Manuscript Enclosed

Brendon makes a snow angel, and Pete says, “Fuck, that’s like. It’s mini, like those fun sized Twix bars.”

Brendon laughs, giggles right into the palm of his hand, his breath coming out in little white puffs of smoke around them into the cold night air, and he says, “Technically, I’m half an inch taller than you.”

And right now, he’s a lot taller. Not by a lot, but. “You’re wearing fucking high heels,” Pete points out, and Brendon is. He’s wearing these bright fucking red four inch Dior heels with those fucking skinny jeans of his, and from the waist down, he looks like a girl. Brendon Urie is standing there shivering, two feet away from a snow angel, wearing high heels.

They’re Kate’s heels, and Pete’s not even sure how Brendon found them, digging through his closet while Patrick occupied Pete on the phone for all of five minutes.

Brendon says, “Do you have hot chocolate? I know you do, you mom is awesome.” and walks inside in his high heels, like he doesn’t even need to practice. (Four inch heels.) Pete’s brain says: wait, what?

Pete’s mouth says: “Yeah, sure.”


*


The next time Brendon comes over, Pete weighs his options. Maybe Brendon was just fucking with him. That was completely possible, seeing as how Brendon had spent the last two and a half years of his life with Ryan Ross. (Maybe Ryan had put Brendon up to it, to see if Pete was actually only gay above the waist. Whatever. Fuck him.) Pete thinks about it like this: Brendon’s only coming over because Patrick said he needed to work on his vocals for the track on Cork Tree, and Patrick didn’t have time to do it himself, so maybe Pete should actually take this seriously and they should get some work done.

Then, Pete looks at it like this: wow, he just said coming.

He is so totally fucked.

When Brendon knocks on Pete’s front door (Pete’s mom’s front door), Pete’s mom is out getting groceries, and Pete’s step-dad is sleeping on the sofa with a football game blaring, and Andrew is probably out getting laid (isn’t that what sixteen year olds do now?). No, actually, Pete’s brother is up in his bedroom playing video games. Pete answers the door, and Brendon’s standing there, grinning, holding a guitar case.

Pete’s standing there, grinning, wearing one of Jeanae’s mini-skirts. (He really, really needs to stop looking through his old boxes of clothes.)

Brendon says, “Uhm, hey.”

And then: It Kind Of Isn’t A Game Anymore.

Pete says, “Hurry up, or someone’s gonna come in and see us.” Brendon gets inside, and they both get downstairs (basement, Pete’s room, loud music and posters, and it looks exactly like a tour bus without wheels.) and Pete says, “So, it’s like, last time you were here, with the – ” and he shuts up there, because he isn’t being very Pete Wentz-ish.

The skirt – it’s short, Pete’s size, and it fits, but it’s tiny, and he’s not used to it, but the room is warm, and he’s been wearing it for almost an hour now, so he’s almost gotten used to it. He still feels exposed, though, and Brendon won’t stop staring at him (Pete understands that one; when he put it on, he couldn’t look away from the mirror. His eyes just wouldn’t tear away).

Brendon sits on Pete’s bed, says, “Did you want – ?”

Pete’s brain says: fuck yes.

Pete’s dick says: fuck yes.

Pete’s mouth says: “I don’t – ”

(Brendon’s dick says: yes, please.)

(Brendon kisses him.)


*


Pete's brain is saying: oh shit.

He's got Brendon (Brendon) pushed down on his bed, legs spread, straddling his hips, his skirts flared out. His skirt. Pete's skirt. One had splayed on Brendon's hip, the other in his hair, Brendon's moaning beneath him. Brendon's got one hand up Pete's skirt.

Pete's dick is saying: oh fuck.

Brendon gets one leg up around Pete’s hips, hikes his skirt up so Pete’s exposed completely. (No underwear, holy shit, because the skirt is kind of really, really small, and nothing will fit.) Brendon’s kissing his jaw, his neck. Pete rests his forehead against the cool skin of Brendon’s shoulder, Brendon’s shirt somewhere on the edge of the bed.

Pete’s mouth is saying: “Oh god.”

Before Brendon arrived, before he even stepped into the skirt, when this was only an idea, a stupid, stupid idea that was kind of like revenge, Pete shaved his legs on a whim. Something like, oh hey, the look on his face will be priceless. And, okay, Pete thinks he has pretty nice legs, and when he was stepping into the skirt forty minutes before Brendon showed up, he thought: fuck, what about that dress?

Brendon’s hands skim over Pete’s thighs, over Pete’s ass, and Pete gasps.

Pete says, “Okay, you can fuck me now.”

Pete’s brain is saying: gay above the waist, my ass..

Pete’s dick is saying: in the ass. now.

(Pete’s brain is saying: holy shit.)

(Pete’s dick is saying: fucking hell.)

Brendon gets Pete’s shirt above his head, drops it over the edge of the bed, drags his nails down Pete’s sides to the waistband of the skirt. He murmurs, “We should leave this on,” and flips them over. Pete thinks: vocal warm-ups. Brendon tongues the spot behind his ear. When Pete met Panic in Vegas, he never thought he’d be fucking the vocalist in his parents’ basement six months later.

(Guitarist, maybe.)

Brendon says, “Do you have – ah, do you have stuff?” and doesn’t blush when he says it.

Pete says, “Yeah,” takes a minute to breathe, because, uhm, Brendon Urie is pressed on top of him, “bedside table.”

Brendon scrambles to get a bottle of lube and then comes back, settles on top of Pete, pushes the skirt out of the way, bunches it at Pete’s hips. Brendon looks – he looks nervous, but. Not like he hasn’t done this before. Pete thinks: I am totally fucked. He thinks: and not in the good way, either. He thinks: what was I thinking, gay above the waist?

Pete thinks: vocal warm-ups.

(Pete’s brain is saying: holy shit.)

(Pete’s dick is saying: fucking hell.)

“Okay,” Brendon says, “Okay.” He says it like he’s talking himself through it. Running commentary. He slips a finger into Pete’s ass, his other hand cupped warmly over Pete’s hip, and every thought of abovethewaist is outthewindow. He gets a second in quickly because Pete is squirming, digs his fingers into Pete’s hip – bruises, blackpurpleblue – and has Pete gasping for a third before Pete realizes what he’s saying.

“God damn,” Brendon laughs, breathless. He pulls his fingers out, wipes his hand on Pete’s Superman sheets. “Okay, stay still,” he says, and strokes over his dick a few times with a palm-full of lube. “`S gonna hurt some, but,” Pete isn’t in high school, and this isn’t fucking – fucking summer camp.

Pete’s mouth says, “Just do it, Brendon.”

(Pete’s brain is saying: holy shit.)

(Pete’s dick is saying: fucking hell.)

Brendon slides into place, pushes forward, and – there’s resistance, but he makes it, slowly. Pete’s fingers curl into the sheets, the red of his bangs hanging in front of his eyes (and red stars behind his eyelids), and Brendon is going so, so slowly. Painfully slow. Above him, Brendon’s breath is shallow, careful, controlled. Pete thinks: breath control. He thinks: vocal warm-ups.

When Brendon’s all the way in, Pete lets out a slow breath. He breathes, out, in, out. He breathes, and he shifts his hips, and he gasps, and Brendon starts to move. The skirt still around Pete’s hips – the fucking skirt – Brendon starts to move, and Pete slowly, carefully, starts to shift to meet his thrusts. Three thrusts in, Pete somehow turns, and – oh.

Pete moans.

Brendon grins, says, “Yeah?” and thrusts harder.

(Pete’s brain is saying: holy shit.)

(Pete’s dick is saying: fucking hell.)

Pete finds out he doesn’t have much of a reputation to protect, like this.

Brendon touches his dick, and he comes.

He covers his face with his hands and says, “Oh my god.”

Brendon curls against his side, sticky and clingy and completely, one hundred percent Brendon Urie. He says, “Hmm,” against Pete’s neck.

“So, who – ” Pete asks.

“Ryan,” Brendon says sleepily. “and Spence, and Andy, last week, in the van, when everyone was recording. And there was this guy at a bar, one time, and then in high school, once, this guy from my guitar class – ”

“Okay,” Pete says, gently putting a hand over Brendon’s mouth. Brendon licks his hand. “Any – girls?”

“Ew, why would I want to fuck a girl?” Brendon swipes a hand distractedly through the come on Pete’s stomach.

“Oh,” Pete says. “Right.”

“So,” Brendon says, eyes closing. “We should probably start on those vocals now, huh?”


*