Bert throws his arms around Brendon's neck in the middle of this killer Vegas party, says, "I think about you Brendon Urie," and Brendon laughs, wide and open. He doesn't even know Bert, not really, but Bert smacks a big wet kiss right on Brendon's mouth just the same.
"Shit," Bert says, grinning, and Brendon's hand spreads itself out in the small of Bert's back like it was meant to be there, and Brendon thinks about how much Bert really isn't his type, even though he knows it's a lie. He's totally Brendon's type. Bert hollers across the room, waving, still hanging on to Brendon, and when he murmurs softly against Brendon's throat, his lips make Brendon shiver. "I was almost you, once," he says, and Brendon's fingers curl around Bert's hip, "but that's not what I think about."
"No?" Brendon's never really thought about Bert before, but he is now, Bert's body all pressed up against his, solid, compact, Brendon's fingers sliding under the hem of his shirt. Bert grinds against him, hard and dirty, and Brendon finds words way down around knees somewhere, says, "What, uhm. What do you think about?"
Brendon feels Bert's laugh on his skin even after the party swallows him back up. It's tingly and weird and he hunts down Spencer, sticks his tongue in Spencer's ear. "Fuck off," Spencer says, but he's smiling, batting Brendon away like he doesn't really want him to go. Brendon can totally tell the difference. Spencer smells good, like always, and Brendon sniffs him again, licks his lips. Bert's across the room, standing on a chair and waving his hands around, and when Spencer drifts off to find Jon, Brendon slides through the mass of bodies on the dance floor, raises his arms up high.
An hour later, two, three, bass beat a living thing and Ryan spinning, spinning, Brendon's at the bar, icy glass in his hand pressed against his forehead, his mouth, the base of his throat. Bert leans against him, sweaty, taste of something sharp on his lips, something sweet, too. "Let's fuck," Brendon says, laughing as he digs a keycard out of his front pocket, twirling it through his fingers like a magic trick. Bert shoves his hand down Brendon's pants and makes them both disappear.
"I could've been you, too," Brendon says, and Bert bites down on the soft skin under Brendon's arm. There's come in Bert's hair, matted and tangled, hipbone bruises inside his thighs. Brendon's covered in hickeys, teeth marks everywhere, Bert's fingers twisting inside his swollen hole again, making him lose his train of thought.
Sunshine sneaks through the hotel curtains, a thin strip of pale yellow falling across the bed, Bert's hand stretched into the light, his palm open, his breathing rapid, his dick in Brendon's mouth. He's not sure he can come again, he's sure he won't, and then Brendon gags and moans a little and Bert thrusts harder, the clutch of Brendon's throat making him dizzy, the sounds he makes, still, like they haven't been fucking for hours, like he'll never get enough. Brendon comes into his own fist and wraps his hand around the base of Bert's dick, jacks him hot and slick, his tongue flicking out to taste the spunk on his fingers, on Bert's skin. Bert pulls back a little, rubs the head of his dick against Brendon's soft lips, dark and swollen. Brendon's fingers press behind his balls and Bert grunts, comes in thick spurts on Brendon's lips, his cheek, his ear.
"I could still be you," Brendon says later, damp from the shower, bare feet propped up on the coffee table and the remote control in his hand. The room reeks of sex and soap and breakfast, room service dishes shoved onto the desk, the floor, both of them half dressed and not really wanting to move. Bert's sprawled out on the couch, his head in Brendon's lap, his wet hair twisted around Brendon's fingers, soaking into Brendon's jeans. "I could."
"Yeah, maybe," Bert says, finally, and for a minute they both get distracted by Dexter's Laboratory, laughing at the TV, and then Bert launches himself up and straddles Brendon, kisses him hard. He leans away, his arms around Brendon's neck, says, "Don't, though," and Brendon traces the dark ink along his ribs. "Asshole," Bert says, smiling seriously, biting Brendon's lower lip. "Don't."
It's Sunday morning and Brendon's phone is ringing from under the bed somewhere, but Bert's right here, right now, and Brendon's really not about to let go.
-- End --