hands anchored on each others hips), and he's fucking exhausted.

Brendon's already gotten his stuff together and is perched on the edge of the counter, humming something soft and pretty under his breath. Jon can't stop looking at the curve of his neck.

"Hey," Jon exhales, sliding his palms around the curve of Brendon's hips. He's tired, so fucking ridiculously tired, but there's something else buzzing beneath his skin and Jon's not one to deny his body when it murmurs around want. "Hey, good looking."

"Hey." Brendon turns in Jon's arms and dips his torso back, running his hands up the planes of Jon's stomach to cup around his neck. His touch is almost reverent, callused fingertips catching on the soft skin of Jon's lips, the patches behind his ears. "Hi, Jonny-boy Walker."

"I've been on my fucking feet all day." Jon dips down and flutters a soft kiss on the Brendon's eyelid, flexing his fingers tighter against the sharp cut of his hipbones. "I am exhausted."

"Poor baby." Brendon smirks. "I can make it better?"

It's wrong, Jon knows, it's wrong on hundreds of thousands of levels. More people than he ever wants to think about eat at the tables, sit on the armchairs, and, all that aside, he works for Christ's sake and it's probably a bad thing to associate his place of business with orgasms he feels down to his toes, but God. Brendon grinds his hips against Jon's and morals go out the window.

"You could blow me," Jon can't actually believe the words are coming out of his mouth. He's not a prude, he's barely reserved, but. But it doesn't really matter what he is because Brendon's smirking, muttering something like, "public indecency," and "you're going to give me arthritis in my knees, JonWalker," it doesn't stop him from dropping to the floor though, and his hands are sure on Jon's hips, fingers tangling in Jon's belt buckle, tugging it open and the zipper to his pants down. "Bren, we've got to -- we have to go fast."

Brendon snorts indelicately. "I gotta feeling you'll be going pretty fucking fast, Walker," he mumbles, fist closing around the base as his mouth wraps around the head.

The funny thing is, Brendon's only blown Jon once or twice in the six months they've been sleeping together. They tend to be very straightforward, Brendon on his back his knees up around his ears and a hand around his dick, fucking. Jon tangles his fingers in Brendon's hair, tugging lightly at the soft strands, trying not to swallow his motherfucking tongue as Brendon bobs, and thinks he's been missing out more than he could ever possibly imagine.

Brendon splays a hand on his hip and drags the nails of his other along the crease of his thigh to lightly fondle at Jon's balls. He tries to keeps his hips from snapping forward and fails miserably, but Brendon takes it, pausing for only a split second to regain his breath before sucking hard enough for Jon to feel like his brain is leaking out his ears.

"Christ, Brendon, fuck," Jon whimpers, flexing the muscles in his thighs. "God."

He's pretty sure if Brendon didn't have a mouth full of his dick, he'd be grinning.

--

They have completely opposite schedules, at least for classes, and Jon tells himself it's a good thing. Jon tells himself it's better than getting too attached, too involved, but he wakes up to Brendon almost every morning, and he can't stop his eyes -- his lips from roaming down the planes of Brendon's back, tasting his skin.

Jon doesn't like to think about what it means that his stomach seizes up whenever Brendon so much as looks at someone else; doesn't like to think about how he fucks Brendon harder those nights, leaving fingertip shaped bruises into his skin. Brendon laughs off his apologies, says he likes the marks, but Jon knows better. Just because he knows it though, doesn't mean he can stop.

Travie's the one that actually mentions it, when Brendon's rushing out the door of the house twenty minutes late and ten minutes out from the majority of campus. It had been Jon's fault, no way around it, because no one else had pinned Brendon against the pantry door and kissed him until they were both breathless, even though Brendon had been making noises about the time.

"That kid," Travie says when Jon pushes back into the kitchen. He blinks, because Trav usually doesn't comment on other people's business, especially when it has no direct effect on his own. "What are you doing with that kid, Jon Walker?" His voice isn't angry, which Jon supposes is a good thing, but he can't see his eyes, considering he's got his own trained on his flipflops. Travie's eyes are the most expressive thing about him, and he could be laughing, he could be doubled over with tears streaming down his cheeks, but it's his eyes you have to watch out for.

"I don't," Jon mumbles, "I'm not doing anything."

It's not a good lie, fuck, it's nothing more than a pathetic untruth because, of everything that this thing with Brendon is, nothing has no place on the list. Jon rakes a hand through his hair and shifts back and forth on the balls of his feet. He doesn't have class for an hour, but his skin is itching with the need to do something other than stand there beneath the heavy weight of Travis's gaze.

"Sometimes I wish you just judged," Jon sighs, looking up, and the genuine concern in Travis's eye catches him off guard.

"It's good for you," Travis says easily. "Talk to me, Walker. What are doing with this kid?"

"I don't know," Jon sighs. "God, Trav, it doesn't make any sense. I keep thinking about all the little shit, you know? The fucking noises he makes in he sleep and the way his eyelashes look against his cheek and this scar he has right underneath his ribs." Travis snorts, and the sound is anything but delicate. His shoulders shake, and Jon is scowling up until he looks into Travis's eyes. "What? Shut the fuck up, dude. What. What are you laughing about? I told you it was fucking stupid shit. Who the fuck thinks about the sounds their boyfriend makes when he sleeps anyway?"

Jon's got a second of ignorance before the door's getting pushed open and Sisky's coming in. He's the newest pledge, and the youngest of the entire group they'd gotten, but he fits in really well. Better than Jon himself had, when he'd first gotten there, eighteen and secretly terrified of being away from home again, even though home was only an hour and a handful of subway stops away.

"Boyfriend, dude? What, you and that Urie kid?" He asks, just curious, and it's not like. It's not like Jon was completely unaware of the things he was saying. It's not like he's a complete idiot. Jon feels heat rush across his cheeks, a hundred thousand words stuttering to a halt on his tongue. He wants to say yes and he wants to scream no and he wants to go back to the days when it was nice and easy and hidden, just fucking, and if there was anything more than that it was all too easy to sweep away and pretend it wasn't anything.

"Well, Jonny?" Travis raises an eyebrow and, fuck, Jon has seen that knowing look in his eyes way too many times. It's the look that says he sees something completely and utterly obvious that you're just too dense to realize.

Jon isn't fucking dense and he isn't gay.

Siska drops his bag down by the door and folds his arms across his chest, head cocked to the side so a few of his utterly ridiculous curls fall across his face. "Yeah, Jon?"

He shoots them both a look that's meant to be withering, but probably only comes out as deer in the headlights scared, before turning on his heel and running up the stairs. He slams the door to his room hard enough for the door to groan on the hinges. The sheets smell like Brendon's skin and when Brendon comes back two hours later, flexing his fingers, making discontent noises about piano exercises meant to rip tendons to shreds, Jon pushes him down into the sheets and fucks him hard enough for Brendon cry out in pleasure edged with something more.

--

William has an on-again, off-again girlfriend who's the pledge coordinator at Gamma Nu, commonly known as The Lovely Christine around the house. Jon isn't particularly fond of her one way or another, but Travis makes himself scarce whenever he knows she's coming by, so Jon and Brendon are on breakfast duty when she stumbles downstairs, rubbing last night's mascara into her skin and grinning at them blearily.

"Mmm," she says as Jon hands her a mug of coffee, the hem of Bill's tee shirt riding high on her thighs. "Thanks, babe." She's pretty, and she's very Bill, who's down a few minutes later, winding himself around her back and very pointedly not asking where Trav and his momma's pancakes are hiding.

"Hello, little Urie," Bill says when he straightens and Brendon waves a hand out in back of him, face mashed into the skin of Jon's shoulder, pressing tiny little kisses there when no one can see. "Jonny Walker," Christine's voice isn't particularly nasal or screeching, but Jon still winces when she starts to speak. "Who's your friend?"

Jon blinks, and he can feel Brendon straightening and sliding away, even though his movements are sluggish, and they haven't been detached from each other's skin in more than twelve hours. He forgets sometimes, in easy the moments, he forgets what they're not.

"I'm Brendon," he says, leaning against the counter and raking a hand through his hair. It sticks up even further, twisting in points and clumps on top of his head. "Nice to meet you." His glasses have slipped down on his nose and Brendon pushes them back up worrying his teeth into his bottom lip.

"Are you a pledge?" Christine asks, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "I thought I'd met all the brothers. Or do you just belong to Jon?"

Jon flushes, heat rushing out across his checks and neck and Brendon goes still, drumming his fingers on his thigh. "I -- "

"He's just a friend, Christine," Jon mumbles and Brendon goes too still. "Yeah," he smiles and something hard and cold and heavy sinks Jon's stomach. "I'm just a friend."

--

Brendon doesn't look at Jon through breakfast, and he doesn't talk to Jon on the short trip up the stairs to their -- his room, and even when Jon grabs his wrist and Brendon's eyes and mouth go slack, even as he's letting Jon push him back against the mattress, even as he's letting Jon lick his skin, even as his dick is going hard against Jon's stomach as he pushes inside, even as, he's somewhere else. Jon comes, but it's ripped out as a consequence, weak as it crests over his hand.

Brendon doesn't come at all.

Jon falls asleep curled up next to him, pressing his lips against the curve of his neck. Brendon is malleable under Jon's hands, but not pliant, and when Jon wakes up, he's alone.

--

It takes a week for Brendon to pick up the phone, and Jon calls every day, five times a day, and he understands that Brendon's pissed, he even understands why Brendon's pissed, but that doesn't stop him from getting frustrated too.

He'd thought they were past this. When Brendon does answer, his voice is scratchy and low, like he'd just rolled over and thumbed his phone on without even looking at the view screen. "'lo?" Jon can just see him, stretched out against his mattress, an arm thrown over his eyes to keep the sunlight out.

"Brendon," Jon breathes, because he can't do anything else. He can't say I'm sorry and he can't say I love you and he can't say I don't know what the fuck I'm doing, so he doesn't. "This is probably for the best." he whispers and closes his eyes keep the tears in.

He doesn't succeed.

--

Jon is fine, he's fucking fine, no matter what Travis says with his sidelong looks and Tom with his suggestion that maybe Jon needs to cut down a little bit on the beer. It's not like that and it's not like he's stopped going to Anthro at all because the professor's voice turns to white noise against the slope of Brendon's shoulder hunched over his notebook.

It's a Friday afternoon and Jon's done for the day, after faking his way through a Calc test he didn't study for.

He wants to get back to the house and bust out the hard liquor, the bottles of vodka and bourbon and whiskey Tom keeps lined along the top of the kitchen cabinets like some kind of weird ass decoration. He wants to get rip roaringly drunk and being completely out of it for the weekend, so he can pass forty-eight hours without thinking about Brendon.

Of course, because some cosmic force governing the universe hates him, he rounds a corner and fucking slams into someone, someone who lets out a startled oof, too familiar, and nearly falls over.

"Bren," Jon exhales.

Brendon looks like shit, eyes heavily shadowed with dark circles, hiding in jeans big enough to be legitimately considered baggy and a giant sweatshirt gotten God knows where.

"Jon." Brendon goes still, pulling his books to his chest. "Hey."

He wants to touch, more than anything he wants to reach out and pull Brendon to his chest and not ever fucking let him go again. He can't, though, he can't.

"Brendon." Jon blinks hard and clears his throat. "Do you want to come back to the house?"

Brendon pauses, inhales and exhales. "Yes, please."

--

It hurts, not even because Jon's never. Jon wants this. Jon wants this, even though it's not something they talk about.

The thing is, they don't talk.

There's no one in the den when they come in, single file like they're kids in class, not touching, barely breathing. Jon's eyes are burning, and his throat is tight, breaths coming out staggered because he can't actually believe that Brendon's letting him close again.

He's the one who makes the decision when they climb the stairs up to his room, shrugging off his shirt and tossing it in the mammoth pile of unwashed laundry already on the floor. He unbuttons his pants, but doesn't do any more than that, laying face down on the bed, leaving the decision to Brendon.

The first touch isn't gentle.

Brendon fucks Jon like he has something to prove, a message to burn into Jon's skin with his finger and teeth and hands. He starts with two fingers and Jon keens because it's nothing like the low burn Brendon once murmured about when he asked in the early hours of the morning, it's not easy. It hurts, but it's right and Jon pushes back.

"Do you like this?" Brendon growls and he sounds like he's either going to scream or cry and something twists painfully in Jon's chest.

There's three then and it passes beyond the line of too much, but Jon still can't, still won't, tell Brendon to stop. He's lived with his chest tied in a hundred thousand knots and he can't keep going like that.

Brendon settles his knees on either side of Jon's hips and sinks down in hard snap of his hips, fingers tight enough to leave blue black bruises on Jon's ribs. It's not easy, the stutter of Brendon's hips, skin slapping together in a wet, whispered slipdslide.

"I don't understand this," Brendon gasps, forehead pressed between Jon's shoulder blades. "JonWalker. Fuck."

He comes buried deep, letting out a groan that sounds torn from his chest and wrenched from his very fucking being. Jon cants his hips into the sheets and shakes and shudders through his own climax, hating how much he wants Brendon, how much he likes being able to almost feel Brendon's heart pounding in his chest.

"We can go back to this," Brendon says, voice shaking, breaking. "We can go back." Brendon's voice is hoarse, and he's pressing his face against the back of Jon's neck, sweat and tears mixing against Jon's skin. It feels like Jon's skin is being torn apart, Brendon's weight heavy against his back, even though he's all of six pounds soaking wet.

"Bren, I want -- "

Brendon snuffles against his skin, and the sound is so familiar that Jon has to grit his teeth against it. "JonWalker, I can't, okay? Not. It hurts, not being. With you, I mean, it hurts, so. I mean. We can, until we don't, and then we find something new, we do this until we find something better, and then it won't matter anymore." Jon's got to close his eyes because it hurts, it hurts to think that one day he won't matter to Brendon.

He's pretty sure Brendon will always matter to him.

"Or," he grits out and the thing is, he's still inside of Jon, thick, but softening, and Jon's shaking, he's shaking so hard, needing to hear what's next. Only having Brendon like this isn't an option anymore. He can't. "Or what, Bren?" He pushes his hips back, wishing Brendon wouldn't move, even as he's starting to pull away. "Or," he whispers, voice almost lost in the darkness. "Or we actually do this." He waves his hand around, glasses askew on his nose. "You know, the whole thing."

There aren't any words, and Jon can't answer.

--

Brendon leaves without one, just his offer on the table and a chaste kiss to Jon's temple. "Think about it," he says and Jon doesn't know if he's that strong.

He cleans up, showers and changes, grabs a beer from the fridge and goes out onto the back porch as the sun sinks down, casting long purple shadows. The end of the semester's in sight and Jon feels change itching beneath his skin as he pops the cap and takes a long swallow. He's been drunk to much lately, that much he knows, but he doesn't want oblivion, just something to ease the buzzing in the back of his mind.

The screen door slides open and bangs closed and Jon expects to see Travis lanky frame slide into his peripheral vision, eternally calm and unnaturally wise for a twenty-two year old. Tom dropping down next to him with a beer of his own, half drunk and sweating against the glass side, is unexpected and Jon doesn't know whether to tense or exhale. They've been the same, but different since Brendon came, okay, but emphatically not.

"You working on another bender, Jonny?" Tom asks and the nickname rings comfortingly familiar.

He knocks back a long swallow and sets the bottle aside. "No. Just thinking."

Tom chuckles, low and wry, and drains his, tossing it into the bushes with a dull clank as it lands among the others that have been tossed off the porch. "That shit's dangerous. What the hell are you thinking about?"

The curve of Brendon's spine. The drag of his callused fingertips down the line of Jon's sternum. The way his face lit up when they walked into the diner of the thing that was kind of a date, depending on which way you looked at it. "Brendon," Jon says with a hitch of his shoulders. Tom's face goes tight for a split second, but it's gone before Jon can blink, carefully rearranged to practiced neutrality. "What about him?"

"He wants to be an us." Jon waves his hand and huffs out a laugh. The words feel tangled and unfamiliar on the back of his tongue, boyfriend and lover, and none of them feel right because it's not about that, it's about Brendon. "I don't know. I'm gonna fuck this up."

Tom snorts. "I'm pretty sure you already fucked it up, Jonny-boy. The question is what you do now."

Jon picks up his beer and raises and eyebrow, taking another swallow that goes down cool and right, spreading out along his veins. "Thank you, kemosabi. And what would you do?"

"Fuck." Tom laughs and tips his head back, hair ruffled by the light wind. "Hell, if I know, Jonny, I'm a fuck up and and asshole and everyone knows that. I drink too much and I fuck around and I don't call in the morning. I have quickies in bathrooms I don't remember in the morning and I'm the kind of guy parents warn their daughters to stay away from. I cause problems, I don't fix them."

"And?" Jon raises and eyebrow. "That doesn't answer my question, Tommy."

"If I ever find my Brendon," Tom says, waving his hand around when Jon raises a brow. "You know what I meant, asshole. If I ever find someone who makes me look half as dumb as you do when you look at that kid? I sure as hell won't let them just walk away. Even I'm not that fucked up."

He ruffles Jon's hair and stands, goes back inside, and leaves Jon the first stars beginning to wink into light.

--

It's a quarter to five in the morning, and Jon has his first final in three hours, but he can't quite manage to get his eyes closed. Tom's passed out in his bed a few feet over, snores comforting in the silence, but not enough to settle the itch in Jon's skin.

He's pretty sure he's imagining it when his phone starts to vibrate against the wood of the nightstand, pretty sure he's going crazy when Brendon's name flashes, but he picks up anyway, on the off chance that this isn't a dream; on the off chance that he hasn't lost his mind. "Hello?" Tom mumbles something in his sleep, but his eyes stay closed, and Jon's been rooming with him long enough to know it doesn't mean a damn thing.

"JonWalker, hey," Brendon says, and Jon can clearly hear him gulp. He sits up, pushing the sheets down around his hips and slipping out of the room, sitting down a few steps on the landing, head buried in his hands, because even listening to Brendon breathe on the line is better than anything he's heard for days.

"Hey," he says, and his voice comes out on a cough; he can't keep the rasp away from it. He probably sounds demented, probably sounds like he has a head cold, but Brendon doesn't comment on it, and Jon's too tired to make the appropriate weak joke that would settle quite nicely right along here. "Hey, Brendon, I -- "

"So the thing is, JonWalker," the words are coming out in a rush, and something tight clenches in his chest. "The thing is, I've been sitting on the Theta Xi green for the past like," there's a shuffling sound for a second, and then Brendon is back, breathing heavy. "For the past like, four hours? And I've been staring up at your window, and I've been staring and wishing I could be in there, and JonWalker," he's mumbling now, voice slurred. Jon drops his phone on the stairs as he runs down them, and even when he's across the room, he can hear Brendon's soft mumblings.

He's sitting exactly where he said he was, and Jon can't breathe. He's still mumbling into his phone, and as Jon starts across the green, he can see Brendon's lips forming the shape of his name. "JonWalker," he blinks up, looking at Jon as he'd appeared out of nowhere. "JonWalker, I am a little drunk." He grins, and his smile is a little loose at the edges, a little fragile, but it's still the prettiest thing Jon's ever seen.

"That's okay, Bren," he settles down next to him on the wet grass, far enough away so that their shoulders aren't brushing, but close enough that he can hear every breath Brendon takes.

They're quiet so long that little patches of the raising sun start to peek in through the cloud-hazy horizon. "What are you doing here?" Jon asks, because the silence is nice, it's even nicer when he can focus on Brendon's warmth. Brendon's got his bottom lip tucked up under his teeth, and his eyes are huge.

"You make. Things are fuzzy," Brendon says, brow furrowed. Jon's never heard him sound so young before. "In my brain, JonWalker. You make the buzzing stop." He shakes his head and Jon is pretty sure he's probably more than a little drunk. "Just. Just being near you."

Jon hisses out a breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. "Brendon -- " Brendon's shaking his head, and his eyes look lucid.

"No. I know you didn't. I love you, okay? I love you and I you don't. I mean. Sex is sex, and sex is awesome! I like sex, but. But I love you, and you don't. I mean, you don't, but you don't have to pretend, I love you, you know? I love you, and I can't. I can't. We can," he pauses for a second as he waves his hand and for the first time in five minutes, Jon breathes. "We can go back to that. But." He turns towards Jon now, eyes huge, lip bitten again. "But. I love you. And I wanted you to know that someone did. Does."

Jon inhales and exhales, counting the beats of his heart because he's not this lucky. "I don't know what I'm doing," Jon says and Brendon smiles, huffing out an easy laugh. "I never know what I'm doing, JonWalker, I just do it and hope it works out."

"Does it work out?" Jon slides his arm around Brendon's shoulders and pulls him close, pressing his nose to the crown of Brendon's hair. "Does it, Bren?"

Brendon hums in the back of his throat. "Yeah."

Jon breathes in Brendon's scent and memorizes the feel of his body in Jon's arms, warm and pliant and there. "I love you, Bren." Brendon's eyes go wide behind his glasses, and Jon tries to keep his breathing steady. He doesn't loosen his grip but Brendon's not squirming, either.

"You don't -- " the night catches his words and takes them, his lips are parted enough that the only logical solution is to kiss him. "I know," Jon whispers against his mouth, hands moving up to tangle in his hair, to keep him close. "But I do."

Brendon's grin is huge and bright and vibrant and he lays back with Jon as he settles against the grass, settling an arm across his waist.

Pink and blue streak across an inky sky and they watch the day start over.